James Christopher Potter

with
Theresa L. Vivanco

WWW.EASTBENCHPRESS.COM






www.eaatbenchpreaa.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is
entirely coincidental.
East Bench. Copyright 2009 by:
James Christopher Potter and Theresa Vivanco
All right reserved
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of East Bench Press.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-publication data
East Bench:
a novel by James Christopher Potter & Theresa Vivanco
This edition printing, October 2009
1. Young Adult Fiction I. Vivanco, Theresa II. Title
ISBN 978-0-615-29958-7
2009907429




Because I was in the right place, at the right time, and with the
right friends, I dedicate this story to my brother Don (Codge)
and good friend Nic (Stump).
8pecIaI Thanks
to
RuaaeII 8aIamon,
poet
for permiaaion to uae the foIIowing poema:
MiIk FIamea
Unknown Woman
Perfect Eyea
Deep Green
Copyright 2009 by RuaaeII 8aIamon
AII righta reaerved.
Born in the former YugoaIavia, RuaaeII came to Ohio in
1953, graduated in 1965 from CIeveIand 8tate Univeraity.
Noted author Ray Bradbury caIIed RuaaeII, '.a poet
from the marrow out.'
For more information:
www.ruaaeIIaaIamonpoet.com
or
theaaIamona@earthIink.net

NOTE

Blame it on February 9, 1964. Like many twelve year old
kids, watching The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show was a
turning point in my humdrum life. The Beatles and other British
Invasion bands gave me an immediate love for rhythm and blues
and pop music. And like most of my friends, we were inspired to
take up guitars and drums and sing our hearts out.
The difference between my band and thousands of other rock
and roll groups is that we were Catholics growing up in Salt
Lake City, Utah. Though overwhelmingly Mormon, Salt Lake
City is held up as a model of religious diversity with numerous
Catholic schools scattered all over the valley.


CHAPTBB 1
Once our black and white television screen starts
spinning like the rollers on Moms thrift store wringer washer,
theres no telling how long it will take to fix it. Because of
Catholic school tuitions, were as likely to get a new TV as we
are to convert to Mormonism.
Ah come on! I loudly protest, Not now!
Dad! bellows Karen, my seventeen year old sister.
Oh for the love of Dad growls, salt and pepper hair
and shorn side white walls glistening under the lamp light.
Too stingy to buy Vitalis or Brylcream, our father, Don
Potter, uses Vaseline and cuts nylon stockings, creating a cap or
toque, like a Franciscan monk. The following morningcrash
helmet hairthe envy of suits lining up at the barbers before
one strand has the nerve to grow long enough to actually need a
comb.
Squatting like a massive bullfrog, Dad cuffs the
television sharply. It reels into a vertical test pattern then blurs,
snowier than a Salt Lake City blizzard.
Thats even worse, screeches Codge, my older, bigger,
smarter brother (or so he says).
After shooting him the look that says watch-it-buster-Id-
rather-watch-Huntley-Brinkley-anyway, Dad smacks the top of
the set, dust forming a mushroom-shaped atomic cloud.
I cant see a damn thing back here! the King of the
Nylon stocking caps says, after a half dozen earsplitting machine
Potter/Vivanco

2
gun sneezes, rolling on his back then scooting under the massive
TV console.
Were missing the show! whines Karen, the television
going haywire, Hurry!
Just push a button, says Codge.
Is that any better? says Dad, size 13 wingtip soles and
Mount Timpanogos-sized paunch only thing clearly visible now.
Its rolling again! shouts Karen.
How about this? he asks.
The screen is zigzagging!
Now? groans Dad.
No.
NOW? he screeches, whiteout changing to light snow
flurries.
Thats it! shouts my brother, Dont move!
Dad wriggles from under the set like a giant mutant
caterpillar prepared to consume its young.
SMILING CROOKEDLY, RINGO Starr crouches over his
black oyster pearl drum set as the studio audience screeches.
The Beatles names are flashed onto the screen as they play.
Ringo
Ringo! Bingo! teases Dad, plopping into his tattered
throne, Bango! Bongo!
Shhh! shushes Karen.
George
Thats the Rickenbacker guitar I told you about, Jim
says big brother.
John (sorry girls, hes married)
Eaat Bench

3
I didnt know John was married, says Karen dejectedly.
Why? ribs Dad, Do you have plans?
Paul
No more crew cuts for me, I announce, tugging locks
of overgrown crew cut, wispy as a dandelion puff ball.
Youll do as we say buster, retorts Dad.
Ringo bludgeons the drum to his right, the floor tom.
The television speakers warp the high harmonies on She Loves
You, like fingernails on a chalk board, especially on the
woos. Were careful not to complain because Dads itching
for an excuse to change channels to the news or champagne
bubble Lawrence Welk or Mitch Millers all male chorus singing
million part harmonies. Mildly amusing when I was younger
and didnt know any better but not now, please, definitely not
nowthis is The Beatles!
SWAYING LIKE A PALM TREE caught in a windstorm,
fronds outstretched, Ed Sullivan attempts to pacify the hysterical
audience.
Now you promised theyll be back in the second half
of the show!
They all look like a bunch of gwawks, Mom says, her
New England accent sprinkled with words and phrases nobody
west of the Poconos ever heard, as she loses a stitch in her
knitting, You dont really want to look like one of those
hooligans, do you?
Glancing sideways, we suppress grinsthats exactly
what my brother and I want. But we shake our heads nooh-
so-sincerelyany ruse to keep on watching the show.
Well, she says, shifting her slender frame on the creaky
rocker, Thank goodness for that.
Potter/Vivanco

4
Kids, if you call that music says Dad, de gustibus non
est disputandum! It means
All your taste is in your mouth? deadpans Karen.
Very good, says Dad, as if he hasnt already told us
that one a trillion times before.
When young, our father lived on succotash and novenas
to the Blessed Virgin. When his over-zealous poverty stricken
mom and grandmother sent him off to seminary school he
learned Latin and finally ate three square meals but decided the
priesthood wasnt his real calling. Hed much rather bang on
television sets.
I actually feel sorry for the magician coming on next but
not sorry enough to sit through his dreary act. Ive got to hit the
john now anyway.
THE TELEVISIONS HOLDING STEADY, the tube is as clear
as a bell as the cast from the hit musical, Oliver claims the stage.
Holding my breath, I turn blue, hoping I dont regain
consciousness until the Beatles come back.
Jimmy, asks Mom, What in heavens name are you
doing?
THE SCREEN FREEZES, THEN SPINS as the Oliver actors
take their curtain call.
Dad, Karen whines, Fix it!
Bolting off the couch, Codge wallops the erratic tube. A
minor miracle - the TV screen stops rolling - even the snow
disappears just in time for the rubber faced comic, Frank
Gorshen.
No, no, no! I dont want to waste precious static free
television viewing on this!
After a few minutes, though, impersonations of stars like
Burt Lancaster, Dean Martin, Broderick Crawford and especially
Eaat Bench

5
Marlon Brando have me laughing so hard, I almost forget about
The Fab Four.
Please welcome, singer Tessie OShea. says Ed
Sullivan.
Oh crap! I yell a little too loud.
Watch your phraseology, buster barks Dad Or youll
be saying novenas to the Blessed Virgin the rest of the evening.
I wish there was a novena that would keep me from
having to say any more novenas.
While manically strumming her banjolele, (the worst
combination of two instruments possiblea banjo and a
ukulele), the plump vivacious blond winks at the camera,
crooning Two Ton Tessie from Tennessee. The parents clap
along, though poor Dads so off rhythm, he looks like hes
catching flies. My brother, sister and I crumble face down on the
carpet, suppressing giggles.
Ladies and gentlemen, once again, The Beatles, Mr.
Sullivan shouts, twirling on heels, arms stage left, stiff as
Frankensteins monster.
Barely audible over ear piercing shrieks, George Harrison
launches I Saw Her Standing There, guitar sweet and crunchy
as a candy bar. Writhing tearfully, girls wearing cat-eye-glasses
and Peter Pan collars claw their cherubic faces. Careful not to
squeal like a wild pig or dance like her clothes are on fire (lest
she be shuttled off to a convent, never to be seen, heard or
spoken of again), Karen waltzes behind Mom and Dads line of
vision, then dances likewell, her clothes are on fire.
PRETENDING TO DIAGRAM English sentences, I recount
the Beatles performance note by note while sketching crude
drums and cymbals. When the phone rings, nobodys in a rush
to pick it up except Karen.
Potter/Vivanco

6
Hello? Oh, she says, disappointedly as if expecting a
call from John Lennon himself, Jimmy, Codgeits for you.


CBgter 2
Shell have a cow once she finds out what I did. Yup.
Karen will lacerate my arms with her wildcat fingernails. But,
music is a cause worth suffering for.
Our neighborhood friend, Nic Baskerville, my hot headed
brother and I are inspired to start a band, the first time Ive ever
been really excited about anything in my life, except maybe
Christmas and Santa Claus. Codge and Nic share an old acoustic
Stella guitar abandoned by Nics older brother. Since I dont
have drumsticks, much less drums, I detach my sisters
unfinished pink knitted pot holder from its green needle, filching
the other needle from her knitting basket.
Through the Baskervilles one car garage, we enter a
small foyer/muddy shoe room. Newly decorated avocado and
gold living room straight ahead, marble fireplace aglow, the
kitchens on the left. After a sharp right, we descend plush forest
green stairs. A chin-up bar is buttressed across the stairwell
walls, five steps from the bottom. I lunge, swinging like Tarzan,
landing in the foot of the L-shape room with walnut paneling,
purple and puce linoleum and smooth plastered ceiling. Left
then right to the comfortably furnished recreation room, with
ebony wet bar now consumed by pop records, paperbacks, a
Smith Corona typewriter, Oreos and Mrs. Baskervilles diet
sodas.
A portable Zenith stereo with detachable speckled silver
and black speakers placed on opposite sides of the room, volume,
balance, bass and treble knobs lined up on the turntable, we can
easily adjust balance, pretending to be John, Paul, George or
Ringo.
Potter/Vivanco

8
Listen to it again, instructs Nic, moving the needle
back a few grooves.
I wish we had those Beatle boots, I mutter, ogling the
Introducing the Beatles album cover, stuffing Oreos in my
mouth non-stop.
We got together to learn to play the guitar, scolds
Codge, Any idiot can comb their hair or dress like the Beatles.
Nics face flushes because today his new hair style had
startled us, transformed from the proper Catholic school boy
(short, wet, parted to the side) to a tsunami of wavy brown bangs
over forehead, like lead guitar player, George Harrison, his
favorite Beatle.
THE BASKERSVILLES OLD PIANO in the living room
jangles like an upright in a Wild West saloon.
Whats that note youre playing? asks my irritated
brother after snatching the old Stella out of Nics hand.
I told you already, growls Nic, Its an E!
Nope, counters Codge, Thats a D, not an E.
Hell! yells Nic striking another piano key, This is a
D!
This is the D string, scolds my brother plucking a
string, pressing guitar obnoxiously close to Nics face, Are you
an idiot?
Pulling back the mesh screen, I calmly place fresh logs
on the glowing embers then plop onto the sofa. Im used to Nic
and Codges endless bickering on almost every subject.
Hey guys, look! I say pretending to be Ringo, pounding
knitting needles on the shiny teak coffee table, punning off the
Beatles Meet the Beatles album title, Beat the Needles!
Eaat Bench

9
Potter! What the? screams Nic, Were not even
supposed to be in here!
Uh, oh, I say, inspecting the table now covered with
white needle scratches, Sorry.
Crap! Ill just tell my parents the dog did it, says Nic
then turning to Codge, Let me have the guitar back now.
But you dont know what the hell youre doing, says
Codge, studying the chord book.
Its my guitar, says Nic, belligerently, Give it.
Well, I just started learning the D chord, states Codge,
fingering the chord, One sec!
No, you guitar hog! says Nic, Its my turn now.
Wait! says Codge, strumming a D chord, Now let me
see if I can do the E chord.
Potter, Nic screams, shoving my brother off the piano
bench, guitar sailing with the force of a catapult into the back of
a leather wing chair, ricocheting into the open hearth.
Uh, oh, I say.
Jimmy, yells Nic, You idiotyou didnt close the
screen after you put the log in!
After diving over the coffee table, I pluck the now even
more pathetic Stella from the flames then blow on the
smoldering guitar neck. The room fills with the stench of burnt
plastic because the tuning knobs have melted grotesquely like
something out of a Salvador Dali painting.
The carpet, yells Nic, stomping on stray embers
charring tiny holes in the gold shag, My parents are going to kill
me!
Crap! says Codge, examining his watch, Its 5:20!
Potter/Vivanco

10
Omigawd! I shout, throwing on my corduroy coat,
Lets go!
Hey, yells Nic, still picking charcoal and ash from the
floor, Thanks for nothing!


CBgter 3
A thirty foot brontosaurus soars over the Sinclair Gas
Station lot, Codge deliberately kicking the metal price sign
which clangs noisily.
Half way there, I announce, after purposely stomping
on the vehicle alert hose, setting off a short series of ding-ding-
dings, the uniformed attendant shooting us a death glare, How
are we doing?
I cant see him yet, declares Codge, Run faster, slow
poke!
We gallop on 17th East like wild desert mustangs as the
beige 61 two door, no radio, Chevy Biscayne pulls into our
driveway.
Hi Pop! I yell breathlessly.
Wearing a graphite-colored trench coat buttoned up to his
Windsor knot and a brown fedora with tiny scarlet feather in the
wide grosgrain ribbon, Dad heads to the kitchen door with a tired
wave. We are back before the old mans entered the house, a
rule we dare not break.
OUR BASEMENT BEDROOM could be confused with a root
cellar. An exposed bulb dangling from the ceiling joist is our
only light source. Thrown-together robins egg blue splintery
pine basement steps with protruding nail heads make for a
painful jig until you learn to slip your shoes on before running
upstairs to the bathroom. In the cinderblock hallway, I often rap
knuckles on and whirl around the hollow support column, till the
room spins like a kaleidoscope, filling with a tone like a gigantic
tuning fork.
Potter/Vivanco

12
Faded and cracked checkered linoleum floors and a
moldy cork ceiling lead to our bedroom with its Pepto Bismol
walls. Evidently, an earlier tenant thought this color would calm
your stomach when creepy crawlies hold their daily
hootenannies, right out in the open, playing fiddles and banjoes,
laughing and scattering at our pathetic attempts to exterminate
them with thrown shoes.
Despite Salt Lake Citys frosty winters, a casement
window at the foot of Codges bed stays propped open year
round to keep mildew from consuming our lungs, even more
important now that were singing in a band.
Next to our cave is a spare room cluttered with trunks
and boxes thanks to our frequent moves, up to three times a year.
Courageously guarding a gloomy corner next to the black hole
behind the steps the wringer washer frequently mutters to itself.
Dinner! yells Mom, serving five pudgy burgers.
Banging dishes and utensils, Karen sets the small maple
table, covered with a rose-colored vinyl tablecloth we found in a
drawer. Somebody painted every interior wall in various
nauseating shades of pink and needed a tablecloth to match or
maybe it was the other way around. While dining, our family
enjoys a bay window view of the magnificent Wasatch Mountain
Range as well as sidewalk passersby. During summer, we can
also see the four elderly siblings, the Lewises, across the street
lounging on their front yard. Now February, their lawn chairs are
empty except for a slight dusting of snow.
Dad whips potatoes into billowy clouds with a hand
mixer.
Jim, pull the drapes, says Mom, rhythmically stirring
then banging each pot and pan, I dont want nosy people
gwawking in at us.
Eaat Bench

13
Codge and Nic are learning to play the guitar, I gush,
And, Im going to play drums!
Have you finished all your homework? asks Mom.
I could have told her I had just come back from riding on
a flying saucer and she would have said the same thing.
PASS THE POTATOES, says Dad, Please.
I cant seem to find my knitting needles, interjects
Karen, You wouldnt know where they are, would you,
Jimmy?
Hey, Dad, I say, digging a crater in my mashed
potatoes, butter overflowing like molten lava, Great job on the
spuds.
After dragging out the now warped green needles from
her knitting bag, Karen points at me.
Seamus (Seamus means James in Gaelic), Dad growls,
lifting a forkful of burger, Youre on my list!
AS I STARE VACANTLY AT my homework, Codge, the
straight A student, chats on the living room phone, his
assignments finished hours ago. Two laundered short sleeve
Catholic uniform shirts, wrapped in a damp towel and slung over
an ironing board, wait to be pressed as KNAK, Salt Lake Citys
best radio station plays the Beatles It Wont Be Long.
Matching Ringos solid back beat, I tap pencils on the wiped
down kitchen table.
Okay, Bongo. Put down your sticks and get back to
work barks Dad, rattling the pages of the Tribune from his
shabby throne of authority. And turn off that infernal radio! No
dilly-dallying or shilly-shallying!
I click the radio off, then on, turning the volume so low
only a Superman could hear it.
Potter/Vivanco

14
Were going to Nics again tomorrow, says Codge after
slamming down the receiver.
Youre not going anywhere, barks Mom from her
creaky rocker, Until you finish your homework!
Dont worry, assures Codge, Well get our homework
done.
Im not talking to you, buster, she says, waving a piece
of paper at me.
Uh oh, I say.
Sister Raymond Delores, (aka Chisel Chin because rock-
like stubble juts from her caveman jaw) is often in a mood
because a too tight satellite-dish-like wimple causes her pale blue
eyes to bulge. (God tabulates piety and suffering on a cosmic
scorecard, points taken off for being too comfortable, if you
didnt already know.) Today, caught sketching Ringo playing
drums, (a pretty good likeness, if I say so myself), instead of
class assignments, Sister wielded a pointer above my pumpkin-
sized head. Pale blue eyes molten, I cringed.


CBgter 4
Sister Chin didnt crack my skull but did something a
hundred times worsewriting a note to my parents. Because of
this, I missed band practice for four whole days so I could stay
after school for English diagramming tutoring. Ugh.
CROSS LEGGED on the living room floor, my brother
plays the warped guitar, sharing it with Nic on alternate days.
Fingers moving to find new pain, he strums a D thenan E
chord. He pauses to lick his blisters.
Sounds good, I say.
Hey dumbass, he says, flipping chord book pages on
the coffee table, You better get your act together or else.
Dont worry, I say, Ill never miss band practice
again. I promise.
A FOUR FOOT MONSTROSITY, the percussion tree
belonged to Nics older sister, Babs, when she was in grade
school. Shoddy tin cymbals are perched at the top of a long oak
pole with a wood block, rusty cowbell and a tambourine attached
below. Running down the posts center, a metal shaft is welded
to a heavy duty spring at the bottom, like a pogo stick. The
cymbals stay open until, pole lifted and struck against floor, they
crash together, about as musical as a car wreck. Nic also loans
me some old wooden spoons.
Though fingers dreadfully blistered from constant guitar
practice and numb from the high desert winter hike to Nics,
Codge expertly drops the turntables needle onto All My
Loving without scratching vinyl.
Codge croons, Nic strums and I whack the percussion
tree.
Potter/Vivanco

16
Hold it. Hold it! yells my brother, arms outstretched,
Nic, thats not an E at the beginning. Let me have the guitar.
Oh, no! says Nic, pulling the finger-torturing Stella
away, My turn. Remember?
Suit yourself. says Codge, irritably, And, Jim, keep it
down! You sound like a frigging circus clown for Petes sake!
AFTER LUMBERING down stairs, Nics Dad, Salt Lake
City Tribune editor, George Baskerville, lugs a boxy tan tweed
suitcase, herringbone jacket hanging on his medium frame. Dark
hair reeking of Vitalis and Barry Goldwater horn-rimmed glasses
framing sparkly navy blue eyes, the two-pack-a-day man with a
carroty nicotine stain on his fingers, purses a Lucky Strike
between lips creating a mist floating towards the recessed lights.
Hi, Mr. Baskerville, Codge and I say in unison.
Im impressed you learned so much I thought maybe
Mr. Baskerville says, groaning softly, placing the tweed case
onto the bar.
Cursive silver Magnavox gleaming between shiny
fasteners, he clicks open the cover. Two plastic reels of milk-
chocolate-brown recording tape glimmer under the lights. A
square Buck Rogers-type palm-sized device is attached to a long
grey cord, stored neatly to the right.
Ive had this machine for about ten years, when I was an
investigative reporter but it yours now. he says, balancing then
catching two inches of cigarette ash before it tumbles to the
floor, Good luck, fellas!
Balls to the walls! says Nic, Thanks Dad!
Whats that thing? I ask, pointing to the silver square.
I bet its the microphone replies Codge, unraveling the
electrical cord then plugging it into a nearby wall socket.
Eaat Bench

17
Click! Hummmmm
Pressing the record button, Nic belches then places the
device between his legs.
PFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!!!
Very funny quips my overly somber older brother, If
only you could sing that well.
Play it back! I cackle like a blue ribbon bantam being
stalked by a high desert fox, Play it back! Play it back!
Take One
We sing along with All My Loving. After rewinding the
tape, Nic smashes the play button.
I sound, wails Nic, tuneless braying drowning out
everything, like a damned goat!
Take Two
Pounding the percussion trees tambourine, I match
Ringos snare drum.
We sound like, yells Codge, a band of drunken
gypsies, for crying out loud!
Take Three
Nic, if youre going to play the guitar then at least tune
it, says Codge, shaking his head in disgust, You one-chord-
wonder!
It is in tune! shouts Nic.
Are you deaf? hollers Codge, Give me that guitar!
After considerable doodling with the melted tuning pegs,
it doesnt sound any better but Codge seems happier.
Take Twenty Three
Ok, says Codge, Lets do it without the record now.
Potter/Vivanco

18
Really? Nic asks, adjusting the microphone, I dont
think were ready
Ill count it offAll My Loving again, interrupts
Codge, now the self appointed band leader, Ready? One, two,
three, four, one, two
As I pound the pole, the cymbals slam together. Shaking
his Beatles hair cut, Nic sings with abandon, strumming the
Stella. Giddy as if riding our favorite roller coaster at Lagoon
Amusement Park, Nic plays the songs short guitar riff
separating the verses.
Diddly, diddly, diddly doo...
Biting his lower lip, Nic focuses on the country style
guitar solo.
Dading ding ding ding da ding ding ding ding
Deftly matching Ringos syncopated drum beat note by
percussive note, I cant believe how good I sound. As Codge
and I nod in unison, Nic continues the guitar solo.
Ding da ding ding ding ding diddly diddly diddly doo.
Finally, Nic strums the last guitar chord.
BA- DING
Wow, I boast, head swimming, I hit those high notes
flawlessly.
Uh, lets pretend, says Nic glumly, pressing the stop
button, That didnt happen.
TESTICLES CAUGHT IN a bear trap, timber wolves howl
as trash can lids clatter in a wind storm. Rattlers hiss, and, barely
audible above the fray, swarming bees.
Whats that? I ask innocently.
Eaat Bench

19
Pointing stubby forefingers at himself then at Codge and
me, Nics face flushes crimson. Then it hits me. This is no
random wildlife recordingthis is our band.
Queasy as a six year old at first Holy Communion, I
collapse onto cold hard linoleum.
UNTROUBLED BY OUR BONA FIDE musical failure, my
brothers slender guitar player fingers coil and uncoil like garter
snakes.
the problem is, we need to play the guitar from
beginning to end because theres too much blank space, says
Codge, pacing like Perry Mason, So Nic, let me play this time.
Nodding dejectedly, our friend hands the guitar to my
poised brother.
I think we need decent guitars and real drums, says
Nic, disfigured fingertips pressed against his palm, If were
gonna do this right.
Im secretly and sourly thinking, thats not all we need. I
fantasize about chopping percussion trees, chucking them into
raging bon fires, melting bronze and metal parts into something
usefullike gun shot. Then using Stella guitars, strings stretched
soul-and-finger-numbing inches above guitar frets, for target
practice.
Okay, Codge says, licking fingertip blisters then
shaking them out, One more time.
FEBRUARY WINDS GUST icy snow flakes, stinging my
Idaho-potato-sized nose, inherited from Dad.
Coming! I shout, corduroy jacket whooshing like
Moms old wash board.
As I rush past Nic, parka swishing like brushes on a drum
head, I fall into the gutter where my untalented butt belongs.
Ugh! I groan, quickly recovering.
Potter/Vivanco

20
One time I went to Hygeia Ice Skating Rink, to impress a
girl. I sucked ice, spread eagled mid rink in front of the most
coordinated Mormon ice skating princesses in town. Living that
down seems easy compared to life with mountains of musical
desire without even a mole hill of talent. Stately leafless maples
mock me, arching overhead, like postcards of the Mormon
Tabernaclewhich Catholics are explicitly forbidden to visita
mortal sin so heinous, forgiveness granted only by the Pope
personally, if you have an appointment. Or so I heard.
Behind us to the west, is the two and a half mile, 4,000
feet deep Kennecott Copper Mine (the largest in the world and
the areas biggest employer) at the base of the silvery Oquirrh
Mountains. At sunset, the coppery mine haze dissolves to
orange, lavender and magenta over the shimmering turquoise
Great Salt Lake.
Heading east a few miles beyond our neighborhood soda
shop hangout, Sweetchilds, Thirteenth South intersects Foothill
Drive. At Foothill Village shoppers buy groceries, patronizing
mostly Mormon-owned mom and pop shops. Nics mom works
at Ramseys gift shop, not that they need money but with a taste
for designer clothing, Mrs. Baskervilles paycheck buys
whatever she wants whenever she wantsmust be nice.
Snaking past affluent foothill neighborhoods, Thirteenth
South melts into the easterly Wasatch. My sister goes to ancient
St. Marys of the Wasatch, an all girl Catholic high school,
cruelly nicknamed Hag Hill by us. East Bench is part of the
greater Salt Lake City Valley formed by the Oquirrh and
Wasatch ranges.
Glistening like gigantic mirrors under a cowboy sun, the
year-long snow capped peaks rise high into Utah skies, stretching
southwardusually making me feel like I can accomplish
anything. Today, they make me feel small and insignificant.
Eaat Bench

21
Normally we sprint, laughing maniacally as we slide
recklessly onto icy sidewalks then crash land through the
entrance to Sweetchilds. Todayhands thrust deep into jacket
pocketswe stagger unsteadily through the wide plate glass
doors.


CBgter S
One Pigs Dinner can rarely be finished by two hungry
adultsfour ice cream scoops in a wooden trough garnished
with bananas, maraschino cherries and a blanket of warm
caramel, chocolate syrup and melted marshmallows.
Nevertheless, four pudgy grown-ups stab long handled spoons
into the legendary Pigsville U.S.A, equal to four Pigs
Dinners, on a colossal circular plate, about the diameter of
Ringos crash cymbals.
Mmm, I say, drooling.
Smells like peppermint, says Codge.
Ooh. says Nic, rubbing his hands together, Feels good
in here.
Founded and owned by The Childs family, Sweetchilds is
the Salt Lake Valleys foremost ice cream parlor. To help with
Catholic school tuition, my mom, Ruth, worked here when we
moved to the area. Though bone-tired after dashing from serving
counter to display case, her apron smeared with caramel, cherry
syrup and chocolate stains, she could still beat me arm wrestling
with her right scooping arm. I teasingly called her Momma
Atlas. She quit when she went back to nursing school.
A long glass case on the left wall displays monster tubs
of homemade Rum Raisin, Black Walnut, French Vanilla, and
my personal favorite Cherry Parfait - chocolate chunks mixed
with succulent cherries. On the right, the backs of upholstered
booths create a narrow aisle leading to the long soda fountain
counter dotted with maroon stools along the back wall.
Eaat Bench

23
We enjoy making faces, obscene gestures and mouthing
curse words into a two-way mirror installed behind the counter
where back room employees churn fresh ice cream.
The tall voluptuous green eyed brunette with long lashes
smiles behind the counter.
Three cherry Cokes, says Nic, winking flirtatiously
then grabbing a stool, Please.
Hair tied into a pony tail accentuating high cheekbones
and full pouty lips, Wilma places glasses under shots of cherry
and Coke syrup and streams of carbonated water.
Thats someones mom, hisses Codge, never letting us
forget who the eldest and most mature is, You pervert.
Thatll be thirty-one cents, please. says Wilma
handing us our drinks.
Were paying individually corrects Nic, evading the
one penny sales tax.
Crossly ringing each ten cent sale separately, Wilmas
green eyes flare like a laser gun.
THE ICE CREAM PARLORS STOREFRONT window has a
panoramic view of the Sinclair and Chevron gas stations across
the street on opposite corners. Courtesy bells ding, ding, ding
constantly as cars pull in and out. Attendants in neatly pressed,
dark green uniforms, bow tie and black billed caps tirelessly
pump fuel, wipe windows with dusty-blue paper towels, pop
hoods, dip oil sticks and hawk motor oil. Its common
knowledgeguys who cant diagram English sentences (I can
barely diagram simple ones) or play musical instruments have to
pump gas. Its probably not the worst job in the world, though a
terrible waste of Catholic school tuition.
Detaching the number 3, replacing it with a 2 at the
curbside sign, a gray haired Sinclair attendant, changes the gas
Potter/Vivanco

24
price from 33 cents down to 32 cents a gallon. Donning a similar
uniform, the white-haired Chevron station owner scowls then
detaches a number 3, replacing it with a 1. Several cars waiting
in line at the Sinclair zoom into the Chevron station, eager to
save two whole cents per gallon. Suddenly, working at a gas
station with their petty gas wars doesnt seem like the best career
option.
Catty-cornered from the Sinclair station, Emigration
Market is the go to store for a pound of ground beef and a half
gallon of milk, also Codges and my part time employer. Each
Saturday at dawn, we slave away, rain or shine, distributing
handbills advertising the weekly specials. Behind the Markets
parking lot is a thickly wooded area where we built our first fort
with cardboard boxes and a cleverly concealed entrance.
Last summer Nic spent a Friday night in our fort. The
Emigration Markets high strung vampire-like store manager,
Mr. Bolinski, overheard a radio. He must have turned into a bat
because theres no way anyone could wade through the prickly
shrubs without thorns tearing skin to pieces but somehow hed
found Nic sleeping like a baby.
Following the eviction, we simply relocated across the
street to the neighborhood five and dime. In the same building as
Sweetchilds, we endlessly perused and sometimes even bought
The Variety Stores Archie, Superman and TurokSon of Stone
comics.
Nic, pass me that Archie comic. I say, hoarding candy,
blankets and flashlights under bins draped by a white cloth, No,
not that one, the one with Jughead on the cover...
Wow! Betty and Veronica sure have big says Codge.
Ow! we yell as the burly female manager grabs our
bony shoulders, jettisoning us one by one out the door, banning
us from the premises forever.
Eaat Bench

25
EVEN AFTER SLURPING up my second cherry coke, Im
still despondent.
We gotta buy something easier to play, says Codge,
nursing ravaged fingertips.
How much did your guitar cost? I ask.
I dont know - maybe thirty dollars, says Nic.
Sugar! I blurt, Thats expensive!
Maybe we can order a Heathkit, says Nic, And make
our own guitars and amps.
Yeah, right, says Codge, sarcastically, Just like you
made that stupid ham radio.
That wasnt my fault, counters Nic, There were parts
missing.
Braaaak!
What the hell? says Nic swiveling around on the bar
stool.
Braaaaaaaaak!
Hey, its just Belch Buster, I say nonchalantly, Codge.
Time him.
Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak! belches Zach Grant, aka
Belch Buster, a neighborhood kid my age, sipping a root beer
float in a front booth.
One, two three, four, five, six secondsyou gotta be
kidding me!
Pouring out of their booth, The Pigsville USA Gang hoof
it to the cash register.
That kid, the fattest pig oinks, sliding Wilma five
bucks, Should be banned from the premises.
Potter/Vivanco

26
Im so sorry, Sir, she says, ringing up the register, Ill
talk to him right away.
Like wild boars ready to charge, the portly over-eaters
ogle Belch Buster, daring him to do it again. Gulping a
mammoth mouthful of air, Zach gawks back, letting er rip.
Brrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkkk!
Cripes! zings Codge, studying his watch, Eight
seconds!
Snorting under their breaths, the portly posse scurries into
the arctic air without even putting on their coats. Swallowing in
rapid succession, face expressionless, Zach discharges another
splendid auditory work of art for a goodbye present.
BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
seven, eight, nineJeez, this guy can go on forever!
Oh crap! says Codge, abruptly, grabbing his coat and
hat, We gotta get home!
AAAAAAA
Mom wont be home for a couple hours, says Nic, still
timing The Buster as Codge and I scramble to bundle up, And
Dads out on some special assignment.
AAAAAA.
Nics parents usually take him to a restaurant on
Saturday nights, too tired to cook. In contrast, my parents idea
of eating out is Dads toting home a bag of burgers so greasy
they slip down your throat before you have a chance to chew
them.
Thanks for the Cokes, Nic.
Yeah, thanks, man.
Shooting thumbs up, we wave to Zach, whos still at it.
Eaat Bench

27
AAAAA
Waving back, he continues to show off his gift to
humankind or at least to mankind as only testosterone-heavy
males applaud and cheer after particularly impressive belches.
Marching like a quasi-military police, Wilmas ready to
give Zach the boot.
AAAAA
LEAPING ONTO THE icy sidewalk like six point mule-deer
bucks spooked by a hunters gunshot, we sprint into the twilight.
We can still make it, yells Codge, But we gotta
hurry!




CBgter 6
Roman Catholic men cant wear hats in church unless
members of the clergy. On the other hand, its mandatory for
Catholic women to wear some sort of head covering. Its
amusing to count the females who forget hats or veils. The older
women pin a piece of tissue or toilet paper on their teased and
hair-sprayed bouffants like theres nothing wrong with wearing
something on your head youd normally blow your nose or wipe
your butt with. The younger girls, embarrassed, sometimes cry.
I wonder if its a double penalty to confess youre not wearing a
hat when youre not wearing a hat when confessing.
Our Lady of Lourdes, a light-colored compact brick
building is our parish church, seating 250-300 parishioners,
located close to home on the corner of 11th E. and 7th South.
We go there for the Holy Sacrament of Confession Saturday
afternoons, another great way Catholics invented to spoil a
perfectly good weekend. Karen is working late this Saturday
afternoon at Dunfords Bakery, the lucky stiff, so shes not with
us. Codge and I barely made it home from Sweetchilds to get
our church clothes on and jump into the car.
Before pulling open the heavy oak double door, Dad
removes his hat and has us boys do the same. Codges black hair
crackles with static as he removes his navy blue wool stocking
cap. When I remove my red cap, my hair looks about the same
a wavy jumbled block of cheese when longer than an inch
whether I comb it or not. Pews are light and dark wood. While
waiting for the family to finish confession, you can kneel on the
Eaat Bench

29
cushioned kneelers, pretending to say your penance when youre
actually sleeping or thinking about girls or The Beatles. At least
thats what I do.
There must be a lot of sinning going on lately because the
confessional lines go all the way down each side of the church to
the front door. Mom and Dad stand at the end of the right
confessional line, Codge and I veer left unbuttoning our coats.
Crap! my brother hisses, hungry, therefore in a fouler
mood than usual as he studies the long lines.
Oooo I tease, Cursing in the house of the Lord.
Thats not a sin, knucklehead, Codge whispers,
squeezing the back of my neck, Only taking the Lords name in
vain is a sin.
Ow! I yelp, Squeezing my neck is definitely a sin.
Only if I kill you and I didnt kill you...yet.
Yowling like a tortured cat, my empty stomach draws
puzzled stares and titters. Mom and Dad seem to have a knack
for picking the right line as theyve already inched their way five
pews closer and were moving slower than a herd of turtles.
Thirty minutes later, Mom and Dad, finish confession. I
wonder what in the world they have to confess considering their
dull livesmaybe they make stuff up to keep the priests
entertained. A somber looking fellow ahead of us finally enters
the confessionalit wont be long now
Ten minutes later and were still waiting
How long has that guy been in there? I ask.
Hes probably a serial killer, whispers Codge,
Apparently, confessing to multiple murders takes longer than
actually doing them.
Fifteen minutes and counting
Potter/Vivanco

30
Codge squeezes my neck in boredom and frustration.
Quit! I hiss, vowing to stay with Mom and Dad next
time.
Twenty-five minutes later
It only takes one penitent who hasnt fessed up since the
Middle Ages to turn a thirty minute trip to Confession into an
epic. My legs hurt and I feel faint and weak, having had only a
cherry Coke since breakfast. Finally, after skulking out of the
box, the young man looks like a grease monkey whos been
told no, hes not forgiven and hes going to rot in hell and all this
could have been avoided had he been able to diagram English
sentences.
Well, its about time I whisper, Im starving to death!
Opening the small wooden door, I insert myself into the
dark booth, practically collapsing on the kneelers. I fervently
hope grumpy Father Benson is not my confessor.
Bless me father for I have sinned. I say, crossing
myself, Its been three weeks since my last confession.
Three weeks? barks Father Benson, Why so long
young man?
Father Benson not only sounds like a hungry black bear,
rumor has it, he really IS a black bear who converted to
Catholicism after having his life spared by a Utah hunter.
Uh, well, Ive been kind of busy, father.
Too busy to talk to God? roars the priest, Too busy to
confess your sins?
You know with homework, shoveling the driveway and
sidewalk. Plus, my brother and I are sort of starting a Beatles
band with our best friend.
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31
Beatles! bellows Benson, You cannot supplant The
Beatles for God. You need to spend more time praying, lighting
candles and studying your catechism.
Yes, Father, I stammer, my stomach growling like a
grizzly.
What was that? he asks.
Sorry, its my stomach, I say.
Oh, he says, What would you like to confess?
Nothing worth talking about, I lie, shrugging, Im
only twelvewhat can I do?
Twelve? says the father, I thought you were
eight or nine? I say wistfully, Yeah, Im a late
bloomer.
Alright, my son, says the holy man, Say two rosaries,
three Our Fathers, four Hail Marys and ten Glory be to the
Fathers. Now, Ill give you absolution.
Because I usually doze off during the long hypnotic Latin
version, I hope Father Benson will give the condensed Readers
Digest absolution.
Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego
auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis
(suspensionis) et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indigs
Through the screen, Black Bears silhouette makes the
Sign of the Cross in my direction.
Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris,
et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
Thank God, hes done. Though dizzy, I still manage to
pull myself to a half standing position when
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32
Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi, Father Benson
rumbles, Merita Beat Mari Virginis et
Falling onto my knees, I lean against the confessional,
closing my eyes for just a second.
AT A LONG BANQUET hall table with early Christians,
everybodys speaking Latin. Im pretty sure theyre saying I
should gorge myself. I really need to, because honestly, Im
starving.
Omnium sanctorum. says a friendly looking Apostle,
probably Paul (because he looks just like Paul McCartney), in a
surprisingly harsh voice Quidquid boni feceris vel Mali
sustinueris sint tibi in remissionem peccatorum
Im sandwiched between apostles John and Paul (Lennon
and McCartney that is) who point at the Pigsville USA ice
cream platter, cherry Coke and juicy turkey leg in front of me. I
pick up my spoon, but John shakes his mop top, smacking my
hand. I need to wait for Jesus, (who looks a lot like Ringo), to
finish saying grace.
...Augmentum grati et prmium vit tern. Amen.
NAPPING IN THE confessional booth is not a sin but is
considered bad form, though Ive done it at least a half dozen
timesusually when Im famished, like now.
Tell your parents to feed you before your next
confession, says Father Benson gruffly, Now move along.
You look like youve been sucker punched whispers
Codge, as I stumble out of the confessional.
Bite me! I seethe, stomach roaring like killer waves
breaking over rocks.
Lurching unsteadily toward the nearest pew, I fight the
urge to curl up on the kneeler and nap, too ravenous to remember
or even care about my assigned penitential prayers.
Eaat Bench

33
AS THE MORMON ANGEL MORONI, who looks
amazingly like Louie Armstrong, blows a jazzy version of This
Boy on his horn, I dig into a huge whipped cream cloud,
covered with nuts and cherries, with two long handled wooden
spoons. Gosh, this is so luscious. Curiously, the more I eat, the
hungrier I get. Maybe Ill try the turkey leg
My plate magically morphs into a scrumptious cake
version of Ringos black oyster pearl drum set. I cant wait to
show the band.
Jimmy, says my brother, elbowing me in the ribs.
What? I say, sleepily munching on a non-existent
turkey leg
Youre snoring in church again, idiot.




CBgter 2
Dismantling the wretched percussion tree with a screw
driver between laughing spasms is a lot harder than it looks.
Please stop, I plead, tears streaming down my face,
Please, I beg you. I cant take it.
Come oncalm down you two, Codge says, rewinding
the Magnavox, There are some spots that are really okay.
Jim, you sound like Clancy the Clown Nic shrieks
rolling on the floor, wiping his eyes, Bouncing on a pogo
stick!
We gotta finish learning All My Loving, says my all-
too-serious brother, Nic, how much do you think sheet music
and a chord book will cost you?
Cost me? he says, Am I made of money?
The Potter family can barely afford to buy socks and
shoes. The Baskervilles on the other hand have money to burn.
George is an editor of the Tribune, for crying out loud!
AFTER I PRY THE CYMBALS OFF WITH A CLAW HAMMER,
I rig them with a piece of wire coat hanger so they stay shut. This
way they sound like a helium-saturated distant cousin to a closed
high hat cymbal instead of a bag of rattlesnakes, an
improvement.
Teeng, ta-teeng, teeng, ta-teeng
Eaat Bench

35
Hey, Codge says, normally stingy with his praise,
Thats a lot better.
I strike the wood block with my sawed-off wooden
spoons/drum sticks. Theyre a little too short but a lot less
juvenile. The wood block could pass for a snare if you had no
idea what a real snare drum sounded like. Alternately whacking
the block and the retrofitted cymbals, they dont sound bad at all.
Teeng, Crack, Teeng, Crack, Teeng, Crack, Teeng,
Crack
After a vigorous thwack, my fake drumsticks splinter
lengthwise in my hand.
Smooth move, barks Codge, Prune juice.




CBgter 8
Im rocking the stage with a solid back beat behind my
black oyster pearls, head tilting to the side, a la Ringo Starr. For
some reason, though, I cant straighten my neck.
Unbelievable, bellows a tall male in the audience,
looking like a young Dad.
Pulling hair, tearing clothes off, our fans are hysterical.
Some girls just stand and weep. The guitars are crisp, our vocals
clear and distinct on a song Ive never heard before.
Jimmy! shouts the young Dad-look-alike, controlling
our light show, Codge! Get up and shovel the driveway and
sidewalk!
Mortified, Im completely paralyzedeven my eyes are
sealed shut as the shocked fans fade away. The lights continue to
flick on and off, aggravating me to no end.
Help! I yelp, head locked between saggy mattress and
headboard, pillow somewhere on the frigid linoleum floor. Im
stuck!
Not again! snaps Codge, How come this only happens
to you?
With his ridiculous toque, threadbare robe, hairy legs and
bony feet shoved into tattered slippers, Dad just doesnt give up.
Eaat Bench

37
Up and at em! No dilly-dallying! he scolds, still
maddeningly flicking the lights, And close your window. Its
freezing down here!
Folding my ears back, I slowly extricate my head. My
breath fogs which means our bedroom is colder than a meat
lockeragain. Even under my shabby quilt, I shiver.
When a brown spider tick, tick, ticks across the linoleum
floor, Codge flings his tennis shoe at him and misses. It scurries
under the chest of drawers.
Why is it so cold in here? he barks, peeking from his
covers like a box turtle.
The stick we use to crack the window has fallen. Now
the basement window, the pneumonia hole, has flung wide
open bringing East Benchs frigid winter inside. Even the
vermin think its too cold for a shindig, which why theres only
one voiceless spider, no fiddle or banjo.
Ready, Jimmy? One, two, counts Codge, Three!
Bounding out of bed, my brother slams the window shut
and locks it. Shivering convulsively, we dress in a blur.
MOM IS STIRRING UP A POT OF GRUEL which means
were waiting on Dads next paycheck to buy some real food.
Dont forget! she says, Put on your galoshes.
Do we have to? says Codge jokily.
Yes! says Mom irately.
Really?
Oh, you galoots you, says Mom, finally noticing us up
to our knees in rubber boots.
Shovel the driveway first then I want the entire walk
shoveled before I get home orders Dad, chugging a steaming
coffee mug, I dont want anyone slipping and suing us.
Potter/Vivanco

38
Heaven forbid! cracks Codge.
Your Honor, I implore, mockingly Please dont take
Dads easy chair!
Its been in the family, says Karen, rolling her eyes,
Since the Inquisition!
Okay wisenheimers, snarls Dad, pointing at the
driveway, Outside!
PEERING LOW OVER the Wasatch, a pale yellow orb
warms the thin glacial air, finally vanquishing the stars and
crescent moon glowing silvery on the fresh snow. Except for the
scrape, scrape, scrape of our snow shovels and the occasional
ding, ding, ding of the Sinclair and Chevron gas stations at the
southerly corner, there is complete stillness as we finish
shoveling the driveway.
Lets eat says Codge, leaning wearily on his spade,
exhaling ice crystals, Im starving.
From the distance, a grotesque grating swells. A hulking
plow lumbers past our house toward 13
th
South ramming an
obscuring six foot gray and white glacier at the end of our
driveway as Codge shoots him the finger.
Why, God? I scream, chucking my hideous fire engine
red cap to the top of the icy concrete-like mountain, Why?
Hurry up! barks Mom out the side door. Its getting
late and you cannot be late for schwool.
Nobodys going anywhere till we finish shoveling
Mount Wasatch here! Codge shouts back, his voice cracking
miserably, Come on, Jimmy. Well do the sidewalk later.
Crunching up the snow wall, I snatch my cap. Tugging it
onto my freezing head, I slip, hitting every ice shard on the way
down.
Eaat Bench

39
Ow! I howl, landing face first on the icy driveway then
rolling over, hitting my head on the shovel handle.
Stop dilly dallying! Codge snarls as if Id been wasting
time making snow angels, Im not doing this by myself!
Wrenching myself up, I stare for a moment at my brother
bending over his spade, eyes watering, nostrils flaring.
What are you looking at, asshole? he sneers shoveling
furiously now.
Hopping onto the business portion of my shovel, I sink it
low into the snow. After jumping off, my skinny arms thrust the
blade even deeper.
Lets sing, says Codge, suddenly nicer.
What? I ask lifting an oversized snow block, Whistle
While You Work?
No you stupid dwarf, says Codge, Like Please Please
Me.
Good choice, I say.
Crooning rowdily in two-part harmony, we hack the
snow mountain down to size.
MATERIALIZING THROUGH THE white out, our bus
rumbles to its stop. As the doors fold open, we slog up slushy
steps.
Snap it up! says the snarling cigar chomping driver,
eyeing us suspiciously, No cheating the till! Canadian nickels
not allowed!
Nicknamed McTookus by every kid on the route (because
he wont hesitate to kick your tookus off the bus for any slight,
real or imagined), Mr. McToole thrusts into gear, staggering into
zero visibility. Im jolted backward onto an elderly mans lap.
Potter/Vivanco

40
Is that you, Henry? says the old man, eyes smoky with
cataracts.
No, no, I say, scrambling off him, trying to be polite,
Im Jimmy.
Timmy! asks the old blind man, Hows the wife?
Inching up the jam-packed aisle, I latch onto the handrail
of Codge and Nics seat. As cigar smoke cloaks the already
snow-and-ice-caked windshield, McT confidently strips the
clutch into high gear. Pitching blindly into the storm, the
massive windshield wiper does little to clear the view. Swabbing
the glass with an ape-hairy hand, McT creates a small circle of
visibility which immediately clouds over. Leaning over the
steering column, he turns the wheel hand over hand. When the
rear tires catch the curb, the bus fishtails. Tossed like ping pong
balls in a Bingo raffle drum, hapless passengers either cry, yell
or cheer depending on their age and gender.
Whee! school boys squeal, Lagoon Amusement Park
paling in comparison to flying across the aisle onto the laps of
panicky commuters, Do it again!
Clenching jaws, clutching rosaries or Books of Mormon,
mature riders are aware of the dangers of zero visibility; rear
ending stalled cars, striking lamp posts, running over pedestrians
or being late. In the high desert, snow storms are no excuse for
being tardy. Plan ahead! Get up at 4 a.m. instead of 6, you lazy
Salt Lake City shirkers!
A huddled mass of frozen humanity shiver at the Yale
Street bus stop. Inspecting his watch, McT shakes his head,
hurtling recklessly past the hypothermic souls.
Son of a. shout purple, frozen lips.
Hysterical voices fading quickly, McT chortles eerily like
hes being strangled with a sweat sock. After stuffing his face
with a homemade ham biscuit, white crumbs dangling from
Eaat Bench

41
puffy jowls, he guzzles coffee from a tall red thermos, giant
Adams apple pumping up and down like a piston, one bloodshot
eye on the road. Popping the driver side window with an elbow,
he snorts like a wild boar then brashly hocks a loogie.
Hes in rare form today cracks Codge, buttoning his
coat.
On 9
th
Souths sidewalks, holding brimmed hats and
trench coats tightly, businessmen stampede like wildebeest
toward their offices as Codge rings the bell. Glaring at my
brothers reflection in the rear view, McT slams the brakes
suddenlyhell show that impertinent bell dinger a thing or
two
Nice try! my brother shouts, having learned the hard
way to brace himself for McTs deliberately abrupt stops.
Waiting impatiently for passengers to trudge up the steps,
McT checks his watch again.
No cheating the till, he coughs, chewing on a fresh
stogie as if it was a fresh piece of beef jerky, Canadian nickels
not allowed!
Dont forget! Nic yells to Codge after cracking a
window, Right after school!
I wont! shouts my brother, rapidly vanishing in the
blizzard, Dont be late. I mean it!




CBgter 9
Sweeping my miniscule frame aside like a speck of dust,
my gargantuan classmate, Pete Kornegay charges the coat rack
when the final bell rings, like Godzilla fighting a Chinese fishing
boat. Scarves and hats sail everywhere.
Work hard on your multiplication and division of
decimals and percentages, says Chisel Chin, through the din of
slamming books, closing desks, shuffling papers and student
voices.
Tossing the last book into my brief case, I clap it shut,
snapping the silver closures. The coast is clear so I head for the
door. Todays an important day. Nic and I are meeting Codge
in downtown Salt Lake City, instead of going straight home.
But, we have to catch the 3:25 bus to pull this off.
Mr. Potter, says Sister Chin, shutting the door, I
would like to talk with you a moment.
Scurrying obediently to the front of her enormous oak
desk, Im as tense as a drawn slingshot. She seems completely
absorbed by her grade book. The hallway seethes with
uniformed adolescents dashing madly towards exits and Im
trapped, unable even to gnaw off my own leg to get free. Behind
the preoccupied nun a large wall clock screams ten minutes to
catch the downtown bus. Because of this delay, Ill have to grow
wings and fly to the bus stop behind the 200 foot gothic gray
stone Cathedral of the Madeleine.
Eaat Bench

43
Hurry the hell up Nic mouths, peering through the
closed classroom doors half window, stabbing his index finger
against his wristwatch.
JamesI want to congratulate you for handing in
completed assignments, says Sister Chin gazing into my
panicky blue eyes, Especially for your English diagramming
homework. Well done!
Ok, I get it. Cut the sardonic chit chat and just hand me
the usual scathing note to my parents and lets be done with it as
Nic gyrates wildly, doing jumping jacks.
What do you have to say for yourself, young man? she
asks, smiling.
Um I say, blanching as the clock clicks 3:17 p.m. -
eight minutes to get to the stop. Sorry?
There must be a reason for your sudden improvement,
says the nun with a relaxed smile instead of the usual sarcastic
grimace, leaning back in her chair. Well?
UmmmI I shrug, not really remembering the
question, I just feelbetter lately.
Feel better she challenges. Have you been ill?
No, sister I hesitate as Nic bores a hole into my skull
with death ray eyeballs, My brother and I have a band with Nic
Baskerville.
Nic Baskerville! says Sister, thoughtfully, The
Presbyterian?
Actually, I say, Hes Episcopalian.
Oh yes! Nice boy and a good student, nevertheless, she
says, in no particular hurry to finish our inopportune
conversation. So, what type of music does your band play? And
what do you play?
Potter/Vivanco

44
Im learning to play the drums, I say modestly.
Oh I see, she says, leaning closer, really, truly
unnervingly interested in my stupid band. What instrument does
Mr. Baskerville play?
Baring teeth, Nic forms unspeakable curses with livid
lips. Too flustered to form any coherent words at all, I mime
playing the guitar and hope she catches on.
The guitar? she asks, Nic plays the guitar?
I nod bleakly. Face violet, eyes bulging, Nic pretends to
hang himself with his Catholic uniform clip-on neck tie.
I do love the guitar, says the nun, sliding her right
forefinger under her wimple, grazing a couple of chin hairs,
Since Dominique came out last year.
Yes, Sister. My sister, I mean, my real sister, Karen,
loves that song, too.
Clearing her throat, the nun conducts with her right index
finger, singing in a surprisingly good soprano
Dominique
She sings a verse then the chorus. I hope shes not going
to sing the whole song because it has about a million verses. She
pausessighsthen
Well, thats all I really know, she says.
Thank God, I whisper, distractedly staring at the clock,
I mean, that was really good.
Oh, I had a little vocal training in my youth, she says,
her over-sized smile making me very nervous, Its
nothingIm going to call your parents
Terror erupts from the back of my neck, racing down my
spine, thumping into my colon.
Eaat Bench

45
and tell them the good news. Dont you think theyll
be happy to hear about your improved grades?
Glancing at the classroom doors window, Sister finally
notices Nic, staring unblinkingly at us like a rabid badger.
Thank Mr. Baskerville for me for being so patient jibes
Sister, You can leave now.
Thank you, Sister. I say, bolting out the class room
door toward the hall coat rack, tossing my briefcase on the floor.
What the hell? Nic scolds.
I couldnt help it, I snap, throwing on my coat and hat,
jerking on rubber boots.
So what did you do this time? mocks Nic as we lope
downstairs then hit the hallway.
Nothing, I wheeze, trying to keep up with him, She
was actually complimenting me on my school work.
Yeah, right! says Nic, And Im George Harrison.
Breaking through the heavy exit door, we leap into the
schools snowy slushy parking lot then sprint past the play
ground.
Then she started singing Dominique, I say.
Oh god, you were lucky to get out of there alive!
Ascending the concrete stairway to the upper level three
steps at a time, we kick up snow and ice then spring into the
hurricane-fenced lot.
Its McTookus! yells Nic as the downtown bus arrives.
As we race, the bus pauses for a moment. Gawking at us
from the drivers side window, McTs choking laugh spews like
an active volcano as he crunches into gear.
Potter/Vivanco

46
Stop, I scream, running crazy-legged as the bus
abruptly tilts around the corner, You big piece of snot!
I hope he chokes on that stupid stinking cigar, Nic says,
panting as the bus disappears.
MY DESPISED ANKLE high rubber boots do little to keep
me warm and dry as we slog through knee high snow drifts.
Loaded down by heavy coats and school books, I tramp down the
snow on the sidewalk because we dont have time to wait for the
next bus. Codge will kill us if were late. Donning his usual
smooth-soled dress shoes, Nic deftly skates on the trodden path I
created. Sliding on South Temples long city blocks, we pass the
imposing Eagle Gate Monumenthuge bronze ribbons draped
like a maypole meeting impossibly high in the middle of State
Street, topped by a 4,000-pound bronze eagle.
When we reach the northwest corner of South Temple,
we pause in front of the Beehive House.
Lets rest, I gasp.
I used to think the two-story Beehive House with an
enormous beehive on top was a dormitory for the local AAA
baseball team, the Salt Lake City Bees. At a Bees game, (where
Dad would routinely stand up, screaming Sting em, Bees! in
his embarrassingly loud baritone), I asked if the team lived at the
Beehive House. Dad laughed like crazy but wouldnt tell me
what was so funny. When I asked Mom she got annoyed and
Dad looked sheepish. After threatening me with saying extra
rosaries if I pushed it, I immediately dropped the subject.
A few weeks ago, Mr. Baskerville got off early because a
blizzard was expected to halt all traffic so he picked up Nic and
me at our bus stop. Doubling back to the Tribune, we passed the
Beehive House. Mr. Baskerville said the famous Mormon leader,
Brigham Young, lived there and was married to a bunch of
women ALL AT ONCE. Polygamy is a mortal sin and will get a
Eaat Bench

47
Catholic sent to hell faster than anything, even murder. Mormons
believe the exact opposite. Yeah, I know - whatever.
AS WE STUMBLE ON, MY BRIEFCASE FEELS LIKE
CONCRETE in my aching hand. The famous Mormon Temple
with gilded Angel Moroni blowing his trumpet at the very top
looms in front of us. I know Mormons attach a lot of religious
significance to this building but to me, it looks like an ornate six
spire above-ground missile silo and fortress in one. Latter Day
Saints to the rescue in case of another Cuban Missile Crisis!
Jay-running diagonally to the southwest corner of South
Temple and Main, we pass the Brigham Young Monument. His
hand reaches out to the bank on the other side of the street. After
dodging turning cars, we head south on Main.
At Zions Book Store, Nic slows to a crawl then a dead
stop. He cups hands against the large plate glass window
reflecting The Tribune building.
Hey, says Nic, peering at the countless rows of books,
I need to pick up Lord of the Flies. Lets go in.
No! We cant stop here! I yell tugging on his jacket
sleeve, Come on. Were going to be late!
WELCOME TO MUSIC CITY! chirps the sandy haired
Music City employee, Im Demetrial. How can I help you?
We need to get some prices on some guitars says my
brother, And on some percussion equipment.
Well, Ill help you with the guitars, says Demetrial,
And Moses over there can help you with drums.
Demetrial points to a man with bulbous nose, balding
pate with kinky orange curls stingily attached around ears, a
cross between Bozo the Clown, W.C. Fields and an angry
gargoyle.




CBgter 10
Mitts off! squawks Crater Face, as I reach out to touch
the black oyster pearl Ludwig drum set. I withdraw my hand as
if scorched by white hot coals.
Face riddled with pock marks and raised scars the size of
space rocks, the music store salesman also reeks of stale
cigarettes, burnt coffee and some other acrid odor I cant quite
identify while carefully scrutinizing every hesitating move I
make.
Pulling out a pair of blond wood grain drum sticks tucked
into his back pocket, Crater Face parks his lumpy butt behind the
black oyster pearl set. He seems vaguely familiar to me and I
dont know why.
Watch and learn, he growls, lit cigarette dangling from
lower lip though a sign next to the cash register clearly says No
Smoking.
Smugly playing a jazzy beat, the snare sizzling, Moses
batters the bronze ride cymbal mounted on a shiny silver stand,
deftly accenting the thud of the bass drum. On the last splashy
note, I realize where Ive seen him before. I almost didnt
recognize him because he looks a lot better when hes far away,
dressed in a tuxedo.
Dont you shoot off the cannon in the 1812 Overture, I
ask, For the Utah Symphony?
Eaat Bench

49
Im the percussionist, thats right, he sniffs vainly, But
Im mainly a jazz drummer.
That explains the weird beats he was playing.
So, kid says Crater Face, deftly spinning drum sticks
between the chubby red fingers of both hands, Which set do you
like best?
Definitely, I say, pointing at the black oysters pearls,
Those.
Lets go ring it up, says Moses, tossing drum sticks
impossibly high without looking up, waddling toward the
register, sticks drifting into his hands in the zero gravity
atmosphere created by his planetary-sized carcass.
Okay, I say, following him to the cash register, But
can Itrythemfirst?
It depends. he says, stopping dead in his tracks, How
much money do you have?
Enough, I lie, my palms itching to play.
I have an 1880-O Morgan silver dollar in my chest of
drawers Dad gave me in exchange for my first enema when I was
four. Jiggling my pockets, I think Ive got about thirty five cents
in spare change, too.
Do you have, he says, pointing at the Ludwigs, Three
hundred seventy-five dollars?
Maybe, I lie, knowing full well my father doesnt earn
that much money in a month, maybe not even in two months.
Mottled face erupting like Mercury, Crater Face pokes
my ratty Catholic school uniform sweater. (Mom bought it from
the thrift store after I snagged my new one on the coiled
notebook spine then cart-wheeled down a flight of stairs,
unraveling it beyond repair.)
Potter/Vivanco

50
You people never have any real money he hisses, then
mockingly, Do you, Spare Change?

DISGUSTINGLY HANDSOME, tall, golden blond and blue-
eyed Charles Edward Steinbeck, who everybody calls Renny, is
a German born orphan and also seventh grader at Roosevelt
Junior high. He lives in our East Bench neighborhood with his
grandmother and plays the accordion. Except when engaged in
strenuous sporting activities, he almost always wears a suit and
tie and today is no exception.
Hey Jimmy, says Renny, perusing the accordion sheet
music section in the back corner, What are you doing here?
Good question, I say morosely, the late afternoon sun
glints off the cymbals of the black oyster pearls, Since you
apparently have to be a millionaire to be a musician.
You play? he asks, excitedly.

















CBgter 11
Activating the house alarm, three miniature dachshunds
yipping, yapping and scratching on the door like the little brown
rats they are, Renny inserts the house key.
We never know whether to genuflect, make the sign of
the cross or walk into a coat closet and say confession when we
enter the Steinbecks living room. Its practically a religious
artifact museum displaying multiple crucifixes, a bust of
Madonna and Child perched on the RCA black and white
console, a year round nativity scene on the mantle, an enormous
family Bible (in Latin) on the coffee table, an ornately framed
haloed Jesus, The Last Supper and a sinister bearded guy Im
pretty sure is Joseph.
Sparkling indigo eyes squinting through rhinestone cat
eye spectacles, Rennys German grandmother, Analise
Steinbeck, known to us as Oma, opens the door.
Come in, boys! she says, her voice heavily accented
and melodious, almost like shes singing instead of talking. She
waves us in with her rolling pin, dogs barking even more
frenziedly, Mein Gott, very cold today. Ja?
Silver hair pinned into a small bun, her peach size jowls
sag. Painted a contrasting brown above miniature whisk broom
eyelashes, expressive eyebrows are like friendly caterpillars
signaling her thoughts.
Potter/Vivanco

52
Schnitzel, Bratwurst, Frankfurt, Oma says to her dogs,
pulling treats from her apron splotched with pastry dough,
Stop!
The hot dogs calm downexcept for Schnitzel. Though
horror-struck by company, he bites ankles, leaving painful
puncture wounds with little or no provocation.
No biting, today, says Oma to Schnitzel, Ja?
As the fickle dog burrows under the couch, Oma warms
us with pillowy hugs and kisses on each cheek.
Something smells really good! coos Renny.
An animated depiction of Jesus casting away a terrified
Satan (his watery eyes resembling the panicky Schnitzel) hangs
in the foyer leading to the kitchen, frame draped with snaky
rosaries in kitschy colors and assorted scapularssacred images
painted on two small squares joined by a narrow band, worn
around shoulders, hanging down onto the chest on the all-too-
numerous Catholic High Holy Days.
AFTER CUTTING THE FLAKY STRUDEL, Oma sets
generous portions on delicate dessert plates, made in Dresden,
Germany.
Danke, My Lord, she says, gazing piously at the
ceiling, crossing herself.
Freshly ground cinnamon tingling noses, we pick up our
forks, ready to dive in. Oma loudly clears her throat.
Oh, yeah, says Renny, Sorry.
Leading the way, he makes the sign of the cross. Codge
and I follow quickly but Episcopalian Nic always gets confused
(even though he goes to Catholic school, for crying out loud),
using left hand instead of right. Slowly raising my right hand, I
touch my forehead, chest, left shoulder then right shoulder. Nic
copies my movements, like hes scratching himself.
Eaat Bench

53
Ja, thats better, smiles Analise, adjusting dentures
with her tongue, Poor Nicky. Well, at least, hes not a
Mormon.
WHEN OUR BLUE EYED German born chum with the male
model face finishes eating, he places the small silver dessert fork
next to his plate. Dabbing perfect lips with the linen napkin, he
neatens his hair with a pocket comb.
So, was macht Euch denn heute in der Schule? says
Oma.
Oma, says Renny, English only when we have
guests.
Na ja, sorry, says Oma, Well, what did you make
today in the school?
Well, not too much, says Renny, But these guys have
started a band!
A band? says Oma, alarmed, Like a gang?
Nein, says Renny, Wie ein Tanzochester.
Ach so, says Oma, face transforming into a sunny orb,
pointing at the intricately decorated accordion in the living room,
Musiker. The Renny here is a very good musician, too, and so
was his father. Play something for us now. Bitte sehr!
Maybe later, Renny states diplomatically, Besides,
Im more interested in being their band manager than a
musician.
Nein, you will be an engineer, says Oma, sniffling then
blowing her nose, Like your father.
Alles ist vorbei, whispers Renny sympathetically, Its
okay.
THE CUCKOO CLOCKS DOOR OPENS, the bird cuckoos,
cuckoos, cuckoos, cuckoos.
Potter/Vivanco

54
Oh mein Gott, she shouts, Im late already!
Oma, relax. says Renny smiling patiently, Its just
bingo.
Untying her apron, she scoops up her purse, pulling out a
lipstick and running a red smear across her lips.
Renny, you wont forget, she says, at the front door,
dogs yapping at her heels, pointing at a small rosary laden shrine
in the corner. Ja?
I wont forget, he says.
Aufwiedersehen, Jungen! she says, scurrying out of the
house.
Oma lets Renny say his rosaries on the honor system
when shes away at bingo but he never does. I wish my parents
would go to bingo, making us promise to say the rosary then us
promising to say the rosary then not doing it.
Hey, Renny says Codge, Who said anything about
your managing our band?
Before we get a band manager, says Nic, I think we
need some musical instruments that dont suck.
What songs have you learned? Renny asks.
All My Loving, Anna, Misery and She Loves
You, boasts Codge Nic bought the sheet music for She Loves
You but we picked the chords off the records for the others.
It sounds like you guys are making progress. says
Renny, scribbling notes on a pad plucked from his pocket. But
maybe you need more direction and some leadership.
What the hell are you talking about fires Codge, We
have all the direction and leadership we need.
So, whats your practice schedule? asks Renny,
pompadour askew as he jumps from his chair, pacing, stabbing
Eaat Bench

55
his notebook, Wheres your song list and photos? How about
wardrobe, thats very important. Gigsdo you have any? Whats
your image? What about originals? Have you considered




CBgter 12
After crashing into the percussion tree, Nic knocks over
my homemade snare drum- a Folgers coffee can filled with
BBs, nuts, bolts and rosaries blessed by Pope Pius XII. He flops
onto the floor, face down, like hes been shot.
Im alright, he says, rising, balancing on the slick
linoleum, right foot sliding forward then, Whoa!
Twisting in mid air like an Olympic gymnast, he falls
backward on my homespun tom-tom (actually an Atlas Van
Lines moving box wrapped in strapping tape), completely
annihilating it.
I give him a ten, jokes my brother.
Thats not funny, Codge, I yell, then Nic, your fat ass
destroyed my drums!
A drum - you call that a drum? Its a box! he shouts,
cradling his guitar Thank god my guitars okay.
You call that a guitar? I shout, Ive made better
guitars with rubber bands and a shoe box.
Ok. Thats enough you two, says Renny, now our
official band manager, jotting notes in the corner, Are you guys
gonna help me or not?
Looking away from each other, Nic and I grumble then
kneel.
Eaat Bench

57
Make sure to get all the BBs, orders Renny, plopping
onto knees, How about you Codge?
Im busy, he says, scribbling away at the bar, Writing
down lyrics.
Placing the coffee can onto my drum thronea squeaky
antique piano stool found in Nics atticwe scoop up then toss
tiny pieces noisily into the tin.
Ouch! I shout when a BB imbeds into my kneecap.
NIC REINFORCES THE CRUSHED corrugated box with
strapping tape.
Why dont we set up drums there? says Renny,
pointing to an alcove next to a window.
Good idea, I say as Nic hands me my re-taped fake
tom-tom drum.
Hmmm, Nic says, as I tap them lightly with my also-
taped-up wooden spoons, Sounds pretty good.
Lets try Please Please Me offers Codge, I know all
the guitar parts.
Reluctantly, Nic hands Codge the Stella.
Ill play the bar chords up the neck boasts my brother,
One, two, three, four!
When he plays the intro, it feels wrong, so I stop playing.
That beginning guitar intros on the upbeat, I say,
pointing my sticks at him, Listen. One, two, three, four, one,
two, three, ba dum....
Hes right, says Renny.
Ok, says Codge, impressed, You count off all the
songs from now on, drummer boy.
Potter/Vivanco

58
Good, I say, the nickname drummer boy suiting me
just fine, Everybody ready?
THOUGH ITS NICS TURN TO PLAY the guitar, his timing
is off.
Stop! interrupts Renny, signaling me with a slicing
hand motion to the neck, Nic, youre off the beat.
What the hell do you know? he spits, Accordion
player!
I know how to count, says Renny, Something you
obviously dont know how to do!
I dont need this crap! Nic snarls, wrenching the guitar
off, heading for the stairs.
Where are you going? says Renny, positioning himself
in front of Nics short but stocky body, Band practice isnt
over!
I hope our new band manager knows how to fight.
AS THE FOOTBALL SAILS into his waiting arms, the Buick
La Sabre screeches, horn blastingleaving a twenty foot patch
of rubber just short of the Uinta school playground.
You almost got yourself killed! the middle aged driver
yells, jumping from the car, wearing a trench coat and fedora like
my dads, pulling a small pad of paper out of his coat pocket,
glaring at Renny, Whatre your parents names and phone
numbers?
Kicking gravelly ice, Renny removes his cap, sunbeams
of hair tumbling out.
Leave him alone! shouts Nic, His parents are dead!
I knew this was the case, but this is the first time Id
actually heard someone say the words out loud. The mans face
buckles. Normally cheery, Rennys now ghost pale and sullen.
Eaat Bench

59
MY MOUTH MIGHT be swollen from one too many pile
ons but theres nothing wrong with my legs as I run a twenty
yard zigzag pattern up 13
th
S., arms outstretched.
Go further, Jim, Renny yells, shifting the pigskin back
and forth over his right shoulder, Go further!
After more than a fifty yard separation, Codge and Nic
fall to the ground laughing.
Ow! I yell, finally getting the joke but not before
slamming into a massive oak tree, Very funny you assholes.
ROUNDING THE CORNER OF 17TH EAST, we hobble like
wounded soldiers to a warm meal in our peaceful suburban
homes.
Nic backed down after Renny stood his ground,
explaining calmly the only way to real success was to take
constructive criticism. The fact isthe German kid knows
music. Ive already learned a lot from him.




CBgter 13
Stretching skeletal frames on lounge chairs, the four
septuagenarian Lewis siblings live for warm weather outdoor
naps. Directly across the street from our house, they entertain us,
snoozing up a storm during supper.
Mommy, asked a four year old girl with her mother last
summer, Are they alive?
Edmund Lewis, the eldest, looks like an undertaker, in a
plain dark suit, starched white shirt and tie.
Thelma, Thelma? Wheres myah, um asks the old
man then yawning, Ooooh Whaaa! Ooooh Whaaa!
Zzzzzzzzz
Reclining on his right, steel gray hair in a rigid bun,
Thelma wears a charcoal Shaker style dress under a white apron,
clunky black shoes like miniature pontoons exaggerating rail thin
legs, wire rim specs almost invisible on a pinched face.
A black metal lunch pail at his side, Roderick, is prepared
to travel to a nonexistent job. A stiffly starched long sleeved blue
shirt and tan trousers hitched to brown suspenders hanging on his
wiry body, he catnaps next to Thelma.
My parents say Maude, the youngest and most
mysterious sibling, is a bedridden invalid.
The Lewises are private, temperamental people. Once, on
a nice warm June evening, Codge and I accidentally riled up old
man Lewis by walking past their house.
Eaat Bench

61
You boys! You! yells Edmund from his lounge chair,
What are you doing on my property?
Excuse me? Codge inquires.
Get on your own says the old man, head flopping
back, Ooooh Whaaa! Ooooh Whaaa! Zzzzzzzzz
Its March, too nippy for the Lewis open-air siestas.
Gusts poke holes in thick clouds rolling over the East Bench,
neatly trimmed bushes around well-kept bungalows are heavy
with fresh snow. Chestnuts, ashes, poplar and maples, planted
by early Mormons to cure homesickness for back East where
theyd fled public hangings and cross burnings, are still icy and
bare.
Trudging up Laird Avenue between 17th and 18th East,
snow shovels and push brooms in tow, we are willing to do any
chore to earn money for musical equipment. Our working class
neighbors are either not home or pretending not to be home,
eluding vacuum cleaner and Fuller Brush salesmen, so we
havent earned a single penny.
Since theyre old, they need help doing stuff argues
Renny as we stand in front of the Lewis house, Look, their
driveway hasnt been shoveled.
They dont need to get their driveway shoveled, says
Nic, Because they dont own a car!
After courageously traipsing to the Lewis crunchy icy
porch, we push Codge to ring the doorbell, ready to flee at a
moments notice.
Im warning you guys, says my brother.
Ding dong!
At first, nothing then the door knob jiggles then stops.
Potter/Vivanco

62
Wake up, Edmund! a female voice yells from inside.
With a loud snort, the door squeaks open. Edmund Lewis towers
over us, scowling.
Hi, Mr. Lewis greets Renny as if speaking to the
friendliest person in the world. We live in the neighborhood and
wonder if you need help shoveling your sidewalk or driveway or
with any odd jobs around the house?
Blinking hard, old man Lewis closes his eyes, his lanky
body swaying slightly.
Sir? Renny asks.
What? barks Edmund, Speak up!
Lets go guys, says Codge, shaking his head.
No! Wait! says Renny, taking a deep breath, speaking
slowly, loudly and distinctly, undeterred by the old mans bark,
Will you hire us to shovel your walk or help with some chores
around the house, sowecanearnsome. money?
Money? rasps Edmund, studying us hard.
Uh, well for band instruments offers Nic smiling.
Were musicians.
Magicians? roars Edmund.
Thelma and Roderick gather motionless like wax figures
behind him. In slow motion, the door creaks to a close.
I told you, says Codge, Waste of time!
As we plod through the snow toward the street, the door
pops open.
Well, the attic does need a good cleaning out! chirps a
surprisingly pretty old lady, white hair in a French twist, a
slightly tattered but clean beige robe wrapped around her thin
body, rolling a wheelchair between her statue-like siblings, Im
Maude! Come on in boys!
Eaat Bench

63
Never trust anybody involved in the black arts, says
Edmund, Thats what The Good Book says.
Edmund, says Maude patiently, increasing her volume,
These boys are not magicians. Theyre musicians.
Oh, says Edmund, eyes bright, We love musicians.
THE SUN SHIMMERS through a large bay window onto
glossy oak living room floors. Slat back cherry rockers, maple
benches and an armless revolving chair hug the walls. Small oak
oval boxes decorate a fireplace mantle, a grandfather clock and
an ancient pump organ placed just so, close by.
Draped like a rag doll over the rocker, Thelma dozes.
Trusty lunch container in hand as usual, Roderick glares at us
then drops head to chin, following his sister to Nap Land.
Boys, the attic needs some cleaning and rearranging
Maude says, arms pumping the wheelchair to the back,
Edmund, show them the attic before you doze off again.
Okay, follow me he says yawning as he scratches his
neck.
Like puppies falling out of a box, we follow, nearly
ramming the old man several times as he shuffles, stops, snores
then shuffles again down a dark hallway.
CREAKY, NARROW STEPS LEAD to a low ceiling attic
overflowing with crates and boxes. Worn leather suitcases and
cedar chests are jammed with ancient newspapers and
magazines. A mountain of aluminum foil balls are stacked in the
corner - a throw back to WWII where housewives were
instructed to save metal alloys of all kinds.
I want you fellas to pack the boxes and stack them up
there off to the side, commands Edmund, pointing at non-
existent floor space. Dont throw anything away!
Potter/Vivanco

64
Edmund, I dont want to fight you on this, Maude
hollers, voice cracking, parked at the bottom of the steps, But I
will if I have to.
Crying out loud, Maude, whines the old man.
Joe said this is a fire hazard, says Maude, And you
know its true.
I reckon, Edmund says.
We can call Joe if theres anything too heavy for you
youngsters, calls Maude, her charming smile contrasting with
Edmunds sour puss. He can be over here in a jiffy.
Whos Joe? I whisper to my band mates, we dont
know anybody by that name.
Ill be down in the living room when youre finished
declares Edmund, stepping unsteadily down the steps, pausing,
leaning against a wall, head on chest.
Edmund, says Maude, No napping on the steps.
Okay, he sighs, Ill feed the cats.
Brother Edmund, says Maude, rolling down the hall,
We havent had a cat since 43.
Here kitty kitty, Edmund sings and whistles, Dinner
time!
TURN OF THE CENTURY MAGAZINES AND NEWSPAPERS
are filled with ads for buggy whips and the latest cure-alls. Front
page headlines screaming Its WAR, War Over! and
President Dead date back to World War I up to the 1963 JFK
assassination. The Lewis have apparently never thrown anything
away in their lives.
Ow! I shout, after bumping my skull for at least the
tenth time on an overhead beam.
Eaat Bench

65
We deserve combat pay, says Nic, after sneezing three
times in a row, At least.
Covered with dust, grime, and cobwebs, we dig our way
to the far end of the attic. A payload of sheet music, unlike any
weve ever seen, with strange handwritten musical notation is
stored in large cedar chests.
This is incredible! says Renny, carefully examining the
brittle paper, These people have almost every Shaker song ever
written right here in this attic.
Any Beatle music in that stack? I ask.
Lets leave it the cedar chests says Nic ignoring me,
blowing off the dust, For posteritys sake.
HANDS PLACED ON pump organ, Roderick depresses
wooden foot pedals, causing a temporary wheezing noise. As his
fingers, translucent and frail as icicles, waltz across the
keyboard, the room fills with a sound not unlike a gigantic
accordion but mellower, dreamier, louder.
Facing each other, Edmund and Thelma hold a white
linen handkerchief overhead, embroidered with a large L. At
first, Maude looks like shes going to yawn, instead, a pure and
other-worldly soprano pours over us like honey.
Tis the gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free, she
sings.
I know this song whispers Nic Dad has this on a
record.
Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be, An
when we find ourselves in the place just right, Maude trills,
Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
Young and whole againin a universe where matter,
time and space have no meaning, Thelma and Edmund do their
simple circular Shaker dance.
Potter/Vivanco

66
When true simplicity is gaind,
To bow and to bend we shant be ashamd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come round right.

When the organ stops, the angel voice vanishes into the
ether. The elderly brother and sister bow and a curtsy as we
explode into applause.
Would you care to sing or play for us? Maude asks.
We dont really know any songs that youd like. Codge
informs politely.
Were just rock and roll musicians Nic adds
apologetically.
Oh, she says, slyly, We dont rock and roll. We
shake.
At first we dont get the joke then Renny snaps his
fingers.
I get it! he shouts, Youre Shakers!
AFTER ROLLING INTO THE kitchen, Maude returns with a
mason jar covered in a blue and white checked cotton cloth.
This is for all your hard work, she says, handing it to a
horrified Codge.
I hope everybody likes pickled beets, whispers Renny,
rolling his eyes.
I hate beets.





CBgter 14
I know the pneumonia hole is blown open again because
ice water sprinkles my facea typically torrential early April
morning. Throwing off the covers, I leap the watery chasm,
landing on the foot of my brothers bed. After banging the
dripping window shut, a stiff gust crashes it into my forehead,
knocking me onto the damp floor teeming with hairy spiders and
slithering silver fish having another hoedown.
Ow! You little I yell, grabbing a shoe, smashing the
floor wildly as the vermin scatter, disappearing unscathed with
their dance partners and musical instruments. For the love
ofCome back here and fight like men!
Codge snores noisily as I hop back onto his flimsy
mattress. Wide-legged, I slam the window again, locking it
securely. Back in bed, I crawl under damp covers, falling asleep
quickly. Within seconds the Big Ben alarm detonates, a cross
between a trashcan and a jackhammer, madly shaking the rickety
chair we use instead of a real nightstand.
Turn it off! yells Codge, eyes still closed.
Ok I reply, dressing as the clock rattles the chair.
Jimmy Codge threatens, I mean it.
Ok, ok I reply, smirking.
I have absolutely no intention of turning off the alarm,
though I risk my brothers wrath. Todays going to be a great day
as I admire Maudes Mason jar on our dresser.
Potter/Vivanco

68
WE JOG AGAINST HEAD winds, the freezing rain like icy
spikes in the two block hike from State St. and 3
rd
South. The
Tribunes huge thermometer reads thirty nine degrees,
uncharacteristically cold for mid-April.
Bursting into Music City, Nic and I are drenched from
the top of our budding Beatles haircuts to the tips of our non-
Beatle-booted toes. Bulky olive green German army issue
rucksack strapped securely on his back, Rennys pompadour is a
mess of light brown, lightening to shimmering gold when dry.
Seconds later, Codge scoots in, shivering wet.
Remember, states Renny solemnly, Let me do the
talking.
With his fearless personality and stunning looks, we cant
lose.
FACING A BACK CORNER, Moses juggles a cigarette and a
Coke bottle, his flame red hair making him about as
inconspicuous as a house on fire.
Good afternoon, Sir says Renny, tapping Moses on the
shoulder and offer his hand, Is Demetrial here?
Im on break he grumbles, opening the Coke bottle
with a tangle of teeth, rejecting the handshake.
Thats okay, asks Renny, smoothly, We want to speak
with Demetrial.
Hes off today, grouses Moses.
Hmmm says Renny, inspecting a small pocket
calendar plucked from his coat pocket, He specifically said he
would be here today. When do you expect him?
Chugging soda in one gigantic gulp, Crater Face sighs
loudly.
In about two years. says Moses, a high pitched giggle
oozing from purple lips.
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69
Excuse me? says Renny politely.
Hes in Provo getting missionary training, he snickers,
wafting smoke rings at us.
Why? I ask.
Because, Codge says impatiently, Hes a Mormon.
God, Jimmy, dont you know anything?
NIC STROKES THE LUSTROUS FINISH of a mahogany
Harmony acoustic.
This is it! says Nic. Demetrial said we could have it
for fifty dollars including tax.
No touching the instruments! says Moses, grabbing the
guitar.
This is the St. George we discussed, Codge says,
pointing to the blond acoustic, careful not to touch it.
No touching the instruments! yells Crater Face.
But, I didnt even! snaps Codge, You
Throwing up his hands, my brother clomps toward the
exit.
THE NEXT CLOSEST music store is in Provo, forty five
minutes from Salt Lake City, if you have a car and theres
absolutely no traffic. And theres no guarantee well be treated
any better there or find what were looking for, either, especially
on our budget.
Lets see. Two guitars: the Harmony and St George
says Moses, scribbling on a scratch pad, flicking his cigarette
butt onto the floor, grinding it with his foot. Thatll be $110.00,
plus sales tax.
Butwe have a deal with Demetrial for eighty seven
dollars and fifty cents says Renny, extracting a neatly folded
Potter/Vivanco

70
Music City invoice. It also includes two free sets of strings,
assorted guitar picks and a set of drumsticks.
BLOOD SHOT EYES OOZING venom, Moses flings guitars
at Codge and Nic who skillfully catch them like the experienced
neighborhood football players they are.
You break em, he growls, You take em
Okay says Nic and Codge, shrugging, Whatever
Stomping into the percussion section, Moses snatches
drumsticks from a bucket. Im ready to catch them when he
flings them my way. Instead, heading toward the register, he jabs
them into my chest, practically impaling me. One is heavy and
thick and the other is almost pencil thin, an honest mistake.
Excuse me, I say, rubbing my bruised solar plexus But
these are different sizes and
What now? Crater Face screeches, dipping into a box
of guitar picks behind the counter.
Nothing, I say.
After digging out Maudes Mason jar from his knapsack,
Renny hands it to Moses.
Whats this? asks Crater Face.
Eighty-seven dollars, says Renny casually tapping the
jar filled to the brim with quarters, And fifty cents, exactly.
PERCHED BEHIND THE dismal counter, Moses plucks
quarters from the jar one by one.
Were going to miss our bus, I say, tugging on my
brothers sleeve.
Youre not going anywhere, yells Moses, Till I count
every last quarter.
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71
Theres actually an easier way to count those, says
Codge, walking toward him, Let me show
Do you mind? says Crater Face, acne pus bubbling,
Now I have to start all over again. Okay. Here goes. One, two,
three, four
AS IF A HEAVENLY SPIGOT WAS TURNED OFF, the rain
stops and the sun shines brilliantly. Moses finally dismisses us
without counting all the quarters, saying our presence unnerved
him. Holding the door for my band mates, I wave goodbye to
the black oyster pearlscrash cymbal glinting in the sun,
winking at me, a sign that they will be mine one day. Suddenly
rain pelts down again though were protected by the music
stores narrow awning.
Its a sun shower, says Nic, smiling, cradling his
Harmony acoustic, guitar case not included, Thats always good
luck.
Lets wait right here, says Renny. It should be over in
a minute.
An unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, Moses slips hair
tonic out of a small drawer underneath the register. He massages
it in thickly, wisps of slick pumpkin orange hair gleaming under
the light. After flicking a stubborn silver lighter dozens of times
to no avail, a twelve inch flame erupts.
Look! I shout, pointing at Moses.
Holy crud! shouts Codge as we burst into hysterics.
Frantically swatting his flaming mane, Moses knocks
over the Mason jar, silver and glass exploding in all directions.
Hopping after coins like a smoldering red-haired toad, Crater
splats face first onto the floor, hurtling curses toward us. As he
struggles to his feet, the rain stops suddenly.
Potter/Vivanco

72
Run for your lives! yells Renny, wild-eyed as we fall
all over ourselves dashing to the bus stop, a livid Moses close
behind.






















CBgter 1S
A saxophone with an angular, piercing trumpet interrupts
our dinner blessing.
through Christ, our Lord, prays Mom, Amen.
Our landlords, the normally quiet Buzzalottis, on the
other side of the duplex, have mysteriously taken a fancy to
modern jazz. We nicknamed Ray Buzzalotti, Porky because like
a hog, he takes much, $115 per month rent, and gives nothing in
return. Leaky pipes, out of plumb doors and windows not to
mention the basements year round bug fiesta all get worse by
the month.
Turn that crap off! yells Porky from the other side of
the wall.
The music abruptly stops as sunlight reflects off the
Wasatch, a fresh breeze rippling the ivory satin drapes. Moms
prepared our usualburgers, corn, mashed potatoes and salad
a head of iceberg sliced up in five wedges covered with a jigger
of sweet orange-red bottled Russian dressing. As she eats, she
peeks at the Periodic Table in her Modern Organic Chemistry
book, preparing for upcoming nursing boards.
Can we leave the drapes open? asks Karen, Its such a
pretty evening.
As long as theres no waving to friends, warns Dad.
Ruth, you can study later.
Potter/Vivanco

74
After a quick last glance, Mom places the book on the
floor. I tap the Wipe Out solo with my index fingers on either
side of my plate.
Seamus, a lot less drumming, warns dear old Dad
pointing to my salad, And a lot more eating. Please.
Sorry. I say, poking the lettuce wedge with my fork.
Suddenly, Louie Armstrong belts Hello Dolly from the
Buzzalottis duplex.
My gwod, I love Satchmo! exclaims Mom, delicately
carving up her salad, You know, he knwocked your Beatles off
the number one spot with this song!
Dont remind me, I say glumly.
Louie is all heart, says Dad, lustily biting his burger.
Now thats talent!
WITH THE SAME PUFFY lips Ive inherited, Mick Jagger
is my new hero. Snatching the album out of Codges hand, my
sister studies the Edwardian suited, long haired young men,
posing sideways - The Rolling Stones.
Be careful with that, says Codge, It belongs to Nic.
Karen likes Mick Jagger! I tease.
No, I do not, she states primly, pointing. I like Keith
Richards, actually.
Gazing at the album cover, Mom shudders but for once
doesnt lecture us as she lounges on the couch studying her
chemistry.
Jimmy, we gotta learn says Codge, whispering into
my ear, I Just Want to Make Love to You.
Dad, I ask, holding up the album, How about we give
this baby a little spin on the old turntable?
Eaat Bench

75
You know what I was doing at your age? says Dad,
slapping down his evening paper, lips curled in disgust.
Oh, oh, here come The Depression and/or World War II
stories again.
Is that what we made the world safe fora bunch of
long haired hooligans? shouts Dad, pointing at the Stones
album, foaming at the mouth, When I was in the South
Pacific
A simple, no you cant play the album says Codge,
Wouldve been fine, Dad.
Do you remember says Mom, looking up from her
book, When your mother thought swing music was anti-
Catholic?
She said no such thing, he says, Did she?
IN THE BREEZEWAY, we drag the large aluminum can,
thick with flies toward the front yards hose. After removing the
lid, I gag, dropping it onto the driveway.
For pitys sake, yells Dad, through the bay window,
You sound like the Japanese bombing Pearl Harbor.
Sorry, I say, impressed by the lids trashy, resonant
sound.
Oh Jimmys always been the noisy one, says Mom,
gazing out the screen door, When he was a baby, I just couldnt
keep him away from my spoons, pots and pans.
You said hed grow out of it, grouses Dad, Now look
at him.
When I pick up the nozzle, I aim a jet stream, spraying
out organic slime. Water swooshes down the driveway as I tap its
metallic bottom with my finger.
Potter/Vivanco

76
Listen to that, I say to my brother, who rolls his eyes,
Doesnt that sound great?
THE STUPID MISMATCHED drumsticks Moses gave me
make me madder every time I look at them. Theyre not even the
same brand!
Look! Slinglerland I whine, And Crest, like the
toothpaste!
Sucker! teases Codge.
Codge, I whine, Stop!
Stop being a baby, he says, And just count off the
song.
One and two and one and two and I say, tapping on
the chair between our beds, keeping time with my foot.
Like athletes running a marathon, we find our groove and
never tire, playing I Just Want to Make Love to You for at least
an hour, maybe more. In the music zone, times irrelevant. I
experiment with syncopated whacks as Codges fingers fly over
frets.
Since schools out for summer, Im not thinking about
homework, missed city buses or mean music store salesmen. I
plan to be a human metronome the whole vacation.
SPOONING WITH HIS guitar like a beautiful woman,
Codge snores lightly as a cool high desert breeze blows over
him.
Come on, man, I say, to my snoozing brother, lifting up
a corner of his bedspread, Time to hit the rack.
Pulling the guitar with him, he dives under blankets,
sighing.
Eaat Bench

77
Drumsticks beside my pillow, I tuck my hands under my
face. As I drift off, the faint rhythm of bongos seeps through the
walls. I dream Im in a smoky bar far, far away from East Bench.

















CBgter 16
Like a gunshot ricocheting off walls and ceilings, I whack
my new homemade snare - a metal pail turned upside down,
replacing the stupid rattling coffee can. I also hung an old metal
trash can lid from Nics ceiling for a crash cymbal.
Stop! screams Codge, face twisted, open right hand
arcing over his head.
What? I ask.
The garbage lid sounds okay, my brother says, But
your bucket is too loud.
Charlie Watts, I retaliate, Plays his snare really loud.
I dont care if he shoots lightning bolts from his butt!
shouts Codge, Youre still too loud, man!
Jimmy, says Renny, wearing a business-like white
dress shirt, sleek black tie and matching Farah dress slacks on a
hot June day, Why dont you use the coffee can instead?
What? I yell, No, no way!
Jim, asks Nic, You got your harmonica with you?
Yeah, I pout. Why?
Lets have Jim play Brian Jones part, states Nic
looking at Codge and Renny. The song can use the harmonica
more than a bucket.
Eaat Bench

79
NO! No way Im the harmonica player I shout,
horrified, Im the drummer!
Yeah, youre the drummer alright, says Nic, stroking
the new guitar, A drummer with no drums.
Thats because, I shout, We spent all the money we all
worked our asses off for on two guitars, when all we really
needed was one more guitar. We couldve bought at least a
snare drum for the price of one of those guitars, but no. You two
just had to have two brand new guitars.
Well, you should have spoken up, says Codge, You
big baby.
Leaping over my set, I charge, tackling my brother. In an
instant, Im pummeling his ribs and stomach. He holds the
guitar overhead to keep it out of harms way. Ive never once
been able to beat my older, bigger, stronger brother but I dont
care. I dont even care if this is a venial or mortal sin. Even if the
newly elected Pope Paul the VI was here and begged me to stop,
I wouldnt.
Jimmy, pleads Codge, Youre going to break my
guitar.
Dont you ever, ever call me that again, I seethe,
punching his meaty ribs relentlessly, You butthole.
Ok, ok, man, says Codge, Im sorry.
Jimmy, Renny says, after slamming down his writing
pad, leaping to the rescue from the window seat. Well help you
get a real snare drum.
I dont believe you. I shout, adrenaline surging through
my skinny, undersized frame, Swear it!
Yes, my brother gasps, I swearon a stack of bibles,
catechismsrosariesmissals
Potter/Vivanco

80
Not good enough! I holler, fist up and back, ready to
mete another righteous blow.
I swear on my brand new guitar, then.
Really? I ask.
The urge to pound my sibling leaves as fast as it came,
like a summer cloudburst. Soothing my sore knuckles, I lie on
my back, sweat dripping down my face.
Man, giggles Codge, holding freshly bruised ribs,
Being a drummer has made you strong as hell!
Yeah, kids Renny, Maybe we can rent you out as a
sparring partner for Cassius Clay.
I catch my reflection in a mirror in the far corner, hardly
recognizing the kid with bulging shoulders, biceps and forearms,
though still way too short for my age. As an extra windfall, my
dark blond locks are long, almost touching my collar, something
Im sure the nuns will have their opinions about come
September. But now its only June and I dont care. No wonder
every time our parents look at us, they sigh. Still on his back,
Codge hands me his guitar then grasps my outstretched right
hand, light as a feather as I pull him to his feet.
CREAKING UP THE STEPS, my brother and I steady our
bruised and battered bodies on the banister railing like the
ancient Lewis siblings following a particularly grueling nap.
After Nic crashes the thunderous garage door behind us, I walk
briskly ahead.
Come on! I urge, Im dying of thirst!
Christ, look at the sky says Nic, as a mammoth slate
gray wall charges towards us.
Where are the mountains? asks Renny.
Eaat Bench

81
Look out! yells Nic, as flashes of brilliant yellow and
white dance across tree tops chased by booming thunder claps,
Here it comes!
The opaque cloud saturates us in seconds, soaking pant
legs, shirts and shoes. Tossing my head back, I open my mouth,
slaking my well earned thirst. After a few seconds, I get the
distinctly uncomfortable sensation of drowning so I cover my
head with my shirt.
Its a cloudburst! yells a garbled voice, though I cant
see who.
Gutters become rising rivulets, debris, branches and
brown silt whoosh down 13
th
South.
Lets go back! Codge yells, wiping aside long black
bangs, trembling from the steep temperature drop.
Hey! shouts Renny, over the torrential din, Look!
Splashing in the gutter across the street, a couple of kids
tote a fishing pole, a bucket and a net.
The mountain streams must be flooding their banks
again! hollers Nic.
Free food! yells Renny, a couple of silvery flashes
zooming past us.
Hey, here comes a small board. Lets form a dam! I
yelp, voice cracking like a hillbilly, snatching up the wooden
board from the current. Got it!
Nic, orders Renny, Go get Jimmys bucket.
Be right back! yells Nic, slogging homeward
immediately losing his right shoe. Miraculously yanking it from
the powerful current, he secures it under armpit, running
lopsidedly, kicking up huge puddles. Less than a block from his
house, he should be back soon, unless he gets sucked into a
sewer.
Potter/Vivanco

82
Jimmys right sputters Renny, We need to make a
dam so we can trap fish and Nic can scoop it up in the bucket.
Make a V formation yells Codge, grabbing the board
from my hand, placing it in the gutter at a forty five degree angle
allowing some water through.
Here comes something silvery I shriek, gleefully.
Hell! bawls Renny, Wheres Nic with that bucket?
Renny, orders Codge, Stick your hand in there!
Got it! cries Renny holding up a long thin flapping
streak by the gills.
Is that a rainbow? I ask.
Its a cutthroat! boasts Renny, Look! It has two orange
slashes under the jaw.
Visibility low, a distinct splashing grows louder and
louder. Its Nic, with the bucket.
Renny caught a cutthroat I bark.
Renny is a cutthroat cracks Nic, holding out the
container.
All good band managers are cutthroats! says Renny,
tossing the violently thrashing fish into the pail, Dont you
know anything?
Ill watch him, I say, peering into the water. Its okay,
little fellow.
The fish suddenly swims calmly in circles in my
homemade drum, now living a dual existence as a fish bucket.
Pelting skulls like BB shot, the rains fiercer now.
Here comes another one! yells Renny, thrusting hands
into the raging gutter, extracting a long, plump, light brown fish
Eaat Bench

83
with black and rust spots, Its a German Brown. Oma will love
this!
As soon as he places the fish into the bucket, the
downpour ends abruptly. A wide shaft of sunlight shoots through
a blue hole in the sky. Across the street, the little kids wave
triumphantly. The smallest raises a net with a streak of silver
whipping around in it.
Look what we caught! he squeaks.
AT GUTTERS EDGE sopping wet, we admire a vast
rainbow crossing the summit of a jagged peak as struggling
storm clouds give up the fight.
Oh no! I say, looking down at my bare feet, Come on,
guys! Weve gotta find my shoes!
By now says Renny, wet stringy hair covering his face,
Theyre in a gutter halfway down on State Street.
Jimmy. You idiot! shouts my brother, as I brace for,
minimally, a sharp kidney punch or a bruising neck squeeze or
both. Patting me on the back, he says, Dont worry. Well think
of something to tell Mom and Dad.



CBgter 12
Scraping gravel as the off white 1957 Plymouth Fury
crawls over all-to-numerous speed bumps, Nics usually easy-
going Dad irately quashes a half spent Lucky into the
overflowing ashtray.
Dammit! whines Mr. Baskerville, crumpled butts
tumbling acrobatically, scorching fresh holes onto already
charred carpet and floor mats, Dammit to hell! You kids know
what these stupid speed bumps do to your drive train?
No, says Nic, What?
You dont want to know! roars Mr. B, lighting another
smoke, making a sweltering early August evening with six of us
jammed in the car even hotter.
Just past the towering Highland Drive-In sign, he brakes
and pays the attendant a dollar fifty for the car load. This is the
best deal in town by far especially for a double feature - Kid
Galahad starring Elvis and A Hard Days Night starring The
Beatles.
Against the golden glow of The Salt Lake City sunset,
gaggles of screeching kids, fueled with popcorn, sodas and
hotdogs, run amok in a playground near the concession stand.
Since Im the smallest and the skinniest by far, I straddle the
dreaded back seat hump, flanked by Codge and Nic in striped
surf shirts and thongs. When a gentle zephyr blows in, we finally
stop sweating like wild boars. In a blue sleeveless blouse, white
shorts and sneakers, Karen doesnt perspire one bit - and neither
does Renny.
Eaat Bench

85
Hey, Renny, teases Codge, You look like a Mormon
missionary.
Exactly! You never know, he says, catching the eye of
beautiful Mormon girls lounging in their new convertibles, Who
youre going to meet.
Competing with dozens of rival vehicles, we hunt down
the ultimate movie viewing spot.
Look, Dad, Nic says, pointing at a space near the
middle of the big screen. Over there!
Puffing contentedly, Mr. Bakersville hangs a sharp left.
Pulling up to the battleship-gray metal speaker tethered with a
coiled cable to a cement post, he turns off the ignition then
mounts the speaker on the partially opened drivers side window.
Buzzzzz, criiiissssshhh, buzzzzz, criiiissshhhhhh
Ummm, Dad, says Nic, I think the speakers
broken...
I know, barks Mr. Baskerville, For heavens sake!
After jamming into reverse, Nics Dad smashes the
accelerator. The rear wheels spin, whipping clouds of high
desert dust, irritating nearby drive in movie buffs eyes and
throats.
Ah, Dad warns Nic, pointing at the speaker cable,
stretched to the limit, still attached to the car window, You need
to detach the
After soaring frenziedly into the air, the speaker smacks
the ground, sizzling like frying bacon in an iron skillet. Crackling
a final time, it dies - a lonely dusty fatality in the empty parking
space.
Oh, for the love of says Mr. Baskerville, glimpsing
at us sternly in the rear view, trying our best to suppress giggles.
Puffing on his smoke, he grins then chuckles in spite of himself.
Potter/Vivanco

86
JAMMED BETWEEN MR. BASKERVILLE and Karen in the
crack of the front bucket seats, Renny thrusts his arm out the
window, jabbing his elbow into my sisters mouth.
Hey, you goof, she howls, Watch it!
Sorry says Renny, then to Mr. Baskerville, Theres
an empty place near the concessions.
Cant we get a little closer to the middle? whines Karen
rubbing her freshly elbowed lips.
This is it, dammit! Nics Dad barks, backing swiftly
into the spot, I dont even care if the darned speaker works.
Leaning out of the window, he yanks the drive in talk box
from its pedestal, slamming it onto the window, adjusting the
volume knob. It hums with minimal buzz and click.
Looks like nobody tried to drive off with this one!
cracks Nic.
Nights not over with, Mr. Baskerville deadpans.
USUALLY INHABITING THE GREAT SALT LAKE, a flock
of sea gulls soar overhead, scrounging popcorn and hotdog
fragments. I wonder how long these birds can survive off the
dregs of drive-in cuisine rather than their natural diet of bugs and
the Great Lakes brine shrimp. A large gull cocks his head,
bombing us, like a B-24 Liberator.
Oh for the love of groans Mr. Baskerville, staring at
the snare drum sized white splatter in the middle of our
windshield, Why cant you crap on someone elses car?
He hands Nic a small Windex bottle and a handful of
light green folded Sinclair paper towels from the glove box.
After slithering through the cracked door of the two door sedan,
Nic sprays the defiled windshield with blue fluid, whistling
Please, Please Me.
Eaat Bench

87
I cant believe we have to sit through ninety minutes of
Kid Galahad, I say, Just to see the Beatles.
After tapping the Please, Please Me drum part on the
back of my sisters head rest, I cringe as my sister rotates her
head. Theres enough fire in her eyes to skewer me with a drum
stick then roast me over an open pit so I stop.
The speaker crackles King of the Whole Wide World
the Elvis movies opening tune.
Lets go get some snacks, says Mr. Baskerville to Nic.
Hurry up! barks Renny, as father and son move toward
the concession stand. The movies starting.
Cant see through you! yells an irritated Elvis-look-
alike, poking his head out of his car window behind us.
Oh, excuse me, apologizes Mr. Baskerville, hunching
down.
Ok, time to pay up! says Renny, hand out, facing us,
kneeling on the front seat.
I dig into my pocket and proudly hand him eight quarters.
What this? says Renny.
Two dollars.
I know how much eight quarters equal, stupid, he spits,
face burning red, I mean, thats all youve got?
Mom and Dad made me give them all my chore
money.
What? yells Renny, That was money for your snare
drum, Jimmy!
Dont get mad at him, consoles Codge, handing him a
dollar bill, This is all I could hide from Mom and Dad. They
Potter/Vivanco

88
say we all have to pull our weight, what with tuition, uniforms
and all.
This is an outrage! sputters Renny.
CHURNING AND SNORTING THE muffler-less black 1948
Oldsmobile convertible parks beside us. With closely cropped
black wavy hair, goatee, horn-rimmed glasses, broad shoulders
under an unbuttoned leather vest, an olive complexioned young
man drapes a speaker over the white steering wheel. An
unfiltered cigarette poised on his lower lip, bare chest heaving,
he eyeballs my sister.
Oh no! mumbles Karen sliding low into her seat. Its
the new guy from next door.
Hes the guy the Lewis were talking about, Codge
says. I think his name is Joe.
Late at night, an unfamiliar voice, weird jazz music,
bongos and the scent of sweet tobacco waft through the thin
basement walls of our duplex. So, this is Joe. Like Maynard G.
Krebs crossed with a mobster, he props his athletic physique
against the seat.
Dont youse guys live next door? he booms, nasally
New York accent so brash it almost seems fake, The Lewis
told me about youse kids. Theyre pacifists, did you know that?
I thought they were Shakers, I say.
Jimmy, you idiot, says Codge, smacking me on the
head.
What? I pout, rubbing my noggin as Joe launches a
flirtatious smoke ring.
Smile! Joe says, peering through an expensive looking
camera.
Click!
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89
Oh wonderful, says Karen, covering her face.
THE GIANT WHITE SCREEN with Elvis parading around in
boxing shorts suddenly goes black mid scene. A few seconds
later the gray speaker box crackles.
Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry to inform
you that we are experiencing technical difficulties with the
movie, Kid Galahad. Please stand by.
Ya like Elvis? he asks Karen after bolting from his
car, leaning against our Fury.
I cant stand him she scoffs, I came to see The
Beatles.
The Beatles? spits Joe, They dont know how to swing
like Elvis.
What do you mean they dont know how to swing? I
erupt, Ringo is a great drummer!
That cat couldnt swing taunts Joe, peering through the
camera, If you hung him on a front porch. Hold it!
He snaps a picture, flash blinding me. Crawling over
Codge, Im ready to jump out of the car and kick some ass as
soon as I can see something other than white stars.
Easy Champ, advises big brother, holding me back.
He doesnt know what hes talking about.
Footsteps crunching on gravel, Mr. Baskerville and Nic
carry our junk food to the car.
Whew! That was the fastest four some odd dollars, says
Mr. Baskerville, divvying snacks through the driver side
window, Ive ever spent!
Mr. Baskerville, says Codge, This is Joe who lives
next door to us.
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90
Glad to meet you, says Mr. B over hot dog wrappers
and paper cups, Hey! Isnt that a Nikon F?
Thats right, says Joe proudly.
Thats what my photographers at the Tribune use,
replies Mr. Baskerville squinting, Good piece of equipment.
The Kid Galahad movie starts again from the beginning.
Oh no! I shout, after tearing into a juicy chili dog, no
onions.
The King of Rock and Roll! yells Joe, Finally.
Speakers crackling, the picture vanishes again.
Looks like The King just got dethroned, says Codge.
Hey wise guy Renny says, leaning over Karen, shaking
his chili dog at Joe, onions and chili spilling, What group held
the top five in the hit parade during April? Huh?
Yeah and who has more number one records? counters
Joe.
When was the last time Elvis, jeers Karen, sliding over
to keep from getting squashed, Had a number one record?
Well who do you think John Lennons musical hero is?
taunts Joe.
How many car loads came to see Elvis? says Renny,
Ill bet you this chili dog there wont be one car leaving when
A Hard Days Night starts!
Hey, Ringo Lover! D.J. Fontana, blurts Joe, Can play
circles around Clyde Starr, that big nose with a pinhead behind
it!
Who ever even heard of D.J. Fontana? I say, appalled
by the lack of respect for the great Ringo Starr.
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91
I think we all need to Mr. B. says, choking on a chili
dog, settle down a little.
Once more, the opening musical number, King of the
Whole Wide World blasts the speakers but now theres no
picture.
Kid Galahad is the worst movie ever. Come on, Elvis, a
boxer? barks Renny. In real life, Cassius Clay would punch his
lights out!
Jimmy could punch his lights out cracks Nic, For that
matter.
Clay wouldnt stand a chance spits Joe, Elvis is a
black belt in karate.
What a chop! I mock, Clay would murder him just
like he slaughtered Sonny Liston.
Were learning Beatles songs, not Elvis boasts Renny
pointing to Codge, Nic, and me. Rather these guys are. Im the
band manager.
Youse, youse newborns have a band? gasps Joe
studying us. So how many songs have you written?
Written? says Nic. Were just learning.
Anybody can do someone elses material sniffs Joe,
vapor escaping from nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon as Elvis
rides in the back of a large truck with no audio then goes black
again. Im no musician but I have a book of lyrical miracles!
Standing tall on the dusty, gravelly desert floor, he recites
from a slim red leatherette book.
I have been herding clouds,
setting my wolves on them,
massing them up into huge
swollen black mountainslashes
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92
snap out of their bad moods.

Wow, Nic whispers as Codge nods.

Your eyes pull me downfall here,
and I fall for you in a fine rain that
does not stop even after it falls
on your lips, between your cleavage
nipplesI nibble on milk flames.

Shut up, says Codge, elbowing me after I childishly
giggle on the word, nipples, And learn something, dork.

I am lost in the waterin startling
rivers draining down your thighs.
Hold me like a drink of water; dont
let me seep into the earth. I want
to slip my roots into your elbows
and thighs; hands caught in hair.

Gazing at my blushing sister, Joe shoots the next lines
like dozens of cupids arrows.

A fire like you, milk flames in nipples,
a small secret just slipping out of wild hunger,
bites pieces out of my mindlost mind,
found and lost and found. Hold your soul
open until we chase each other in, around, on sacred
ground.

Smiling confidently, Joe bows as Kid Galahad flashes on
screen with audio this time.
Kids, this man is an incredible talent says Mr. Baskerville,
applauding, Poetry is the highest art form there is. Bravo!
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93
Thank you, says Joe, bowing modestly again, as
everybody claps, except me.
Is this movie time, snarls the Elvis-guy behind us,
who got mad earlier, Or poetry hour?
Sorry! says Joe, hurdling into the front seat, audio
spitting and crackling until the mammoth screen goes blank.
Again. These people dont know what the hell theyre
doing!
Leaning into his passenger seat, he holds up a
gigantic dirt clod with four squirming feet.
Whoa look at that! says Nic.
Hey, says Renny, Thats a desert tortoise!
Whats the matter? cracks Karen, Cant get a
date?
I like a girl who can kid around says Joe, I found
Edsel in da middle of Foothill Drive on da way over heah.
Edsel, I ask, Why do you call him that?
Because he was run over by an Edsel says Joe,
cradling the poor animal, Guy didnt even stop.
A CHEER RISES UP, along with a symphony of car
honks - teenagers raising victory fists drowning out the few
boos from Presley fans, including the Elvis look-alike who
keeps yelling at us. Slumped in seat, Joe holds his hand over
heart like a wounded cowboy. Management announced due
to technical difficulties, theyre skipping the Elvis movie
altogether.
As a sustained twelve string blasts, The Beatles are
chased by throngs of adoring beauties. Steady pockets of
screams erupt through the drive in, our car included.
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94
Oh my God! shrieks Karen, One second I think I
like Paul the best, then I think its John, then its George,
then its Ringo
Shush!
Though occasionally peering at my sister through the
rear view mirror, Joe watches the movie intently,
occasionally tapping his dashboard. He might be a good
poet, even a great one, but I dont like this guy. Anybody
who criticizes The Beatles, the best band in the world, is no
friend of mine and never will be.















CBgter 18
Unlike other not-so-lucky religions, Catholicism boasts
hundreds, maybe even thousands of patron saints, covering
almost any physical, mental or spiritual affliction youve ever
heard of and some you havent. If you pray to them about your
ailments, they intercede in your behalf to God, like your own
personal modestly dressed cheerleader. Even with intense study,
its impossible to know all of the patron saints and what their
particular jobs are. I make a mental note to ask Karen a question
about that.
Lush, dark brown hair bathed in early September
sunlight, Codge cradles his guitar on his unmade bed, strewn
with threadbare sheets, a dark brown Army blanket and original
lyrics scribbled on notebook paper.
Skinny buns propped on my pillow, I deftly twirl my
drumsticks between fingers. We are ready for Mass early, my
growing feet crammed into last years dress shoes, toes and heels
blistering against rigid black leather. When I lost my shoes in the
cloudburst, Codge threatened to brain me if we spent money
hoarded from Mom and Dad for a new pair.
I want you to play this part with a wood block in the
bridge section, instructs my brother, strumming minor chords,
Like Ringo does in And I Love Her.
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96
Help Me Understand is simple and melancholy so I play
a sparse rhythm on the chair between our beds, as Codge sings
his original song:
Ive cried too long and been unhappy
Because of what shed done
But now Ive someone wholl make me happy
Now a change will come, oh yeah, now a change will
come.

Time for Mass you two, Dad hollers flicking lights on
and off even though he knows were already awake, Right
now!
Whats with Hosanna in His Highest? mutters Codge,
mid strum.
Dads always in a bad mood when he fasts, I say,
Why do we have to fast before Communion?
Something about purifying the body, says Codge,
strumming, Actually, I really dont know.
Hey, Codge, I say, tossing my dirty blond hair side to
side ala Ringo, Look how long my hair is getting!
Big deal! my brother scowls, also grumpy from fasting.
THE INTERIOR A GRUBBY SMOKE gray, our 1961 beige
two door Chevy Biscayne reeks of Dads Philly cheroots. In the
backseat between my brother and sister, I straddle the hump, as
usual. Then I slip off my tight Florsheims, instantly feeling
better.
Holy cow! What died? whines Karen, ruby lips curled,
sniffing the air, Jimmy, put your shoes back on!
In a navy blue plaid pleated skirt, white blouse, matching
knee socks and black dress shoes, my sister drapes a small lacy
chapel veil over jet black hair. I want to tell her she looks pretty
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97
but Im afraid she might get mad and scratch me. So I shut up
and stick my toes back into the shoes.
Hey Pop, nice hat! ribs Codge, at the silly nylon-
stocking toque Dad forgot to remove.
Ruth, he whines, extracting the ridiculous nylon cap
Why didnt you tell me?
Dont worry, dear, says Mom, studying the chemistry
book on her lap, Well get there on time.
Im not talking about grouses Dad, Never mind!
After delicately folding the stocking, he drapes it over the
filthy ash tray.
How do I look? he asks, gazing admiringly at Mom.
Just fine, dear, she says, not looking up, Just fine.
Particularly on Sundays, Mom looks more like Dads
daughter than his wife, in a carefully preserved rayon turquoise
dress, cinched by a matching belt, stockings, black heels and a
beige feathered hat over short black wavy hair.
Boys! Get that hair off your forehead, says Dad, after
grinding into reverse, neck craned, right forearm propped on the
seat-back, Ruth, when are you going to take the girls for a
haircut?
Give me the money says Mom, slamming her book
shut, And Ill take them to the barbers tomorrow.
Crossly zooming out of the driveway, Dad almost hits
another car, its horn blaring. The hungrier he is, the more
reckless he drives.
Karen? I whisper, Whos the patron saint of aching
feet?
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98
Looking up from his lyrics notebook, Codge stares at me
like I had just asked the most ridiculous question that has ever
been asked by any human.
That would be either Peter the Apostle, says Karen,
forefinger to ruby lips, Or you might try Saint Servatius.
Servatius? says Codge, Oh, thats like Father
Servatius, my Latin teacher.
Thanks, I say, Ill pray to both.
Why dont you, hisses Karen, Just get a pair of shoes
that fit, knucklehead.
Index finger to my lips, I gaze nervously at our parents
and shake my head.
Look, Jim, pretend youre playing bongos on this tune,
like Ringo does, says Codge, examining his notebook, While I
sing the first verse. Ready?
Okay, tapping my hands on my lap.
Help me in these days of sorrow
Help me if you can

Oh Cwodge, asks Mom sweetly, Is this a song about
the Five Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary?
Uhh..um... says Codge, nodding tentatively, Okay.
Sure.
Signaling me to continue drumming, he sings.
Help me want to see tomorrow
Help me understand, oh yeah, help

It sounds more like the Agony in the Garden! Dad says
agitatedly, racing up 17
th
East toward the 9
th
South. Cant I get a
moments peace?
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99
Filius canis, curses my brother in Latin, jamming the
notebook back into his pocket.
Oh, I tease, You said son of a b
Codge shoots me the evil eye which means shut the hell
up or Ill hurt you which I take seriously having been on the
receiving end too many times of agonizing brotherly justice.
HANGING A LEFT, Dad rides roughshod over a huge
pothole on 9
th
South.
Dad, inquires Karen, Didnt you just run a stop sign
back there?
You want to drive? he yells at the rear view mirror.
Actually, says Karen, her face lighting up, Yes.
Oh, Dwon, slow down bleats Mom, Lets get to
church in one piece!
Zooming into a diagonal parking space at the severely
sloping side of Our Lady of Lourdes near the new school zone
construction site, Dad throws the car door open.
Lets get cracking! he yells, Especially Codge and
Jim. Youre always dilly-dallying and shilly-shallying.
Oh my God, says Codge, sarcastically, looking at his
watch, Were only five minutes early, technically, were already
late!
For crying out loud! bawls Dad, tugging non-existent
neck hairs in frustration, Bail out, people! Its time to pull the
rip chord!
Coach of the renowned Green Bay Packers, Vince
Lombardi, made up the ridiculous rule that if youre not ten
minutes early for football practice, meetings, church, movies,
taking a dump or whatever - youre late. Like almost every
father in America, Dad is a huge Packers fan, running the family
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100
like a cross between an NFL football coach and the Pope - the
worst combination imaginable for a basically lazy sloth like
myself.
Pushing through the churchs entrance, I hold the door for
the rest of the family who search for an empty pew. Though my
tight shoes grow tighter, pinching with each step,
I limp along courageously. Parishioners stare, shaking
their heads, convinced, no doubt, that Im the new polio poster
boy.
In Nomine Patris, et filii, et Spiritus Sancti, begins a
new priest, making the sign of the cross, Amen.
Since Mass started before were in our pew, his hair
shorn on back and sides as naked as a babys ass (at least thats
what he tells the barber) Dads whitewalls turn ruby red.
Glaring at my brother and me, he menacingly slices his finger
across his throat.
REPLACING THE BEAR-LIKE Father Benson is the not-
much-different Father Mitchell Brown. A long white gown (alb)
underneath the shorter gold and a white outer vestment
(chasuble) with a large golden cross appliqud onto the fabric, fit
loosely over his circus elephant body.
Stumbling about in long black cassocks under a
translucent lacy white broad-sleeved vestment (surplice) are two
altar boys: Renny, our fair haired band manager and a stocky boy
who looks like Bazooka Joe of bubble gum fame. They zealously
fetch processional crosses, candles, incense, cruets of water and
wine, bowing on cue.
Now its time to genuflect and mumble some prayers in
Latin. Instead, folding my hands, I call up my new spiritual go-
to guy.
Hello St. Servatius. How are you? Actually, my feet are
killing me. If youre not too busy working with lepers or
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101
something could you please give me bigger shoes or smaller
feet? Thanks. Amen.
CODGE SECRETLY EDITS LYRICS during Mass by tucking
his notebook into a prayer book. When I crane my head to look,
he turns away gruffly. Ok, I think, be that way, I need to pray for
a drum set anyway.
If theres a Patron Saint for Aching Feet, theres got to be
a Patron Saint for Drummers. Karen would know, but I cant ask
her right now since Dad and Mom are wedged between us. So, I
bow my head, praying to St. Jude, Patron Saint of Hopeless
Cases.
Dear St. Jude, Jimmy Potter here. Hope you are doing
well. Im doing ok, actually my feet are killing me but Saint
Servatius is covering that, so dont worry. Look, I need a miracle
and I was wondering if you could help me out with a drum set,
preferably a black oyster pearl Ludwig like Ringo Starrs. See
what you can do. Thanks. Amen.
SOUND ASLEEP, DAD SNORES LIGHTLY. I tap Moms lap
then point at Sleeping Beauty. Grimacing, she pokes him in the
ribs, waking him suddenly.
Snnooorrrrrt! grunts Dad, piloting his WWII bomber,
Men! Get the guns ready!
Clasping the pew in front of me, I squelch laughter, tears
streaming down my face. Covering her face, Karens shoulders
shudder convulsively. Mom adjusts her feathered hat. Licking his
lips and straightening his back, Dad stares at the altar, still
sleeping though eyes wide open. Engrossed in the universe of
musical magic - writing songs lyrics - Codge misses the whole
thing as he scribbles, erases and scribbles some more.
ENJOYING BEING AN ALTAR BOY, Bazooka Joe rings the
altar bell a few too many times. Father Brown shows his
disapproval by sloshing pink jowls back and forth like water
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102
balloons. During endless altar boy choreography and priest
droning, I entertain myself working out drum parts to Codges
new original song on my lap.
Let me give you an example - if a Catholic and
Mormon were to die on the same day and there was only one
coveted vacancy in Gods eternal heavenly mansion, who would
be admitted? says Father Brown during his sermon, The
Catholic! Because of his faith in the Four Marks of the True
Church - The One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic...
The mention of Mormons attracts my attention, I dont
know why. Wide awake, Dad nods approvingly. Mortified,
Karens normally rosy cheeks fade to ash. Glancing nervously at
her watch, Moms upset about the priests over-long homily,
making her late for work at (ironically) the Latter Day Saints
Hospital. Shes finishing up her student nursing training there
with only a month to go.
and as for the Mormon, well says the priest
leaving the congregation, including me, in suspense. In nominee
Patris, et Filii et Spiritu Sancti. Amen.
What a jerk, whispers Karen.
HYPNOTICALLY MONOTONE, Father recites the Nicene
Creed, in Latin. Im completely lost.
Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotntem...
Dear Old Dad, the dead language expert, and others of his
ilk, happily join in.
...Factrem cli et terr, visiblium mnium et
invisiblium continues the priest.
Dwon, Mom whispers, Weve got to leave now.
Cant we wait till the Nicene Creed is over? whispers
Dad.

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103
Et in unum Dminum Iesum Christum, Flium Dei
Unignitum...
You want me to work or not? whispers Mom, Poor
Jimmy has to wear shoes too small for his feet.
Whoops, she must have noticed my limping down the
aisle.
Hes going to get bunions, for sure, she hisses.
I dont know what bunions are but anything that rhymes
with onions cant be that serious - I hope. Mom stares at Dad
placidly, a subtle little trick she uses to get her way.
Et ex Patre natum ante mnia scula Deum de Deo,
lumen de lmine, Deum verum de Deo vero
Oh, for crying out whispers Dad, standing up.
THOUGH BLINDED BY THE SUN, Mom runs like a high
heeled gazelle toward our car, managing miraculously not to
twist her ankles.
Why did we even bother to fast, shouts Dad, loping like
a wounded mastodon, If were not even staying for
Communion?
Think of it like Communion of Desire, dear, yells
Mom, clasping my sisters hand, Come on, Karen, weve really
got to go.
Theres no such thing, hisses Dad, breathlessly, As
Communion of Desire. You either take Communion or you
dont.
Oh, Dwonyou know what I mean.
No, Ruth, I dont, he says, gasping, You cant just
make up new Sacraments to fit your whims.
Hurry, kids! Mom yells excitedly, holding open the car
door.
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104
Dad zooms out of the parking space before Codge has the
chance to get his left foot all the way in the car, almost mowing
down a large Catholic family - parents, seven kids, wailing babe
in arms. Screeching around corners so fast, wed surely jettison
onto pavement one by one if the windows were open.
A CAR FULL MORMONS, pulling out of a neighboring
LDS church, also called a ward, parking lot, had the nerve to
assume we were going to stop at a stop sign.
Hey, I dont make the rules, he says to Karen after
honking irately.
Then the Mormon is being condemned, says my sister,
Because he was born into that faith?
Downshifting into second climbing 9
th
South, Dad shields
eyes from the suns glare. I pray he stops at the four-way stop at
the top of the hill.
Hey Dad I say, Dont you think God would send the
Mormon to Limbo instead of hell?
God doesnt send anybody to Limbo, he says, Or to
hell for that matter. You send yourself there!
Dwon, slow down! Mom begs, not wanting to send
herself to Limbo or anywhere in the afterlife, Stop sign
coming!
I see it! he shouts, slowing down but not stopping as
we hold our breaths, For crying out loud.
So Ill go to hell if I am a Mormon? I probe.
Didnt you listen, snaps Dad, veins on his temples
pulsating, To Father Browns sermon?
Well, she says, staring out the window, I dont believe
it.
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105
Its absolutely true, dammit! Dad blurts, pounding the
steering wheel.
Dwon! says Mom.
I still dont believe it says Karen, fighting back tears.
Fine! Dad says, a little calmer now, Ill say a rosary
for you.
I think we need to say a rosary, I kid, That we get
home in one piece.
Shut up, Jimmy! Karen says, tears streaming down her
face.
Braking at a red light, Dad thankfully avoids hitting a
large panel truck.
Hurry up! he yells at the glowing red, tapping fingers
impatiently on the steering wheel.
Dwon! says Mom, Please calm down!
After inspecting traffic for any cops, he zips through the
light.
I hope, Dad says sternly, There are no Mormons in
that band of yours.
No, no Mormons, Codge says, What about you? You
probably work with Mormons at your job.
We never talk about religion at work.
Exactly, says Codge, snapping his fingers.
After screeching into the driveway, Mom leaps out
ripping off her hat, like a burlesque dancer. After shoving the
key into the side door lock, she makes a beeline for her bedroom.
In a matter of minutes, shes Florence Nightingale, snow white
uniform with matching starched cap and comfy leather shoes.
Potter/Vivanco

106
Karen, Codge, Jim, says Mom, at the door with Dad
stuffing a Dunfords Bakery bear claw into his mouth, Make
sure you guys feed yourselves. And not just cereal - theres eggs,
sausage, bread, pancake mix.
One of these days, Dad says patting Moms rear,
making her skip and giggle, Youre going to get your drivers
license, little girl.
Then I wouldnt be able, says Mom, flirtatiously, To
spend as much time with you.
As we scramble eggs and fry sausage, I remember sadly
school starts in two days. And, my feet are still killing me.




CBgter 19
Sister Agnes Regina, Our Lady of Lourdes Elementary
School principal, called offering the last seat in the seventh grade
class. Occupying the same campus, Codge and I can make the
trip together leaving poor Nic behind at Cathedral Elementary.
Because the new OLOL Elementary School is still under
construction, my seventh grade classroom is on the second floor
of the gymnasium. The old OLOL building looming next door
(soon to be demolished) is a perfect version of the of the Wicked
Witch of the Wests castle, complete with hulking watch tower,
probably to shoot religion class escapees.
Yelling and laughing during their daily gym classes, high
school students actually enjoy calisthenics. Dont these people
realize therere better things to do with your time? Like playing
drums? Guess not.
Religion text books, dog-eared Baltimore Catechisms and
obligatory Missals clutter Sister Constance Marillas imposing
oak desk. With attractive dark brown eye brows, long lashes and
rosy cheeks, framed by her fluted wimple, she pencils in her roll
book.
Good morning sister I say, used to my familys
frequent moves, (this is my sixth elementary school), Im Jim
Potter transferring from Cathedral.
Well hello, Mr. Potter! she replies, standing, towering
over me at least a foot, even taller than Codge, Ive been
expecting you.
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108
Sister Marilla points to a vacant flip-top desk at the rear
of the fourth row.
Thats Magilla Gorilla! says Bazooka Joe, the beefy
altar boy who served with Renny as I edge past new tittering
faces, someone behind me snickers.
Boys and girls announces Sister Marilla, Please
welcome your newest classmate, who just transferred from
Cathedral
Boo! calls Bazooka, holding his nose.
Meet James Potter orPotter Noster! she says
beaming, ignoring Bazooka.
I chuckle but the class is dead silent. Pater Noster, is
Latin for Our Father, Pater meaning father, Noster meaning
our. Potter is pronounced exactly the same as Pater. So, Potter
Noster could be translated either as Our Father or Our Potter.
Well, Im glad to know says Sister Marilla, smiling,
One of you knows a little Latin.
Uh, my dad is a Latin buff, I say. He even taught me
how to sing Row Row Your Boat in Latin!
Well, Mr. Potter, enthuses the nun Lets hear it!
Boo! shouts Bazooka as the rest of the class bursts into
applause, Hiss!
Duc, duc, ramos duc I sing in an uncomfortably high
range, face scorching, palms drenched.
Way to go, yells Bazooka, Tweetie Bird!
Shhhh says Sister, nodding.
Clearing my throat, I start over on a lower note.
Duc, duc, ramos duc, I croon.
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109
Nothing like my thin, quavery Barney Fife speaking
voice, my singing is strong, full and in tune, because of the band.
The class doesnt laugh this time, listening intently.
Flumine secundo, I sing.
You could hear a pin drop.
Viveter, viveter, viveter, viveter,
The class is nodding now.
Velet in somnio!
Very good, Mr. Potter Sister Marilla says, clapping
enthusiastically as the class roars.
What a wonderful pure voice!
The boys grumble with jealousy. When even the cutest
girls flutter their butterfly eyelashes at me, I blush and, thinking
about blushing, I blush even more.
Oh, you must join, says Sister, The Dominic Savio
Club this year!
Domino who? I repeat to a few scattered titters.
Dominic Savio, Mr. Potter replies the jovial nun,
turning to write Dominic Savio on the blackboard.
Bazooka holds up a sketch of a scrawny singer, notes
floating from his mouth, head in a guillotine.
Mr. Haroldson, says Sister M, staring at Bazooka,
chalk pointing at the board, Please tell the class who Dominic
Savio is?
Uh, he was a Shark in West Side Story, blurts
Michael/Bazooka, inciting another spate of uproarious laughter.
No, Michael but I give you credit for creativity. replies
the nun. One hour after school detention. The black board needs
a good washing and the erasers a vigorous clapping!
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110
Yes, Sister sighs Mike bowing his head, feigning
remorse. The second Sister looks away, he sneers. With mule
sized front teeth and large Bazooka pink gums, I expect him to
hee-haw any second.
Dominic Savio is the Patron Saint of Boys Choirs, she
patiently informs me. There really is a handy Catholic saint for
every occasion.
Conspicuous red-checkered cat eye glasses on a tiny
nose, a freckle faced, curly strawberry blond frantically waves
her hand. She could be Howdy Doodys twin sister.
Yes, Maria? says the kind sister.
Sister, my dad says that the Dominic Savio Club is a
cult! says Howdy Doodette, aka Maria, gasps and titters filling
the room.
Maria! says the nun, turning her habit rustles and sways
as she writes in large, perfect cursive, That is absolutely untrue
and very unkind.
SCUTTLEBUTT
Class, says the good sister, pointing at the unusual
word, Who knows the meaning of this word?
My dad had a bad case of scuttlebutt, says Mike,
During The War.
Even I laugh at that one.
Oh Michael! sighs Sister Marilla, You must certainly
love to stay here with me after school. Afternoon detention
extended by thirty minutes.
Yes, sister, scowls Mike.
Anyone? says Sister M, patiently scrutinizing the class
again, Scuttlebutt means rumor or gossip, especially when
malicious.
Eaat Bench

111
Oh, like what Father Brown said about Mormons at the
homily. Ill have to remember to tell Dad about that as I scribble
my math assignment in my notebook.
WHEN THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN hit the
airwaves in August, with sultry electric minor guitar arpeggio,
slow bluesy organ, bass guitar, drums and Eric Burdons deep
soulful voice, Nic rushed out to buy their debut album. The hit
single steadily finally reached number one last week so now the
radio stations play it all the time.
Turn it up, I yell to Codge.
That song is sacrilegious! says Karen, as we turn up the
volume, making her storm out of the room.
THE RELATIVELY COMPLEX CHORD STRUCTURE stumps
us but Nic and Codge finally figure it out.
Whats the song about? I ask, from my drum alcove,
Some guys got a mom whos a tailor
As Nic plays the arpeggio along with the record, Codge
experiments with a contrasting strum, ignoring me.
I love this song, says Renny, strolling in with a large
Book of Mormon under his arm.
You cant read that I howl, pointing at his book,
Thats a mortal sin and you can get excommunicated!
Who told you that? Renny says.
Oh settle down, Jimmy snaps Codge. Its just a book!
But, but
Look, Jimmy, says Renny, Lets say I did get
excommunicated from the Church - I wouldnt care.
So, I say, reeling, Youre going to become a
Mormon?
Potter/Vivanco

112
No! Renny laughs, tapping the books cover, This is
my ticket to dating Mormons.
Mormon girls are beautiful, Codge acknowledges,
Catholic girls, not so much.
Well, Moms Catholic, I protest, And shes beautiful.
You want to date your Mom? teases Nic, plucking then
bending the high E string for a bluesy effect.
I prayed for a miracle and it happened. So, I want to
come to Catholicisms defense since I dont want to piss off the
other saints who Ive been hitting up for miracles, like a decent
drum set.
Well, I say, behind my crummy moving box, trash can
drum set, I prayed to St. Servatius, the Patron Saint of Aching
Feet and he fixed my problem.
What exactly, asks Renny, Was your problem?
My shoes were too tight.
And St. Servatius bought you some shoes that fit?
teases Nic, Great! Lets ask him for some Beatle boots!
No, he didnt buy me a new pair of shoes, I say, He
fixed my old ones so theyd fit.
I fixed your shoes, you ingrate, says Codge, fine tuning
his guitar, I wet your shoes and stuck Dads shoe trees in them
for two days.
Well, if it wasnt for St. Servatius, I say I probably
wouldnt have thought of it.
That wasnt your idea, smart ass! counters Codge, It
was mine.
Well, maybe you wouldnt have thought of it, then.
Eaat Bench

113
I really dont think thats the way things work because if
it did says Renny, voice cracking, blue eyes watery then
smiling bravely, Okay, lets get our practice schedule nailed
down before we continueevery day after school next week?
Uh, replies Codge, looking embarrassed, I cant make
it.
At all? says Renny, as my brother grins guiltily shaking
his head.




CBgter 20
Instead of rock and roll cool, we look like fraternal
quadruplets, boarding school runaways and idiot savants rolled
into one, in identical navy blazers, white shirts, ties, slacks and
dress shoes, jammed in the back seat of the Baskervilles Fury.
Phew! Nic, did you pour the whole bottle of Hi-Karate
on you? I ask, gasping, Can you at least roll down the
window?
Looking straight ahead, he shoots me the bird.
Chain smoking with his wife in the front seat, Mr.
Baskerville resembles a government agent in black suit and tie,
crisp white shirt, wing tips and fedora with a bright red feather.
Wrapped in a luxurious mink stole, fire engine red A-line dress
with matching heels, Mrs. Baskerville powders her nose in the
rear view mirror.
It would have been faster, dear, says Dolly between
puffs, If youd have taken a left back there.
We went that way the last time, says Mr. Baskerville,
And got lost. Remember?
Well, says Mrs. Baskerville, I wasnt lost.
Despite the bands protests, Karen insisted on coming or
shed rat Codge out. Hed gotten detention for a whole week
looking at Playboy in religion class. Mimicking Moms
northeastern accent when the Judge Memorial High School
principal, Father ONeil called, our devious sister knew she
Eaat Bench

115
could play this card sooner or later. In Moms aquamarine
sleeveless dress and matching jacket and heels, she sits next to
Dolly.
Flickering gas lamps illuminate the driveway of the
members-only downtown club.
Come on, boys! says Mr. Baskerville, escorting the
women through the elegantly carved double oak doors.
THE SERPENTINE FRESCOED HALLWAY, with marble
Romanesque and Greek sculptures planted on pedestals every ten
feet, leads us to a room buzzing with adults and teens clutching
cocktails and sodas. The slightly putrid bourbon smell makes me
a little giddy.
Come on! shouts Nic, pointing, Theres our table!
Near the bandstand, a large round table displays a small
folded Reserved sign. The spotless tablecloth, gold plated
china, sparkling silverware and leaded crystal glass contrasts
with my threadbare too small only-a-leper-would-wear blazer.
George, shouts a businessman in a small nearby group,
Over here!
Have a seat, boys, George Baskerville says, waving to
the man, Well be right back.
Pressing his wifes back, he gently guides her to their
own little conversation pocket, summoning oh-so-eager-to-please
waiters with a flick of the wrist.
So this is what a night club looks like, exclaims Karen.
Ladies first, says Nic, politely pulling out a heavy
upholstered dining chair for my sis.
Why thank you, says Little Miss Prissy, daintily
plopping into the seat, letting Nic push the chair back in. Such a
gentleman!
Potter/Vivanco

116
More like a suck up, mutters Codge.
Shimmering in front of the bandstand, the polished dance
floor is empty. A white Fender Precision bass, a cherry
Epiphone, Fender amplifiers, a Farfisa organ, and a shiny gold
sax set off the blue sparkle Slingerland drums with brass Zildjian
ride and crash cymbals. Stenciled elegantly on the bass drum
head is The Edgar Burton Jazz Quintet.
Gosh! I say, my heart green with envy (which is
against one of the commandments but Im not sure which),
Look at those drums!
In identical ice blue tuxedoes, cummerbunds, bow ties
and frilly white shirts, band members smile, banter, squash
cigarettes into on-stage ash trays. Guitarist and bassist tune up,
saxophonist adjusts his mouthpiece as the organist rolls his eyes,
tapping his foot and glancing at his watch.
WHEN A TRAY FULL OF GLASSES smashes to the floor
several tables behind us, the whole room goes silent.
You bumped into me! yells a smoking whale-of-a-man,
poking a Hispanic waiter in the chest, nails-scraping-on-a-
blackboard voice all too familiar, You dont even know who I
am, do you?
No sir, says the waiter, in thickly accented English,
wiping down the whales powder blue tuxedo, Can I get
anything else for you?
Dont touch me, he screeches, knocking back a
whiskey straight up, You plebian!
Hey! gasps Renny, squinting through the smoke, Isnt
that
Is there a drummer in the house? says the organist
softly into the microphone.
Eaat Bench

117
Keep your shirt on! belches the baboon, waddling
toward the bandstand, pockmarked face, wispy orange hair and
ragged, stained ice blue tuxedo unmistakably clear.
Waiter, says George, sitting with us now, circling index
finger, indicating another round, Please. Put it on my tab.
Holy crap! I whisper nervously, Lets change tables
before he swallows us whole.
Take it easy, says Codge calmly, Crater Faces bark is
worse than his bite.
Yeah, says Renny, No big deal.
Relaxed behind drums, Moses winks at giggling teenage
girls two tables behind us. The organist plays a peculiar but
lively two bar introduction I dont recognize immediately.
Dit-da-dit, dit-dit, dit, dit-da-dit-da-dit
Is it British Invasion or American rock? Ive heard this
song beforethen it hits me.
Omigod! I yell, Lawrence Welk!
Actually Floyd Cramer wrote it, states Mr. Baskerville,
leaning over the table, But Welk does a great version, too.
Care to dance, Miss? says George extending hands to
his wife.
But I hardly know you, coos Dolly Baskerville, sipping
a dainty pink cocktail.
Oh, come on, he begs, alcohol loosening him up more
than Ive ever seen, Give a guy a chance.
Giggling like a school girl, Dolly lets her husband pull
her out of her chair. Their vivacious jig seems appropriate for
the hopelessly corny song.
Potter/Vivanco

118
What the hell, Baskerville! barks Codge glowering, I
thought this was going to be a rock band!
They play some rock, says Nic, I think.
Convinced this would be good opportunity to see a
professional band up close and personal, we jumped at the
chance to go the weekly party at Mr. Baskervilles Athletic Club.
Now we wish we could go home, but theres no way thats going
to happen right with Mr. and Mrs. Baskerville squirming like a
can of worms, hollering Java Jones on cue with the rest of the
dancers.
Can I have this dance? says a goateed gentleman, in a
gray pinstripe suit, pork pie hat and sun glasses.
Joe? says Karen.
Come on, he says, winking after removing his shades.
Let me show you the latest moves from back east.
Dragging a heel, Karen finally lets Joe haul her to the
middle of the dance floor. Alternating between dance moves
Ive seen on American Band StandThe Swim, The Jerkand a
waltz, Joe cuts a pretty mean rug.
As the band segues into Calcutta, another old hat
Lawrence Welk instrumental (with oohs, la la las, handclaps
and a brisk rhythm), Nics Mom and Dad, sit, resting briefly.
Oh, George, says Dolly B. sipping the last of her
cocktail, I love this song.
Youre the boss! he says cheerily.
Maybe you could add this song to your repertoire, says
Mr. B, emptying his glass before diving into another ridiculous
gyration, It was number one for two weeks in 61.
Oh dear God! says Codge throwing arms up.
The dance floor is packed.
Eaat Bench

119
Please write any requests, jokes the jovial
organist/bandleader, On the back of a twenty dollar bill.
The Beatles! yell the teenage girls, covering mouths
like they cant believe what they just said.
Instantly the band leader counts it off. Dozens of teens
overtake the floor as the band plays a sugary sax arrangement of
The Fab Fours And I Love Her. Slow dancing, Joe snuggles
up a little too cozily to my sister for my taste.
DURING BREAK, THE BAND MEMBERS greet middle-aged
fans enthusiastically. Exhaling smoke through a mutant cherry
tomato nose, Moses separates from his genial colleagues and
glares at us. We turn away, wishing we had a table in the back
corner.
That your sister? Crater Face says, plopping his lumpy
butt directly across from me, pointing at my sister yucking-it-up
with Joe.
Who wants to know? I say defensively.
Take it easy, Spare Change. says Moses.
Im ready to sail over the table and knock his fat butt to
the ground but Codge holds me back. A waiter arrives,
balancing a tray of Cokes with his left hand.
Put this on the tab, Master Baskerville? says the waiter,
placing drinks on the table.
Yes, Sir, says Nic, Thank you.
Nic, Renny and Codge grab their Cokes. When I reach
for mine, Moses snatches it out of my hand.
Hey! I whine.
Youre welcome, he wheezes, after chugging my drink,
Spare Change.
Dont call me that, I say firmly.
Potter/Vivanco

120
You know how long it took me to count, he says, All
those damn quarters?
Probably not nearly as long as it took to grow your hair
out after it caught fire murmurs Codge.
Hey, shouts Moses, as a waiter waltzes by with a tray
full of cocktails A little service here! You dont even know who
I am, do you?
SURROUNDED BY empty cocktails he puts on our tab,
Crater Face belches loudly.
Whos got a smoke? he asks, as we avoid his froggy
red-eyed stare.
Nabbing a lipstick-stained butt from an ash tray, he
straightens it, licks it then fires it up.
Man, look at all the chicks he says, eyeing a young
blond in a low cut sapphire dress with matching stilettos. He
rises, knocking over his chair, Pick it up, Spare Change.
As Moses swaggers toward the young beauty, she recoils.
After a few moments, he struts back like a mutant peacock.
The Master at work, says Crater Face flashing a slip of
paper with a scribbled number: 1 2 3 - 4 5 6 7.
Wow, says Codge, sarcastically as we giggle, Im
impressed.
As his tuxedoed band members step on the stage, Moses
forages for unattended cocktails.
Its a ten minute break, scolds the organist, off
microphone, Ten minutes, not eleven, not twelve, not fifteen.
After guzzling two stolen bourbons on the rocks, Crater
Face twirls drunkenly.
EVEN AFTER TRIPPING and falling when he hopped back
on stage, Moses seems totally sober behind his drums.
Eaat Bench

121
One, two, three, four, he counts, jubilantly.
Ding ding dit-dit, ding ding dit-dit, ding ding dit-dit, ding
ding dit-dit
Oh no, mutters Nic, The Baby Elephant Walk!
I think I need a nap jokes Codge stretching.
Crater Face never misses a beat, never slows down or
speeds up, drum and snare rolls flawless. How can such a
drunken jerk be such a great musician?
Come on, boys says George, propping up his wife, a
crooked smile plastered on her face. Mrs. Baskerville has had a
very good time.
A very good time, slurs Dolly Baskerville, A very,
very, very good time.
I can see that, cracks Nic.
I love you, slurs Nics Mom, blowing us kisses, I love
all of you!
Codge and Jim, says Mr. Baskerville scouting out the
room, Go fetch your sister.
THE BANDS MUSIC FILTERS through the hallway all the
way to the parking lot.
Im glad thats over, says Nic, getting into the car.
Me, too, agrees Codge.
I learned a thing or two, though, I say modestly.
They were good musicians, says Renny.
Youre kidding, says Nic, Right?
Joe holds the car door for Dolly and Karen, giving my
sister a quick peck on the cheek as the bands rhythms permeate
the crisp October air.




CBgter 21
Its not your eyes, anybody
sees where you livehow
mountains follow you around.
You have been here forever
with no change of seacoast
or atmosphere of kisses
in the garden.
Hands behind back, prancing like a stallion, Joe
continues, cooing.
The slow ones, deep tongued
languages of light. I want the
unknown part where you have
been waiting to arrive out of the
hands of creation into unknown
parts of me.

The unknown lands, off roads,
not one known river, continents
so old they have forgotten
their orchidskisses so wild
they run in squealing packs.
Bowing deeply, Joe presents a crimson rosebud to my
sister then kisses her hand. Karen accepts the flower, peeking
back at the house.
Eaat Bench

123
Excuse me, she says, politely, having caught me spying
on her through the drapes.
Lightning bolts shooting out of eye sockets, my sister
charges the living room.
Jimmy, she snarls, flexing left hand claws as I cover
my upper limbs. If you spy on me again, you wont have any
arms left to play drums with.
Just for that, pea brain says Codge, tossing me the
kitchen towel, You can finish drying dishes by yourself.
At her bedroom entrance, my sister shoots me a final
deadly glare then slams the door behind her.
I dont have any privacy, she whines behind her thin
bedroom walls.
My gwod, says Mom from her rocker, What was that
all about?
Joe brought Karen a rose, I say, Then he read her a
poem, a love poem, sort of.
Who is this Joe guy I keep hearing about? asks Dad,
looking up from the crossword.
Hes renting Porkys basement, says Codge, polishing
his guitar with a soft dry cloth.
He was at the dance last night, I tattle, idiotically, And
he danced with Karen, a lot.
Dwon, says Mom, Youve got to talk to her.
When Dads head is stuck in the papers, he might as well
be on Mars.
Dwon!
Oh for goodness sake, he grouses, looking up from the
crossword, What?
Potter/Vivanco

124
Nothing, states Mom, calmly staring at him.
Karens got a new boyfriend, I shout gleefully, The
beatnik next door named Joe.
The last thing we need, hisses Mom Is a beatnik in the
family. These people are very loose and wild, I read about it in
Life magazine.
Whats a four letter word, starting with an S, ending
with a T, asks Dad, licking his pencil, Meaning promiscuous
woman?
Glaring at him, Mom leaps toward her bedroom as Karen,
makeup freshened and hair combed, stomps out of her room
heading outside.
Where are you going? asks Dad.
Out! she says, slamming the door behind her.




CBgter 22
I only have one word to say, shouts Moses, Diapers!
Young musicians scurry off stage like scared mice. A
panicky drummer hurriedly dismantles his kit as Crater Face sets
up the next act.
Music City sponsors an annual November Battle of the
Bands combining a night of live music and skating. Local bands
compete for the $100 grand cash prize at the Hygeia Ice Skating
Rinks parking lot in Sugarhouse, one of Salt Lakes oldest
neighborhoods. Gangly musicians shiver backstage, nervous as
kangaroo rats.
Whoa. That last band, Mr. Baskerville says, wincing.
Really needed some work.
Yeah, I nod, Were better than they are and we dont
even have any equipment.
No doubt, he says, arms are folded against the
escalating cold No doubt!
Shaggy as Old English sheepdogs, the next band leaps on
stage.
If youre not done in five minutes, Ill pull down your
trousers, he howls, displaying gloved right hand fingers, Light
your farts and set your equipment on fire!
SCREECHING SHRILLY, a tone deaf singer, ghastly
guitarist and an even worse drummer sound like cattle going to
Potter/Vivanco

126
slaughter. By the way theyre grinning and leaping, they dont
realize how bad they are.
And remember, youre on the right track with Kay-
NAK! yells a DJ behind a bright yellow and black KNAK Radio
- Number One in Salt Lake sign.
AT LEAST SIX LUDWIG DRUMS SETS, in dazzling tones of
red, blue, gold, silver or champagne sparkle, in addition to a half
dozen Rodgers and Slingerland kits, are lined up backstage. I
just want to touch them
Hey you! barks Moses hoarsely, No one under eight
allowed here without their parents.
Hes twelve! shouts Renny.
Oh. Its Spare Change, Moses chants, gooey blue eyes
lighting up, Spare Change, Spare Change, Spare Change
Dont call him that! says Renny.
ANOTHER BAND SELF DESTRUCTS, screeching to a halt
then starting again then stopping, like a train wreck. Theres
blood on the tracks as the young musicians mercifully slink off
stage as hopefuls hop on.
Working our way through the crowd, Renny and I bump
into my sister and Joe, cherry cheeked and cuddling.
Hey I say, tapping her shoulder, I thought you were at
a sleepover at your girlfriends.
If you tell Mom and Dad about this I swear, she hisses,
in my ear, removing gloves, exposing fingernails, Ill gouge
your arms so deep it will make the crucifixion look like a garden
party! Understand?
Okay, okay I say.
Eaat Bench

127
Pristine silver sparkle double bass Ludwigs finally in
place, the tall, handsome drummer with a brown Beatles hair
cut, plops confidently onto his throne.
Ive never seen two bass drums before, I say, He must
be really good.
Well see, Renny says, skeptically, Good equipment
does not a good musician make.
With The Outer Limits stenciled on the right bass drum,
they play Under the Boardwalk. Not only is the drummers
timing way off, hes using a reverse shuffle.
Whack cha-shhh, whack cha-shhh, whack cha-shhh,
whack cha-shhh!
Oh god, hes even cuter than Paul! blurts a cute blond
to her friend, both of them tearing at their hair, proving you dont
have to sound good if you look good.
I hope your band, says Joe, shaking his head, Is better
than these guys.
Omigod! I bellow, This is all wrong!
Come on Jim yells Nic. Hes not that bad!
Whack cha-shhh, whack cha-shhh, whack cha-shhh!
Are you deaf? I yell.
AS THE OUTER LIMITS bow, the hack drummers even
dazzling white teeth blinds t he audience as several teenage girls
call his name in unison.
We love you Bill Brown!
Soaking in the adulation as if hed deserved it, Bill bows
even more deeply.
Hey, Rimshot! yells Moses to the handsome hack,
Youre messing up the rhythm as usualget off stagenow!
Potter/Vivanco

128
IN BRIGHT COLONIAL military costumes complete with
scarlet and black plumed tri-cornered hats, four older teens leap
onto the stage.
Theyre the Red Coats shouts Renny, as the entire
crowd roars, not just an isolated faction. Theyre really good.
The drummer taps bongos attached to his toms as band
mates play the opening chords of the Yardbirds For Your
Love.
Cheering teenagers and even shuddering parents
(drinking scalding black coffee from steaming Styrofoam cups)
jump up and down, yelling until hoarse. Harmonies tight, crisp
trebly guitars meld perfectly with the organ. At the bridge, the
drummer easily plays the signature tom-tom roll, switching to a
straight ahead rock beat.
Omigod, I yell, completely impressed, The drummers
great!
I promised your parents wed be back at 10 p.m. says
Mr. Baskerville, examining his Bulova, So wed better get a
move on.
Im not going, I say defiantly.
Me neither, yells Codge.
Suit yourselves, says George Baskerville, walking
briskly toward the car.
Come on, guys! shouts Nic, We can listen on the way
to the parking lot.





CBgter 23
The pay phones hopper dumps like a winning Vegas slot
machine as Renny and I scamper after coins rolling into the
gutter between Sweetchilds and the Variety Store.
Pockets jingling, we push open the door, stepping up to
the soda fountain.
What did you do, quips Wilma, our beautiful soda jerk,
flashing her perfect smile. Break into your piggy banks?
Renny grins a bit guiltily but I dont feel guilty at all.
This is proof St. Cecilia, patron saint of musicians, has been
paying attention.
Two cherry Cokes, says Renny, Please.
Well arent you the Rockerfellers! Wilma jokes, wiping
hands, turning toward the Coke glass shelf.
So what does that bring our band fund to? I ask, sorting
our booty, carefully stacking columns of nickels, dimes and
quarters.
Ten dollars and sixty-five cents here, says Renny,
scribbling on his note pad, Plus seventeen in the kitty
Here you go boys, says Wilma, placing our cherry
Cokes in front of us.
Potter/Vivanco

130
Minus twenty cents for the drinks, says Renny, sliding
two dimes towards Wilma, Twenty-seven dollars and forty-five
cents!
What can we buy with that? I ask, slurping my soda.
More than you think, he says.
I HATE CHRISTMAS. Especially when I get clothes that
make me look like a cartoon character off a cereal box. I pull a
pair of bright orange and black tiger striped pajamas out of the
Rudolph-the-Red-nosed-Reindeer gift box. Evidently, nobody in
this family or on earth has gotten the message that Im thirteen
now, not eight or nineor six.
Mom, I whine, absolutely despising orange, For
crying out loud!
Jimmy, she says, You tore the box! I was going to
save it for next year.
Watch it, Seamus! Therere kids in Africa, lectures
Dad, That would be glad to have those pajamas.
Yeah, Jimmy kids Codge, Some little tiger gave up his
life so you could keep warm at night.
St. Paul the Hermit, patron saint of clothing, has been
working overtime in the Potter household. Dad rips open a large
flat box containing a beige terry cloth bathrobe, which looks
suspiciously like his old one, only cleaner. In a tiny jewelry box,
he unveils his new toque. Holding it up, everybody claps,
giggling.
Thank you, dear, he says, pecking Mom on the cheek.
Dont thank me, she says, Santa got you that.
Mom shows off her new stainless steel frying pan with
lid. Codge gets a decent pair of red plaid pajamas, a white
school uniform shirt with matching tie and Bass Weejuns.
Eaat Bench

131
Hey! I complain Why does Codge get a new pair of
shoes and I dont?
You get my old pair, says my brother, pointing at
scuffed shoes underneath the couch, Stop complaining.
Christ was born in a manger, says Mom, earnestly,
And never even owned a pair of loafers.
A SMALL PLAIN BROWN BOX brought by the postman sits
untouched under the tree. My grandmother sends me - not my
brother and sister, nor my parents - rosaries every holiday
without fail. The package, an old shoe box, is addressed:
TO: MASTER JAMES POTTER
Supposedly blessed by a bishop, a cardinal or The Pope,
therefore endowed with mysterious, mystical powers, like a
lucky charm, I should be swimming in drums if this were true.
However, Catholics often equate being lucky with having the
opportunity to be burned at the stake - so I put the rosaries in my
drawer and cover them with socks. Grandma also tucked in a
holy card with a haloed St. Cecilia playing a pipe organ. After
millions of unanswered prayers, Im very upset with Cecilia,
since her holy card pipe organ is the closest thing to a musical
instrument Ive received thus far, not exactly what I had in mind.
I do have to credit her with the money Renny and I got from the
phone booth but thats barely enough to buy one drum much less
a whole kit, which I specifically prayed for.
Karen oohs and ahhs at the lacy pink flannel nightgown
grandma sent her. Wrapped in Sunday comics, an album with a
tag which says:
Life is cool jazz and hot coffee. Fondly, Joe.
After ripping off the paper, she shows us the odd brown
album cover with a cartoon drawing of a big head painted red.
Potter/Vivanco

132
A Somewhat New MediumWord Jazz, she reads off
the album cover, Featuring Ken Nordine and the Fred Katz
Group.
May I, Dad? asks my sister, careful not to scratch the
delicate black vinyl and of course, he nods his head.
A DRUMMER TAPS SOFTLY AND rhythmically on a high
hat cymbal.
Chsssh cht, ch-chsssh cht, ch-chsssh cht, ch-chsssh cht
Our lower middle class household, with shoddy
mismatched furniture, undulates with angular saliva-filled
woodwinds, spitting melodies with guitar, bass and drums. The
vocalist is so smooth he could sell the merits of Mormonism to
Father Brown.
That drummers playing with brushes! I say.
Hes stirring the soup alright, says Dad, listening
intently now.
Oh Dwon, says Mom, This musics making me
nervous!
All right, barks Dad, shrugging, Take thatwhatever
it isoff the hi-fi!
Wait a minute! I say, grabbing my drumsticks.
The drummer swings between ride cymbal, snare and
bass drums. I kneel, tapping on my Moms new Revere Ware.
Ting, ting-ta-ting, ting-ta-ting, ting-ta-ting
Hmmm, says Dad, nodding and tapping his foot.
Sounds pretty good, Seamus, just like the record.
I hope youre not denting my new frying pan! yells
Mom from the kitchen sink.
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133
No, I lie, discreetly hiding the now nicked copper clad
skillet, dented side down under the tree, Of course not.
SINCE WE WENT TO MIDNIGHT MASS, Codge and I can
do whatever we want with the rest of Xmas day so band practice
it is.
Merry Xmas, Jimmy Renny says cheerfully, digging
out a blue and silver flecked snare from a large box.
Play something, Jim! says Codge smiling.
Okay I state, examining the box, Wheres the stand?
Stand? inquires Renny nervously.
Just put it on the chair, orders Codge, And get rid of
the bucket.
Setting the bucket aside, I place the snare on the seat,
anticipating that sweet controlled sizzle every halfway decent
snare makes. I lift my sticks and give it a good thwack.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
This isnt good. Bass drums boom, snare drums snap
sizzle. I notice the brand name, Rodeo, and so does Nic.
Rodeo? he teases, Looks like that drum saw its last
rodeo a long time ago.
Um...Renny, I say, trying not to moan, Wheres the
snare strainer?
Whats that? he asks, scratching his head.
Its what gives the snare its rattle, says Codge, You
dumbass.
And the drum key? I say, gritting my teeth, I need to
tighten the head.
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134
Turning the drum upside down, Im horrified. I never
thought there could be anything worse than getting tiger striped
pajamas for Christmas yet here it is.
Theres a hole in the bottom head I squeak, And the
shell is not even real wood.
Is that bad? asks Renny.




CBgter 24
At the kitchen table, Mom and Dad play Euchre, a
strange card game using only nines, tens, Jacks, Queens, Kings
and Aces.
Pass! yells Dad enthusiastically.
Trump, retorts Mom, giggling.
Ok, then, says Dad, Trick!
Oh, Dwon, teases Mom, You are the most ruthless
man that has ever lived!
Thats what they tell me! he says.
Since we agreed to play our songs as quietly as possible
and since Karen is at a girlfriends house for New Years (yeah,
right), Mom and Dad let us work on one of my brothers original
songs in the living room, instead of our ice cold basement
bedroom which even vermin abandon in winter.
Ready? asks Codge, left hand fingers placed on guitar
frets.
Yup, I say, One, two, three, four...
Strumming steadily, my brother sings, voice rich and
sonorous:
Girl, why do you insist on hurting me?
Oh girl, why do you persist on making me cry?
Every night, well tell me, tell me?
Potter/Vivanco

136
See, see how much your love meant to me
Oh see, without your love I might as well
Give up! Because

The cheap toy-like snare Moses sold to Renny, eating up
our entire band fund, wasnt salvageable, so Im back to playing
on the Folgers coffee can which at least sizzles, sort of, instead
of booms. The normally stoic Renny felt so bad, he almost cried.
We let him off the hook on account of his being an orphan,
raised by his grandma.
Boys! says Dad, hands pressed against ears, What did
I tell you?
Sorry I say, Were trying to keep it down.
Pass! yells Mom, continuing their silly game.
A muffled voice leaks from the wall adjoining the
Buzzalottis unit.
What was that? I ask.
I didnt hear anything, says Codge.
Pressing ears against thin sheetrock, I shoot my brother
an index finger over pursed lips.
Dont send a boy to the mill pleads Dad.
Aha! howls Mom laughing, Its a sweep!
Shhh! I say.
You cant hide forever, says Porky, Theyll find you
eventually.
Ill take my chances says Joe.
Some people deserve to get whacked, yells Porky,
Did you ever think of that?
Youre crazy, says Joe.
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137
You have a...contract, shouts Porky, You need to
honor it!
We have neighbors, whispers Blanch, They can hear
you.
After a door on their side of the duplex slams, theres
dead silence as Codge and I glance at each other in horror.
Lets tell Mom and Dad, I say, quaking in my brothers
old shoes.
Are you crazy? says Codge, who really should become
a lawyer. What are you going to tell them?
That Joe is a hit man, I say, I mean, didnt you
hear
We didnt hear anything, snaps Codge, as terrified as I
am. Do you understand?







CBgter 2S
Dont worry about the money, honey says satin-voiced
Wilma, That gentleman over there is paying.
In a porkpie hat at the far side of the store, Joe grins,
saluting us with his Coke. Wearing an unfamiliar forest green
knit hat, a girl sits across from him.
Come on guys, says Nic hopping off the stool. The
least we can do is say thanks.
No! I whisper hoarsely, Not a good idea!
Jimmys right, says Codge, as taut as a tightly wound
guitar string, We should go home now.
Are you kidding? asks Renny, waving us off, We
havent even finished our drinks.
Planted firmly on barstools, covering our pale faces, my
brother and I are determined to stay put or run home. Nic walks
toward Joes booth.
Whats the matter with you guys? Renny says, a few
steps behind Nic, Come on.
CROWDING INTO THE BOOTH, I plop next to Karen,
Codge squeezing in sardine-like next to me. Nic and Renny sit
next to Joe across the booth.
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139
Cryin out loud says my sister in green cap, Do you
guys have radar or something?
I invited them over, Karen, says Joe, Sit down, boys.
Drinks are on me.
Jimmy, hisses Karen extending her long red polished
nails threateningly.
II wont tell Mom and Dad. I whisper, cupping my
hand around her ear, But, we need to talk.
About what? she yelps.
Stuff, I say, widening my eyes for emphasis.
Shut up, Jimmy, she says, pinching my wrist.
Underneath the table, Codge twists my left arm as hard as
he can.
OW! I hiss.
Are you getting the flu? says Karen, examining my
pallid, sweaty face, You look terrible.
Jimmys upset because, says Codge, shaking his head,
His snare drum broke.
Yup, I say, nodding nervously, Thats it.
So, Jimmy, says Joe, You can borrow my bongos, any
time.
Really? I say, forgetting for a moment who Im dealing
with, Therere a couple songs the band does they would really
sound good on.
Just dont break them, he says, sternly, Or Ill have to
put out a contract on youse!
As Nic, Renny, Karen and Joe laugh gaily, ha ha ha,
Codge and I turn whiter than a Communion wafer.
Potter/Vivanco

140
JOES BEING AWFULLY generous, like hes a Mafia boss
on a mission to recruit minions for his next caper. If he thinks I
can be bribed with a couple of Cokes, hes got another thing
comingunless it was enough money to buy a new set of black
oyster pearl drums. Dear Lord! What am I thinking? So this is
how the devil works! My palms dripping wet, I pray silently,
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost
Wilma sets another round of drinks on our table. A dog-
eared paperback peeks from underneath my sisters coat sleeve.
This is a good book, says Joe smiling, Its the spiritual
story of Siddhartha.
Siddhartha? I ask, Is he a Mormon?
Codge jabs me in the ribs.
I love Hermann Hesse, says Nic. Thats one of my
favorite books.
Its a classic, Jimmy, says Renny.
Evidently, Im the only one in the whole universe who
never heard of Siddhartha.
Its about the Buddha! says Joe impatiently.
Buddha? I say, Karen, are we allowed to read that?
Um she says, Not sure.
Hold on. Lets back up here, says Joe, You need
permission to read a stupid book? From whom? The Pope?
Oh no! she says, wrinkling her forehead, then giggling
nervously, Well, yeah, sort of.
If I want to do something I just do it, zings Joe,
smacking his forehead with his palm. I dont need nobodys
permission. Capice?
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141
EYING ME COOLLY, he strokes his goatee as the others
chat merrily, slurping down yet another round of free sodas.
Jimmy, Joe murmurs, ominously unsnapping what
sounds like a leather holster as I melt into the floor, You know
what I wanna do right now?




CBgter 26
Incapable of acting or speaking normally, everythings a
gruffly whispered question with a double meaning: Jimmy, you
know what I wanna do to you right now? orJimmy, what do
you think I have in my hands right now? or Jimmy, you want
I should shoot you now or later? With every sinister question, I
quake in horror, stomach back flipping then landing in a gutter.
Jimmy, Joe says, Dont you like getting shot?
Another flash bulb explodes inches from my face,
blinding me. All I can see is stars. What I thought was a holster
turned out to be Joes leather camera case.
I wish you wouldnt, I say, squinting, Use that word.
Whats up with him? Joe asks my brother.
Codge shrugs, as if he doesnt know.
NIC INVITED JOE OVER TO THE PRACTICE PAD. Now
that he knows where we rehearse, its just a matter of time before
were mowed down en mass for bogus reasons, like refusing to
dress like Elvis or not growing a goatee.
Hey, Joe, says Codge, I like this one!
Every photo Joe took at Sweetchilds looks like Im
going to my executionsince that was what I really thought at
the time. Allowing my brother to light his cigarette like they
belong to the same mobster family, Joe acts maddeningly
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143
friendly and casual like hes a normal person which hes not,
unless you call shooting people for a living normal.
See there? he says, between puffs, Its a little out of
focus and Jimmys got his eyes closed.
Oh yeah, says Codge, handing him a Tab, Too bad.
Jimmy, Renny whines, rifling through the stack of
eight by tens, Youve got your eyes slammed shut in all of
them.
Plying him with soft drinks, lighting his cigarettes, my
brother even lets Joe sit behind my home made drum set. He
better not even ask to play them. It takes me over an hour to re-
tape even a small moving box when some idiot accidentally trips
over them much less whacks them blindly with a stick.
Jimmy he says, pointing at my set, Is thisa joke or
what?













CBgter 22
Newspapermen are always looking for odd or interesting
human interest stories. George Baskerville mentioned to his
boss at the Tribune, Mr. Jack Stapleton, his son had a rock band
with a drummer who created a drum set out of boxes, trash can
lids and coffee cans. So, on the way over to our first newspaper
interview, Renny invents ridiculous band nicknames for Nic and
me. Im Chick and Nics Stump.
Stump? scoffs Nic, mock-heroic limping to Jacks front
door, Sounds like I lost my leg in the war.
A Jimmy Olsen type newspaperman in sweater vest, Jack
Stapleton greets us at his front door.
Come on in, boys, he says, short sandy hair parted to
the side, blue eyes, fair skin, and a cleft chin, I cant wait to
hear the band.
FIRE ROARING, SPITTING AND CRACKLING, Mr.
Stapleton places another log into the magnificent stone fireplace
as we set up in his living room.
A short stocky man with a black mustache, sparse curly
hair, plump rosy cheeks wearing a grey sweatshirt and blue jeans
takes aim with his Nikon camera.
This is Mr. Larry Smythe, announces Jack, placing
opened sodas on a nearby cherry credenza, The Tribunes best
staff photographer.
This time, hisses Codge, Keep your eyes open.
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145
Sinking into a low antique beige sofa, I inspect my
homegrown set cluttering the coffee table as Codge and Nic tune
up. Except for the bongos Joe lent me for the evening, I dont
own one decent piece of percussion equipment. Honestly, Ive
seen hobos with better gear.
While Codge and Nic strum the haunting For Your
Love minor chord progression, I hold the rhythm steady,
bashing away, the photographer flashing bulb after bulb.
BAD NOTES ARE ALWAYS an embarrassment but tonight,
for whatever reasons we couldnt play a bad note if we tried,
even while being blinded by a million flashes.
I heard you write your own music. says Jack. Is that
true?
Yes sir. says Codge, scraping a pick along guitar
strings as Nic (excuse me, now called Stump) and he play the
intro to Girl, our bands original song.
My brother sings better than Ive ever heard him, his
voice full and steady like hed been singing for a million years.
Why, why wont this torment of mine cease.
Oh why, why cant you say the word
And put my soul at ease, because

COMPLAINING ABOUT THE nauseating stogy Pedros
smoking is impossible since my face is slammed against the tow
truck window. Why is it that every time something half way
good happens (like playing really well for the editor of the
Tribune), two bad things happen to cancel it out? Or does this
law only apply to Catholics? Honestly, Mormons seem to have
an easier time.
On the way back from Mr. Stapletons, the Furys drive
train fell out. After Mr. Baskervilles mile hike to a phone
booth, we waited another hour until finally rescued. George
mans his dead car being dragged behind us, the rest of us are
Potter/Vivanco

146
crammed in the cab of Pedros Pronto Tow Truck. Winter nights
in Salt Lake City being what they are, we have the option of
being suffocated by cigar smoke or freezing to death with
windows rolled down. And whats worse, I get car sick really
easily. Even a short drive to the grocery store can make me lose
my cookies.
Hey mister, pull over! advises Nic Chicks going to
barf all over your cab!
Madre de Dios! yells Pedro, driving onto the right
shoulder of 9th South, near Miller Park.
Jerking open the door of the still moving vehicle, I
plummet onto icy gravel, like James Bond with a stomach ache.
In the darkness I bump against a large fir tree trunk. For a
second, queasiness subsides but then an upsurge of nausea brings
me to my knees.
You all right? Mr. Baskerville says, head sticking out
of the dead car, drive train sagging beneath it.
Never better, I say, heaving and convulsing.
Hey, Chick! says Codge, only half kidding, Hurry the
hell up! Mom and Dad are going to kill us.
Finally finished and feeling much better, though
shivering, I take a deep bow, my band mates cheering and
applauding wildly.
I give it a ten, jokes Nic, sticking his head out of the
door, Because its got a great beat.
Grabbing Codges hand, I hop into the cab back onto his
lap. On the dash board, my drumsticks roll off and out before I
have a chance to shut the door.
Jimmy, shouts my brother, You knucklehead!
Wait a sec! I yell, leaping out again.
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147
One stick lands under the truck, the other rolls down the
sloped shoulder past the puke pine, under a huge bush. I
scamper to get it before it rolls even further.
Gringo! shouts our exasperated driver, Dios Mio!
Sometime the peoples they have to sleep!
With only the trucks lights, I just cant find my stupid
stick. So, I give up and walk back toward the truck. Careful not
to step in my own puke, I detour around the vomit tree onto some
low lying stones.
Whoa! I holler, after tripping onto a large flat rock.
But this rock has a torso, arms and legs and a head. Beyond
horrified, Im facing down a stiff.
Have a nice trip! kids Nic.
See you in the fall! jokes Codge.
Lets go! I yell, scrambling to the cab, my body electric
with terror.
You better no be sick in my truck, says Pedro,
hostilely, Cause I no clean it. OK?
Wheres your stick? says Codge.
Well get it later, I whisper, shivering uncontrollably.
Pulling into the deserted street, Pedro guns it toward 17th
East, radio blasting a familiar tune which I couldnt name right
now if you paid me.




CBgter 28
I tried to confide to my priest during Confession about
what Id seen last night. Father Brown laughed and told me Id
read one too many Nancy Drew novels when I never even read
ONE. Afterwards, I heave my guts into a lilac bush outside the
church vestibule without even saying penance because even
though hell is scary, this is even worse.
Whats with you? scolds Codge, patting me on the
back, Ever since last night.
You wont believe me either, I say, retching at the
thought of what Id seen.
OUT OF CHURCH CLOTHES into jeans and sneakers, we
race toward the door.
Where are you two gwawks off to? Mom yells,
kneading eggs, tomato paste, cracker crumbs and ground beef.
Chick dropped his drumstick on the road last night
shouts Codge, bolting outdoors.
RIFLING THROUGH THE foliage, we find the exact place.
Oh gross! my brother shouts, recoiling.
See, I say, I told you!
A dead cat? snarls Codge, We need to call the cops
about a dead cat?
No! I say, There was a dead body there last night and
it was Joe. I swear it.
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149
You idiot! he shouts, Im starving and youre wasting
my time with road kill.
But, but
Go find your drumstick he says, arms folded, You
idiot.
DURING THE SIX BLOCK JAUNT home, Im on Codges
heels. He turns frequently just so he can glare at me. But I know
what I saw and it wasnt a dead cat!
After sprinting up 17th East crossing Laird, through our
front yard then a sharp right toward the kitchen, a male silhouette
materializes in the dimly lit breezeway then instantly disappears.
Did you see that? I say.
Jimmy, says Codge, disgustedly, Give it a rest.




CBgter 29
Grinning like a goof finding his first tooth fairys quarter,
I grasp drumsticks as if waiting to be served dinner. In the
foreground two Folgers coffee cans, a hideous Mayflower box
and the ragged percussion tree. In contrast, stern and mature,
guitars strapped on, Codge and Nic flank Jack Stapletons coffee
table.
The bold caption under the photo reads:
Drummer Drums without Drums
Oh for crying out I say, Look at my hair. I look like
a troll doll.
Oh my Gwod, Dwon says Mom, cocking her head,
Come see your sons in the paper!
Nice hair! says my sister, convulsing hysterically.
Well, lets see what the fuss is all about Dad says,
dictionary at his side, finally coming up for air. Codgeread
the article.
Folding the paper in half, my brother clears his throat.
NB3 (Nic Baskerville Trio) is a talented group of
young, very young, local musicians expertly cranking out cover
and original tunes, without the usual flashy electric guitars,
amplifiers and drums.
Nic Baskerville Trio? I yell, Who died and made Nic
king?
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151
I dont remember voting on that name, says Codge,
But NB3 is kind of catchy.
Read the article! Dad hollers impatiently, stabbing the
air with his pencil which means the Salt Lake Tribune Crossword
has him stumped again.
The bands drummer, Chick Potter, has taken pains to
create his own unique homemade drum kit from assorted
household items. Pictured L-R Codge Potter, age 15, Chick
Potter, age 13 and Stump Baskerville, age 13.
Stump and Chick! whoops Karen doubling over, until I
grab her longest fingernail, ready to rip it off by its root, Okay,
okay, Jimmy, I mean Chick. Look what happens to people
when they get famous.
Nice picture, says our father, after Codge hands him
the Entertainment section.
After turning the page, a mug shot of mobster, John
Mugsy Leonetti, with a short article printed opposite Letters to
the Editor. Wanted by the FBI, considered armed and dangerous,
he may be hiding in the Salt Lake areaa dead ringer for Joe
without the facial hair. Codges eyes get as big as the Sisters of
the Holy Cross wimple when I point it out.
ACROSS THE STREET, the Lewis tap glass on their front
storm door as Codge and I quickly shovel the driveway so we
can get back to music.
What the I say, waving uncertainly as Maude,
brandishing the Tribune, waves back.
Jim, says Codge, leaning on his shovel, I think its the
newspaper article.
A blue Ford station wagon drives by slowly, beeping
three times as five sets of hands wave behind frost-streaked
windows before turning up Laird Avenue.
Potter/Vivanco

152
Who was that? I ask.
I think that was the Brennans, replies Codge, frozen
eyelashes crystallizing as wet snow turns to ice in the rapidly
plummeting temperature.
Nice article, says a familiar voice, startling me into a
monkey-like jig, falling on my back.
What are you doing here? I squeak, staring into mirror
sunglasses.
I live here, says Joe mildly, removing his shades,
Remember?
LIFTING THE DESK TOP, Marie Pembroke shows off a set
of freshly carved initials: MP plus CP inside a large heart etched
in red ball point pen. I wonder who the hell CP is. She couldnt
possibly know my brother Codge. I finally put two and two
togetherMarie Pembroke plus Chick (my new nickname
mentioned in the Tribune) Potter! Batting her Howdy Doody
eyelashes makes my stomach hurt. Several other girls are
fluttering lashes tooconfusing since my looks have been
compared to yesterdays leftover oatmeal.
The hulking scowling Mike, aka Bazooka Joe, corners me
at lunch time. I brace myself for the usual physical and verbal
humiliation. After plucking a neatly folded newspaper clipping
out of his pants pocket, Bazooka carefully unfolds it.
My older sister, he says, holding our newspaper
picture, Goes to Hag Hill, same as your sister. She wanted to
know if you could autograph it for her or whatever. Shes
paying me a dollar.
DURING COMMUNION, a cute sky-eyed curly blond cuts
in line, kneeling next to me.
Will you sign my autograph book? she whispers,
After church?
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153
Corpus Christi? asks Father Brown, placing The Host
on my quivering tongue.
Amen I mumble, practically choking on the wafer.
Racing toward my pew, Im a harried Dagwood with
Blondie uncomfortably close behind. She didnt even receive
Communion.
Dont forget! she whispers.
IN THE CHURCH PARKING lot, Dad leans against the car,
waiting for us to climb in.
Chick! Codge! yells Chatty Cathy of the Communion
Altar, galloping like a wild mustang toward us, Wait!
Do you know this girl? says Dad, scooting behind the
wheel as we shake heads no.
Holding a shiny pink autograph book, shes panting at the
window, so he rolls down the glass.
If its not too much trouble, she says, handing me the
pink book, Please? Just write to Debbie, Love Chick. Okay?
I hesitantly sign the books blank page, fumbling with a
way-too-short pink pen removed from its holster. Debbie nods
then hands the book to Codge.
Can you write To Victoria, Love Codge? she says
sweet as a strudel, Its for my big sister. Shes at retreat right
now. Shes thinking about becoming a nun.
Thats nice, says my brother politely, taking the book.
She plays guitar, too, says Debbie, And shes single.
I gathered that, says Codge, autographing the book
with a flourish, Since shes thinking about becoming a nun.
Oh yeah, giggles the girl, I forgot.




CBgter 30
Instead of practicing with my band, I have to waste a
whole weekend creating my section of the wall mural for an end-
of-school-year presentation on feudalism.
The seventh grade class titters at the crude depiction of
The Beatles clasping electric guitars and drum sticks pasted on
top of a one dimensional castle wall - my classmates, Penny
Willis and Sheila Swanson, dumb idea. Crafted by me, Sir
Lancelot is glued so closely to the Fab Four he looks like hes
picking Ringos nose with his sword.
Facing the class, Im tense and silent, the girls on my
right.
According to feudal code Sir Lancelot offers his
allegiance to King Arthur, says Sheila, tall and scrawny as
Popeyes Olive Oyl, In exchange for Camelot real estate.
But unbeknownst to King Arthur, Lancelot did not want
land, says Penny, dumpy, twitching her fuzzy upper lip like
Wimpy, He wanted Queen Guinevere and she him!
However, The Beatles, knighted by King Arthur, says
Sheila proudly, And appointed as the official court minstrels,
foil Lancelots plot to run off with Guinevere singing a telling
song to the king and court titled Ye Cant Do That.
Tossing her head back, Olive Oyl screeches awkward
lyrics to the tune of the Beatles You Cant Do That. Penny
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155
crows along, cocking her head sideways, standing on one leg as I
pray to disappear.
RIOTOUS APPLAUSE FINALLY fades after the girls
desecrate the Beatles song with horrible hootenanny style shout-
singing.
Chick, whispers Sheila, You have to say something
anything or well all get a zero.
At first my minds a blank. But then I think of something
Dad taught me while watching Errol Flynns swashbuckling
Robin Hood character on television.
In days of old when knights were bold I say, as
Penny and Sheila smile and nod. ...and toilets werent invented,
they left their load in the road and went on quite contented!
Ooh! a girl shrieks, as students stare at me owl-eyed,
unblinking.
COOKING ANOTHER BURGER to death, Mom makes sure
to press all the juice and flavor out with her spatula.
Jimmy, she scolds, How many times have I told you
not to repeat those silly limericks Dad teaches you?
I panicked, I say, Okay?
Oh for crying out loud! snaps Dad, slapping the
newspaper, I cannot believe The Dodgers are going to trade one
idiot for another idiot!
Dwon, says Mom, tapping his shoulder, Isnt there
something you want to tell your son?
EVER SINCE WE HEARD ABOUT the party, there was no
way I was going to miss it, grounded or not, dead or alive,
though risky on several levels.
Steadying his six foot frame on the rickety kiddy chair,
Codge carefully unhinges the pneumonia hole. After gently
Potter/Vivanco

156
lowering the casement onto the mattress, we accidently hit the
window screen, bouncing noisily onto the walkway.
Shhhh! I scold.
Nervously awaiting reaction from upstairs, my brother
wipes cobwebs from his hands. The din of the bubbly Lawrence
Welk rerun Mom and Dad are watching has saved us.
Ill catch up with you on 13
th
South, I whisper.
I cant believe Im doing this for you! hisses my
brother, Since you got grounded fair and square!
What? I whisper, Dad taught me that limerick then I
get in trouble? How is that fair?
Jimmy, says Codge, rolling his eyes, You have no
discretion whatsoever.
If had some, I say, Id use it to buy a set of drums.
Thats not he says, heaving a sigh, Never mind.
Standing on Codges bony shoulders, I worm my way
easily through the window frame.
KNOCKING KNUCKLES RAW on the scarred brown door of
the second floor Sugar House apartment, Codge, Renny, Karen,
Stump and I take turns pounding when a voluptuous gypsy-type
opens the door. Dressed as though caught in a laugh, shiny
yellow and black scarf wrapped around flowing auburn hair,
purple blouse tucked into jeans, her violet eyes are framed by
lush black mascara on long lashes.
Im Faberg, she says, lush ruby lips begging for a kiss,
as clouds of cigarette smoke waft into the hallway, Come on
in!
Thanks, says Karen, Im Karen and this is
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157
I know who you are already. Youre Joes friends, says
the gypsy, pointing long red fingernails at me, Youre the one
who played drums on coffee cans.
Well, actually I stammer, embarrassed out of my
mind.
The Maxwell House kids are here! shouts Faberg as
we follow her inside, interesting beatnik types of all ages
saluting us with beer bottles.
Oh brother, I groan, instantly sorry I came.
Normally she whispers, offering a pack of Benson and
Hedges, We wouldnt let, umpeople your agebut since
youre musicians
Sure! says Renny, pulling out a long slender cigarette.
Me, too! says Codge.
Have fun! Faberg says blowing kisses as a buccaneer-
type whisks her away.
Across the room, a mahogany stereo console plays
instrumental music, (reminding me of the Word Jazz record), a
large blond Martin acoustic guitar propped beside it. My devout
Catholic sister tugs on a pack of Kools.
You smoke? I say, alarmed.
Oh, Jimmy, says my sister, flicking her lighter, Grow
up.
Ill take a cigarette adds Stump, boldly holding out his
hand.
Get lost, she says.
STAGGERING THROUGH THE throng, black vest over
white long sleeved shirt with cuffs rolled up to the elbows, Joe
bites a cigarette.
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158
Whoops! he garbles, sloshing beer when my sister taps
him on the shoulder. Karen!
After pursing lips for a drunken smooch, my sister tsks
then swings his mug our way.
Oh look! You brought your baby brothers he
burbles, looking more like John Mugsy Leonetti than ever with
his freshly and closely shorn goatee, Codge!
Good to see you, Joe says my brother, half heartedly
returning the beer-logged hug.
How much, exactly, have you had to drink? asks
Karen, glaring at Joe.
and theres Chick, he cries, locking my head viselike
under his muscular arms, Baby Chick!
Escaping into the crammed living room, Karen and
Codge leave me with Crazy-Hit-Man-Joe or whatever his real
name is.
Joe, I plead, I cantbreathe.
You know, Ive done some crap, he says, releasing me,
pointing his bottle at me, teary-eyed, Some really crappycrap.
You dig?
My noggin circling like a dashboard bobble head, I
decide then and there if he tells me anything specific, Ill barf on
him to make him stop because all the smokes made me
nauseous anyway.
Shhhhhh.. he whispers, finger to lips, Dont tell
anybody. OK?
Uh, I say, relieved I dont have to puke on him, Ok,
I SPOT A FREE ARM on a couch next to wild bulging
smoke eyes on skeletal face, Evil Beatnik Man. Joe stumbles
into the kitchen for more drinks, Nic makes like Sir Walter
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159
Raleigh and Renny guzzles imported German beer. I have no
idea where Karen is.
Parched after the two mile hike from home, I suck the
Coke Joe shoves in my paws like an infant on his mothers teat.
Okay everyone, announces Faberg holding up her
arms. Its time for our first reading by Joe Pizzarelli.
Reading? Nic mouths to me as I shrug. I thought this
was just going to be a regular smoking cigarettes and drinking
beer party, not a poetry party.
The crowd snaps fingers, instead of clapping, as Joe
cradles bongos between legs, dreamily tapping a jazzy beat.
Do not pray, keep your hands open
for dawn light. Do not rip throats
out of the rivers, do not blame
curses that came true

We wanted death as a way to limit
freedom; time draining out of nothing
into forever horizons, until time stops
and we think things over. Was it
a mistake? Too late, infinity runs
in the vaporous blood of thought.

I have no idea what hes talking about intellectually but
somehow his words hit me emotionally on a level I never knew I
had.
Tides of unknowing beings flow
in solid layers of stone, trapped
in molecular exile. We hear the
despair of saviors in harp-like sounds
of arrows. To the molecular heap we
add nuclear dreamsand proud of it
death is our finest form of life. It is
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160
a pulse of atomic seasons; we watch
cities crumble in perfect eyes.

Wiping tears away, Joe guzzles beer, his brown eyes
morphing into every color of the rainbow.
Do not wring your hands, dust
of eternity sifts to the dance floor.
Musicians saw down the ceiling;
we begin to float above the hall.
Some of us fall as snow, some
as rain.

Windy minds stray in expanding
horizons. Mountains begin to fall
in great thuds. We throw bottles
of daylight, smash them against
fortresses, against wry smiles,
across hips of grasshoppers.

Eyes closed, Joe nods, the lazy beat slower and slower.
Wind armies of light brush against
faces where we read fate in basalt,
in avocados, in lemon violins.

Slumping, Joe plunges onto the white shag carpet like a
sky diver with a failed chute, the bongos crashing next to him.
That was deep, man. says Evil Beatnik Man, snapping
fingers appreciatively.
AS TWO OLDER TEENS drag away semi-conscious Joe, I
try to understand his words, like having a key to the universe but
not sure which lock to put it in.
No! No way! Stump whispers, leaning back on the
couch arms folded.
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161
Look Stump, chides Renny quietly, You complain
constantly about not performing. Heres your chance to show
everybody what we can do.
My brother grabs the Martin as I scoop up the bongos.
Faberg thrusts another acoustic into Nics hands.
Arrrgh! Help! weeps Joe from the restroom, Baby
Chick, tell them to stop!
Dont worry, soothes Faberg, as a door slams,
anguished screams diminishing to a dull white noise, Theyre
just giving him a cold shower.
Um, okay, I say.
Can I have your attention please yells Faberg,
excitedly Since the other poets have yet to arrive and Joe
isindisposed, well have some original music performed
by?
NB3 shouts Renny.
Oh yes, whispers Faberg, then shouting NB3!
Lets play our new original whispers Codge as the
crowd snaps fingers, My Love for You Has Gone.
One, two, three, four, I say confidently, hands poised
over bongos.
As Nic plays the intro, Codge strums and sings the
melancholy ballad as I keep the beat steady.
Ill say good bye and go my way
I cant see reason to delay it any longer
There was a time when I loved you,
Do anything you want me to. But now Im stronger.
My love for you is gone,
I cant keep holding on any more

Couples cuddle closer as I tap a steady beat.
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162
Take one look you must agree
Its just not like it use to be, dont make amends.
Its not your fault nor is it mine,
Weve just wasted each others time, this is the end
My love for you is gone,
I cant keep holding on any more
BANG!
Bursting through the front door, three policemen carrying
night sticks kill our song on the spot.
Rodney Roaches, shouts Evil Beatnik Man, spilling his
beer all me, Approaches!
Oh for cryin out loud, somebody hollers, Let the kids
finish their song! Its original!
All right! yells a cop, Everyone stay where you are.
Run! screams Faberg as the crowd springs up like
grasshoppers.
STRUGGLING TO EXIT THROUGH the back kitchen door, I
cant get through the throng of bodies tossing me aside like a
pulled up weed. So, I pull on the latch of a narrow closet,
slipping my undersized carcass inside. Squished between the
door and an ironing board, I can hear everything.
You over there, put down the beersit! barks a gruff
voice, How old are you?
Im squeaks a thin male voice, Twenty one!
Yeah, says an officer, And Im Paul McCartney. Lets
see some ID.
When somebody smacks the door Im hiding behind, my
heart races like a pinto pony. My circulation is cut off by the
ironing board and broom. Plus its so hot in here, I feel like a fish
stick baking in a 500 degree oven.
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163
HYSTERICAL VOICES FADE then melt into silence. Ive
fallen asleep in a half kneeling position. Now is the time to bust
out of this joint so I ram my shoulder against the door. It doesnt
budge.
Help! I yell, voice echoing through the empty kitchen,
Im stuck! Help!
After a few more pushes and a brief crying jag, high heels
click click on linoleum.
Ive got a gun! says Faberg, anxiously.
Dont shoot! I whimper Its me, Jimmy. I mean
Chick. Im stuck in the closet.
After the narrow door flings open, fluorescent light
assaults my watery eyes.
Maxwell House! cries Faberg, steadying herself
against the door, jangling gold charm bracelets on wrists, You
scared me half to death.
ALMOST DAWN, CRAGGED PEAKS of the Wasatch are
grayish pink. Mom and Dad will murder me. Faberg and I sprint
across the apartment complexs yard toward her car. Curiously,
someones snoring loudly behind a large hedge, like a chain saw
grinding hardwood.




CBgter 31
If Joe comes over when Im at work, says my sister,
Tell him
What? I ask.
Just tell him, she says, Never mind. Ill tell the
drunken sot myself what I think.
Moms working the LDS Hospital three to eleven shift so
Karen stirs homemade red sauce and a cauldron of boiling water
for an early dinner.
Jimmy, she says, delicious in her cupcake pink and
white Dunfords Bakery uniform, I have to leave soon so watch
the spaghetti for me.
Karen, I say, nervously fingering a drum catalog where
Id slipped the article about the gangster, John Mugsy Leonetti,
Before you go I really need to show you something.
Where did you get this? she asks, after I shove the
grainy newspaper photo into her claws, If this is some sort of
joke
Its not a joke, I say, voice breaking, I wish it was
Why didnt you tell me right away? she whines,
perforating my forearm with her fingernails, This was kind of
important, you little jerk.
Ow! I yelp, Take it easy!
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165
No wonder Joe drowns his sorrows, says Karen, And
sleeps it off under flower beds
Actually, I say, We found him under some hedges.
Whatever! my sister shouts, plopping onto a kitchen
chair, sobbing, shoulders shuddering. Omigod, Jimmy. If we
die, its your fault.
Its going to be okay, I say, confidently, Well just tell
Mom and Dad then call the cops.
Dont tell Mom and Dad anything, she says, flexing her
tiger claws again, I mean it, you creep. Do you promise?
OUR CHEVY BISCAYNE pulls into the driveway. Its Dad
coming back from the store.
A little help here! he yells, heaving stuffed paper bags
from the trunk, cheerfully crooning The Days of Wine and
Roses, off key and in Latin, Dies vinae rosarumque
Karen quickly dries her eyes.
Tell me what song Im singing, little girl shouts our
father as he enters, restarting his favorite tune, Dies vinae
rosarumque
Not now, Dad, she cries, red-eyed, edging past him,
darting down the driveway.
After setting groceries on the table, Dad scratches his
head. Dunfords Bakery is only one block away inside
Emigration Market so he watches Karen weep as she walks to
work.
Whats the matter with her? he says.
How should I know? I utter a little too defensively.
I PEEK THROUGH the drapes at hung-over Joe. Deep gray
under-eye circles, hair and goatee tousled and unwashed, he
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166
knocks a perky and, under the circumstances, bizarre, shave-
and-a- haircut-two-bits on our front door.
Tap tap tap tap tap - tap tap
Is somebody going to answer that? cracks Dad, rustling
his newspaper, Or do I have to do everything around here?
Its Joe! I murmur nervously.
Tap tap tap tap tap - tap tap
Well open the door, yells Dad, Before the poor guys
hand falls off!
Ok! I moan, regretting promising Karen not to tell Dad
or Mom whats going on.
Holding my breath, I swing the door open, expecting to
be gunned down on sight.
Hi Chick. greets Joe, pleasantly, shuffling his feet, Is
Karen here?
She left for work already. I say, instantly sorry I told
him where she is.
When do you expect her back?
I dont know.
I guess shes pretty mad at me, says Joe.
No I say, nodding, Well, yeah, kind of.
Here he says handing me a small envelope. Make sure
she gets this, okay?
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167
I CAN COUNT ON ONE hand how many times Karen has
come down to our bug infested hovel. Codge and I are in the
middle of working out a new original tune Shes Not Coming
Back to You.
Well you hurt her for the last time
Now shes found someone wholl treat her kind
You should have known that her love was true
Now the only one who lost out was you because

Well, interrupts our sister just before the chorus, I
broke up with him.
And youre still alive, says Codge stopping in mid
strum, only half kidding.
Thats a good sign, I say.
I told him I was going to the University of Utah in the
fall, she says, You know, long distance relationships, etc.
Isnt that only a couple of miles away? Codge says.
And arent you going to be, I say, Living at home?
What do you want me to do then? she hisses.
Maybe you should just tell him the truth, I say.
The truth? she says, Oh, excuse me, Joe but we need
to break up because I dont date alcoholic hit men?
I would leave out the alcoholic part, deadpans Codge.
Hey, Joe! I yell clicking my drumsticks as we taunt
Kathy by singing the chorus:
Shes not coming back to you,
Shes not coming back to you!

Flipping us the bird, Kathy runs upstairs.




CBgter 32
Eureka!
Who says lightning cant strike twice?
Codge and Nic, (encouraged by audience reaction to our
originals at the otherwise disastrous poetry party) hunker down
to compose new songs for a performance at Nics house on
August 4th, just a week away. Renny and I have been banned
from practice so they can concentrate, actually so they can
fight over music and lyrics without interruption. So bored and
penniless, we hit the same coin return and miraculously, are
showered with enough for bus fare and two tickets to the
Beatles latest flick, Help! Thank you Patron Saint of Phone
Booths, whoever you are!
What if were not ready? I ask, straddling the bus
stops bench, We only have a week to prepare four sets.
Stop worrying, Renny says, combing his pompadour,
We have plenty of old tunes and we already know all the songs
from the Help! album.
Those new songs, I say, Need a ton more work.
Lookits summer now. says Renny, simply, We can
practice all day and night. We can always repeat songs, too.
Dont forget that. Besides, Ive already invited a bunch of
friends for August 4th and I cant change it now.
Storm clouds loom overhead as scattered raindrops
quickly escalate to a cloudburst.
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169
Crud! I yell as, a half block away, the bus zooms then
slides to a stopsoaking us with gutter water.
Son of a biscuit! shouts Renny.
Faintly visible through the soaked windshield, McTookus
puffs on his cigar, twisted like a malformed dirt clod. His dull
strangled-with-a-sweat-sock laugh creeps me out as the doors
fold open.
DEAFENING THUNDER, BLINDING LIGHTNING and driving
rain make it all but impossible to properly concentrate or see
anything at all. Yet, at the 9th South stop, McT stops deftly,
picking up a cute blond and brunette. Scrambling aboard the bus,
they shriek daintily as thunder booms overhead. Folding the
doors, the driver lights a fresh cigar, eying the drenched,
probably Mormon, beauties because I dont recognize them from
Catholic school.
Hey Linda! shouts Renny, waving at the scrumptiously
tanned, though soaked girls in cut offs showing off juicy plum
shaped bottoms and twin blue and white surf shirts.
Renny? squeals the brunette, cheap plastic thongs
squishing down the aisle, Hi!
I insist, says my suave European-born friend, offering
the girls his seat and a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief
from his blazer pocket.
Thanks! says the brunette, patting her face dry then
giving it to the blond.
Linda and I were in the same math class last year at
Roosevelt explains Renny.
Oh, this is Lynda, too! says Linda, pointing at the fair
haired angel.
Im Lynda with a y not an i says blond Lynda,
casting a quick glance at me.
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170
Im Jim I joke, With a j not a g but my close
friends call me Chick.
The girls giggle. Score!
So, says Renny, Wherere you girls headed?
To see Help! reply Linda and Lynda in tandem.
The bus takes a corner at full speed, spilling the lovelies
into my lap but Im not complaining, not at all.
SKY CLEAR, the Great Wasatch yawns in the distance.
We rapidly approach downtown Salt Lake City and the movie
theater.
Were getting close, says Linda excitedly.
I hop bushy-tailed from the bus. Though my teeth are
crooked and misshapen, I just cant stop smiling as I help the
girls down the bus steps.
AFTER BEING IN A DARKENED THEATER for over two
hours, we stagger toward our bus stop at Auerbachs as the 17th
East bus zooms past us despite hysterical waving. Because of the
western suns glare, I cant tell for sure it was Mc T. But Ive
got news for himthis time I dont mind the delay, I might even
slip the old codger a little tip (a Canadian nickel perhaps)
because its warm, sunny and my inner turntable is spinning the
soundtrack to Help! Most importantly, Im hanging with Lynda,
with a y. She even touched my shoulder, just for a second,
during the movie, making me feel almost as good a playing the
drums but I cant explain why.
With twenty minutes before the next bus, we share two
Cokes with four straws at Dees, The Valleys number one
hamburger joint. I dont know which is more deliciousthe
sweet syrupy Cherry Cokes themselves or bumping heads with a
golden goddess.
What was your favorite part? the blond angel asks.
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171
They expect me to cut me finger off, I say, quoting a
hapless Ringo. Though I have the worst Liverpudlian accent in
the world, the girls crack up.
Plucking his small notebook out of his jacket pocket,
Renny scribbles something.
Whats that? asks Linda.
An invitation, says Renny slyly, To our bands first
concert next Wednesday.
Linda and Lynda gawk at each other in awe.
You have a band? says Lynda.
Oh my gawd! the girls squeal.




CBgter 33
When Codge shoves him off Omas front porch, Renny
lands on his back.
It was your stupid camera, Renny yells, What do you
expect from a Brownie Bullet piece of junk!
How in the world can every single picture, yells Codge,
Be double-exposed?
I cant believe we spent the rest of our band fund, I say,
On this crap!
Wearing the usual vest over exposed bronze chest, blue
jeans and sandals, Joe rides his ramshackle bike, Nikon camera
slung around his neck. Hes belting Maria from West Side
Story, badly out of tune. I havent seen him in weeks, which I
took as a good sign, unless he needed some quiet time to plot
whacking the Potters.
Hey, Baby Chick! shouts Joe, waving, Whats new?
What are you doing here? I say, exasperated.
Ill tell you whats new! shouts Nic, Renny cant take
a decent picture to save his life.
Maybe, says Joe, I can help you out with that.
No! I hiss.
Codge, Renny and Nic look at me like Im insane. I can
forgive Nic and Renny because they dont know who Joe really
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173
is but honestly, Codge knows. Letting a hit man become our
band photographer is a one way ticket to concrete overshoes for
all of us, I just know it. Oh well, at least there will be cool band
photos for the newspaper article about finding our saline
encrusted bodies in the Great Salt Lake.
Baby Chick! says Joe, leaving his bike in the gutter,
excitedly aiming his camera at us as he arranges our bodies,
chins, expressions. Relax! You look like youre about to get
whacked! Codge, move in a little closer
YOU COULD EASILY BOUNCE a quarter on the twin bed in
the far right corner. Sparsely furnished, freshly painted, spotless
and orderly as an Army barracks, Joes basement apartment has
no mildew and no bugs, just a hint of stale cigarette smoke.
Next to the Buzzalottis washer and dryer is a sink plus a
table of bottled chemicals, trays, developing tank, enlarger and
photo paper. Strung from two large hooks in the ceiling joists, a
clothesline with a dozen or so recently developed gruesome
black and white prints pinned to it: maggot-covered road kill,
toothless people with skin diseases and dilapidated outhouses.
Nice pictures, I say sarcastically.
Theres beauty in the bizarre, says Joe, admiring his
work, If you look for it.
AS JOE DEVELOPS OUR PHOTOS, we work on band flyers
at a desk with a gooseneck table lamp. We dont have a minute
to waste, since the concert is only five days away.
Were going to stick to the basics lectures Codge,
invoking Dads prime writing mandates. Who, what, when,
where, how and why!
AFTER MUCH BICKERING, we paste the carefully
stenciled cut out letters, leaving plenty of room for a band photo
at the top.
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174
AN EVENING OF ROCK AND ROLL WITH NB3
FREE LIVE MUSIC AT NIC STUMP BASKERVILLES HOUSE
1618 E. 13
TH
SOUTH
(USE BACK ENTRANCE)
WEDNESDAY EVENING, AUGUST 4TH AT 7 PM
BE THERE OR BE SQUARE!

Beautiful! says Renny.
Lets show Joe, says Codge.
NOT BAD, NOT BAD, SAYS JOE, hanging the last of 8 X
10 band exposures on the clothesline, Only one things
missing.
What? says Renny.
I dont know, he says, I think I should be allowed to
recite some poetry, maybe during intermission.
What? says Renny, No way.
After removing clothespins on a freshly hung band photo,
Joe cold-bloodedly dumps it into a nearby trash can, silently
moving to the next.
What are you doing? yells Renny.
Hands on another band photo, Joes geared up to trash it
too.
Ok, ok, says Codge, You can perform at our concert.
I want my name on the flyer, too, says Joe.
Okay, says Renny, Well put your name on the flyer.
I knew something like this would happen. Itll only get
worse from here, youll see.
BY CLEARING OUT Mr. Baskervilles swelteringly 10 X
6 tool shack, tossing rakes and pruning shears onto the grass, we
can fit a cot, a chaise lounge and a moldy mattress from the attic.
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175
Mom and Dad have miraculously allowed us to spend the night
at Nics so we can get up early and pass out band flyers as long
as we dont get into any trouble. With the transistor radio
blaring, I accidently bump into the sheds metal wall with a hose
nozzle that percussively echoes as if I am standing in the middle
of Bryce Canyon.
Gong! Gong! Gong!
Wow! I say, That sounds great!
Chick, Stump says, lugging peat moss, sweating like a
pig, Do that one more time and Ill kill you.
Shooting him a devilish smile, I aim the metal nozzle at
the wall.
Gong! Gong! Gong!
ITS THE PILE-ON OF THE CENTURY. Codge tackles me,
Renny on top of him. On top of the heap, Nic is jumping up and
down like a kangaroo.
Okay, I yell, giggling, I give up!
When Nics trusty silver haired dog, Dandy, barks we
know Mr. Baskerville is pulling into the driveway. He brought
our paste-up to work and promised to print enough to blanket the
neighborhood. Stepping on each others necks, arms, butts,
fingers, we scramble to the driveway where hes already gazing
at a freshly printed flyer.
Hey, our photo turned out pretty good after all says Nic
as we crowd in to admire our masterpiece.
go to back entrancebe there or be squarewait a
minute! Codge cries in horror.
What? What? I blurt.
Dad, barks Nic, Wheres the date and time?
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176
I was so busy with deadlines today Mr. Baskerville
explains, wincing, I didnt notice the date and time paste up had
fallen off. Ill get a reprint first thing Monday morning.
But, Dad, says Nic, Were putting them out tomorrow
morning.




CBgter 34
You can easily tell which of the bands six hundred bright
orange flyers Renny and Codge hand wrote the date and time on.
Their writing is beautiful, letter perfect. Mom jokes Nic and I
are destined to be doctors because our handwriting looks like a
one-legged chicken with the hiccups but at least we tried.
Salt Lake Citys vampire gnats have left two large itchy
welts on my neck. The more I scratch, the more they itch.
Sleep-deprived from scrawling on the handbills half the night
and from watching The Screaming Skull on Nightmare
Theater, we lug the flyers to Emigration Market. Codge and I
have been employed there for two years distributing weekly
circulars. The pay is rotten but regular and its fairly quick work.
Dawn fills with blue and purple cumulous clouds,
keeping the high desert comfortably cool, even for the last day of
July.
I still think we should ask Mr. Bolinski, says Codge,
handing Nic and Renny half of the flyers, If its okay to stuff
these in with Emigration Markets circulars.
If youre not going to listen to your band manager, says
Renny, Then why even have one to begin with?
Then we should at least ask him, Codge says, If its
okay for Joe to hand out our flyers in front of the store.
The sidewalk is public property, says Renny,
Remember?
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178
LEERING AT US through steel blue eyes, Mr. Bolinski is a
six foot four former Marine with a head the size and shape of an
overgrown turnip, black wavy hair, a scarred face, and a
vampire-like widows peak taking over his forehead a little more
each year. Rumor has it that his mug got messed up in Korea.
Dad groused he must have gotten paper cuts because the
Emigration Market manager had a desk job in the service. My
classmate, Frank Bolinski, Jr. is his son and a guitar player, too,
though a lousy one, from what Ive heard.
The circulars are over there on register four Mr.
Bolinski barks, giving us the same lecture each week, Make
sure each is left securely at every house, understood?
Yes, sir, we reply, squelching the desire to salute him,
Mr. Bolinski.
Do a good job today, he says, promising us extra
money for a job well done for two years now but continually
finding reasons not to, And there may be an additional bonus.
Yeah, right.
FOOT PROPPED ON BONGOS, Joe leans against a street
sign.
Deez are really good says Joe, reading the flyer.
Especially da special guest feature.
What are the bongos for? I ask impatiently.
You gotta grab their attention Joe says, leaning over,
tapping a brisk beat.
No, no bongo playing says Renny, buffering the drums
with his hands, Just pass out flyers.
And no drinking, I say, sternly then chickening out,
UmPlease.
FOAMING AT THE MOUTH like his master, the brown
boxer, Enos, leaps from the doorway, knocking me off the porch
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179
into a thicket of spiny bushes. After Nic extracts me from the
foliage, we hurdle like Olympians over shrubs and flower beds
but Enos does, too.
OW! I howl, after a piercing stab opens up my left butt.
Frothing from his gaping maw, Enos owner, Abdominal
Dough Mans baseball mitt sized hands dwarf a beer bottle.
Enos! he yells, sweat-stained undershirt stretched
halfway over his protruding gut, wide legged on his front porch,
You damn crazy dog!
Half a block later we slow enough to look behind us. The
dog has finally retreated.
Am I bleeding? I howl, circling like a dog chasing its
tail, Am I bleeding?
A little, giggles Nic, Stuff some of these flyers into
your pants so you dont get arrested for indecent exposure.
HOBBLING UP AND DOWN Harvard and Yale Avenue for
two more hours, like an undersized pirate with wooden leg and
ass on fire, I valiantly clutch flyers as Nic delivers them to yet
another household.
I wonder how Codge and Renny are doing? my band
mate asks.
I SLIDE MY INJURED RUMP onto the couch next to my
brother, scratching my vampire gnat bites until they bleed, too.
What happened to you? Codge asks, engrossed in
songwriting.
The abdominal dough mans boxer bit meagain. I
say, showing him my torn pants and gnawed rear, scratching my
itchy, bloody neck, Why do I always have to do the hilly route
with the crazed dogs?
Potter/Vivanco

180
MUNCHING DOWN ON our spaghetti and salad, I shift
onto my right butt cheek as my left one is swollen and probably
infected like the gnat bites on my neck.
When I was your age I was stripping rubber at
Goodyear sermonizes Dad, between mouthfuls, Or laying pipe
in a ditch.
But Dad, I complain, tired of hearing about his rugged
childhood for the zillionth time, I get bit by rabid dogs on this
job.
Ill put a little mercurochrome on your bottom after
dinner, says Mom You know, I read in the Readers Digest
that animals only attack when provoked.
But I protest.
They also smell fear, says Dad, You gotta look those
devils in the eye. Let him know whos boss.
SHAKILY DISPLAYING ONE OF OUR ORANGE flyers folded
like a paper airplane, Mr. Lewis has come all the way across the
street without falling asleep to complain.
Mr. Lewis doesnt want people trashing his yard,
growls Dad.
My brother and I look at each other, mouthing Joe. It
figures.
Thelma thought she recognized your faces says the
aged Edmund.
Oh, thats just our band flyer, says Codge nonchalantly,
For next weeks concert.
Well, Ill be! says the old man, A concert, huh?
And youre invited, I say, knowing full well our
performance starts after their bedtimes.
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181
Wouldnt miss it for all the tea in China! he says,
leaning against the door jamb, yawning then, Zzzzzzzzzz..
BRANDISHING OUR ORANGE flyers in our faces, Mr.
Bolinskis scarred face glows purple.
the question is why is THIS, says Mr. B, widows
peak almost touching the bridge of his nose, Junking up my
customers porches?
I expect him to start sucking our blood any minute as his
bull horn voice catches the attention of a blue-haired lady
bending over a cane.
Wheres the toilet paper? the elderly lady croaks.
Be with you in a minute, Mrs. Krakowski, says The
Prince of Darkness.
I cant wait all day! shouts the blue hair, waving her
cane, I might miss Bingo! You changed the aisle for the cat
food, too.
Aisle five, shouts Mr. B, Just where it always is.
Its not there, she croaks, after shuffling right past pet
food on aisle five.
Be right with you! spits Mr. Ballistic then, I had to
call the police on that beatnik friend of yours because he was
harassing my customers with his bongos.
SAILING OFF THE STEINBECKS front porch, limbs
flailing, comb flying, Renny rolls wild-eyed onto the front yard,
again.
This is your fault! whispers Codge, standing over the
German kid, If it wasnt for you, wed still have a job. You
damned Kraut!
You want to fight Potter? hisses Renny, Ill show you
how we do it in Deutschland!
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182
In the kitchen, hard of hearing and back to the open front
door, Oma serves fresh homemade apple strudel.
What was that? asks Oma.
I didnt hear anything, assures Nic, holding out his
dessert plate.
Me neither, I add, doing the same.
Hopping onto the front porch, my brother closes the front
door gently.
Where are the others? asks Oma.
Oh, theyre handling band business right now, Nic
says, Theyll be here in a minute. Great strudel!
Oma, I say, with an idea to mute Rennys righteous
butt beating, I know how to sing She Loves You in German
You know how to sing auf Deutsch? she gushes.










CBgter 3S
The manual mowers handle digs deep into my chest. I
may as well be bulldozing green concrete. Weeds and crab grass
clog up the dull revolving blades. So, flipping it over, I scrape
off the mess with my bare hands.
Even though today is the most important day of our lives,
Dad insists we complete our usual yard work, on schedule, as if
putting it off for one lousy day is going to ruin his entire boring
life.
Furiously attacking dandelions with a weed digger and
Moms butter knife, Codge unearths a fuzzy ice-cream-cone
sized plant. Tongues practically hanging down to the steamy
sidewalk, Nic and his dog, Dandy, stroll toward the yard.
Hows it going? asks spoiled rotten Nic who never has
to do any chores, ever.
Grab the hand clippers, I roar as the temperature rises
to a scalding one hundred degrees, And make yourself useful!
While our carcasses are baking under the searing August
sun, Edmund, Thelma, and Rod warm themselves on their lounge
chairs like pale leopard lizards on a rock.
THE MORE I LOOK at my home made drum set, the more
I regret agreeing to the gig tonight. Im going to be a laughing
stock for sure, especially in front of Lynda.
You know what they say, Nic teases, One mans trash
is another mans drum set.
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184
Ha ha ha! I spit just as Mr. Baskerville materializes
behind a fog.
Hi boys, can I get some help? he asks, Ive got some
bags and boxes in the car.
Ah, Dad! complains Nic.
Itll only take a minute, he says, disappearing around
the bend.
WHEN NIC OPENS the driver side door, he gasps, as if
bitten by a pit viper. Three bright green cylindrical objects
sparkle against the Furys off white upholstery with the brand
name, Ajax. Mr. Baskerville points to a large bronze cymbal,
bright as the glorious western sun it reflects, lying on the front
floor mat.
Ajax? asks my brother, sniggering, Isnt that what you
use to clean bathtubs with?
Shut up, Codge, I holler then gratefully, Thanks Mr.
Baskerville.
The set is for tonight only he says, I cut a deal with
your friend, Moses.
What kind of deal? scowls Codge.
THE DELICATE SLAP OF HER SANDALED feet and the
lilting voice of angelic Lynda Osgood intoxicates me before I
even see her.
Chick? she says, Where are you?
My pulse racing, my head pounding, I breathe deeply
relishing the moment, wondering what shell be wearing, how
each touch will electrify me. I think Ill let her sit right next to
me, if she can handle the din from my professional drum set. I
mean, theyre not Ludwigs but theyre real, wooden, tunable
drums with stands that work and everything. Suddenly, long
brown hair in the classic Beatles style on a tall lanky frame
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185
lumbers into the room, arm wrapped tightly around Lyndas
shouldermy Lyndas shoulder.
This is Bill says my fallen angel, Bill Brownthe
drummer for the Outer Limits.
I smirk stiffly. Bill Brown. No introduction needed. The
hack with a monster double bass Ludwig set from last years
Sugar House Battle of the Bands all the girls were swooning
over. He couldnt swing if youd hung him from the front porch!
They snuggle on the window seat cushion as my heart shatters
into a million stained glass pieces that no patron saint could put
back together no matter how hard you prayed.
Spiffy in his freshly dry-cleaned suit, Renny struts in
cleaving to beautiful brunette Linda Weeks. Good for themI
hope they choke on their Tabs.
A neighborhood chum, Wolfie, long curly auburn hair, is
arm-in-arm with his girlfriend, Cindy; they sit front row. The
room fills with neighbors and seventh grade classmates I did not
expect, including Joan, her younger sister Deidre, and guitar
player, Frank, our ex-employer, Mr. Bolinskis son. A tight-knit
faction of cute teenagers stroll in like they own the place, though
no one seems to know them. The infamous Belch Buster, Zach
Grant, burps his way in, a cluster of his chuckling fans filing in
behind him.
BRRRAAAAAAACCCCKKKK! belches the Buster.
Hi Belch. I say, rolling my eyes.
Hi Chick, BRRAAACCKKKKK! he replies.
Nikon around his neck, an unfiltered Camel hanging from
lower lip, Joe hugs a dog-eared notebook and his bongos.
Lets get dis show on the road he barks, puffing away.
Uh, Joe, since youre the special guest, mutters Renny,
I want the band to warm up the crowd first.
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186
Cool. he says, examining the young crowd, Hey
Chick, wheres Karen?
Shes working at the bakery, I say as Joe slumps into
an empty seat next to the bar.
Flip flopping between euphoria and stabbing rejection, I
push record on the Magnavox as Codge and Nic slouch
casually behind their guitars.
Okay, guys, says Renny, Give it all youve got, keep
chit chat to a minimum. Well be using this recording to get real
gigs.
AN UTTER TRIUMPH, our first set was way better than any
of us could have imagined. I set my drumsticks down on the
snare, heading for the ice cold Tabs hidden behind the bar just
for the band. Im way beyond blissful. Im in heavenexcept
for the Lynda thing, of course. Maybe Limbo is like thisbeing
happy and miserable at the same time.
Hey says a sultry voice, Maxwell House!
Ravishing in a low cut purple and yellow silk floral
ruffled blouse and tight jeans, Faberg charges me, planting one
square on my lips. Imagine that? Yeah, the older women love
me and kiss me on the lips, what with my real drum set and
talent and all.
Sorry were late, she says, You remember Antoine?
His bulging gray eyes and scraggly beard creeping me
out as much as it did the first time I met him, Evil Beatnik Man
glares jealously at me. Hah! I cant help it if Im a talented
musician and hes not.
Hey, man, says Antoine pleasantly, shaking my hand,
Wheres the beer?
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187
Okay everyonesettle down, instructs Renny arms
folded like Ed Sullivan, Heres our special guest and house
poet, please welcome Joe Pizzarelli!
Ow ooooooo ah! howls Wolfie, perched next to Linda,
Beaver shot!
Elbowing him sharply in the chest, Linda sends him
flying off the chair.
Scuse me, the brunette squeaks, sweet as Cherry Coke,
as the audience applauds and hollers approvingly.
LOSING THE NEW YORK ACCENT, voice low, bold and
resonant as a baritone sax, Joe recites after a long sensual smoky
exhale.
Its green here, deep green,
grief greensunbeams falling
through moist canopy and vines.
A gasp, a last gasp, I cant find
him in timehis brain, can I find
his brain or mine? Whose brain
is lost in fire green and charcoal?
The room is silent, as if the slightest sound would shatter
the known universe. Thundering loud then barely audible,
grinning ecstatically then grimacing agonizingly, Joe leans
forward on his stool.
Have we been here forever and
are we found? I follow the eyes--
do not shoot. The white of eyes
edged in green, who are we after
forever cuts us down? And do we
come in skin green or black face?
do we mix up the races and place last?

Potter/Vivanco

188
Even though thirsty, I forget to sip my Tab. Jack
Stapleton silently slips into the room.
Who is the quicker and who is fast,
who is last to the water and who
casts the longest shadows? Am I
my own train, or am I pulling your
freight? Who is the city and who
is the cat that calls the meow;
and we jump into the will of god?

We read the ill will of leaves, the
handwriting in veins, the eyes of
secret plans, the mystery of fire
and water, earth and air by the
sea. How can you be true if you
are not you, if you are not true?

Joe beats the bongos combatively, getting louder, then
softer, then louder still. At its crest, the rhythm stops, Joe
bowing as if asleep. Clapping tentatively at first, one by one,
each audience member rises, breaking into a sustained ovation,
including me.
CRAWLING LIKE CRIPPLED CRUSTACEANS down steps,
the ancient Lewises hold up our second set. As poor Edmunds
snoozes on the stairs railings, Joe gallantly carries Maude down
stairs biceps bulging.
Hey, youse, get up! Joe snarls at a gang of teens
sprawled on chairs, Or you want I should break your lazy
selfish rotten necks?
In her favorite blue and purple flowered dress, lifting a
large handbag she won at bingo, Oma comes late because of
well, bingo. Renny swiftly seats her next to Linda.
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189
AFTER FOUR EXHAUSTING sets, I dont know how I feel
about Lynda any more. Im just dog tired after a week of
preparations, practicing, passing out flyers. I think I could sleep
for a million years.
You are the best drummer I have ever, ever seen, says
Lynda sincerely, You are better than Ringo Starr.
Thanks, I say, laughing, shaking my head.
No, really, insists lovely Lynda, looking at Bill, Isnt
he better than Ringo Starr?
Lets go Bill says, dragging her from the room a little
too gruffly as she waves.
That was pretty good, Chick, says Frank Bolinski
battering fingernails lightly on my crash cymbal as Joe listens,
Let me know when you want to join a real band.
Hey, Joe says to Frank, What kind of car you
driving?
My old man, he says, proudly, Just got me a cherry
65 Beetle. Why?
Too bad, Joe says, pointing outside, clicking his
tongue.
What? says Bolinski.
Its probably nothing, says Joe as Bolinski bolts
upstairs like a catapult.
Joe, I say, eyeing him suspiciously, What did you
do?




CBgter 36
Overnight, oceans of weeds wave their green and yellow
heads above the newly mowed lawn. Now Codge and I must
excavate dandelions by long gnarly rootsless than twenty four
hours after we dug them out yesterday. Escaping the tedious
chore by thinking about last nights concert, I also try hard not to
focus on Lyndas betrayal. Hey, its her loss if she wants to date
a hack drummer. Then againI dont knowmaybe if I grew
my hair out a little longer
Lets hurry! my brother yells, If you want to play
those drums before they go back to Music City.
AFTER PRACTICALLY SOMERSAULTING down Nics
stairs, I round the corner. The drum alcove is as barren as the
stretch of road between the Utah-Nevada-border, except for the
antique piano stool/drum throne, drumsticks askew nearby.
The drums were due back at the store today, says Nic,
cuing the tape machine on the bar, So Dad took them to work
this morning.
Oh, no, I moan, collapsing against the wall, sinking to
the floor. Now all I have to think about is Lynda.
OUR FIRST RECORDED SONG, All My Loving does not
sound like a herd of tortured livestock.
The drums, comments Renny, Are a little loud but
impressive.
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191
The vocals are great, too I say, comfortable on the
floor, listening closely.
Wait! says Nic, stopping the tape then rewinding,
Whats this?
Ow ooooooo ah! Beaver shot!
Oh my god! says Codge, Whats that racket?
As the tape rolls, distortion then an insane, high-pitched
laugh pierces my heart.
BRRRRAAAAAAAKKKKKKK! Hahahahahahaha!
Oh my god, screams Nic, slapping his forehead, Belch
Buster!
And Wolfie! moans Renny.
Near the songs end, a resounding belch as the last chord
dies out, along with a hearty timber wolf howl. I know these
guysWolfie and Belch Buster never quitthey pride on
making a consistent nuisance of themselves.
Im going to beat the daylights out of these jerks,
screams Codge, heading upstairs.
Its ok, says Renny grabbing my brothers shoulder,
Its just one song!
Nic holds his stomachhe knows these guys, too.
ONE OF THE BAND PHOTOS has a unique perspective, shot
from the left highlighting our energy, long hair kissing ear lobes,
teasing shirt collars and touching eyebrows. We could be easily
be mistaken for a young Rolling Stones, if you blurred your eyes.
This declares Joe, proudly displaying a picture,
Should be the official band photo. Itll be worth something
when youre famous.
Yeah, says Nic, Whatever.
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192
What? he asks, inspecting sunken faces, You dont
like the pictures?
Our recording from the gig is ruined, says Codge
glumly, Zach and Wolfie screamed, cursed and belched through
all four sets.
I was going to let Father Brown hear this tape, says
Renny, So we can play at the CYO dance this Christmas. Now
its completely ruined.
AFTER SLICING OFF A PIECE of black electrical tape with
a large scary-looking razor-sharp pocket knife, Joe carefully
sticks it onto the milk-chocolate-colored reel to reel tape,
splicing out swear words and belches, stringing songs medley-
style.
Where did you learn to do that? I say.
Hey, Chick, theres nothing like a good sharp knife he
whispers ominously, Is there?
MESMERIZED BY HIS resonant voice and strangely
compelling words, Nic plays Joes recorded poetry recitation.
Hey, says Codge, You did great, Joe.
Yeah, says Nic, nodding emphatically, I was really
impressed.
Normally, says Renny, I dont really like poetry,
but you did something to me and everybody in the room.
Thanks, he says modestly, bowing slightly.
Youre pretty good. I say, stupidly, When youre not
dead drunk.
Why did I have to say that? Squinting then inhaling a
final puff, Joe twists the spent butt into a nearby ashtray till
every last ember is extinguished.




CBgter 32
Thinning salt and pepper hair like over-cooked asparagus
on his round olive-complexioned head, our landlord, Porky, is
stewed to the gills.
You son of a he slurs clutching a Budweiser bottle
menacingly.
Put it down, Buzzalotti! pleads Joe, eyeball to eyeball
with the drunk.
Cowards! yells Porky, pointing at and awakening
Edmund, Thelma and Roderick from lounge chair naps, Every
last one of you!
Tripping over Joes crappy bike, Porky waves his arms
like a bird flapping wings before landing on his back.
Always seek only the highest good, Maude yells from
her front porch, Of every person no matter what they may do to
us.
Beer cocked behind his skull, Porky shakes his head
soberly and sighs, lowering his arm. Suddenly he rises, grinning
like mob boss taking revenge on a rat.
Joe! I scream, Look out!
PALE BLUE EYES red and glazed, our father grabs the
front door knob.
Im calling an ambulance! he says, swaying slightly.
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194
Probably due to action he saw in the Pacific during The
War, Poor Dad cant stomach the sight of blood. Porkys beer
bottle ricocheted off Joes skull then exploded into a million
crystalline shards against the brick house.
No! Please! Joe shouts, red rivers flowing from
forehead, Im alright!
Reveal by your life, shouts Maude, from across the
street, her siblings watching by her side, Our Lord to the
world!
Really, Joe, whispers Karen, You need to see a
doctor!
What do you care? he spits, gasping, touching his
wound, face and fingers a bloody mess, then apologetically, Im
sorry, Im okayreally.
Her pasty complexion contrasting with thin red lips,
Blanch Buzzalotti stands on the porch, wearing a light blue plaid
dress with pearls. The few times Ive seen her, she looks dressed
for church but she rarely leaves the premises.
Oh Ray! she says, chubby hands on ample bosom,
How could you?
Stay out of this Blanch! shouts Porky lurching
sideways.
Dont yell at her snaps Joe, mopping his forehead with
a handkerchief.
With Porky aiming a pair of rusty grass clippers at his
heart, Joe hops, narrowly avoiding a punctured lung. After
Porky hurls the clippers, they spiral like helicopter blades. Joe
covers his head with a trash can lid, the razor-sharp tool denting
protective aluminum with a loud clang.
Are you crazy?! Joe hollers, still wielding the
impromptu shield overhead.
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195
Ok, says Dad, stunned. Thats it, Im calling the
cops!
No! begs Joe, No police! Please!
Almost invisible in the overgrown grass, Edsel lumbers
toward Joe. Buzzalotti wraps his stubby fingers around the poor
critter, heartlessly shaking him. Retracting its scaly head, the
turtle claws the air pitifully.
Edsel! screams Joe, racing toward his tortured pet.
Bombs away! the drunken Porky screeches, chortling
cruelly, thrusting the reptile in a sky-scraping end-over-end arc
into Laird Avenue.
NO! I scream, hurdling over the thin wire fence
separating our two yards.
Darting into Laird Avenue, I extend my arms to their
limits. Thank goodness for touch football! Im not good at most
sports, but doggone it, I can catch anything if you throw it
anywhere near me.
St. Jude! I shout, as a flash of beige catches the corner
of my eye, a car horn blares.
AFTER BARELY DODGING THE RAMBLER, I caught Edsel
who plopped into my waiting arms. Gently caressing the
unharmed reptile, I pass him to his owner.
Are you okay, boy? Joe asks the turtle, Thanks, Chick.
I owe you.
Come back here, you coward, blubbers Porky at Joe. A
small spade overhead, he twirls like a chubby ballerina then
keels over dead drunk onto the grass.
WITH THE BLAZING AUGUST sun receding over the Great
Salt Lake, Blanch finishes cleaning and dressing Joes wound on
their front porch.
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196
Where is he? Joe shouts, frantically circling the yard,
Wheres Edsel?
He cant go far, Joe I offer, scanning the lawn and the
busy 17
th
East intersection nervously, Hes a turtle.
I put him down for just a second! Joe says, blood
seeping from his bandage.
Dont worry, Blanch says escorting him inside. The
boys will find him.
As he snores like a buzz saw, Blanch kicks Porky in the
ribs. He doesnt even flinch.
RAPIDLY LOSING OUR LIGHT, we carefully inspect the
duplexs yard.
Chick, says my brother, racing toward the side door,
You keep on looking, Im calling in reinforcements.
THANK GOD FOR SUMMER! With no school curfew, Nic
and Renny complete our turtle search party. After a good thirty
minute hunt, the magenta sky darkens.
We barely have thirty minutes I declare, huddling with
my friends in the yard, Before its pitch black out here.
Picturing poor Edsel wandering off somewhere in the
vast, traffic-prone neighborhood, scared out of his mind, I doubt
his already dented shell can take another hit.
Hes not in the gutters, reports Nic breathlessly.
I hope he didnt crawl into a sewer, blurts Renny.
We havent checked over there yet, I say, glancing at
the Lewis yard.
Theres no way Edsel would cross the street, says
Codge, You idiot.
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197
AS WE SEARCH UNDER LONG HEDGE ROWS, our bare
arms and hands are pierced and scratched by thorny foliage.
Its no use! Renny yells, clawing in the leaves and dirt.
One more time, I shout, slithering like a desert snake
blindly into the darkness. I grope something hard, maybe just a
rock orOuch!
Withdrawing my right hand, I lick a nasty puncture
wound.
What? asks Renny.
Suddenly, foliage rustles and two frightened beady eyes
blink at me.
SPORTING A FRESH BANDAGE, Joe stands with Codge and
Nic stoop-shouldered in the darkness on our front lawn.
We found him! yells Renny triumphantly.
Oh my god! says Joe, darting across the street, Edsel!
Alright! says Codge, following him.
Thank God! yells Nic.
Its ok little buddy, Joe says, lower lip quivering, You
can come out now.
Come on, coos Codge, waving yellow squash purloined
from the fridge in front of the turtles retracted head,
Hmmmdelicious!
Scaly gray green head and plump reptilian legs gradually
poking out, the tortoise gazes at me then at my punctured right
hand then back as if to say Im sorry I bit you.
Dont worry, Edsel, I say, flexing my fingers and wrist,
See? I can still play drums.
Potter/Vivanco

198
Twilight fades to coal black and the Wasatch Mountains
vanish from the horizon, leaving only an indentation where
Porkys carcass had been when he passed out in the grass.




CBgter 38
This is my song, yells Codge, wrestling Nic to the
floor.
I wrote part of the song, too, screams Nic.
Yeah, shouts my brother, The part that sucks!
As they roll on the floor, Renny and I have learned to
stay out of Codge and Nics creative power struggles. Theyve
been squabbling over a new original song, Goodbye My
Friend, all day. We use the time to grab a soda, stretch, relax
and enjoy the fight.
I betcha a soda, says Renny, brandishing a freshly
opened Tab, Nic wins this one.
Youre crazy, I say, shaking his hand, Youre going to
be so thirsty, my friend.
What do you say? hollers Codge, with Nic in a
stranglehold.
Uncle! moans Nic.
Give it! I say as, Renny grudgingly hands me his drink.
THE LONG SATURDAY PRACTICE hours fly. Before you
know itits supper time.
Okay, guys, says Codge, Lets call it a day.
Potter/Vivanco

200
Hey Chick, come here, whispers Renny, nodding me
over to the bar, Linda and Lynda are babysitting tonight at the
Johnsons and they want us to come over.
A Mormon family with four young kids, two blocks from
my house, my sister babysat them until their four year old asked
her where Catholics put their horns at bedtime.
What about Bill Brown? I ask.
You want to go or not? snaps Renny.
SATURDAY EVENINGS AT the Potters are always the same
- getting ready for the six a.m. Sunday Mass which we only
make about half the time. Dutifully polishing shoes, praying the
rosary, we hit the sack no later than 10 pm. I hold up a blank
white envelope.
Im going to mail a letter, I say to Dad slumped over a
paperback in his threadbare easy chair, Be back in five
minutes.
Okay Seamus, he says, distractedly turning a page.
Dont dawdle!
Half way down the driveway, I stuff the empty envelope
into a large lilac bush, expecting to see Dad glowering from our
doorway but no ones there.
LONG BLOND HAIR floating like spun gold, Lynda pours
fizzling Coke into Mickey-Mouse-Pluto glasses filled with ice.
The Johnsons cozy kitchen is a modern avocado and goldenrod
tone. Renny and I sit directly across from Linda Lynda.
When she serves me, the blond angel grazes my shoulder,
electrical charge surging through my body.
We really loved the concert, says Lynda, whispering
huskily around the cream Formica kitchen table, careful not to
wake the sleeping children.
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201
FORMING A CIRCLE ON THICK TAUPE CARPET, Renny
crosses his legs next to brunette Linda as I sit comfortably next
to blond Lynda.
Lets play Truth or Dare suggests Lynda, blue eyes
sparkling.
Uhokay, I answer cautiously, Ummjokers are
wild, right?
Oh Chick, youre so funny! laughs Linda, What
Youre Doing, from the Beatles VI album playing a bit too
loudly.
Lets get started, Lynda whispers as she lowers the
stereos volume, Truth or Dare?
Um, I say, leaning against the posh chocolate sofa,
interested in the rules to this game, Truth?
What does sixty nine mean? says Lynda, smiling
vixen-like.
Is it a number in a song I sigh, Like Seventy Six
Trombones?
Thats a good one, Chick! Renny says, good-naturedly
punching me on my upper left arm as the girls giggle.
Yeah, I say, smiling stiffly, Good one.
Uh, why dont we play Spin the Bottle? suggests
Linda.
I DONT HAVE A CLUE WHAT to do when the bottle points
at me. After coyly turning her head, blond tresses glistening in
lamplight, face peaches and cream, Lynda touches her pink lips
to mine, thrusting me into orbit like a Saturn 5. I just kissed a
Mormon girl.
I better go home I say, guilt overwhelming me, John
Lennon singing Youve Got to Hide Your Love Away in the
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202
background. Im pretty sure kissing a Mormon girl is grounds
for excommunication from the Catholic Church or worselike a
public flogging.
Oh Chick, pleads Lynda, lightly touching my arm, Do
you have to?
Are you kidding me? Renny hisses, pompadour
disheveled. He hasnt even had a chance to kiss his Linda.
Ill see you later, I squeak, heading toward the front
door.
Hang on Chick, moans Renny. Ill go with you.
Sprinting into the cool high desert air, I pray my parents
went to bed without missing me knowing this is as likely as
skipping Mass on Sunday.
BARE-LEGGED IN RAGGED terry cloth robe, toque planted
on head, Dad flips the lights.
Who the hell, he hisses, arms folded, tapping a slipper
on the cracked linoleum floor, Do you think you are?
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. Im not a child any moreI just
kissed a girl, for instance. Im mad I didnt stay longer and kiss
her a million more times. I mean, if kissing a Mormon girl once
can send me to hell for eternity, whats the difference?
Careful not to disturb my brother, deep in his army
blanket, I ascend the stairs carrying my shoes. After carefully
opening the door, I sneak onto the side stoop, slipping on my
tenny runners.
I NEED TO BE CAUTIOUS about the dachshunds. After
tossing pebbles gingerly at the upstairs window, my friend gently
lifts up the sash.
I got grounded, I whisper, Till Im eighteen. And I
cant be in the band any more.
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203
Me, too says Renny, Oma says the band is a bad
influence.
WHEN RENNY FLINGS an olive drab rucksack out the
window, it hits me on the head, knocking me down.
Ow! I hiss, holding my aching, knotted noggin, You
idiot!
Shhhh! whispers Renny, shoving another rucksack
which lands with a loud clang.
Shhhh! I whisper angrily.
SOMEWHERE ON THE GROUND FLOOR high-pitched
growls are followed by a stern shhh then silence. Knowing
Renny, he probably gave the miniature monsters a lamb shank to
shut them up so quickly.
Though each back pack weighs a ton, we gleefully gallop
lopsidedly toward 17
th
and 9th like were riding Pegasus.
Suddenly, high powered headlights bathe us.
Quick! says Renny, diving behind a hedge.
When I fall in after him, my camping gear rattles
metallically.
Rodney Roach whispers Renny rolling on his back, as
my heart pounds, And his roach coach.
As the search light casts a swath near us, a two way radio
sizzles. Suddenly, a patrol cars door pops open.
Theres no way, I whisper, footsteps approaching us
menacingly on the sidewalk, flashlight probing dense foliage,
Theyre taking me alive.
Me neither, mutters Renny.




CBgter 39
Miller Park is a long serpentine boulder-laden forest
barb-wired between two rows of houses in the older affluent part
of East Bench, the creek running through fed by the Wasatch
Mountains Red Butte Reservoir.
Give me a boost, I whisper, stepping onto Rennys
hands. Fingers laced together, he catapults me to the other side.
We hike along the gulleys precipitous ledge, a hundred
feet above the creek. Rennys World War Two German issue
flashlight shines on a huge concrete drain pipe, the culvert. Built
to channel water from backyards and residential streets, its not
easy to reach. Weve got to climb fifty feet down the gulleys
practically vertical sides to get to it.
Skidding down a steep dirt path, we clutch branches and
shrubs, my rucksack clanging noisily with each descending step.
The culverts gaping five foot diameter opening is dry and clean
except for a small bed of brown dry leaves. After crawling
inside, we unpack. Everything we need is stuffed inside our
packs; two sleeping bags, canteens, a WWII German ammo can,
two small flat metal flashlights, stainless steel cutlery cleverly
clipped together, a tiny frying pan, stubby white candles and
matches, and, the most important thinga transistor radio.
We need to save the batteries, Renny says while
lighting candles, turning off the flashlight.
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205
After clicking the radio, Sonny and Chers I Got You
Babe echoes quietly off solid concrete walls. We are set.
CRAWLING INTO THE MUSTY olive drab sleeping bag,
belly growling, Renny tosses me a small powdered cookie.
Ew! I say, Whats that?
Pfeffernuesse, says Renny, munching on the peppery
treat, Ummm. Homemade.
Im not that crazy about it, being an Oreo cookie man but
Im starving and we dont have anything else. So I stuff the
delicacy in my mouth, sweet spiciness warming me.
WHILE TRAINING THE FLASHLIGHT on my face, Renny
slaps my shoulder.
Chick, he says, Wake up!
Wha I say sleepily, What time is it?
Look what I found, he says showing me a beautifully
ornate pocket watch, outside carved with a picture of a small
German village.
Wow! I say.
Hold the flashlight for me, he says.
After depressing a small button, the cover springs open,
exposing a sepia photo of a handsome groom and a lovely
woman in a modest bridal gown. The opposite side is a watch
with exposed gold and jeweled mechanisms.
That guy, I say, marveling at the wedding picture,
Looks exactly like you.
AS THE FLASHLIGHTS BATTERIES fade, Renny carefully
secures the heirloom inside one of the rucksacks zippered
pockets where he found it.
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206
We better get some sleep, says the orphan, crawling
into his sleeping bag, Well look at it again in the daylight.
Renny, I ask, pulling my sleeping bag up to my neck,
Whats sixty nine?
How should I know? he says, turning down the radio,
The Animals We Gotta Get Out of this Place echoing off
culvert walls.
THROAT SCRATCHY, mouth like a wad of dirt, I crawl to
the edge of the culvert. Fifty yards down a steep hill thick with
vegetation, chilly and dull gray, Renny wades barefoot in the
creek.
Hey, I yell, Whatre you doing?
What do you think Im doing? he shouts, concentrating
on the water.
THE TROUT-ON-A-STICK BOWS as the fire licks scaly
flesh. Our crude campfire built on a level spot near the creek
below the culvert emits little smoke, something we need to be
careful of if we intend to stay here for any length of time.
I think its done, says Renny, blowing on the toasted
flesh.
Even though Catholics are supposed to eat seafood on
Fridays, I never really liked it, pushing soggy fish sticks around
my plate till they fall apart, hiding them under mashed potatoes.
Hmm, I mumble, placing a morsel on my tongue, Not
too bad.
You know, we could probably live out here, says
Renny, tearing off a handsome chunk, as the morning sky
darkens in an instant, Quick! Back to the culvert!
Raindrops angrily pelting faces, the creek morphs into
slushy brown goo.
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207
A cloudburst, I yell, desperately clutching a branch,
already ankle deep in mud.
The sodden footpath gushes as the culvert spews like a
broken fire hydrant. Familiar objects rush bysleeping bags,
rucksacks, mess kit, flashlights and cellophane wrappers.
Nein! shouts Renny, deliberately sliding back into the
creek now resembling swirling rapids, Poppas watch!
What are you doing? I yell, sloshing after him, Well
drown!
Already struggling in the waist deep roaring water, we
need an alternate route as the mire slides under foot.
Look! I scream pointing at a narrow trail leading out of
the gulley, Over there!
Thorny underbrush mauls us as we trudge through silt.
Raging water pulls Renny under like a rag doll. Re-surfacing, he
spits a fountain of chocolate cake batter. Grasping a solid tree
limb, I clasp his wrist. Suddenly, a violent mud slide sucks me
into the undertow. Riding the rapids, my body slams against
rocks, roots and branches.
Help! Renny garbles, transformed into a faceless mud-
covered monster twenty feet downstream, desperately treading
water.
Renny! I shout, hooking a tree root, flip-flopping like a
netted trout, Hang on!
The German kid is hammered over and over against
protruding boulders, back flipping, somersaulting through
blasting water. Nobody can take this kind of abuse for long. Not
even Renny.




CBgter 40
My fathers normally pallid face and thinning pate are
now red and purple.
This is what you get, drones Dad, as Codge, Karen and
two annoyed police officers look on, When you disobey your
father and mother! You dont even know which Commandment
that is, do you?
I have acquired the dubious ability to turn hearing on and
off at will, nodding at random. Favorite pop songs, one after the
other, spin through my brain.
Are you listening? yells Dad.
While we were both drowning in the gulley, I prayed to
St. Jude. Seconds later, a miraclea tree root snagged Renny by
the shirt collar. The water abated for a minute allowing me to
flop over onto my belly on the side of the culvert. From there, I
crawled to high ground, quickly finding two saplings. Then
wrapping my feet around them, I dragged Renny to safety. After
pressing his chest for an eternity, he violently puked for thirty
minutes, maybe longer. We vowed never to tell anybody how
close we came to death, especially the cops who ended picking
up our hideous mud-caked carcasses on the way home.
Youre not even listening! yells Dad, Are you,
Seamus?
What is the last verse of Help!? Is it the same as the
first? I cant remember.
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209
Short term gain renders long term pain, preaches Dad.
Im not even sure what that means but it could make a
good song lyric.
Youre grounded for six months! hollers Dad, Do you
understand?
I know what grounded means, the reason I ran away to
begin with. Id do it again except we lost our camping gear.
Lesson learnednever camp too close to even the driest creek
especially in Utahs flash flood prone summers.
Can I still be in the band? I ask.
Hold still, says Mom, gruffly applying rubbing alcohol-
soaked cotton balls to my numerous head and body gouges,
determined to clean me up even if it kills me.
Ow! I yell.
FINALLY DONE TORTURING ME, Mom sits next to Dad on
our crummy sofa.
We were so worried about you, she whimpers,
fingering a rosary, What if you had died with a mortal sin on
your soul?
Mortal sin? I say wondering how in the world they
know I kissed the beautiful Mormon girl, Lynda.
You missed Mass on Sunday! hollers Dad hysterically.
Oh, I say, sighing with relief, Yeah. That. Sorry.
ON LABOR DAY AFTERNOON, my ears still ring from
yesterdays tongue-lashing. I lazily tap the rickety childs chair
we use as a nightstand with my drumsticks, Big Ben ticking
incessantly. What is taking them so long?
When the kitchen door bangs, I sprint up the steps.
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210
How about a hand here?! roars a perspiration-soaked
Nic cradling my lousy toy snare drum under his arm pit.
After Codge drops my percussion tree on the driveway, it
hisses and pops like a dozen defective Highland Drive In
speakers.
Hey, I say, chasing it as it rolls toward the gutter,
Watch it!
Sorry Your Majesty, grouses Codge, You can haul
your own crap next time.
IN THE PALE YELLOW GLOW of the naked pull-string
light bulb above the washer, we form a cramped triangle. I place
my pathetic percussion tree on a green folding lawn chair, an
Allied Van moving box on my right is my floor tom, a rickety
old yellow kitchen stool, one leg slightly shorter than the others,
my drum throne. Ive already fallen off it a half dozen times but
that doesnt bother me as much as the fact I havent gotten
official permission to be in the band, much less have practice
here at the house. My parents like their peace and quiet.
Wheres Renny? asks Nic strumming a major chord.
He didnt answer the phone answers Codge copying the
chord.
Thats not good, I say dusting myself off after another
nasty nose dive from the stupid stool.
The side door opens and slams as heavy footsteps traipse
above us.
Uh oh, says Codge, Dads home from the store.
AFTER A NERVE-RACKING pause, my heart beats like a
bass drum. If I dont get to be in the band, Ill just run away
again and this time, I wont care if I get washed away with or
without a mortal sin on my soul.
Boys! yells Dad ominously.
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211
Yeah? Codge and I yell in unison, sweat rolling down
faces though our basement is actually cool.
Remember, tomorrow is the first day of school.
Okay Dad shouts Codge, grimacing.
Whew, I say.
KAREN CARRIES MOMS wicker basket, brimming over
with sheets, pillow cases, uniform shirts, socks and underwear.
Excuse me! she says sarcastically, clambering down the
steps, Cinderella has to do the wash along with every other
chore in this houseby herself!
Angrily stuffing the entire load into the washer, she twists
a knob.
Hey Karen, shouts Codge, the sound of rushing water
roaring against the tiny rooms cement walls. Do you have to do
that now?
Shooting him then the rest of the band a hateful stare,
Karen stomps up the stairs.
The washing machine kicks furiously into the wash cycle.
Ca jink jink - jink, ca jink jink - jink
Singing as loud as humanly possible, I join Codge on
Ticket to Ride. Playing around the maddening syncopation of
the churning machine, were barely matching its volume.
Bing-ga-jing-ga, bing-ga-jing-ga, bing-ga-jing-ga!
Filled with frustration, I irately fling drumsticks across
the overcrowded space. One ricochets off the wall toward me,
nearly poking my eye out.
BAND BREAK TIME AT Nics house was greatice cold
sodas, chips and comfy places to sprawl on. Because the Potters
cant afford sodas, chips or comfortable furniture, break time at
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212
my house means the band escapes the bug infested basement on
the curb next to the sizzling hot driveway, sipping tepid water
out of a hose.
Wearing his pork pie hat, Joe strolls through the
breezeway holding Edsel.
Hey, you scared the daylights out of us, says Joe,
wiping yellow globules running down his face, Where the hell
were you?
Kind of a long story, I say after taking a long swig,
But now Im grounded.
You grew it, you chew it, my friend, says Joe. Its
Karma. This is your journey.
How can this be a journey? I ask sincerely When I
cant go anywhere for six months?
Laughing heartily, he hacks in between chortles, looking
very frail.
Hey Joe, says Nic, Your heads leaking.
In white nursing uniform, Mom marches energetically
toward the house, large leather bag slung over left shoulder.
Shes taken the bus home from the hospital.
Hi, Mom Codge says tensely.
Well, it seems we have a full house here, replies Mom,
smiling pleasantly.
I worry about her reaction to having band practice at the
house but she better worry about my running away from home
again and kissing Mormon girls full time.
Joe, she says, scrutinizing him, Why is your forehead
weeping?
Oh, he says, fanning a hand across his face, Its
nothing.
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213
Come over here, she orders, leading him by the
shoulder, removing his hat, unleashing a torrent of pus.
EEE-YOW-EE! yells Joe when Mom touches his
infection lightly.
BATHED IN PEROXIDE POURED directly from the bottle,
the wound bubbles and flows like the stream Renny and I almost
drowned in.
SSSShhhhhhh, squeaks Joe, recoiling, iiittttt!
Wow! I blurt, rushing to inspect the battle wound,
You look like Frankenstein.
Once finished gently dabbing his forehead with soaked
cotton balls, Mom depresses a swollen area near the gash.
Globules mixed with blood gush down his face. Even Codge and
Nic are repelled by the gore.
Yeeeow! Joe yelps.
Neat! I yell as our wounded hit man glares at me,
Squeeze it again, Mom!
This might hurt a little, she says, after soaking cotton
balls with rubbing alcohol then patting the gash.
Oh my god! screams Joe in agony, I have killed
people for less than this!
Oh you big baby, she coos, undeterred.
WHISPERING INTO HIS EAR, Mom palms a small bottle to
the wounded Joe.
You need to see a doctor she says, But these will do
for now.
Ill be okay he replies, head wrapped up like The
Mummy, I dont really do doctors but thanks anyway. I owe
you.
Potter/Vivanco

214
Yes, says Mom, grinning, You do.
Chick, warns Nic, pointing at the sidewalk, Look!
For goodness sakes, Jimmy, Mom says, opening the
side door, Are you coming down with the flu? You know we
pay way too much for Catholic school tuition for you to be
getting sick all
Im ok, Mom, I snap, blood draining from my head.
Lynda, my beautiful sweet golden haired angel whose
luscious pink lips I kissed and for whom I ran away from home
and subsequently almost drowned, yes that Lynda, strolls toward
us, holding hands with the worlds most talentless hack
drummer, smiling and acting like hes Casanova and Ringo Starr
rolled into one.




CBgter 41
Frank Bolinski takes a huge, juicy bite on his fresh
Emigration Market roast beef hoagie.
Hows your, asks Frank, forming quotes with his
fingers, Band?
Bite me, Bolinski, I say, Moms puny egg salad on
white suddenly seeming quite unappetizing.
The lunch table is jammed with his stupid band mates,
The Invaders, also munching on fresh Emigration Market
sandwiches.
Bill has a Stratocaster, Stephena Precision bass,
brags Frank, mouth full, Mike got his older brothers Ludwigs.
Im frankly amazed Mike, Bazooka Joe, can even pick up
a pair of drumsticks with those sausage fingers hanging from fat
ham hock arms much less play the skins.
Good equipment I say, stuffing my drippy sandwich
into my cheeks, embarrassed by its putrid smell, Does not real
musicians or a band make.
After swallowing without chewing and gulping a half pint
of room temperature milk, my stomach instantly sours.
Oh yeah? spits Bolinski, Let the talent show judges
determine that.
The schools Fall Talent Show is an annual November
extravaganza exclusively for Our Lady of Lourdes students to
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216
showcase their creativity in music, dance, poetry or acting. NB3,
my band, is ineligible to play because Codge and Nic dont go to
OLOL.
You know my band cant perform at the Talent Show I
say, room spinning, stomach churning.
THERES NO WAY I did it on purpose, but try to convince
four infuriated, grossed-out eighth graders, all twice my size, still
picking bile-soaked yellow flecks off red sweaters. Ill have to
figure out a way to escape recess retribution but I cant worry
about that now.
Her black habit softly floating, Sister Marilla drones on in
social studies class, occasionally patting me on the back as if to
ask if Im okay now. I feel fine but my martyr-like gaze assures
her that I really cant make it to the Dominic Savio Club meeting
this afternoon. Besides, if hes such a great patron saint of
music, wheres my drum kit?
IVE TRIED TO CALL MY BEST FRIEND dozens of times
since our near drowning, so, if I can sneak phone calls to my
friends while Im grounded, so can Renny.
Carrying a stack of books, in a Judge Memorial navy blue
blazer, a familiar figure trudges diagonally across 11th East. He
looks like Renny but cant be because he goes to Roosevelt
Junior High, not Judge.
Hey! I shout, startling the kid who spills text books as a
car honks loudly.
THE HUGE WHITE BRICK RECTORY, the priests house,
has eight large windows on the ground floor, seven on the top
floor of just one side and two brick chimneys at opposite ends of
the slightly pitched red shingled roof. On our way to the back
gate, whimpering escalates to high pitched barking and
scratching.
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217
Schnitzel, I call to the pesky wiener dogs, wagging
excitedly, running in frenzied circles, Bratwurst, Frankie!
Hallo Lieblings! coos Renny.
The sprawling back yards enclosed by a white picket
fence with a large rundown dog house in the corner. Renny
quickly shuts the gate behind us without letting any of the dogs
loose, always a problem.
I try to peek through the narrow windows covered by
venetian blinds as Renny unlocks the dead bolt on the dark oak
door. I always expected the rectorys interior to look gloomy
and solemn like the inside of most Catholic churches but the
spacious yellow kitchen is a vibrant surprise with its blond
parquet floors, spanking white counters, stove, large refrigerator
and endless neat floor-to-ceiling cupboards. A combination of
sweet pipe tobacco, sacramental wine and home-baked bread
fills my nostrils, not a hint of incense anywhere. A narrow
doorway to the left leads to a steep stairwell.
Be careful! whispers Renny, flipping the light, twelve
paws scurrying ahead of us.
THE BASEMENT WALLS ARE LINED with shelves of
canned vegetables, pickles, relish, and boxes of pasta. Crates
with fragile and this side up burned into wood are stacked
along a wall, containing wine bottles.
A full bodied, medium sweet, red wine, he says,
handing me a bottle, With plum overtones.
Theres enough booze in here, I say, giddily, To
drown half the East Bench!
Leading me to a table piled with large brown grocery
bags, Renny, with a wave of his hand, reveals an open carton of
Marlboros.
Potter/Vivanco

218
AFTER TWISTING A LARGE BRASS KNOB on a scuffed
beige door at the far end of the cavernous ink-black basement,
Renny leads me inside, clear blue eyes glowing under a bulb
dangling from the low ceiling. Beneath a tiny sliver of a
window, a faucet plinks water eerily into a sagging basin, A
gruesome, over-sized wooden crucifix of Jesus bleeding grape-
sized violet drops is hung over a tan dresser at the foot of a small
bed.
Welcome to the dungeon, he announces as the dogs
hop onto the mattress. Removing his blazer, he slowly pulls out
a grotesquely bloated left arm, Its just a bad sprain.
No way, I say, inspecting the horror-show arm, That
thing is broken.
CLICKING THE SMALL TRANSISTOR on the dresser,
KNAK plays The Rolling Stones Satisfaction. After tearing
open the Marlboros, Renny holds the pack out as my body sways
to the music.
No thanks, I say, glancing sideways at the crucifix.
When he shakes the pack at me again and nods, all of a
sudden, I feel rowdy and unruly like Mick Jagger - grateful
Jesus eyes are closed in all his glorious, sacrificial agony.
Ok, what the hell. I say, letting Renny light a Marlboro
for me then foolishly inhaling with all my might. Choking on
plumes of smoke pouring out of every orifice, tears rain on my
cheeks, Hack, hack, hack!
When did we start talking about says Renny, lighting
his own smoke, Bill Brown?
Hack, hack, hack, I cough, saying Very funny,
asshole.
After a couple more puffs, I sing with Mick at the top of
my scorched lungs, Renny waving cigarette overhead. Muzzles
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219
pointing skyward, Schnitzel, Bratwurst, and Frankfurt howl
joyously, dissonantly.
God, that feels better now, Renny says, after guzzling
wine from a bottle hidden behind the dresser.
Suddenly, jumping off the bed, the dogs scurry to the
door, yapping wildly. Abruptly killing the radio, Renny stashes
the bottle. A second later, theres a short knock.
Alles klar? drones a resonant German accented voice.
Ja, Ja, says Renny, waving smoke through the tiny
window, running around like Wiley Coyote, left arm limp at his
side.
Ja, meine gute Hundchen, coos the deep voice to the
dogs, miraculously calming them, Dinners at six!
Okay! Renny yells.
Who was that? I ask.
Brother Franz says Renny, smiling, Hes new here.
Oh?
Yeah, says Renny, He knew my father.
WAITING FRETFULLY FOR the bus, I just hope Im home
before Dad, but its not looking good. Then I realize I can tell
him I had to stay after for the Dominic Savio Club. Unless the
parents call Sister Marilla and double check, Im home free.
I cant believe Oma would put you here, I say, pointing
at the rectory.
She had no choice, says Renny, She had to go take
care of business.
What kind of business?
How should I know? says Renny, bitterly, Im just a
kid. Nobody tells me anything.
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220
Whens she coming back?
Dont know that either, he says Its not so bad with
the dogs here. Its a lot harder to see Linda since Im going to
Judge. At least now, though, nobody picks on me for being,
you know.
Catholic? I ask, sincerely.
Gott im Himmel! says Renny, laughing, No!
What then?
In history class, I tried to explain what happened to my
father during and after The War, says Renny, Nobody believed
me, not even the teacher. Then the kids started calling me Nazi
Boy, Hitler Loverstuff like that.
What did happen with your dad? I ask.
Long story, he says, as my bus rumbles into view.






CBgter 42
Sneaking to the top of the basement steps, I spy around
the doorway as John Lennon, hair longer and shaggier than ever,
sings I Feel Fine.
Seamus, yells Dad, eyes in the back of his head, I said
no TV!
Its a beautiful Sunday evening, September 12, 1965 and,
again, every kid in America who can fog a mirror is watching the
Beatles on Ed Sullivan, except for me.
You said I was grounded, I say, You didnt say I
couldnt watch television.
That goes without saying, says Mom.
Not every adolescent has the consolation of practicing
drum rolls when grounded, so things could be worse. I can also
simultaneously squash bugs but it takes some practice. The point
is, to do it, without losing my groove. Squatting on the floor
(gotcha, you son of a biscuit!), I play with hands behind my back
(come back here you coward!).
And the crowd goes wild! I yell, hanging upside down
from my bed, drumming slimy nonmusical silverfish into
oblivion, twirling and heaving sticks into the air a little higher
each time.
Potter/Vivanco

222
Each day for a week I check on Renny after school at the
rectory and hes not there. On Friday, I knock on the front door
and theres still no answer. Okay, thats strange. This
disappearing act is getting on my nerves. Nobodys seen him at
school either.
Hey! I yell, as my city bus lurches toward the corner,
Stop!
McTookus is driving so I dont even try to run wildly
across the street to catch it. Miraculously, he pulls over,
unfolding the doors, waiting patiently as I cross.
SCALING THE BARBED WIRE into Miller Park is always
difficult but trickier still without a nice hand held boost.
Jeez! I hiss, ripping my school pants, Crap!
I decide to tell my parents I tore them when I rescued
some hapless fool from the jungle gym, though this blatant lie
will probably do nothing to diminish their anger at having to
spend money they dont have. After clambering down the steep
slope, I crawl into and sit at the edge of the drain pipe. The gully
is tranquil with no storm clouds but that doesnt mean much in
the Salt Lake Valley so I better get busy.
It must be here some place. Oh yes. I see it now. Two
hundred feet down creek, a mud-splattered rucksack hangs from
a broken tree branch.
MY STOMACH ACHING, I cant talk or breathe, breaking
into gales of laughter each time Codge and Nic sing lyrics to our
newest original, Times Have Gone Away. Still bandaged
under pork pie hat, Joe sits on a folding lawn chair with Edsel.
Yeah, your ways and mine just dont reckon.
You go ahead with your hanging loose ways.
Its your life you know.
You gutter girl, you!

Eaat Bench

223
When a ghostlike figure steps mutely into the room, I
plunge off my drum stool.
IN A FAIR WORLD, I WOULD BE able to ground Mom for
this. How can you neglect to tell your son his best friend was in
the hospital getting surgery for a compound fracture?
Let me guess, says Codge, Mom was your nurse, too.
Yeah, says Renny, left arm in a wrist-to-shoulder cast,
And darned cute in that uniform.
Thats my Mom youre talking about, I say, faint
ticking coming from my pants pocket, You pervert.
Whats that? asks Renny, eyes aglow.
Whats what? I tease, patting my pocket.
Give it! says Renny.
RENNY MEETS US AT MASS. After Saturday practice,
wed given him the Magnavox with our carefully spliced
recording to play for Father Brown.
Well, whispers Codge to Renny in the pew next to him,
What did Father Brown say?
He hasnt heard it yet he replies, admiring the heirloom
pocket watch I recovered, Ill play it for him later today.
For crying out loud, I whine, impatiently, You live
with the man
Shhhhh! We need to pray, says Mom, kneeling for
Omas safe return.
Why? asks Renny, alarmed, Shes ok, right?
Yes, she says, smoothing his blond pompadour, Shes
fine, of course.
I dont know, I whisper, We usually only pray for
people when theyre dead
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224
Or dying, adds Codge.
Or when theyre in jail, says Karen, Remember the
time when
Is this cocktail hour? hisses Dad, Or is this Mass?
Shhhhh! shushes an old couple sitting behind us.
His freshly shorn whitewalls raging red, Dad rotates his
head, ready to give the shushing parishioners a piece of his mind.
Mom practically bores a hole through his stubborn skull with her
doe-like eyes. Sighing, my famished father faces the altar liked a
whipped dog.
THREATENED WITH DISMEMBERMENT if we dont come
home directly after school for chores, Codge and I are at the bus
stop, looking for our band manager.
Father Brown really likes our music! effuses Renny,
trotting down the grassy knoll as our bus lumbers toward us.
Thats fantastic! Codge yells.
But, he wants to wait, he says, as the bus screeches to a
halt, To make his final decision.
What? I blurt, my heart sinking.
Bolinski has already talked with Father Brown, replies
Renny, About The Invaders.
HOW IN THE WORLD they convinced Sister Marilla to let
them do this, I do not know. Maybe Bolinski bribed her with
Emigration Market sandwiches or told her he was thinking about
becoming a priest, a sure way of becoming teachers pet. I
wouldnt put it past him.
Boys and girls, announces Sister, as I ease into my hard
rock maple chair. I have a surprise for you this morning.
I was in a good mood, having actually done all my
homework last night. Now, Bill Dyerly, Stephen Capaletti, and
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225
Frank Bolinski strapped into new Fender electrics plugged into
pristine amplifiers ruin my whole day. Behind a beautiful set of
champagne sparkle Ludwigs, Bazooka with his beefy sausage
arms lightly taps the crisp snare drum and large ride cymbal
mounted above the bass drum.
Hi! Were The Invaders announces Frank, smugly,
This is Things We Said Today by The Beatles!
The brand new Fender bass amplifiers low notes rattle
the windows. How in the world do their parents pay for all this
expensive equipment, music lessons and tuition? Maybe theyre
Mafiadecent cash in that, since Joe always seems to have more
than enough to pay his rent, buy cigarettes and treat us at
Sweetchilds.
Frank and Bill yodel hillbilly-like into the microphone. It
makes no difference to my mesmerized classmates, who
apparently have no ear at all. I have to admit, though, Sausage
Arms maintains a simple and persistent beat with a heavy bass
drum. Frequent girlish screams are rewarded with an icy glare
from our home room teacher. Thank you, Sister Marilla! Dont
let the fans get hysterical especially whende gustibus non est
disputandumall their taste is in their mouth.
Teachers and nuns stop at the classroom door, nodding
appreciatively. Sinking lower into my seat, I might as well flush
myself and stupid home made drums down the toilet. Theres no
way Father Brown will hire us for the school dance now.
STRUTTING IN A TURKEY costume on the large stage,
with a heavily curtained backdrop, a cute first grader recites a
Thanksgiving poem as we spot vacant seats.
As the Thanksgiving bird warbles away, I cant help but
get more and more irritated with Renny, who insisted on
dragging us (including Joe who brought his camera) to my
schools talent show when we can only listen enviously to our
well-equipped competition. Our band manager has a lunatic
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226
smile plastered on his face - probably from too much pain
medication for his broken arm, I dont know. On top of that, he
made us dress up when jeans would have been just fine. Casual
dress, Sister Marilla said. I cant believe I wasted a hot shower
and fresh socks on this.
The torture seems endless. A couple of small childrens
choirs sing some show tunes, untalented duos and trios sing pop
songs (like the little girl dressed in a tiny nuns outfit screeching
the pop hit, Dominique by The Singing Nun, much to the
delight of the clergy who are apparently not only over-zealous
but tone deaf). A seventh grade barbershop quartet sings By the
Light of the Silvery Moon. Im not sure if this is on purpose or
not, but they sound just like Alvin and The Chipmunks.
A trio of eighth grade girls with turtle necks and sun
glasses scamper onto the stage. One strums a ukulele, another
beats a bongo, the third holds the microphone away from her
body as if its a rattlesnake. As they make their entrance, Joe
snaps their picture.
Twas the night before Christmas and out on the patio,
was a fat cat in red, I think hes my daddio
Their act is unbelievably corny, but the audience laughs
and applauds frequently until the very end as they do a silly
beatnik version of The Night before Christmas.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a beatnik
goodnight!
For our final talent show contestant announces Father
Brown, nodding to an eighth grader pulling a thick rope opening
the rear maroon velvet stage curtain, Please welcome The
Invaders!
The applause and screams echo throughout the vast
auditorium, as Bolinski croaks an ear-piercing falsetto into the
microphone.
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227
Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaWipe Out!
THIS IS WHERE they announce the Grand Prize Winner,
as if we dont already know. The Invaders have it in the bag,
even if they got confused in the middle of the song.
Lost in Space, cracked Codge, as the band spent
several seconds locating ground control.
They also train wrecked the ending but that didnt
prevent the crowd from going haywire. What is the matter with
these people? All you have to do is own decent equipment and
screech into the microphone and theyre eating out of your hand.
We have a surprise for you, girls and boys, announces
Father Brown, Though not qualified as contestants this next
band will keep you entertained while the judges deliberate.
Whos playing? Tommy James and The Shondells are
performing at the Salt Lake City Civic Center this weekend.
Rumor has it they make surprise appearances at random high
schools while in town.
Speaking animatedly to The Invaders, Father Brown
points to their equipment. They do not look pleased. The priest
waves in our direction. We turn to see who hes signaling but
theres just a bunch of lanky fifth and sixth graders.
Hurry! says Renny, pulling us from our seats, Were
up!
ITS A TOSS UP whats more deliciousthe roar of the
crowd or The Invaders jealous sneers as we hand them back
their instruments. We killed the crowd with the Kinks All Day
and All of the Night. Even Bazooka involuntary claps for us
further infuriating Frank, face dark and bubbling like asphalt on
a steamy August day.
Say, Jesus, Father Brown, Joe says as the priest poses
with us.
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228
Jesus! says the priest, flashing pearly whites.
THE CROWDS HUSHED. A sixth grader displays a simple
gold loving cup inscribed First Place Talent Contest Winner Our
Lady of Lourdes 1965.
In first place says Father Brown, pausing for effect,
The Beatniks!
Vaulting onto the stage, the Beatniks look like a trio of
Mexican jumping beans. Suddenly, I feel sorry for The Invaders,
beat out by a ukulele, bongos and turtle necks.
A MAGNIFICENT GLOW pours through a huge window
accentuating the towering walnut book shelves behind Father
Browns mahogany desk. My band mates are in a good mood,
but Im still nervous. Anything can happen - this Catholic Youth
Organization (CYO) Christmas gig is no shoe-in by any stretch
of the imagination.
Renny has assured me that your band will represent the
parish with a clean and wholesome Catholic image, says Father
Brown, our seats placed crescent fashion in front of his desk.
However
I knew it! Here it comes.
I want you boys to be one hundred percent honest with
me now, says the priest, On a rather disturbing rumor told to
me by Frank Bolinski.
Rolling my eyes, he doesnt even have to say it - Bolinski
told Father Brown we dont have real band equipment. We might
as well pack it up now.
IM ONLY THIRTEEN, for crying out loud, I never even
heard the word until now. Frank told Father Brown we fornicate
with Mormon girls.
Fornicate? I ask innocently, Is that a real word?
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229
Chortling, the priest shakes his head as Renny practically
breaks my ribs with his rock hard cast.




CBgter 43
Unashamed in a dainty hostess apron of autumn leaves
over brown monks robes, the strapping, genial German, Brother
Franz, leads us to the rectorys rectangular dining table, draped
with a spotless white linen cloth. A rustic floral and fall leaf
center piece with a wooden crucifix (thankfully no Jesus
bleeding in Technicolor), is surrounded by bone china, sparkling
silver and crystal shimmering under a gold chandelier.
Wheres the Padre? asks Joe holding a large envelope
filled with freshly developed talent show photos.
Hell be here soon, says Brother Franz.
Well, Happy Thanksgiving, says Joe, handing him the
photos, Tell him Ill be in touch.
Father Brown, says the brother, Insists you dine with
us.
Far be it from me, kids Joe, To argue with the clergy.
BROTHER FRANZ PRESENTS a large steaming turkey
platter.
Oh, these are excellent, says the priest, looking over
photos, I look thinner in this shot, dont you think?
Oh yeah, says Joe nodding, Youre very photogenic,
did you know that? The band looks good, too.
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231
Yes, says the portly priest, smiling at Renny and me,
We look forward to hearing more from them at the CYO dance
this year.
My stomach rumbles loudly.
Uh, sorry I mumble red faced, holding my belly as
Renny, sitting across from me, suppresses a giggle.
Thats what you call a message from the interior, Chick
cracks Joe.
Good one, Joe, says Father Brown, laughing.
I dont get it, says Brother Franz.
Ill explain it to you later, says Renny.
Ja, ja, says the good Brother, You can explain it
later.
In the back yard, Schnitzel, Bratwurst, and Frankfurt yap
frantically, running in circles clawing the rear door.
I just fed them! says Renny, scratching underneath his
cast with a fork.
As the dogs barking grows increasingly frenzied, he
suddenly drops the fork, pointing mutely at the dining room
entrance. At least thirty pounds thinner, her pale skin translucent,
silver hair dyed a dark brown, its Oma.
JUMPING ACROSS MY LAP into the front passenger seat,
the hot dogs jut their eager heads out windows as we ride in
Omas saffron Ford Galaxy.
Delicious meal says Rennys grandma, at a stop light,
Ja?
Lets cut the small talk. Where were you? What
happened to your hair? demands Renny, And dont they have
any food in Switzerland?
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232
You like the hair? Ja? asks Oma, vainly glancing at
dyed locks in the rear view, Und ja, I lose a few kilosand
what? Anyway, I already told you, this is a matter for grown ups
only.
Oh yeah, he says, Well, Im grown up now
In the old country when we act so, says Oma, miming a
slap on the face as the light turns green.
Well, Renny says, Things are different in America.
Arent they, Chick?
My parents dont tell me anything either. Mom didnt tell
me Renny was in the hospital and when we moved from Ohio to
Utah, we didnt find out until the moving van arrived.
Sure, different, I say, as we zoom by Lynda and Linda
strolling on the sidewalk hand-in-hand as they wave frantically,
Hey! Renny! Look!
Those girls says Oma, curtly, zipping down the road,
They are Mormons. Ja?
Ja, says Renny, Und?
Surely you can find a good Catholic girl, she says
speeding down the road, Since you go to Catholic school now.
Ja?



CBgter 44
Ow! I shout, as a hornet stings my rear, at least thats
what it feels like.
Are you all right Mr. Potter? asks Sister Marilla
pointing to gory illustrations of the Stations of the Cross.
Uh, I think so I say, wincing to a few snickers, unable
to escape the wrath of The Invaders using my scrawny backside
for target practice. After rolling paper into a threadlike cone
shape, taping a needle at the tip, loading it inside a straw, Frank
Bolinski glares like Fidel Castro, itching to launch another
missile.
LAUGHINGLY REFERRED TO AS touch football, at recess
we pit my team (tried and true NB3 fans of which, since The
Talent Show, they are quite a few) against The Invaders and their
followers. As I run long for a pass, Bazooka grabs my sweater,
twirling me like a top. After careening into a thorny hedge, I
stagger to my feet, my sweater ripped under the right armpit.
Darn! Im going to have to sew it before Mom finds out. Or
bribe Karen to do it but right now I dont have anything to hold
against her.
Long billowy habit and crucifix pendant swishing in the
breeze, Sister Ariel, a new young nun, rushes to my aid. The
Invaders, the cowards, scatter en masse.
Are you ok? she asks sweet as sacramental wine,
Would you like water or a soda?
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234
A soda would be nice, I say, martyr-like, And maybe
a, a
A cookie? says the young nun, plucking a package
from a bottomless pocket.
Thank you, I say pitifully, quickly ripping open the
cookie pack, stuffing my face.
Youre the young man, says Sister, eyes glistening,
Who played at The Talent Show. Oh, you and your band were
excellent.
Oh, I say, slyly, I think The Invaders did a good job,
too.
The Invaders? says the good Sister, I dont remember
them.
Patting me on the back when I choke, my throat as dry
the Bonneville Salt Flats, she reaches into another infinite
pocket, heaving a Coke bottle, sizzling as she applies an opener,
plucked out of no where. I wonder what else shes got? Maybe
a drum set?
They were the ones, I say, between gulps, That did
Wipe Out.
Oh, yes, I remember now, she says, grimacing, They
need somework. On the other hand, your band is very talented.
I love that song your band played
All Day and All of the Night? I ask.
Oh yes! she says, Only I think of God when I hear it.
Good for you, I say, confused, Uh, thats good.
MOM SETS THE LAST OF THE TOASTED English muffins
onto our seven a.m. breakfast table, barely beating the Sunday
morning three hour communion fast.
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235
I had a terrible dream, she says, her youthful face
uncharacteristically drawn and haggard, It was night and
someone knocked on the front door so I opened it.
It was probably the Fuller Brush Man, jokes Dad.
This is serious, Dwon, scolds Mom, wringing her
hands. Parked by the front curb, was a hearse with two coffins.
An undertaker was standing in the doorway. I shouted at him
no, not tonight! and slammed the door. What do you think it
means?
I think it means you shouldnt be eating Maude Lewis
dill pickles before bed, says Dad, harshly. Its just a dream -
doesnt mean anything.
Kind of spooky, Karen says, making the sign of the
cross, Like a premonition, if you ask me.
Good Catholics dont believe in premonitions, barks
Dad.
We dont? I ask.
Seamus, asks Dad, The Nicene Creed tells us what we
believe. Remember?
Oh yeah, I say, nodding like I know but I really dont.




CBgter 4S
A worn out silver Christmas tree droops with gaudy red
tinsel, multi-colored lights and glass ornaments in Music Citys
display window. A cherry wine Gibson electric guitar and a
black oyster pearl Ludwig drum set glisten next to it. When I see
that set, my heart sags almost as forlornly as the ratty tinsel,
wondering if every prayer to patron saints for musical equipment
got cancelled by kissing a Mormon girl.
Bulging out of a faded holiday sweater, reindeer antlers
stretched beyond recognition, Moses salutes at the register as we
push through the door, shaking off snow. Today we reserve
rental equipment for the Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) gig
next week.
Hi George Moses says, merrily mashing register keys,
Hi boys. Be right with you.
Crater Face catches a drum stick nimbly behind his back
tossed over head, entertaining little kids waiting in line. I used to
be impressed but it only took a couple days to master that trick,
plus, I can smash bugs at the same time.
Do it again! yells another, smaller, red-headed monster.
Maybe later, Moses says, ringing up another crooked
sale for which hell surely make way too much commission.
Withdrawing drumsticks from back pockets, I fling them,
catching them easily behind my back, twirling and juggling,
gathering an impressive crowd of admirers.
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237
No throwing sticks in the store, barks Moses, jealously,
Rental equipments in back.
I didnt know you could do that, Chick, says George
Baskerville, Im impressed.
IN THE LOCKED RENTAL ROOM, six electric guitars lean
on two puny practice amps and three Gibson Saturn amplifiers.
Rental drums are along the back wall; the gaudy green Ajax set
played over the summer, a faded marine pearl set with a wash
tub-sized bass drum and a blue sparkle Ludwig set.
Alright I howl, squinting through an opaque window,
pointing at the blue Ludwigs, Theres the drum kit I want!
I cant see a darned thing, says Codge, narrowing eyes,
Is that a Gibson or a Fender?
Not sure, says Nic, straining to see.
Ill reserve the Gibson, says my brother, Nic, you take
the Fender.
WITH FIVE SHOPPING DAYS till Christmas, Renny and I
are busting humps shoveling the old Lewises sidewalk and
driveway for a generous two dollars, in quarters again. One
dollar is a Christmas bonus to help defray the Music City
instrument rental, the other goes for Catholic school tuition.
Hey Chick, says Renny, wiping his brow, Look!
Sky blue ski parkas showing off smooth-as-a-plum legs
in cut off shorts (in the middle of winter!), holding hands,
singing and laughing, Linda and Lynda stroll down 17th East.
Pondering pink forbidden Mormon kisses, I step into the street,
unaware of the traffic, my heart racing.
Chick! screams Renny, Look out!
After spiraling like a football into the sky, I land face first
with a metallic thud, my shovel clanging noisily inches away
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238
from my head. As I roll off a car hood into a snow drift near a
large black tree trunk, blood warms my face.
Oh my God! cries a female voice, footsteps crunching
snow.
Chick, Renny cries shaking my shoulders, Oh my
God!
He just appeared in front of me pleads a panicky male
voice, I couldnt stop!
Though my eyes are sealed shut, I can still see Lyndas
golden hair, (much longer than I remember), a halo around her
head and wings - beautiful blue wings.
Are you all right? my Lynda, with a y, whispers,
radiating love.
Your hair is longer I gurgle blindly, floating painlessly
toward a glorious luminescent Angel Lynda, Your wings are so,
so.
He can speak! yells Renny, Hes speaking!
Dont let him fall asleep! commands brunette Linda.
Chick, whispers Renny inches from my face, Stay
with us buddy.
But I dont want to stay. I want to follow Lynda Angel. I
feel wonderfully peaceful, like when I hear a great new song I
wished Id written.
THE LIGHT GLOWS unbearably bright, a hideously
dissonant orchestral piece plays, (like our first horrible
recording). Boom thensnapbrilliance and music stop
abruptly. Curiously, I peer down from bare branches at a
familiar body melting into the snowy landscape.
Hey Mister, orders Renny, Do something - call his
mom or an ambulance.
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239
Hes okay, right? asks the driver, quaking in his black
trench coat, removing Coke bottle lenses attached to tortoise
shell frames.
Shoving a piece of paper in Rennys hand, he dives into
his car, fishtailing into the intersection. As he roars around the
corner, I think bye bye without a tinge of distress.
Hey, yells Renny, to the driver, Come back here, you
jerk!
A LOVELY BRUNETTE, ADORNED with a purple halo,
slogs the snow packed street. I wonder what school she goes to,
wearing Dads old brown post war corduroy coat as she kneels
next to me.
Jimmy, Mom says, taking my pulse in her favorite
mauve scarf, Its me. Wake up.
Instantly sucked into a gray vortex of pain, I sit up,
groaning.
YOU WOULD THINK BEING hit by a car would merit an
ambulance ride or even a car ride to the hospital. But no, my
thrifty non-driver of a mother insists we catch the city bus to the
doctors office. Hobbling onto the bus steps and down the aisle,
I find a vacant double seat. Taking mercy on me, for once, McT
waits patiently while I prop my injured leg. As Mom dabs my
head, I shoot our bus driver thumbs up.
BLINDING ME WITH a small flashlight as he holds my lids
open, its been a couple of years since I last saw Dr. Abbott.
Amazing - just a slight concussion, says the doc, a
short man with twinkling eyes and jet black hair combed like
Dads. Youre very lucky! You could have been killed.
Thats because I wouldnt let them in, Mom says, paler
than bleached hospital sheets, I told them not tonight!
Excuse me? asks Dr. Abbott.




CBgter 46
After calling the number on the note the driver gave
Renny, Mom reaches the owner of Sweetchilds. It turns out his
son, Tom, hit me then sped away in his Buick. After offering the
Potter family and my band free ice cream and fountain drinks for
life, Mr. Childs also agrees to pay all medical bills.
That sounds like good deal! I say.
Jimmy, you pea brain, Codge barks, coming up for air
after being submerged in calculus, Thats a terrible deal. Mom,
you could have at least negotiated a couple of new electric
guitars!
Guitars? I say, Im the one that got hit!
Im just glad Jims okay, she says, half way out the
door, aglow in nurse uniform, Dinners in the fridge.
The phone rings. Im just too tired to hobble over the few
feet to get it.
Get it, Chick, says Codge, immersed in homework.
Oh, for crying out loud, says Mom, marching into the
house, picking up the phone, You lazy gwawks. Ill get it!
HelloYesThis is Mrs. Potter.
Glassy-eyed, she drops the receiver, crumbling to the
floor.
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241
EVER SINCE THE REAR end collision, Dads been
grumpier than everbarking orders, wandering the house in
robe, toque and neck brace.
Seamus, go change the channel to Huntley Brinkley, he
orders, biting his pipe, leaning into the tattered easy chair,
Codge, go get me some matches!
Dear, says Mom, Whats the magic word?
Codge, go get me some matches, Dad says,
increasingly agitated, NOW, dammit!
My brother obediently hands him a book of matches.
Why dont you wait till after supper to smoke? Mom
asks, setting a full food tray on his lap, placing her hand on his
forehead.
Ill do whatever I want! roars Dad, Whenever I want!
Striking the match, he fumbles about, the pipe tumbling
to the floor.
THE MYSTICAL PADRE PIO PIN, the Capuchin monk with
the stigmata (Christs bleeding wounds) is attached to Dads
pillow case. During extremely high-fever, semi-conscious days,
the family prays the rosary around his bedside. Though his spirits
are improving, he looks terrible. Today is Christmas. Mom said
Dad hasnt been this sick since he suffered a malaria relapse
(originally contracted while serving in the South Pacifics
Solomon Islands) right around the time I was born.
Have some more chicken noodle soup, Dwon, says
Mom, spooning steaming noodles into her husbands trembling
mouth.
No thank you, he says, shaking his head.
Usually insatiable, his reaction worries us. He also barely
opens a new Schick electric shaver with a sideburn trimmer, a
useless attachment for his white wall style.
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242
I just may grow sideburns like The Beatles he says,
turning over, ghostly pale.
THE FADED WHITE MARINE pearl drum set (dirty yellow
under fluorescent lights) has a hulking bass drum with a cowbell,
woodblock, two paper plate size cymbals and a tom-tom the size
of a Quaker Oats box. Two dusty guitar cases and Kalamazoo
amplifiers are stacked next to the cash register.
Hey! These arent the drums I reserved, I say, touching
the dingy shells, Wheres the blue sparkle Ludwigs?
Not for rent, Crater Face says, fat ass smothering a
stool behind the counter.
What? I say.
We agreed to the Ludwig drums, Mr. Baskerville says,
pulling the receipt from his wallet, Didnt we?
This is a Ludwig! See? he growls, pointing at the WFL
logo stenciled on the pathetic yellowish snare, Its on your
invoice.
You mean WFL? asks Mr. Baskerville studying the
contract, What does that mean?
William F. Ludwig! snaps M. Every drummer knows
that, dont you, Spare Change!
Look! yells Nic, extracting the Fender from its case.
The guitars strings are upside down.
Thats because its left handed, says Moses, shrugging.
But, Im right handed! says Nic.
Sorry, no more right handed guitars for rent, he
bellows, pointing to his invoice Besides, it says left-handed
right here.
Where? asks Mr. Baskerville.
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243
Right there, says Moses, pointing at our copy.
LH means left handed? asks George B, inspecting the
invoice again.
Crap! cries Codge. Well have to turn the guitar
upside down and restring it.
Ok, says Renny, Where are our amps?
Theyre right there, he shouts, pointing at the
Kalamazoos, beginner practice amps, at best.
We didnt want these, fumes Nic, We wanted the
Gibsons.
Kalamazoos are Gibsons, says Moses, slapping the
invoice with the back of his hand, Hey, you want decent
equipment, you got to buy it, not rent it.
THE SHODDY RENTED GUITARS, AMPS and most of the
hideous drums are in the trunk. Nic, Codge and Renny jump into
the back seat as I struggle to squeeze the barrel size bass drum
into the front seat.
This is a lesson for us boys instructs Mr. Baskerville at
the wheel, Always remember to read the fine print.
It wont fit, I whine, What are we supposed to do?
Roll it home?
SANDWICHED IN THE BACK, whizzing not-so-merrily
down the street, our teeth chatter as wind screeches and howls
through cracked-open windows because we strapped the bass
drum onto the cars roof then laced the rope through open
windows. On the way pedestrians guffaw at the bass drum, ugly
as a zit thats swelling up on my nose.




CBgter 42
Radiating from the wall socket, soaring flames singe
Joes weird beard as he squats over the bowels of the
Kalamazoos. After yanking the cord, the room reeks of burnt
hair and plastic.
Whew, guess I wont need a trim for awhile, he says,
stroking his flame-cut facial fur.
The amps guts sizzle, spontaneously combusting. Joe
attempts to smother the fire with his hand.
Ow, he moans, as the flames dance, Bad idea - very
bad.
Flying up the steps, Nic disappears into the kitchen.
Seconds later, he vaults down the staircase with an Arm and
Hammer box throwing in on the fire.
YEAH, JUST WHAT I THOUGHT, Joe says, The wires
got switched.
Why did you do that? I ask impatiently.
I didnt. says Joe, swapping wires, But those leads did
not switch themselves.
After soldering carefully, he drags the scorched amp to an
adjacent wall socket, examining the melted and deformed plug.
Before we plug this in again, says Joe, Wed better
say a prayer to the Pope.
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245
Catholics dont pray to the Pope, I snap.
Whatever he says as I utter a petition to the patron saint
of amplifiers, whoever that is.
AT THE ICY INTERSECTION Joes 48 Oldsmobile
convertible slides through the stop sign, despite slamming on the
brakes. We wipe out a large blue United States Postal Service
mail box.
BOOM! THAWUNK!
After inspecting my jarred percussion equipment in the
backseat, Im relieved nothings busted. Hopping out, Joe
inspects car damage.
Built like a Sherman tank, he says grinning.
You ran over a mail box, Renny says, glaring at Joe,
Thats a federal offense.
So call the FBI says Joe, hurdling into the drivers seat,
I done worse, believe me.
Ill say, I whisper under my breath.
A whopper of a blizzard hit last night, smothering Salt
Lake City. Unable to squeeze in the humongous bass drum
without pulling the convertible top back, were literally freezing
our juvenile butts off with snow blanketing seats, rented drums
(covered with an old shower curtain), dashboard and steering
wheel as we ride in the open arctic air.
Look at what I do for youse kids, scowls Joe, blistered
hand wrapped in gauze, fishtailing down the street, Make sure
my camera is covered back there, would you?
I wish Id ridden in the safety of the Baskervilles snow
chained Fury like Nic and Codge.
CARPETED IN THREE FEET snowdrifts, the landscape
sparkles silver under street lights. After wrestling the clumsy
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246
bass drum for several minutes, I catch a breather. Renny treks up
the treacherously steep sidewalk with the snare ahead of me.
Joes taking care of the tom and bass pedal. Suddenly, three kids
zip down 7th Souths slopea favorite sledding spot for locals.
Ice-and-snow shrapnel spews from steel sled runners.
Not funny, Joe yells, wiping his snow pelted mug,
Nobody does that to Joe Pizzarelli.
Forget about it, Joe, I say, It was an accident.
Whooshing down the hill, reckless sledders intentionally
spray me.
You creeps, I sputter, wiping my face, Youre gonna
pay for this!
Forget about it, Chick, mocks Joe, imitating my
squeaky voice, It was an accident.
As sledders trudge slowly back up hill, we hide behind
the convertible, forming an icy arsenal.
DUCKING A BARRAGE OF ICE balls, slung from all sides,
we slide, slamming into the auditoriums large metal double
doors. Our snow foes know all the best hiding places around the
Our Lady of Lourdes and Judge Memorial campuses.
What is happening here? asks Brother Franz.
Peeking through a crack in the door, a snowball narrowly
misses Franzs face. With their endless supply of icy canon balls,
the young sleddersmischievous buggerswill not stop until
were writhing on the ground, begging for mercy.
Duck! yells Renny, as whizzing past him, an ice ball
smacks me square in the eyes.
Ow! I say, smarting from the icy sting, I cant see!
Get in! says Brother Franz, Mach schnell!
Eaat Bench

247
Pawing the air blindly, I fall over the bass drum face first.
Somersaulting onto my back, I hammer the sidewalk, helpless as
an over-turned turtle. Grabbing my jacket, Brother Franz slings
me through the entrance then scoops up my bass drum. The
instant he slams the door, a volley of snow and ice pelts
tempered glass.
Na ja, he says, gleefully behind glass, Its been some
time since a real snow battle.
Thats what you call a Cold War, jokes Joe.
Trembling from the wintry chill, Brother Franz looks at
him oddly for a moment.
Ja, ja, he says, laughing, Cold War! I get it! Good
one.
COLLECTING THE ONE DOLLAR adult and fifty cent
student gate fee, (of which we get a fourth), Sheila Swanson and
Penny Willis flirt shamelessly with us.
Hi Chick, gushes Sheila, presenting a pink book Cant
wait to hear your band.
I scribble in it quickly. Fluttering her eye lashes, Penny
holds out her right hand.
I forgot my book she says, Just write, with love,
Chick.
Okay, I say, signing her hand sloppily.
Ill never wash that hand again, she gushes as I roll my
eyes.
Next to the girls bathroom, a blond, back to me, speaks
animatedly with brunette Linda. My heart thumps madly.
Rubbing my eyes, I look again and shes gone. I look for her
date, Mr. Cant-Keep-A-Beat-To-Save-His-Life. If the hacks
here, I cant find him.
Potter/Vivanco

248
SQUATTING BEHIND A LARGE speaker cabinet, stage left,
a red faced man-toad grunts. Exposing his short, mottled teeth as
we lug our junky rented equipment to the stage, Crater Face is
fatter than ever probably from cramming Christmas cookies he
stole from a baby. Or maybe he threw away the cookies and ate
the infant instead.
Ready to rock? he says, Spare Change?
Whos that? says Joe, depositing tom and bass pedal on
stage.
Its nobody, I say, nervously.
His name is Moses, Renny explains, The guy who
rented us this crap.
Hey youseMusic City! You can call my friend here
Chick shouts Joe staring wild-eyed at Moses, Or you call
him, Jimmy but you cant call him Spare Change because its
derogatory. Capice?
WHAT A DISASTER! Scores of students stampede through
the auditoriums door, Salt Lake Citys record winter storm
doing nothing to diminish dance attendance. However, feedback
chills backbones of early arrivals as we run sound check.
Skreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Oh for crying out loud, Codge yells at Moses, Cant
you do something about that?
The rooms an echo chamber, Crater Face Toad Man
croaks, belching Jingle Bells between chugs of Coke, Nothing I
can do!
Glaring at the plump red-faced baby eater, Joe climbs
onto the stage. Dashing stage left to right, he rearranges the
Kalamazoos at forty-five degree angles then shoves a PA
microphone propped on a Dixie cup in front of them.
Try that, shouts Joe adjusting volume knobs.
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249
Hey, you yells Moses, No touching the equipment!
Quoth the Raven, Joe shouts, palms up, arms
outstretched threateningly, Nevermore.
What? asks Crater Face.
Its a poem, says Joe, The Raven by Edgar Allen
Poeone of the greats.
So? says Moses.
So, if you read the poem, youd find out how fleeting
life can be. Dont force me to demonstrate this concept to you
first hand, says Joe, coolly, Just let me help the kids here play
a decent concert. In the meantime, why dont you crawl back to
the swamp from whence you were hatched.
Joe signals to Codge and Nic who play Van Morrisons
Gloria as crisp trebly guitars ring undistorted.
BECAUSE OF THE CORRODED lug nuts, the drums sway
like an old wooden foot bridge. So, I stuff toilet paper inside
each lug core - this does the trick for now. I cram padding into
the bass drum so it doesnt rumble like a circus drum.
Chick, advises Joe, Please let me make The Creature
go back to Music Shitty to get you a decent set of drums. I can
do this.
Its okay, I say, giggling, And, Joeits Music City,
not Musicwhat you said.
I stand corrected, Joe says, My apologies to the Pope.
In a garish purple and orange sports jacket, Bolinski and
his band slither to stage front.
It pays to be in town, says Frank, pointing at my drum,
When the circus clown dies. Right, Potter?
Ha, ha, I say, face flushing.
Potter/Vivanco

250
Look whos talking, says Joe slapping Franks cheek,
smoothing his gaudy lapel.
TOSSING DRUMSTICKS IMPOSSIBLY HIGH in the immense
auditorium, I catch them, hands in back then in front, without
once leaving my drum throne.
And for my next trick I say as admirers headed up by
adoring fans, Olive Oyl and Wimpy, clap appreciatively.
As Codge and Nic tune their guitars a final time, Joe
tweaks our sound.
Break a leg! shouts Sister Ariel tossing me a package
of cookies.
My band mates and I shoot each other the nod. Raising
my drumsticks, Im ready to rock when blond beautiful fickle
Lynda floats inside my line of vision.
THE GYM FLOOR IS JAMMED with teens dancingThe
Twist, The Watusi, The Swim, The Pony. Even the clergy cut
rugs with abandon. Sister Marilla waltzes with Sister Ariel,
twirling habits flowing gracefully on almost every song.
Pumping torso up and down on chubby legs, Father Brown
churns butter. Brother Franz purses his lips, moving head,
shoulders and arms like a tuba player. I dont envy any of them
one bit, though. Im right where I want to be.
Though brunette Linda and Renny have been dancing
together all night, blond Lynda has vanished again and I try not
to care.
AFTER SCARFING PIZZA, the Invaders drummer,
Bazooka, chases me.
Hey Potter, he yells as I head for the rest room during
our first break.
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251
Escaping into a stall, I dont know who I think Im
fooling. Bazooka knows Im in the here. Flushing the commode
twice without even using it, I push open the door.
Its all yours, I say, pitifully.
Flexing his beefy biceps, Bazooka cracks his knuckles. I
feel like a gnat about to be flattened by a giant fleshy flyswatter
as he thrusts his right hand towards me.
Sounds good, man Bazooka says, Really.
Hesitantly accepting his massive caveman paw, I half
expect him to crush my fingers.
Thanks, Mike, I say sincerely.
Id like to send that jerk, Moses, into orbit some day,
says Bazooka, shaking my hand, He screwed The Invaders on
some equipment - nobody screws The Invaders.
DANCERS AND REVELERS ARE TWISTING, writhing and
singing along to our electrifying version of Twist and Shout. A
nice surprise, Frank Stapleton, arrives. He stands next to Joe and
Mr. Baskerville at concessions as we rock the room.
After the first verse, the snares lopsided on its stand. A
wing nut has joggled loose so I tighten it, no problem.
During the songs bridge, where we stack up the ah, ah,
ah vocal harmonies, the bass drum lurches to the right. Keeping
rhythm with the snare, I grapple the bass closer but it creeps
away, my right foot barely reaching the pedal. Grasping the
snare with my left hand, I smack it as hard as possible to keep
the song going, abandoning all else.
What the hell? Codge sneers over his shoulder.
Just keep on playing, I yell, managing to hit a cymbal
now and then.
Potter/Vivanco

252
Soaring through the air, a couple of loose wing nuts
plunk onto dancers noggins. A second later, the crash cymbal
clangs deafeningly onto the floor. When the ride cymbal rattles
off, I abandon the snare. With no percussion at all, the song
breaks down. Desperately strumming to keep things going,
Codge and Nic act casual, like this is what we meant to do - only
it isnt.
When the bass drum tips over, it echoes sickeningly in
the cavernous auditorium.
BOOM, boom, boom, boom
After a couple of nuts shimmy off my drum throne, it
collapses. After I backward somersault off stage, the students
gawk, dancing disintegrating into awkward foot shuffling.
PUSHING THROUGH THE CROWD, Bazooka leaps on
stage.
Come back here, Mike, barks Frank, irately, You cant
help them.
Bite me, Bolinski, he shouts inspecting the drum and
cymbal massacre.
Braving further humiliation, I crawl on stage, nursing a
bruised ego otherwise okay.
Your wing nuts are stripped, Mike says, extracting
handfuls of shiny drum screws and nuts out of pants pocket,
That Moses knew exactly what he was doing, the creep. I
brought some extras just in case.
Hey dumb ass barks Crater Face behind the console,
Hands off equipment.
Five foot ten, 200 pounds of beef, Mike rises, clomping
towards Moses.
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253
Oooo cries the audience as Joe joins Mike on the stage,
Oooooooooo.
ONCE WE RESTART THE second set, all is forgiven.
Happy teens dance like theres no school tomorrow, which there
isnt since its still the Christmas holidays. No more glitches, we
ride smoothly from song to song. Lynda stands in front of the
stage, alone, the whole second set, smiling and waving but I
concentrate on music.
FACE COVERED with ice and snow, Moses stumbles into
the auditorium after stepping outside during our second break.
Evidently, somebody was waiting for him and pelted him with a
barrage of ice balls.
They did it! he yells, aiming a chubby finger at Joe and
Mike, tattling to Father Brown and Brother Franz, They have it
out for me.
Joes been snapping photos non-stop the whole night.
Shrugging, he displays the camera as evidence. Sweating bullets
over my drum set, Mike has been working with me checking and
securing lug nuts, adjusting drum heads. It could have been
Bolinski, it could have been the loony kids we were having the
snow and ice ball war with. Whoever it was, they got Crater
Face, but good and they should get a medal.
Put a lid on it, says Father Brown to Crater Face.
Ja, adds Brother Franz, with thick German accent, Put
the lid on the mouth, before maybe I make the pain on you.
Thumbs up to band mates, Im ready for the third set.
After that, theres one more break then the fourth set. Time is
flying by quicker than I ever imagined. I could easily keep
playing till dawn and from the looks of our fans, they could
dance till then, too.
TAKING BABY SIDEWAY STEPS down the ice covered
slope, I gingerly cart the bass drum back to Joes car.
Potter/Vivanco

254
Accidentally bumping into Moses, I pitch him onto his chunky
ass.
Sorry, I say, unable to help him up.
It was an accidentI swear it on a stack of Baltimore
catechisms or even a stack of Nics Beatles albums. I have
absolutely no desire to hurt anybody, especially after the bands
first triumphant money-making gig.
Hey, Spare Change! growls Moses, limping.
The crunch of his footsteps growing closer, I can almost
smell his dragon breath.
I already said Im sorry, I say, sliding now, And
youre not supposed to call me Spare Change anymore.
Remember? You dont want to make enemies with Joe, believe
me.
Spare Change, Spare Change, says Moses, mockingly,
Spare Change!
At least a dozen mishaps have already occurred; dance-
weary adolescents falling like bowling pins, dragging friends
down with them, parents picking up their kids, sliding down the
hill on their faces. Theres one way to the parking lot, the steep
hills glassy sidewalka Titanic sized glacier in the cold
moonlight.
Tripping over a tree root, I clutch Moses black Music
City jacket, yanking him down. I drop the bass drum; it rumbles
down hill. Im riding Crater Face like a toboggan and we plow
into dozens of innocent bystanders. We race past a blur of
wimples, veils, rosaries, purses, hats and gloves in the stark
white landscape. Invoking Jesus, Mary, Joseph and various
saints, the victims voices fade quickly behind us.
Careening into the snowy abyss of the East Bench, the
elephantine drum wallops an icy tree branch, snapping it in two
Eaat Bench

255
and continues rolling. Seconds later, glass shatters, a car horn
blares.
Directly ahead of our human bobsled, a hefty pine tree
trunk decides to stay put, despite my desperate prayers to St.
Jude.




CBgter 48
The drapes ripple gloomily as I open the door. Im
freezing. Standing in a whiteout, two policemen look familiar
they picked Renny and me up last year when we ran away.
Theyve parked a black hearse-like paddy wagon at the curb
After slamming the door, it bounces back open. So, I
shut it again but a giant cop shoe wedges in the door jamb.
Grabbing me by my tiger striped pajamas which I thought Id
stuffed in my Mayflower drum box as a muffler, the other cop
spins me around. Slapping handcuffs on my wrists, he drags me
into the arctic as Porky, Blanch, and the ancient Lewis siblings
laugh and point at my hideous bright orange and yellow stripes.
What are you...eight, nine...six? says a voice out of the
ether, then laughing, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha
As the police push me toward their vehicle, my limbs are
icicles so I cant run.
Shut up, Jimmy! screams my sister though nowhere in
sight.
Im not saying anything, I think bitterly. I cant win with
her!
Its all about the journey, Joe says, riding his bike in
summer vest and blue jeans, clicking the Nikon.
Eaat Bench

257
When the bike morphs into a black oyster pearl Ludwig
drum set with NB3 featuring Joe Pizzarelli stenciled on the
bass drum head, he launches into a jazzy drum beat. The Pope
appears, waving and smiling, wearing a poster board hat.
The Pontiff here gave me special powers, says Joe,
playing a single stroke roll, After I prayed to him. You should
try it.
I want to scream but my jaw refuses to budge. Catholics
dont pray to the Pope, you idiot!
His Holiness, says Joe, hitting a rim shot, Also gave
me permission to read Siddhartha.
The cops drag me to the rear of the wagon, opening the
creaking door. Out hops a chunky toad-like creature, revealing
cropped stained teeth between purple lips.
Spare Change, it yells, jolting me into oblivion, Spare
Change, Spare Change




CBgter 49
After cranking open a peeper, I stare into indigo eyes.
Interestingtheyre the same color and shape as Rennysjust
droopier.
Hallo, he says with a thick accent, paper thin skin,
crowned with blond and silver, Do you know vhere you are?
Im in heaven with Rennys Dad which means Im dead.
Tears freeze into tiny diamonds, ricocheting off my brilliant
robe. I will myself into the agonizing darkness.
MY EYELIDS FLUTTER UNCONTROLLABLY, like summer
moths around a light bulb. Somebodys playing a very sloppy
snare drum roll, making my body ache more than it already does.
Shhhhh! scolds Mom, For pitys sake, Dwon. Youre
going to disturb the whole hospital.
I didnt realize it was going to be that loud! whispers
Dad irritably.
Hey, says Renny, I think hes waking up!
The coolness of my mothers soft Jergens-lotion hand on
my forehead calms me.
Seamus, Dad whispers, holding something round I
cant think of the word for as I lose consciousness, Look!




CBgter S0
My throbbing broken jaws wired shut, making it
impossible to eat, speak and worst or all, sing. Gazing through
the peep hole, I wish now I hadnt insisted on being brought
home early from the hospital. But I really wanted to play my new
Slingerland blue sparkle snare drum the band bought me with
money earned at the dance.
Two tall middle-aged agents in identical black suits and
fedoras knock on the door.
FBI, announce the suits, stoic, flashing badges just like
on Dragnet, Open the door.
At the sight of a black Crown Victoria, Joe hides in our
only bathroom. This just cannot be happening. Foolishly, Joe let
Jack Stapleton publish an article and his photo in the Sunday
Tribunes Entertainment Section titled Poet Verifies Dropouts
Can Succeed.
Im not allowed, I mumble unintelligibly.
What? says an agent, Speak up or open the door.
Id really much rather practice on my new snare drum
right now, but I slowly open the door anyway.
Is this the Buzzalotti residence? asks a chubby agent.
Shaking my head, I point at the duplex next door.
Potter/Vivanco

260
IM GLAD THOSE FBI GUYS are gone now. Im working
on my triplet buzz rolls, just need to get up to speed when
somebody bangs on my door again.
Bang Bang Bang!
For crying out loud!
Open up! orders a gruff voice.
Trying not to appear too suspicious, I crack the door. An
agent wedges his huge black wing tip into the gap, pressing his
weight against the door.
No I mumble, imitating my mothers dream, Not
tonight!
Panicking at the thought they could be imposters, (I saw
it on an episode of 77 Sunset Strip or maybe it was Dragnet), I
slam the door against his foot. The agent howls, withdrawing his
shoe as I twist the dead bolt.
Open the door, yells the man, Or Ill break it down!
On the count of threeone two
Broken jaw or not, Im going to be in so much trouble if
my parents come home to a busted down front door. Unlocking
the dead bolt, I abruptly swing it open. After his fedora flies off
his skull like a startled black bird, the agent lands spread eagle.
Terrifying me with gruesome green eyes, his huge catchers mitt
of a hand on holster, he jumps up, flinging open the bathroom
door as the chubby brown eyed agent follows closely behind.
Aha! says Gruesome Green Eyes, jerking the shower
curtain, ripping down the tension rod screwed into the tiled
bathroom wall. (Dads not going to like this at all.)
Joe must have flushed himself down the toilet or hid in
the medicine because hes gone.
Eaat Bench

261
Whoops, says Chubby Brown Eyes, as the rod bangs
the bathtub taking tile with it, knocking over an open shampoo
bottle.
Shoot! snaps Greenie, clearing his throat, Okay, alls
clear here.
Yup, says Chubby, adjusting his tie, Alls clear.
ZIPPING DOWN THE driveway on his bike, Joes vest
flaps in the frosty breeze. Unfortunately at the end of the drive,
he knocks a trash can over.
Bang! Clash!
What was that? says Gruesome.
Pedaling furiously on the icy street, Joes getting a good
head start. Alerted by the trash cans noisy clank, the Lewis
siblings walk onto their porch.
Go, Joe, screams Maude wheeling her chair between
siblings, You can make it!
TUSSLING WITH THE PASSENGER DOOR, Gruesome
Green Eyes pounds the window.
Do you mind? he screams to Chubby in the drivers
seat.
Leaning toward the passenger door, Chubby lifts the lock
as Greenie jiggles the handle.
For crying out loud, Greenie whines, door still not
opening, Hes getting away, you jackass!
Stop jiggling the handle, yells Chubby, Try it now!
Greenie tries, but the door wont budge.
For cryin out screams Gruesome Green Eyes.
Try the other side, hollers Chubby, pointing to the
street side car door.
Potter/Vivanco

262
After Greenie darts into the street, a Buick slams into his
left butt cheek, spinning him like a top. Looking suspiciously
like, Tom Sweetchild, the thick glasses guy who plastered me, I
wonder how much free ice cream youd have to give for a hit and
run on a government agent?
AFTER ABANDONING THE BIKE, Joe sprints across 13
th

South barely evading cars and trucks, horns blaring, before
running into Emigration Market. Limping across the street (I
mustve slammed the door on his foot harder than I thought),
Greenie avoids skidding cars but collides with a bike-riding kid
riding on the sidewalk. He groans under the crying eight year old
and the kids bent two-wheeler. Chubby plows into ancient Mrs.
Krakowski who was pushing her grocery cart home, dozens of
cat food cans scattering everywhere. Well, so much for getting
their man.
IN THE BREEZEWAY, Porky and Blanch witness the entire
thing. Our landlord waves dismissively.
I want a divorce, she sobs, blowing her nose on a fresh
Kleenex.
A city bus turns at the Chevron station and Emigration
Market corner. Swaying past us on 17th, cigar-chomping Mr.
McT steps on the gas as a goateed silhouette hunkers down in a
rear seat. Im the only one who notices.




CBgter S1
They found Joe yesterday says Mr. Baskerville, sadly,
His real name was John Leonetti, a former hit man for the
Mafia. He was trying to start a new life here in Utah but had too
many enemies.
I told you! I mumble, tears racing past cheeks and
wired jaw.
Are they sure? asks Codge, still the skeptic.
Nic and Renny are stunned speechless.
The article is coming out in the Tribune tomorrow with
all the gory details, says George Baskerville, I thought Id let
you know before you heard it on the evening news. I really liked
Joe. He was a fine poet and a gentleman.
JOHN MUSGY LEONETTIS BODY was found east of Salt
Lake City in Emigration Canyon, next to Ruths Diner, under a
shallow pile of sticks and leaves. This was a warning to anybody
who might want to leave The Mob. The article titled Hit Man
Turned Beatnik Poet Executed with the recent photos of Joe as a
proud writer was placed next to the mug shot of Leonettidead
ringers.
We decide to dedicate our next concert to the Joe we
knewpoet, bongo player, jazz lover, photographer and loyal
frienddespite not liking the Beatlesand being a hit man.




CBgter S2
At the dawn of WWII, Klaus Steinbeck was a successful
young engineer, a Wunderkind, working for Raytheon,
manufacturer of aircraft parts. Hed come to America from his
native Germany then became a U.S. citizen. Maybe because of
jealousy, maybe because of spite, or maybe just general war time
paranoia, he was accused of being a Nazi sympathizer. The
proof being he had sent money to Germany to help support his
sick father, Wolfgang, and elderly mother, Analise. Every
German had friends in the Nazi party, every German had to
pledge allegiance to the Nazis - you had no choice. He also
belonged to a German music club, further proof.
A faithful law-abiding naturalized US citizen, Klaus was
given two choicesan internment camp for suspected German
spies for the wars duration or repatriation to war-torn Germany
where his parents still lived. At first, he chose the camp, certain
his adopted country would come to its senses and exonerate him.
But, after years of imprisonment during a seemingly endless war
plus unspeakable living conditions and few rations, he was
forced to repatriate to Germany or face deportation. He was
being traded for Americans imprisoned in the Third Reich.
Once back in Nazi Germany, he was immediately
arrested and imprisoned for being an American spy. Near the
end of the war, low on manpower, The Third Reich forced him
into the German army. On his way to the Russian front, he met
Rennys mother, Inge, a nurse from Rabenau, near Dresden.
Eaat Bench

265
After the war, eager to return to his adopted country,
Klaus repeatedly hounded the American Embassy. His US
passport had been confiscated but he could prove that he was an
American citizen. He had hidden those papers with a trusted
friend. But his voluntary repatriation and accusations of treason
haunted him. No one would help him.
Inge Steinbeck gave birth to Renny in 1950 in what was
soon to become Communist East Germany. Klaus and Inge asked
for permission to leave East Germany but were repeatedly
denied. Since born to an American citizen, Klaus argued, his son
should be an American. After persistent wrangling, one day he
refused to leave the American Embassy until Renny got his US
birth certificate. A sympathetic clerk issued the infants
paperwork.
Barely eleven years old when the Berlin Wall was started
in 1961, Renny learned English since the plan was always to
return to America. If he didnt leave soon, he might never be able
to leave East Germany. Since the Communists werent
interested in holding a young American citizen and were even
less interested in keeping a useless old lady, Oma and Renny
were suddenly granted a twenty four hour window to leave.
They were allowed one suitcase on the train that would take
them to freedom.
The next day, preparing to make their escape through
Hungary, Klaus and Inge were arrested and imprisoned, no
reason given.
Despite being unsure whether her son, Klaus was still
alive, Oma, now a US citizen living in Utah, organized an
extensive letter writing campaign to the American and East
German Embassies. In the fall of 1965, Analise decided shed
had enough and went to East Germany. When everybody else
was trying to get out she tried to get in. When she did, she was
immediately arrested, questioned and imprisoned.
Potter/Vivanco

266
In early November, facing international embarrassment
East Germany agreed to release Oma from prison. But she
refused to leave the country until she found her son and
daughter-in-law.
In late December 1965, with financial support of the
Catholic diocese, Brother Franz was able to negotiate with both
the East German and American governments to have all charges
against the Steinbecks dropped, their locations found and
releases secured. Unfortunately this came too late for Rennys
mom, Inge, who died in jail.
After searching every prison in East Germany,
interviewing hundreds of desperate political prisoners who
claimed to be Klaus Steinbeck, Oma finally found him.
Oma? whispered Klaus, lying on a filthy cot in his jail
cell, too weak to sit up with the screams of prisoners being
tortured in an adjoining room seeping through, How is
myRenny?






CBgter S3
Sliding down the icy slope, I spin out of control, almost
plummeting into the stream. Steadying myself with a sturdy
sapling, I crawl back up the slope into the culvert.
Hey Renny, I yell from the drain pipes mouth, Come
on!
Were coming! Renny shouts.
As my eyes adjust to the culverts darkness, I notice one
of our missing sleeping bags is rolled out neatly in front of me.
Hey, I found the other sleeping bag! I yell as it
unexpectedly ripples and swells, terrifying me. Tumbling onto
my butt, I crawl away crablike as fast I can toward the culverts
mouth.
Hey, yells a sleepy yet familiar voice, Wherere youse
going?
TURNING ONTO HIS LEFT SIDE, Joe shows us his grossly
mangled right buttocka million times worse than when my butt
got eaten by Enos, the dog.
Ew! says Renny as I quiver.
so, they sew me up, give me the Purple Heart then
send me back to New York for a little R &R. I didnt have
nowhere to go. says Joe, choking back tears, Ma died from the
Potter/Vivanco

268
cancer when I was in Nam, just a couple months before I got
wounded. They buried her in Brooklyn before I knew anything.
Squatting in the drain pipe, the handsome but still gaunt
Klaus hands Joe a clean monogrammed handkerchief.
So I go AWOL, after what Id seen, Joe says, voice
breaking, and what Iddone...
Ja, ja, Joseph, Klaus says, patting Joe on the back,
This is not your fault. War isa terrible thing.
Youse should know, says Joe, teary-eyed, honking like
a goose into the handkerchief, I mean, after all you been
through.
We must not think about the past, says Klaus, Now we
have to think about your future.
If I can get to Canada, says Joe, Ill be okay.
Okay, says Klaus, I will help you with your goal.
So, Renny says, Why did you come to Utah?
Because my father lives here, says Joe.
Whos your father? Renny asks.
You dont know? says Joe, tilting his head.
Since my jaws still wired, I puff out my cheeks, pushing
out my stomach, stumble drunkenly. I know who hes talking
aboutour landlord, Ray Buzzalotti.
Porky? asks Renny as Joe nods.
REACHING INSIDE MY BACK POCKET, I pull out my
wallet, presenting the ancient ratty newspaper photo of John
Mugsy Leonetti.
Whos that? says Joe.
Eaat Bench

269
He was a hit man for the mob, says Renny, But they
found himdead. Chick thought he was you.
You think Im as ugly this guy? says Joe, incredulous,
You might as well tell me I look like Ringo Starr. No offense.
The resemblance is amazing, says Klaus, But of
course, you are much better looking.
I hope so, says Joe, tugging on his former goatee which
has grown into a scraggly beard now.
Joe, whispers a raspy voice, coming from outside the
culvert, Joe!
Whos that? I ask, alarmed.
It must be lunchtime. The Lewises have been taking care
of me while Ive been in hiding, says Joe, checking his watch.
He scrambles to the culverts mouth and jumps out, loudly
whispering, Coming!
Renny and I follow Joe. Roderick Lewis waves his lunch
pail from the top of the slope as Joe climbs up the steep side.
Hello, boys! whispers Roderick, noticing us, looking
around cautiously, Want some chicken soup?






CBgter S4
Banging on the front door during a family meal,
especially a nice leisurely Saturday brunch, is bound to set the
old man off.
FBI, bellows a male voice, Open up.
Oh, says Codge, giggling, It must be Tweedle Dee and
Tweedle Dum, the curtain rod bandits.
Let me take care of this! growls Dad, shoving a forkful
of scrambled eggs into his mouth, face and newly shorn white
walls angry-crimson.
At the door, the FBI buddies flash their badges.
May we come in? asks Gruesome Green Eyes, cast on
his right foot.
It took two weeks to tile, spackle and paint our only
bathroom, roars Dad, What would you clowns like to do now?
Rip out a supporting beam? Or maybe youd like to put the house
on wheels and shove it over a cliff?
You tell then Dwon! cries Mom from the kitchen.
We have information that leads us to believe says
Chubby.
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271
Im going to give you two goons three seconds to
disappear, barks Dad, steam coming off his forehead, One,
two
AS WE RUN TO NICS HOUSE, my brother is uncommonly
quiet. He doesnt even get mad when I rap my fingers against
the new blue sparkle snare tucked under my arm.
A red Mustang convertible is parked in Nics driveway
behind Mr. Baskervilles Fury.
Wow! I mumble, jaw still wired, so Im mostly
unintelligible, Nice car! Nic never told me his dad was going to
buy a new car.
With the grayest glance, Codge enters Nics garage,
hanging a right then stumbling downstairs.
Look Chick, my brother whispers at the bottom of the
stairs, holding my shoulders, right before we step into the
practice pad in the basement, Its nothing personal.
SITTING ON THE WINDOW SEAT HUGGING his knees,
Renny stares bleakly at the floor. Nic doesnt look up as he tunes
his guitar. When I glance at the drum alcove, my body reels as if
riding Lagoons serpentine roller coaster. The hack, Bill Brown,
is sitting behind his drum set in my alcove!
PRETENDING EVERYTHING IS JUST fine and dandy,
Codge nods at Nic.
Lets begin with Gloria he says, strapping on his
guitar.
Like a freight train stripping its gears, the backwards
shuffle isnt even close to what this excellent songs actual drum
part is supposed to be. Ten seconds into the song, my brother
waves his hand, stopping the music.
Good job, Bill, says Codge, wincing then glancing at
me, whispering, Show him the drum beat, would you, Chick?
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272
Shooting my band mates an obscene gesture, I bound up
stairs, groaning as loud as I can. Now I know how Pete Best felt
when he was fired by The Beatles.
SCRIBBLING H-A-C-K IN BIG capital letters on a small
pad, I lie on my bed.
Yeah, says Codge, He is a hack. Youre right.
Taking the pad back, I write J-U-D-A-S. After stabbing
the word with my forefinger, I point at Codge.
I know, he says, I know. Bill Brown cant play and
youre great. Just hang around, show him a couple of licks and
when hes not there, you can play his drums.
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head no emphatically. Are
you kidding?
He left practice today after forty five minutes. You
could have played his drums all afternoonwe could stay
together as a band and have decent equipment.
HOPPING INTO NICS BASEMENT an hour before our
regularly scheduled rehearsal, I sit behind Bills gorgeous silver
sparkle Ludwigs, adjusting the plush drum throne.
Bill said he didnt want anybody says Nic, To touch
his drums.
Loosening all the wing nuts, I rebelliously retune every
drum, move cymbals, the high hat and bass pedal to suit my
height, playing style, and, at the moment, my whim.
IM IN HEAVEN BECAUSE weve done a full rehearsal
without The Hack.
Hes already two hours late, says Codge, worriedly I
hope he hasnt quit.
Astoundingly insulted, I snort loudly.
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273
If Bill quits the band, says Renny, He takes his drums
back, idiot.

Hmmm, I say, nodding.




CBgter SS
Tenderly propping a pillow behind his head, The Hacks
unofficial angel of mercy, inspects the cables and pulleys
supporting his plastered left arm and leg.
Hes lucky to be alive says Lynda, fighting tears,
holding his hand, enough to make me sick.
On his way to band practice, Bill Brown got hit by some
guy who ran a stop light. His handsome face is swollen so
grotesquely, for once Im better looking than he is which isnt
saying much because he looks like something out of a horror
movie. Chewing on a cup of ice, preparing for more surgery, he
drools. But Lyndas loving expression never changes as she
dabs his slobber.
I cant remember a thing, he says, drowsily, Just
driving then waking up here.
The afternoon sunlight streams into the light blue private
room at LDS Hospital, overlooking downtown and Bill Browns
affluent East Bench residence.
Uh, when do you think youll be able to blurts Nic,
miming a drummer with imaginary sticks, You know?
Im gonna be out of commission, he says, shifting his
battered body uneasily, For some time.
The longer the better because Im going back to Nics
this afternoon where Ill play the hell out of your drums, Traction
Boy. And theres nothing you can do about it.
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275
Nic, will you and the guys pack up the drums and take
them back to my house? groans Bill, Ill tell my parents to
expect you.
ASIDE FROM THE DRONE of the Furys engine, the drive
back from the hospital is silent as I fight the urge to jump into the
path of a tractor trailer. Because of my broken jaw, I cant even
gripe out loud.
Will you stop moping Codge says, elbowing me.
Chick, if it makes you feel any better wed buy you a
drum set says Renny, If we had any money in the band
fundwhich we dont because we spent it all on your snare.
Hanging a sudden left on Main Street, Mr. Baskerville
drives three blocks toward the Tribune. He probably forgot
some papers there. We pull into an open parking space in front
of a rundown pawn shop. A red sparkle drum set glitters in the
window. The Beverley brand name is printed on the bass drum
head.
TRUMPETS, TROMBONES, SAXOPHONES, some shiny and
new, others dull and worn are displayed on two long shelves next
to electric and acoustic six strings of all shapes, brands and sizes.
Brightly lit cases display new and used watches, rings, cameras
and pocket knives.
Pawing the smooth red sparkle finish on the Beverley, I
notice a small pamphlet attached to the bass drum that reads,
From a Whisper to a Roar. Price: $130. Reasonable, but the
closer I look at the set, the more I realize its just a student
model.
Hey Chick yells Renny from mid store, What about
these?
As we walk past trunks and suitcases cluttering the aisle,
a four piece champagne sparkle Gretsch drum set on a three foot
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276
high riser, flickers like a thousand stars on a clear Utah night.
Price tag readsA real steal for only $350.00.
Mmm, mmm, mmm, I mumble through my infernal
mouth wires.
I caress the luxurious highly polished mirror-like finish.
The size, heft and thickness of the drums veneers and hardware
scream professional quality and durability especially in
comparison to the Beverleys.
Banging the silver dome shaped hand bell near the cash
register, Mr. Baskerville taps his foot impatiently.
Lets see if we can get some service around here he
barks, Hello?
A toilet flushes from the rear of the store followed by a
shrill vinegary voice.
Keep your shirt on!




CBgter S6
I need to get out of here, right now. Yanking on Mr.
Baskervilles coat sleeve, I wince in agony as I do my best to
avoid Moses mottled purple head propped on top of a too-wide
neck brace.
Please, says Mr. Baskerville, Hold your questions for
later.
Fanning myself, my eyes roll up as Nic and Codge
examine used and new guitars.
You need air? asks Renny, escorting me outside, the
little bell at the top of the door jamb jingling lightly.
I plop my scrawny butt onto the store windows narrow
ledge. As I face west, rays of winter sun soothe me. Sucking
fresh air through flaring nostrils, I feel better.
Better now? asks Renny as I nod, GoodI cant
believe Mr. Baskerville is actually trying to negotiate with crazy
Crater Face. I really cant. He almost killed you!
As I shiver involuntarily, Renny zips up my jacket.
Moses walked away from our accident with minor cuts and
bruises and a sprained neck. He didnt even spend one day in the
hospital. In a fair world, God would make the mean person get
hurt the most.
Holy cow, Renny shouts peering inside.
What? I mumble, turning around.
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278
The combination of thick plate glass and Salt Lake Citys
noisy downtown traffic makes it practically impossible to hear
anything from inside even with ears pressed to glass. Mr.
Baskerville, arms flailing, is having a shouting match with Crater
Face.
You tell em, Mr. Baskerville, yells Renny.
Mouth contorted, Moses looks like hes about to take a
running leap over the counter. Suddenly he stops, falling back,
clawing his neck brace. Staggering in a circle, beads of sweat roll
down his forehead. Keeling over, Crater Face vanishes behind
the display case.
AS NIC AND CODGE STRUM electric guitars Renny boosts
me up to the Gretsches. When I stomp on the foot pedal, the bass
drum reverberates beautifully, like a melodic bomb going off.
Oh for crying out yells Mr. Baskerville, performing
mouth to mouth on old Crater Face, If the man wasnt already
dead of a heart attack, hed have one knowing you were playing
those drums.
I like this one! I mumble, stomping on the foot pedal
again.
What did I just tell you? shouts Mr. Baskerville.
MR. BASKERVILLE MADE IT VERY CLEAR that he wasnt
intending to buy anything at the pawn shop. Hed just heard
Crater Face was working there and wanted to give him a piece of
his mind after everything that happened. So, the next day, I was
really confused when entering Nics garage and I hear:
Boom Bop Boom Bop, Bop Boom - Crash - Boom
- Crash - Crash
I swear, Chick, says Codge, after I grab his shoulder
irately, I dont know anything.
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279
PERCHED BEHIND THE DRUM SET of my dreams, a young
drummer mutes the burnished brass ride and crash cymbals.
After pulling my fist back, I pop Codge square in the
eyeball, sending him flying against the bar. Suddenly I have an
epiphany. I really should have done this the first time these
goons decided to replace me.




CBgter S2
Bursting from the floor like a desert rattler, Codge
lunges. After grabbing my hair, he jerks my head side ways,
cracking my neck, not daring to punch me in the face with my
jaw full of sharp wires.
I had nothing to do with this! he snaps, shoving me
onto the hard linoleum.
Boys! yells Mr. Baskerville, Theres no reason to fight
If you would just calm down for a second, says Nic
extending a hand which I refuse since hes next in line for a
serious butt beating. (Hes so stout, though, Im going to have to
go in for a sneak attackall in due time.) We can explain
everything.
Yeah, right. I dont want to hear your explanations. If I
could have opened my mouth at all I would have spit at him
damn these wires on my stupid shattered face.
Chick, cries Renny, This is not what you think.
This is Steve Cutter announces George Baskerville,
motioning to the teen behind the drum set, Hes the son of a
fellow editor at work.
If they think Im going to show this loser how to play
drums while I wait like a beggar to get a chance to beat the skins,
theyve got another thing coming.
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281
ITS IMPOSSIBLE TO DETECT the slightest ding or scratch
on the classic black oyster pearl finish, The Holy Grail of drums.
I eye every piece reverently like a priest beholding the Body of
Christ. The stainless steel tube hardware is heavy duty, but not
bulky. Except for a few stick marks, each ivory drum head is
immaculate. Under the recessed lights the pristine brass crash
and ride cymbals shimmer like lovely Lyndas flaxen hair. On
each solid wood drum shell, the Ludwig trademark badges wink
their amber eyes.
A black felt pad buffers the bell of the crash cymbal, the
wing nut heavy and solid as I twist it counter clock wise. The
threads are perfect, each groove deep and spiraling. With a flick
of the wrist, it practically screws itself back in, spinning like a
top. I will never, ever take the little things like this for granted
again especially after playing, well, crap.
Sinking into the black leather stools ample padding, I rap
my fingers across the snares grainy surface. This is what a
snares supposed to sound like, though the head is a little loose
for my taste. Looking questioningly at Steve, I point tentatively
to the lug nuts.
Hey, man, I never had time to practice and Im going off
to college in the fall, says Steve, smiling, handing me a drum
key, Tune it any way you want. Theyre all yours.
Well, technically, says Mr. Baskerville, They belong
to Nic, but theyre yours, Chick, as long as youre in the band.
I tighten the lug nut, tapping the snare again.
Bap!
Yesbeautiful.
The other drums are too loose and springy like miniature
trampolines.
Bap boom bomb bump!
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282
After tightening each head, I strike near the rimsgood
enough for now, fine tuning later. When I depress the Speed
King pedal, the set doesnt wobble or sway, the action is
instantaneous.
Bap bum boom boomp!
Play something Chick! yells Nic.
Holding up my finger, I shake my headnot yet. Ive
consumed every single drum catalog Ive ordered, memorizing
and fantasizing about proper drum set up. I adjust the snare to
parallel my lap. Next I aim the mounted tom-toms rim so it
barely touches the snare. The floor tom is at a suitable height so
no modification needed there. By pulling the bass drum and hi-
hat a couple of inches closer, my feet rest easily on the bass and
high hat pedals. Tilting the two cymbals slightly toward me, I tap
them lightly.
Ting, ting, ting
A jet black leather pouch tied to the floor tom tension rod
is packed with four pairs of drumsticks and a set of maroon
rubber sleeve brushes. Pulling out the brushes, I push on the hard
aluminum shaftthe wispy silvery bristles fan out magically.
When I sweep the brushes across the snare head, they kiss the
grain just like the drummer on the Word Jazz album.
Look! I mumble dreamily, Im stirring the soup.
Chsshh, shhh, shhh, shhh!
Gently placing the brushes on the floor tom, I lean over,
resting my cheek on the cool textured snare drum head. Please
God, Saint Cecelia, Saint Jude and any other relevant patron
saint I might be forgetting, if this is a dream, please, please,
please never ever let me wake up.




CBgter S8
Bang!
During a thirty second 4.3 earthquake that rocked the Salt
Lake valley three years ago, plates of scrambled eggs shimmied
then crashed onto the kitchen floor, sending Dad diving under
the table, crossing himself.
No! hollers Codge, pounding fists, utensils sailing
above the rickety table top, spilling my milk into Moms platter
of steaming meatloaf. This isnt fair!
Youll do as youre told, buster! bellows Dad nostrils
flaring.
Cant we just all get along? cries Karen, dabbing her
napkin onto the milk-soaked serving dish, Its no big deal!
Leaping up from the table, I push back my chair into the
ironing board knocking Moms GE clothes iron onto the floor
with a thud.
Jimmy! says Mom Ill brain you if you broke my
iron!
Young man, scolds Dad, Get back here!
Ignoring him, I race down basement steps, diving onto
my bed. Picking up a pair of drumsticks, I beat them silly
against the mattress for a few seconds. Then I chuck each like
daggers against the far wall above the dresser.
Blap! Thump!
Potter/Vivanco

284
One of the sticks ricochets off the dresser rolling under
the bed, the other impales like a spear through the cheap Pepto
Bismol wall.
Crud! I whisper, jumping up, extracting the drumstick,
a tuft of pink insulation sticking to it.
Lets not get our bowels in an uproar advises Mom still
upstairs, as I feverishly stuff the insulation back into the wall,
We need to get down on our knees, count our blessings and
pray the rosary!
Mom! snaps Codge, Oh my God!
Thats using Gwawds name in vain! she scolds.
Listen to your mother, big shot berates Dad.
Pounding footsteps on the stairs grow louder. A red
faced Codge clomps in, reaching for his guitar.
Hell! he yells, banging tunelessly on the six-string,
Double hell!
Reaching under the bed, I scoop up the rogue drum stick,
hammering the pillow as the parents track into our room. I dont
look up.
Life isnt all about playing the drums or guitar or
music, Dad says, at the foot of the bed, or The Beatles!
Speak for yourself! spits Codge, strumming harder as I
pound.
Cwodge, scolds Mom, Honor thy father and thy
mother.
I cringe expecting my brother to be picking up his teeth
in a matter of seconds.
Look kids, this wasnt my idea. This is about survival,
says Dad, his mood softening. The government contracts did
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285
not get renewed so I had to arrange for a transfer. You boys will
love Virginia.
Cant we at least wait till the end of the school year?
Codge sobs, cradling his guitar.
Im sorry, son says Dad, but
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Knocking at the front door grows louder and more
frantic.
Oh for crying out loud, he barks, throwing up his arms.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Should I get it? shouts Karen nervously from the
kitchen.
No, yells Dad, shaking his head, stomping out of the
room, I have to do everything around here.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!







CBgter S9
Red and white checked napkin tucked under chin,
Porkys obviously a goner as he lies on the floor. My mom
diligently tries to resuscitate him. Sitting dejectedly in front of a
spaghetti and meatballs platter, Blanch accepts a Kleenex from
Karen and dabs her blood shot eyes. Although I never had any
feelings for Porky myself, I do feel sorry for Blanch.
Though the duplexs units are mirror images, Im amazed
at the differences between the two residences: the Buzzalottis
shiny blond parquet floors, rich oak cabinets, formal dining set,
state of the art gold refrigerator freezer, six burner gas range,
sparkling hooded stove exhaust and built in dishwasher versus
the Potters rental unit with bumpy linoleum floors, cracked
plaster, insects and ancient appliances. Our landlords ornate
living room is spotless with upholstery covered in plastic
contrasting with our second hand furnishings, where even a
tomato sauce stain would hardly be noticed.
Look at that chandelier! I mumble to my brother, sound
crawling from my throat as I get used to talking with jaws wired,
These people must be loaded.
Shut up, Chick! grumbles Codge shoving a sharp
elbow into my side, as Karen lowers the volume on the portable
TV on the counter.
Eaat Bench

287
Dwon, Mom whispers as the ambulance siren squeals
closer, Call Father Brown.
AFTER BEING SHACKLED FROM for two months, Im free
from the stupid wires on teeth and jaws. Dr. Crocker said I
healed beautifully but recommended my parents look into braces
for my crooked teeth. Thank god they cant afford them right
now.
The football Codge tosses in a beautiful lazy arc plops
easily into my waiting arms on this unseasonably warm late
February afternoon. Instead of shouting great throw (Im still
not used to talking) I shoot him thumbs up.
After hammering a For Sale sign into her yard, Blanch
pauses, catching her breath. Then tool in both hands, she pounds
a final time.
Need some help with that Mrs. Buzzalotti? asks Codge.
Call me Blanch, she says heaving a sigh. Shes almost
unrecognizableno makeup, hair a mess, pants and sneakers
underneath a faded floral apron. The biggest difference, though,
is she looks happy.
Where are you going? I ask.
I dont know, Ive always liked Canada, replies our
landlady handing us a white envelope from her apron pocket,
Good luck to you boys.
Inside, a small color snapshot of Joe dressed in signature
vest and jeans, grinning on a beach, kissing Edsel. On the back,
a cursive message: Siddhartha and Traveler.
PULLING INTO THE DRIVEWAY next to Dads Biscayne,
Mr. Baskerville honks three times, a smoldering Lucky propped
on lower lip. Jumping from the vehicle simultaneously, Nic and
Renny almost knock over a burly mover lugging the last box.
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288
Take care of this, okay says Nic offering me a yellow
plastic binder.
You really want to part with this? asks Codge, flipping
through pages of our bands binder with original lyrics lovingly
handwritten, We wrote these together.
Nic, I say, voice breaking, looking over my brothers
shoulder, each original song echoing vividly in my head, Dont
let any hacks play those drums. Okay?
Never. he says, clasping my hand, Dont worry.
George says Dad, shaking Mr. Baskervilles hand.
Thanks for helping my boys.
Have a safe trip, says George.
I think, says Nic, sniffling, Im catching a cold.
Somethings going around, says Renny, rubbing his
eyes.
Yeah, I say, blowing my nose.
AS WE DRIVE TOWARD EAST BENCHS snow capped
Wasatch Mountain Range, I peer through the back window, my
best friends vanishing behind the Sinclair station when we turn.

BPILOO0B
Though lights click on and off, phantoms stomp on stairs,
silverware clicks on plates in the middle of the night and pillows
move from bed to bed, the parents still rent this old two story
brick colonial in Blacksburg, Virginia. At $130 a month, it
would be a real steal if the place wasnt haunted.
I hate it here. My heart breaks a little more every day,
especially when I think about what I had to leave in Utah. Plus I
have to suffer proudly flown rebel flags, Dixie blaring from my
new schools marching band and barely intelligible southern
fried accents.
Today is Good Friday. The Easter weekend will be
consumed with endless unpacking and more church, which we
already endured today complete with the grueling Stations of the
Cross. Occasionally picking up drumsticks, I whack on moving
boxes. Those with interesting tonal qualities, I hoard in my
enormous, bug-less second floor bedroomagainst my parents
wishes who want me to forget about being a musician. You
might as well tell me to forget about breathing.
Ding dong!
Ill get it! I holler from the kitchen, eager to break from
unpacking silverware.
Sprinting through the formal dining room, I leap over a
moving carton. As I twist the door knob, lights flutter spookily.
Oh come on! I scream, to our resident ghost, Knock it
off!
Flickering unsteadily at first, the lights finally stay off.
Thank you! I yell to our tenant ghoul, though the door
creaks open sinisterly, Very funny!
Special delivery, says the postman, For a Masta
James Potta.
Potter/Vivanco

290
Uh, Im Master James Potter I say, shielding eyes from
the afternoon sun.
Are you one of them Mormons? he asks studying the
receipt.
No, I say, as he scuttles back to the postal van, Im
Catholic.
Break time again? asks Codge, at the top of the
staircase, ready to throttle me.
Mailmans got a package for me, I protest, Besides
you take more breaks than I do.
Its probably a new set of rosaries from grandma, says
Codge, sliding down the heavy wooden banister, landing on his
feet next to me, Just in time for Easter.
Nope, I say, Not this time.
Like an overburdened pack mule, the postman battles a
box the size of four foot lockers.
Eaat Bench

291






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