Rebel Slaughter

Rebel Slaughter and I met in 1987 at a party somewhere on Harriet Avenue in Minneapolis. Or was it 1988? I get my years confused so often, so let's just say it was 1988. It was the year after I lived in the Coachella Valley in California amidst aging golfers and crystalmeth impaired bikers. My Father, after a year of unemployment, took a job on the wind parks in the middle of a town called Desert Hot Springs, which was outside of Palm Springs. I at first said, "Absolutely not." to the prospect of living in the desert, but then a week before my Mother was going to move there, I relented. Unfortunately, much to my parent's disappointment, I grew tired of the desert, and rather quickly. I made my way back to Minneapolis, and only a mere six months later. I was seventeen. I met Rebel Slaughter about six months after my return to Minneapolis, so yes, indeed, it was 1988 that we met. I had moved on to the wise and ripe old age of eighteen by then.

If you didn't already glean this from his pseudonym, Rebel was a bonafide metal head, and actually happened to be the biggest Rush fan that I ever knew. He was so much of a fan of Rush that every year that they played he would camp out for his tickets, regardless of the weather or whether or not there were any other hindrances. One year that he did this, he implored me to go with him to the concert. He camped out at the ticket outlet and later called me to inform me that he had procured not one, but two second row tickets to see Rush. Rebel Slaughter and his indie-rock loving friend (that's me) would soon be off to see Rush in all their Canadian glory!

His real name was Randy, and he and I quickly became the best of friends. We were pretty much inseparable for many years. In retrospect, he and I were an odd pair, him being a long-haired, full-blooded Chippewa that when born, had been adopted by an adoring German American family from rural Southern Minnesota. Me, well I was pretty much the polar opposite. I was a rebellious, white kid, raised in a typical nuclear family in the suburbs of Minneapolis. There was no metal for me (well, there were some exceptions), but rather indie-rock shows at First Avenue as well as the Uptown Bar. In retrospect, I would say that our common thread was our sense of humor. He was a dark and sarcastic, just like me, so we clicked immediately on that level.

Randy (I never could call him Rebel Slaughter for obvious reasons) lived in the Curfew House. It was cleverly called the Curfew House because, well, because it was on Curfew Avenue, somewhere close to the Minneapolis/St. Paul border off of University Avenue. It was near the "Witches Hat" water tower, if you're familiar with the area. Curfew House was the quintessential party house. Many cases of Leinenkeugel were consumed there, and many noisy band rehearsals took place in the basement. Randy had a myriad of roommates, and a whole slew of animals that lived there at one time or another. At any point, day or night, impromptu parties would develop at the house, lest I forget the actual planned parties. We would have barbecues in the backyard, play midnight whiffle ball in the side parking lot, and I even remember seeing the Northern Lights one evening while visiting casa de Curfew. Many great (if unclear) memories were formed there.

At this point Randy had lived there for years (I've lost track again as to what year it was), and at one point he and I started talking about his real Mother and how he really wanted to find her. I pushed him to do as such, and one fateful day he did find her. She was living on the Red Lake Indian Reservation, which is way up in Northern Minnesota. It's a part of the state that has many beautiful lakes, and acres and acres of forested land. It's densely wooded, bitterly cold in the Winter, deeply mysterious, and one of my favorite parts of the country. It's also a part of the state that has many Indian reservations, mostly stemming from the Chippewa, also known as the Ojibwe nation.

His birth Mother came to visit him in the city, soon after they were reconnected. Shortly after this, she invited him to Red Lake to visit and to meet other family members. I think he was nervous about this, but excited at the same time, which, ultimately I completely understood. This was his first opportunity to reconnect with his actual roots and to see what his life ultimately could have been like. Much like the Rush concert, he once again implored me to go with him on his journey to Red Lake. It would be over July 4th weekend for the annual "Independence Day" pow-wow. How fitting. I agreed, and was actually quite excited about experiencing this new world. How could I not be as such?

To be continued...

Migration

In Minneapolis, and Minnesota in general, there are many, many lakes. In Minneapolis alone I can think of nine lakes, but there probably are more hidden somewhere that I've never heard of or never visited. Let me see if I can name them: Lake Calhoun, Lake Harriet, Cedar Lake, Lake of the Isles, Lake Nokomis, Lake Hiawatha...I guess I can't. So be it. Maybe there were only six? Occasionally I tell people about growing up in Minnesota and all of the amazing things that happen there, including the Winters that are ever so cold. I remember how during the Winter we would often spend time outdoors, regardless of the temperature outside, sledding, skating, and of course building gigantic caves out of the mountains of snow that we would create when we would shovel the driveway. A snowstorm would come through and blanket the entire city in sometimes two, three, and up to four feet of snow. I'm not exaggerating. My big Brother and I would be sent out to the garage to brandish our weapons for snow elimination -- the shovel. We would shovel, and shovel, and shovel, and then shovel some more, all while the clear areas were being attacked with a new, fresh blanket. The snow was relentless, and our job never seemed to end.

The snow would eventually let up and the driveway would be clear enough for the family Pinto to pass through. Usually it didn't matter how much snow descended upon the city. Work and life had to continue, and the Pinto had duties to fulfill in the morning. My Brother, in typical older Brother fashion, would pelt me with a few snowballs and probably dump me in the snow a few times; torture being his forte. The battle would end and then he would suggest that we build a snow fort out of the banks of snow that were piled high on the sides of the driveway. Sometimes these banks would tower many feet up in the air, and what was once a tedious job became the perfect medium for a cave. We would start digging into the snow banks to produce a hole large enough for a kid to pass through, and then we would dig some more. We eventually would have a cave-like structure large enough for not only one person, but sometimes up to four people to sit comfortably. Sometimes the Olsons or the Ekstroms would come over to share our fort, but sometimes it was just me and my big brother. It was our own little igloo to protect us from the elements and to hide from the real world.

Many hours were also spent traversing the lakes of the city and state. No, we didn't swim across the lakes during the Winter, but rather we walked across the lakes. The weather remained so cold for so long that the water would freeze, and sometimes up to a few feet deep. Not so much in the city, but elsewhere in the state, people would often drive their vehicles onto the lake, usually with the sole purpose of placing a structure on the lake so they could then drill holes in the ice and commence the activity of ice fishing. For some reason, (and I've never even really understood this one) people in Minnesota love to go out to the middle of the lakes, sit in their little ice house, drink many, many beers and wait for fish to attack the bait that they present through a little hole in the ice. To each their own, I suppose. For me and my Brother, the lakes offered a different Winter-time activity! Ice skating! An area would be cleared of snow on the ice (once again requiring a shovel), and we would skate, and skate, and skate, for hours at a time. Backwards, forwards, jumping, figure-eights - I loved it all. I even took figure skating lessons at one time, all the while, donning my Dorothy Hamill styled hair. It was the seventies, after-all.

There was one lake in Minnesota that never froze over, and as a matter of fact, it remained fluid throughout the year. Silver Lake was in Rochester, Minnesota where my Mother grew up, and where we usually ended up to celebrate all of our holidays with my Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and Cousins. We would go to the house where my Mother was actually born to give thanks, deck the halls, or search for the elusive tinted egg. If our visit was during the Fall or Winter, we usually would take a drive over to Silver Lake to see, not only dozens, but literally hundreds of Canadian geese, with a smattering of ducks in-between. Geese would be everywhere in this lake, but only for a short while. They were still preparing to form their typical "V" formation, and to migrate to warmer climates - or at least that's what I think their objective was. When the geese decided that it was time to go, what would be their final destination? That was always my question. How could these geese be enjoying a lovely, warm bath one minute, and then just fly away to a destination unknown. Or perhaps they did know their destination? A conundrum, I suppose.

Dreaming on Philadelphia

I was recently "friended" by the person with whom I moved from Los Angeles to New York City, back in 1998. I thought about 1998, what was happening, and all of the circumstances under which we finally made the trip across the country. I don't remember the route we took, although that being said, I think it was I-40, pretty much straight across. What I do remember is that storms followed us pretty much from Arizona, all the way to the East coast. Seeing as we were camping most of the time, this posed somewhat of a problem, but it certainly wasn't the end of the world. I believe it took about four days to finish our journey, which was our ultimate goal. We had already selected an apartment on Suffolk and Rivington in the lower east side, and now we just had to set our lives and all of our worldly possessions in place.

About a week before our endeavor of traversing the country commenced, I had a dream, and a very vivid dream at that. It was the sort of dream that would be locked in my memory banks forever. At first I wanted to dismiss the dream, but later realized that it probably was more poignant than I had initially realized. In the dream, I was actually traveling in the truck in which we had all of our various life items. We were actually making the journey to our new home in New York. It was an electric moment, both of us almost overwhelmed with excitement knowing that we would soon be living in New York City. In the dream, we stopped somewhere to get gas and perhaps a bite to eat. I remember I was walking into the truck stop when suddenly somebody stopped me and told me that they had something to tell me. Seeing as it was a dream, I didn't really think anything of it. It was a dream, after all, and why should it matter to me whether or not someone had something to tell me. This is what dreams are for, right? I looked at the person intently, and he said, "There's been a change in plans. You won't be moving to New York after-all. You'll be moving to Philadelphia instead and all of the arrangements have been made for you to continue your life there." In my dream, I immediately began to cry. All of my plans to move to New York had been thwarted, and by some guy in a truck stop in Ohio -- or was it Indiana? Who was he, and how dare he?

I looked around the truck stop to find that my traveling companion was no longer there. I looked behind me, and found that our truck was gone as well, as if it vanished into thin air. I slowly walked to a car that was parked at the side of the building, and without hesitating, pulled a key out of my bag, started the ignition, and began to drive again -- this time solo, and without really knowing where I was going or what I was doing. I reached the East coast, and for some reason all I could see was the New York City skyline, even though I knew that wasn't my final destination. I crossed over one of the bridges into the city, but then looped back over another bridge. I found myself driving over one bridge after another, until I reached my final destination, Philadelphia.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, I don't know.) living in Philadelphia never came about in my life, although the dream of moving there has stuck with me now for ten years. I often wonder the relevance of dreams. Some people place the utmost importance on them, where others recognize them as manifestations of vague memories. I fall somewhere in-between. Was there a message in this dream? Was it a warning? Perhaps I should visit Philadelphia soon and find out.

Gestation

As of tomorrow, it will have been nine months since I arrived in Raleigh, a gestation period, of sorts, which has given birth to a flood of memories. One such memory that came about today was of probably one of the largest thunderstorms that I've experienced in recent time. For some reason, proper thunderstorms didn't come about that often in New York City, much to my chagrin. I'm not sure why that was, but I'm guessing that it had something to do with being so close to the ocean. In Minneapolis, though, that was a different story. No oceans to interfere with Mother Nature; just lakes, streams, and the mighty Mississippi. I loved how in Minneapolis as a storm was approaching, the sky would develop from towering whitish-gray clouds to absolute black within minutes. Everything would become very still and then the first crack of thunder would come about. Glorious and ever so powerful.

This last storm occurred back in May when I first arrived in Raleigh. I was on the second floor of the Velvet Cloak Inn thinking that I wanted to go out and about on the town. It was late in the afternoon, and there didn't seem to be a whole lot going on in town, but a plan was to be made regardless. I was, after all, still on vacation, and one can spend only so much time in one's hotel room, as one might already know. On the second floor of the Velvet Cloak, there's a large, glass enclosed patio and pool area which I often spent my spare time visiting. Cigarettes were smoked, thoughts were formulated, plans were made, all in the confines of this patio area. There were palm trees and hyacinths randomly placed about the patio, and on this particular day there were dozens of white chairs neatly set up for what I imagined was going to be a wedding ceremony. I remember thinking that the white chairs reminded me of the orderly lines of Arlington Cemetery's tombstones. It wasn't so much of a morbid thought, more of a visual connection.

I went out to the patio and noticed that the sky had become considerably darker. I went to the cemetery of chairs and sat down in the front row, fourth chair from the right. I imagined that somebody's Grandmother would probably be sitting there the next day. The wind started whipping the tree's branches about, and suddenly what had moments ago been very still was crackling with ferocious energy; the kind that only Mother Nature can create. For moments, I thought of retreating to my hotel room, but decided that I wanted to witness the fury that was presented to me. The rain came down in silver sheets, periodically changing direction like undulating schools of fish.

As I sat there pondering the universe at large, suddenly a woman came out to the patio. Obviously I was in a public area, but at first I felt as if my boundaries had been invaded. It was me and the storm and suddenly there was someone interloping on my moment with Madre Tierra. She approached me and asked for a light. Once she spoke, for some reason I dropped all of my defenses and felt okay with welcoming her into my world. She told me that she actually worked at the hotel, but she was living there, as well. Apparently there were several others who lived and worked in the hotel, which I found absolutely fascinating. She smoked her cigarette, said goodbye, and made her way back to her room. I never saw her again.

I thought of this woman the other day as I drove past the hotel with a friend. I told him and our other companions that I had once been a guest of the hotel. He told me that the hotel had been closed due to fire code violations, which spawned a certain level of sadness as I thought about the woman who lived and worked at the hotel. Where did she and the others go? It was as if somebody had wiped out some sort of thriving refugee camp. Did these people find another hotel where they could live and work? Did they all go together, or did they disperse throughout the city, state or perhaps even country? My thoughts are with them.

This is Not My Beautiful House

Jack (names have been changed to protect the "innocent") picked me up at Raleigh/Durham International Airport a little less than a year ago. May 10, 2008 to be exact. Little did I know at the time that nine months later I would actually still be living and working in "The City of Oaks". That's Raleigh, to all of you Yankees and others who hail from different lands. Also, little did I know how much change would occur in my life because of this portentous day. You may ask, "Who is this Jack character?" Well, simply put, Jack is a dear friend of mine, and the catalyst (well, one of them) for me moving to Raleigh, NC. If it wasn't for Jack and my other friend, "Alex" who lives in Concord (he is definitely not an Alex, but...), I never in a million years would have considered Raleigh as a place to hang my hat. I mean who moves to Raleigh? I guess the real question should be, who up and leaves ten years of her life in New York City behind for a place where she barely knows a soul and doesn't have a job or a place to live? Seeing as I'm writing this to get my story out on paper (or computer screen, as the case may be) as opposed to therapeutic purposes, I'll leave that question alone for the time being. It is a good question, though, but back to Jack.

Jack and I worked together on the road for what was originally intended to be a five month Kenny Chesney tour, which was then pared (at least for Jack and I) down to two months. We lived, ate, worked and slept in close proximity to one another for this entire time, all on a rickety old RV with a mobile kitchen trailer hitched to the back. This also was all accomplished with four other guys (who shall remain nameless) and a bus driver from Winston-Salem named Joe. There's definitely a few stories in there with these particular five people, but I'll save that for another time.

When my original plans went awry on this particular tour, one of the first people I called was Jack. He had left the tour a mere three days before I did, and in a very dramatic way. Because of this, and for other reasons, he seemed like the most logical person to talk to. I'm not sure why, it just was that way. The way that I guess I was viewing it is that Jack was the only person that would understand why I was leaving the tour, and understand he did. He heard my story and immediately suggested that I come down to Raleigh to visit for a week or two while I considered my next steps. I had of course given up my apartment in Brooklyn thinking that I would be on the road for five months, so my options were limited as to where I could go. There were other options, of course, but, as crazy as it sounds, suddenly going somewhere that wasn't familiar to me seemed like a good idea.

He cleared it with Janet, his "live-in girlfriend" with whom I had worked on a previous date during my first trip to Raleigh back in March. Ah yes. Good ol' Barry Manilow brought us all together for the first time. Thanks, Barry. Unfortunately, in Jack's eyes, Janet was his "live-in girlfriend" but in Janet's eyes, Jack was a meal ticket. This was more than apparent to all of his friends, but unfortunately, once again, Jack turned a blind eye. Ah, love.

I didn't really care for Janet much when I first met her. I got the impression that she was completely manipulative, a quality which I abhor in both women and men alike. Regardless of how I felt about Janet, I took Jack up on his offer to stay at his house, made my way to the Baltimore airport, and jumped on the next plane to Raleigh. I can turn a blind eye as well, I guess.

Janet was actually driving and Jack was in the passenger seat when they pulled up to the passenger pick-up area. Why was this? Well, the thing about Jack was that he's an alcoholic, pure and simple, and an alcoholic of the most severe variety. When he drinks, there's usually no stopping, and at that point he had been on a bender for four consecutive days. He would wake up to a beer, wine or another alcoholic beverage, continuing until he was a belligerent, drooling fool. This is not to pass judgment on my friend, it's merely stating a fact. I'm completely aware that we've all, including myself, have been drunk in ridiculous ways before, but Jack took it to the next level. You see, the thing that I noticed first about Jack was that his hands were always shaking. Well actually that was after I noticed his dry and acerbic wit. Jack, the man with shaking hands and a caustic sense of humor. What would there not be to like? There was mention of medication that he had to pick up while we were on tour, so at first I thought the shaking may have been some sort of neurological disorder like Parkinson's disease. When I decided that I have ability to diagnose these sorts of things, I'm not sure, but it's probably something that I should refrain from. What really was going on was that Jack, when on the road would completely abstain from his usual boozing ways, which, I guess, was part of his contract with the company that shall remain nameless. Because of his abstinence, he would inevitably end up with a terrible case of the D.T.s which would continue for weeks on end until he sucked down that next cocktail. I witnessed the "next cocktail" when we were still on the road in Charlottesville, WV. Or was that Charleston? Anyway, it was one of those "Ch" towns that I often mix up that are so abundant in the South. What I didn't realize was that the next cocktail would stretch out over a month regardless of where we were. The tremors were gone now, but unfortunately, so was Jack.

We drove through the city streets of Raleigh, and finally made our way to Jack and Janet's apartment, set amidst the woods across the street from a very large mall in North Raleigh. As we drove through the lanes of the apartment complex I thought that it made complete sense that Jack lived in this wooded setting. It reminded me of a place that would be in Vermont, and seeing as Jack was from Vermont, the shoe fit very well. Once we got inside, Jack, Janet and I visited civilly for awhile, and then Janet set off to meet with friends. Jack and I decided to go to the store (this time I drove) and get some provisions. I was all wound up from my day's experience and hungry as hell, so wine and food were in order. Once our mission was accomplished, we returned for conversation and hockey viewing. Nothing like a little hockey to let off some steam. I kid you not.

The following three days involved me driving Jack around the town in search of food, booze and an opportunity to leave the house. Jack would inevitably reach the belligerent, drooling stage, once again, and often would become somewhat of a petulant child. This was most often when he started drinking vodka. He would quickly down several shots of vodka, which inevitably lead to us being asked to leave the bar. So be it. We would leave the bar, I would bring Jack home to pass out, and then I would carry on with my evening somewhere else. Jack was safe at home, and I was determined to have some fun on my "vacation", so fun I did have.

During these three days, we didn't see hide nor hair of Janet. Jack would receive the occasional text or even a phone call, but to home she did not return. One day when I was out and about, Jack and she had a conversation which I sensed would be coming about. I'm not sure how I sensed it, but I guess you could chalk it up to a woman's intuition - or something along those lines. I sensed that Janet was going to ask me to not stay at their house anymore. What I didn't sense is her reasoning behind it. She basically accused me of being his enabler and driving him to drink. I, in essence, and in her eyes, was causing a fifty-four year old man to suddenly be an alcoholic? Dubious. The fact that she was omitting was that she would drink with him on a daily basis, but clearly, that was "different". So be it. Clearly I was a threat to her, so off I went to a hotel very close to the downtown area of Raleigh where I stayed for three days. I had things to do and plans to make.

During this time, I started going out and about to some of the places that my friend "Alex" had recommended. That's when I started meeting people in Raleigh, with whom most of I am still acquainted. I actually had the time of my life during these three days, met some really great people, and started thinking that maybe I should live in Raleigh. I believe it was my first fateful evening at Slim's that these seeds were planted. Yes, the very same Slim's, and I know exactly who planted these seeds.

Suddenly, one afternoon I got a call from Jack. He suggested that we get together for lunch (i.e. a drink) and he also informed me that Janet hadn't been home for three days. He wasn't even sure if she was coming back. Ah, more drama. Must it follow me everywhere? I met with him, and he apologized for all of the events involving Miss Janet. To me it was like water off a duck's back. Jack was my friend regardless of the situation, and I knew it wasn't him, it was her. Well, that's not entirely true, but...He suggested that I shouldn't be spending money on a hotel, and that I was more than welcome to stay at his house again. I wasn't at the point of desperation, but I was running out of money and needed to figure out what my next steps were. Would I be staying in Raleigh, or would life take me elsewhere?

With much trepidation, I once again took Jack up on his offer to stay at his house. What I didn't realize was that Janet would actually be returning that evening. Jack once again reached his usual drunken state and fired off some text message informing her that I was back at the house. My initial apprehension had been validated, and ever so quickly. Jack ended up on the phone, and suggested that I use his car to get something to eat. I did as such, and as I was returning, I received a call on my cell phone from an unfamiliar North Carolina number. I called the number back after listening to the message. It was Janet. She informed me that she had called the police and reported Jack's car as being stolen! If I didn't return it in ten minutes she was going to call the police again and have me arrested. She also informed me that all of my stuff would be on the front porch waiting for me. Whoa! Really? I very calmly pulled over to the side of the road (ironically in front of a police station) and just started laughing and shaking my head in disbelief. I pulled my thoughts together and made way back to my stuff and an extremely drunk and apologetic Jack.

I collected my belongings and made my way to the Velvet Cloak where I stayed for a week. I actually really enjoyed my stay there, and had some really great experiences while I was still on my "vacation". I eventually had the epiphany that I did want to live in Raleigh, and had the good fortune to meet my current roommate through a mutual friend. That, and I've become friends with some really amazing people.

Where is Jack? Shortly after all of this happened, Jack went to Ohio to his ex-wife's house to "clean up". And clean up he did. He's now back in Vermont and doing quite well as the Executive Chef of what sounds like a lovely restaurant somewhere near his home town. He hasn't drank a drop since he's left. As for Janet, shortly after I left Jack's apartment, she disclosed to him that she had been using heroin the whole time that she was living with him and she had plans to go to a recovery program somewhere in Mexico. Ironic? I would say so.

To be continued...

Crack, Crack, Crackity Ron

It's been a while since I've thought about my old co-worker Ron and his beguiling ways (The name has NOT been changed to protect the innocent.), but seemingly he is a topic that is worth revisiting. When I first met Ron, he was very friendly, gregarious, and actually had an absolutely grand sense of humor, and really had a way of pulling people in. He always seemed to be laughing about something or another, sometimes at others' expense, (as it so often occurs in the kitchen) but sometimes just about life in general. One such levity inducing topic was a wild turkey by the name of Henry that had decided that the bushes of the camp office was where he would make his home. On a daily basis, some poor, geriatric camper would inevitably be chased down the path if they were to approach the office. Often, said geriatric camper would become the victim of Henry's welt producing peck, which, as even I've experienced is incredibly painful. Painful, yes, but to see a turkey chasing somebody down a pathway is somewhat comical, I'll have to admit. This brought great amusement to go ol' Ronny, to say the least. His carrying on about it in the way that he did, always pushed all of us to laughter in the end. Not only was it his material, but it was the way that he laughed; infectious to say the least. Sadly, because of this comic facade, I, as well as many others, fell prey to his ruse.

The retreat center that I worked at had a very interesting employee community. It was comprised of people of all walks of life, and from all over the world, but especially from Eastern European countries such as Hungary and the Czech Republic. I can't remember for the life of me the majority of these people's names, but I guess in the end that wasn't really important. Perhaps it should have been, though, considering the close proximity that we all lived to one another. We all lived in cabins that were scattered throughout the property. The cabins were similar in structure to the cabins that the guests stayed in, the only difference being that our cabins were dank, drab, and in completely dilapidated. The majority of the employees had roommates, but for some reason, and at some point in history, it had been decided that the Chef and the Sous Chef would have their own cabins. Our cabins were all adjoining in a four-unit building beside a lake, and tucked away in the woods of the Berkshires. Serene and idyllic.

My neighbor to the right of me was an over the top sassy, remarkably large, recovering alcoholic by the name of...um, we'll call her Nancy (although I know that's way off the mark - my memory is failing me once again). I had difficulty with her brazen ways, at first, but as time went on she sort of grew on me. We even went to Poughkeepsie to see Lynard Skynard and .38 Special together. Yes, you read correctly -- Lynard Skynard and .38 Special. I believe I actually witnessed the South rising again at this concert, but this time it took place in Poughkeepsie! Frightening on so many different levels. That was the thing about the camp. We were all so isolated up there, that in the end there really was no choice but to get along and commit desperate acts such as paying $40.00 to see Lynard Skynard. All this, just to escape the monotony of our everyday work life. The so called camaraderie at the camp was all very shallow, and there was an immense amount of backstabbing that was duly noted from the start. It was the sort of backstabbing that soap operas are based upon. In other words, Erica Caine had nothing on this group. In addition to "Nancy", in the front part of the building there was a Hungarian couple with whom I became friends. And then there was little old Ron, left to his own nebulous devices. I suppose all the better for him to hit the pipe in absolute privacy. There's no doubt in my mind (time to state the obvious) that such things would be frowned upon if he were to have a roommate that possibly could divulge his little secret. Lucky for Ron, indeed, that no such roommate existed. His crazy habits could carry on, all of us none the wiser.

The day at the camp usually started at 5:00 a.m., and often ended at 8:30, 9:00, and even sometimes as late as midnight. To say that the days were long and arduous is definitely an understatement. At the end of the day, Ron, "Nancy", the Hungarian couple, and I would make our way back to our compound, sometimes together, and sometimes separately, more often the latter. I would make my way past the lake, down the dark wooded road, (still in my chef's uniform) to my abode, and would often find Ron perched on his front porch with a cocktail in hand. Often, he would invite me up for a beer or other libation, and we would hang out for a couple of hours, laughing and carrying on as if our horrendous day had never even happened -- typical food service industry modus operandi, I guess. Sometimes Nancy would join us, and sometimes even our Hungarian friends would make an appearance as well. This was a fine arrangement in the beginning, but as time went on, and the Summer came closer to expiring, Ron began showing his crackhead personality little by little. At first it wasn't completely apparent, but instead came out in very subtle ways. First it was the lies, and then it emerged as manipulation of individuals, and then of course there was the pitting of the kitchen staff against one another. Not necessarily grounds for an intervention, but in retrospect, the signs were definitely all there. As time progressed, life at Isabella Freedman definitely became more interesting.

Ron loved women, and it was a well known fact. There was always some gal that he was chasing after for one reason or another, be it for sex, money or drugs. On several occasions he attempted to put the moves on me, but without any success. I dismissed it as Ron just being Ron, and carried on the way that we always had been. I had worked in enough kitchens and have enough male friends to know the score, thank you very much. Then the crack incident came about.

We were through with our day, and as usual, there was Ron, sitting on his front porch. Our Hungarian neighbors came over, and Ron invited us in to watch a movie. Seeing as it was either that or go possum hunting, I accepted the invite. We all went in, had a couple of drinks, then our Hungarian neighbors decided they were going to go home. I decided to stay to watch "the movie" with Ron and have a couple more drinks with him. There we were, shooting the shit when suddenly Ron asks me if I minded if he smoked. Here I was, thinking that he was going to bust out his weed and start puffing away. What did I care? Well, I didn't. Next thing you know, here Ron is with his little glass pipe, which he began methodically filling with his drug of choice. He ignited his utensil, and then everything became that much clearer to me as to why Ron was "Ron".

He offered me some, I declined, but for some reason I felt compelled to sit there and watch as he continued to get high - and continue to get high, he did. At one point, he turns to me and says, "Okay, let's watch that movie." He jumps out of his chair, turns on the TV, stuffs the VCR with one of his many, many VHS tapes, and then next thing you know, there I am, somewhat intoxicated from the several drinks that I had earlier, watching Ron's "movie of choice". That's when I stood up and calmly told Ron that I would see him tomorrow in the morning at work. Watching him smoke crack was one thing, but watching him smoke crack while watching porn was a completely different thing. Call me a prude. At this point, he became very edgy and neurotic, as he was probably really, really high at this point. He said, "No! You can't leave right now! If you leave now, Adam will suspect something is up!" I started thinking, my God, is he going to let me leave his cabin? Is he going to freak out on me? What's going to happen? I then went into crisis mode. For some reason, I've noticed that over the years whenever situations get out of hand or there's some sort of imminent crisis, that's when I become very calm - almost serene. I'm not sure where this stems from, but if I figure it out, I'll let you know - or not. It was suddenly my job to be the "voice of reason" for Ron, only for the sole purpose of me getting away from him. He was overwhelmed with paranoia at this point, and it was up to me to get him to a point where he trusted that Adam, or anybody else for that matter, would be none the wiser about his state.

I suggested that we have another drink, and stood up to pour yet another cocktail for myself, and grab a beer for my paranoid "friend". As I was pulling our drinks together, I suddenly turned around to find Ron kneeling on his bed, peeking through the Venetian blinds. He was completely and utterly convinced that somebody was outside of the window spying on him. He kept on peering through the cracks of the blinds, all the while puffing on the last bits of crack in his possession. I thought, my God, will he ever run out? And run out, he finally did. Within ten minutes, he smoked the last of his rocks, all the while assessing the situation outside through his window shade.

Ron finally reached a state (I'm not even sure how long it took) where he had calmed down and no longer believed that Adam and the entire camp management were spying on him. I finally was able to excuse myself, and went back to my cabin to attempt to get some sleep. 5:30 a.m. was a mere three hours away. I went around the corner to my cabin entrance, and closed and locked the door behind me.

5:30 a.m. came about way too quickly. I was exhausted, slightly hungover, and somewhat worried about seeing Ron in the kitchen. I mean, what do you say after something like that? No, really...What do you say? Well, I said nothing to him, or to anyone else for that matter, and our working relationship continued for a couple of months after Ron's little crack and porn escapade.

Things went into the decline for Ron. I was asked to be the main Chef for a Two-hundred person wedding on-site. At first I declined the offer, then later found out that Ron had declined the offer as well. I decided to take it, based on this. Our roles would be reversed, but only for this one event. Our "friendship" had obviously been strained at this point, but Ron said that he would help with the wedding, and I believed him. Gullible is definitely a word in the dictionary, by the way. One of the people that I had hired to help with the event called me at about 4:30 in the morning, two hours before she was supposed to be on site to tell me that she couldn't work after all. It was a mess from the start, but to make matters worse, Ron disappeared during the middle of the day for not one, not two, not even three hours! He disappeared for four hours! Clearly it was sabotage. Where did he go? Your guess is as good as mine, but what I do know is that Ron was soon relieved of his position of Executive Chef. He wasn't fired, per se, he was merely demoted.

I gave my notice shortly after the wedding, and within a month I was back in Astoria in the apartment building that smelled of cat urine, with the crazy, pill-popping caretaker, and her wild and woolly brood. A step in the right direction? Absolutely. In my eyes, a completely welcome respite from the calamitous Summer of 2004. The nightmare was over.

The Vicissitudes of Life

As I sit here drinking my tea, unwinding from my second day at my new job at the country club, I suddenly found myself in somewhat of a reflective mood, and started reviewing events of the past several years. When I recently went into my soon to be new boss' office, he actually asked me the dreaded question, "Where do you see yourself in five years." I of course shot something off the cuff about moving up the culinary ladder and eventually being at Sous Chef level, or perhaps even Executive Chef, something, something, blah, blah, blah, but then added that I would like to see that happen within two years as opposed to the five that seems to be so popular. Why five years? Why not six? Why not two? I just don't understand. Of course as I was answering his question, I was really thinking that I don't even know what I'm going to be doing in five days, let alone five years. How about that? Well, I exaggerate, but not much in this case.

I think of all the paths that I've been down, up, over and across over the past five years, and I wonder if there will be as many changes for me in the next five. Five years ago? Let me see. What year was that? Oh yes, that was 2004. It was the year that I graduated from culinary school in New York City. I lived with my then boyfriend in a horrible apartment in Astoria. I loved Astoria, but that apartment took sucking to a whole new level. The thing about it, though, was that it was cheap, at least by NYC standards. $1200 for a two bedroom apartment! Cheap, indeed. It was big too, because it was in Queens. Eight hundred square feet? Big, indeed. It was owned by an absentee landlord who lived in Kansas. In his absence, he had his completely insane Sister take over the "caretaker" duties. If I remember correctly, there were three kids, and there was a Husband of some sort too. She was nine times out of ten completely whacked out on some sort of drug, my bet being that it usually was some sort of pill. When you walked in the apartment building, it smelled of cat pee. Thankfully, you couldn't smell it once you passed our threshold, but just walking into the building was an assault on the olfactories. Oh yes, the reason that it smelled of cat urine was because she was one of those "cat ladies". You know, the kind of person that picks up every single stray cat in the universe. Fascinating, to say the least. I actually wonder if there have ever been case studies on such people, but I digress.

At the same time that I was graduating from culinary school, I believe I was working at a restaurant by the name of Riingo as a pastry cook. It was my first paid job in the industry, and I was working under the illustrious Marcus Samuelson of Aquavit fame. At the time I thought, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, but in the end, it turned out to be a complete nightmare. It was a brand new Japanese fusion restaurant, that was poorly organized and really dirty on top of it - at least behind the scenes. The front of house was very sleek and masculine. It had an Asian feel to it, but it also felt very European, if you can imagine. The man was raised in Sweden, afterall. I remember they paid me a yearly salary of $28,000, which isn't even close to being enough to survive on in New York. To add insult to injury, I was working fiteen to sixteen hour days, six days a week. It's a labor of love, I suppose, and I did learn how to make green tea filled doughnuts.

That Summer, I found an ad on Craig's List for a Seasonal Sous Chef position at Jewish retreat center in the Berkshires. It was about two and a half hours away from the city in a lovely little town called Falls Village. If you've never been to that part of the country before, I would highly recommend going to visit. It's absolutely beautiful up there. Everything is so green and picturesque, and all of the towns give off the air that you could have been sent back in time.

The guise of the retreat center was that it for the most part catered to Jewish seniors, but also was working on pulling in younger groups as well. The new Director (Adam something or another) wanted to promote sustainability and general earth consciousness, and started a youth group that stemmed from these principals. The group was called Adamah, and it consisted of twenty something Jewish kids from all over the country. They had an organic farm, and supposedly, all of the vegetables from the farm were to be used to feed all of the retreat center guests. All of this sounds just lovely, doesn't it? Well, it wasn't. The kids didn't know the first thing about farming, and they didn't get that seventy year old Marjorie from Poughkeepsie probably doesn't want to eat Swiss Chard. Seventy year old Marjorie from Poughkeepsie wants her frozen blintzes and her matzo ball soup, etc., etc., etc. And don't forget the gefelte fish, damnit! The whole reason that I was coming up there was because of this farm. This is the sort of stuff that chefs live for, but in this case, I wasn't even able to use the product that the farm was supposedly producing. This was all merely the tip of the iceberg. My boss, Ron something or another, who also happened to be my neighbor, ended up being a crack addict. He seemed fine at first, but as the months wore on, his crazy ways became more and more apparent. It would have been one thing if I just worked for the guy and then was able to make my merry way home and not have to deal with him, but that wasn't the case. He was going to be there twenty-four hours, six days a week, whether or not I liked it. At first I would hang out with him, completely unaware of the whole crack thing, but then the occasion arrived where he busted out the pipe and decided it would be a good idea to pop on some porn. Uh, sorry Ron, I gotta go. Well, there's a lot more to this story, and I could go on and on and on about all of the crazy things that happened while I was there, but I won't. I'll leave it at that. As they say, that that does not kill you...

To be continued.