YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
In everyone's life, there are certain moments that are a mixture of pride and fear. Sometimes it takes awhile to talk about them. How about forty years?
The scene is Hicksville Long Island, February 2, 1959. The evening after my bar mitzvah. The party's over. The horas, the haforah, what I needed to say and do. Now it's loot time. Slit the envelopes. Put aside the checks. Pocket the cash. Open the packages.
"Be careful to save the cards with the presents," says mom.
"You've got to write thank you notes."
"Even for this one?" I ask, smiling. I reach for the long thin box. The card on it says "To our son, with all our love, Mom and Dad."
"No," says Dad," For that one, you can do your thanking in person."
I know what it is. It's what I've wanted for years. My trembling hands tear the paper off the box. It's a strong cardboard box, made to look like wood. On the top, in fancy black script is: Daisy.
That's it! It makes all those years of Hebrew, all that baruching and atahing worthwhile. It was even worth wearing a tie for a day
I run my index finger under the tape holding the cover on.
There, like a jewel in a silver setting, is a Daisy Air Rifle, lying on a bed of tissue paper.
Another small package inside is the ammo. Air-powered Cummins Ammo Pellets. No wimpy BBs, but pellets, with points on 'em.
I rip open the ammo and fill the gun. Without even a thank you. Without putting on a jacket against the winter cold, I'm in the back yard, aiming at tree branches, birds, the fence.
Anything.
POW! Pump the handle to recharge. BANG! Pump again. BANG!
BANG! Pump some more. Of course, I hit nothing. I'm not worried about aim. I just want to SHOOT.
I don't know how long I'm out there in the cold. I do know I don't come back until the ammo is gone... shot out. I also know that the bar mitzvah cash comes to more than 300 bucks. All of it is gonna go for ammo.
The next day, it's off to the sporting goods store for more pellets, then back home to the fence. On one of the vertical posts, I set a Goya soup can. It'd be difficult for me to shoot at chicken soup, but anything with "Goy" in the name makes an easy target. Not as easy as I think.
FWAP! The Cummins ammo bounces off the tree about 5 feet to the left of the can. I try again, holding the stock tight against my shoulder. I look down the barrel, noticing for the first time a little notch. Further ahead of the notch is a small raised piece of metal. I line up the middle of the can, the notch and the raised piece of metal. Slowly, I squeeze the trigger. The rifle recoils against my shoulder, forcing me back a step. The pellet hits the fence. I walk over to examine. There's a mark in the fencepost, about 1/2 an inch under the can. I'm getting closer.
I march back across the yard. I plant my feet, one in front of the other like a plastic soldier in battle. I take aim. This time, lining everything up with the TOP of the can.
BING! The can sails off the fencepost into the neighbor's yard. I got it! Yowsah!
"Michael Joseph Board!" comes the loud voice behind me. When mom uses my middle name, I'm in trouble.
"You want something mom?" I ask.
"I want three things." she says. "One, that rifle won't take the place of your homework. You're not playing with it until you've done it. Two, I don't like you going through my cupboards for targets. And three, you're shooting toward the neighbors.
What happens if you hit a window? Or if someone's in the yard?"
It's a long discussion, but we agree: First, every night I'll have an hour before sundown to practice. After that, it's homework.
Second, once we've eaten the contents, mom'll save cans for me but I can't dig for them myself. Finally, I'll put a piece of wood behind the cans, so I won't be shooting into the neighbor's yard.
The good boy that I am, I stick by the agreement. I also stick by my practice. An hour a day. On weekends three or four.
The can size gradually decreases. From Goya soup to tomato sauce to tuna fish. BING! BING! BING! Boy, am I good!
The next year, 1960, I become interested in politics.
There's going to be a presidential election in November. Creepy vice-president Nixon against who-knows-who? When it turns out to be Kennedy, I'm overjoyed. Maybe the beatniks will have a chance.
This guy is good-looking, and promises a whole lot of things. He wants more rights for Negroes. I like that. Even though I've never seen a Negro close up, they still deserve their rights.
Let's shift forward a year. It's Christmas vacation, 1961.
Kennedy has disappointed me a bit with that Bay of Pigs stuff.
Still, I'm glad he said he's gonna "dismantle CIA." The war is over. It's about time we learned it.
My best friend David moved to New Orleans last year. My folks promised I could visit him. I'm on the plane leaving NY/NJ for the first time. G-d bless a good report card, and a recommendation for "rest" from the school psychologist. I can stay through Mardi Gras. That's from December 24 through February 9. Wow! What a vacation!
In the beginning, I spent most of my time with Dave. We go to the home of the Voodoo Queen. It's a museum now, with lots of candles and weird books. We also drank plenty of Dixie beer. In 1962, it's easy to get for two fifteen year olds.
Dave's dad takes us along the Bayou. I look through the white fog on both sides of the road, hoping to see alligators. I see white fog.
As compensation for the boring ride, Dave's dad takes us to see allegator wrestling. A big guy in a leopard skin bathing suit gets into a pool with a crocodile. The animal swims away. Tarzan Junior grabs it by the tail and pulls it out of the pool. The animal just lays on the ground, looking dazed. Maybe it's been drugged. The unattractive half naked man jumps on it. He rolls over on the grass a few times. Pries open the mouth and sticks his head in. Then, rolls around some more and throws the poor creature back into the pool. Show's over.
That's not exactly what I want to see. I'm fifteen. My hormones are acting as they do in a fifteen year old. Looking at anyone under the age of seventy gives me a hard-on. Under fifty, I come. There are so many sexy people in New Orleans-- especially young Negroes-- that I fear drowning in my own love juices.
The first day of Mardi Gras is almost too much. People shout from the windows. At the girls: "Show us your tits!" At the boys: "Show us your dick!" And they do!
It's about one o'clock in the afternoon, on the second day of Mardi Gras. David has a cold and sent me out alone. He wants to rest until later. Save his strength for opening beer bottles.
So I'm alone, when this guy about fifty comes up to me. He's tall, good looking in a way that would be too occidental and manly for me in the 90s. But then, it's just fine. (What isn't?) In a way, he looks a bit like John Kennedy.
"You look like a boy who needs to do more than look," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.
BOING! I harden in agreement.
"How do you do?" he continues, "My name is Clay."
"I'm Michael," I tell him. (I won't be "Mykel" for another ten years.)
"Well Michael," says Clay, "there's a little place named after me. It's called THE CLAY PIDGIN. I think you'll like it.
You interested in going?"
I nod, being both too nervous and too excited to speak.
"This is it." I think, "I'm finally going to get laid."
I follow Clay to a parking lot where we both get in his huge Lincoln Continental. I expect a chauffeur, but there isn't one.
"I like to do things myself," says Clay as we get in. Then he rests a hand on my leg, "well, not everything."
We drive out of the French Quarter, over a bridge to the other side of the Mississippi, through an area with more Negroes than I've ever seen in my life. It's a scary neighborhood. People lolling in doorways. Hanging out, smoking. Not doing anything in particular. Like nothing I've ever seen in Hicksville.
There's a small flashing blue light attached to a building on the corner up ahead. At the light, Clay drives into an alley.
He parks in front of an open door. Inside, a stairway leads up.
We take the stairs and find ourselves in a large reception room.
The clerk, a plump old man with a thin wisp of a mustache, stands when we enter.
"Mr. Shaw," he says, "it's nice to see you again."
Clay smiles and introduces me. "This is my new friend, Michael," says Clay.
"Cute," says the chubby man. I smile.
He hands us a couple of towels and waves us into the lockerroom. I've never seen so many naked men before. All kinds.
Whites, colored, big, small. I stare. I'd only heard about them in school. Seen them on television. There are no Negroes in Hicksville in the sixties. Now ,I get to see the whole thing.
Boy, is there a lot to see.
"Quick gawking and come on," says Clay. "I see you like that kind. We'll see what we can do."
He's already naked, enjoying the play of my eyes up and down his body.
Embarrassed by the competition, I slowly undress myself.
Turning and facing the locker, I remove my jockey shorts and wrap the towel around me.
I follow Clay through a roomful of hot steam. On the other side is a small door. He opens it. A tiny red bulb is the only light. It takes awhile for my eyes to adjust. When they do...
wow!
There are at least a dozen naked colored guys, all between 16 and 22 years old. All with hard knobbed little league bats pointing skyward between their legs.
"I thought you might like this room." says Clay.
In a second, I'm filled. Every hole plugged. A black hard- veined kielbasa in each hand. My own throbber is throbbingly stuffed into the young coffee-colored man straddling me. Standing along the side is the mysterious Clay. Watching us all, he jerks himself off, slowly, with a somewhat sinister smile on his face.
The internal pressure against my prostate and the anal pressure around little snubby are more than I can bear. I try to hold it. Hold back. My balls pull up, travelling north to their ancient home in my abdomen. The tube stake in my right hand erupts, splashing my forearm. A second blast goes skyhigh, nearly hitting the bare red bulb in the ceiling. The throbber behind, squirts its milky lusciousness deep inside me. That's it. I can't. I can't. Uh, ahhhh! Now I know what heaven is like.
After a shower, Clay and I are back in the lockerroom.
"I can't believe that guy hit the ceiling." I tell him.
"With a little better aim, he could cum like I can shoot."
"Are you a good shot?" asks Clay.
"I can hit a nickel at 100 yards," I tell him. "With a gun, I mean."
He smiles.
As we dress, we exchange addresses. I tell him to be discreet when contacting me. After all, what would mom and dad say?
"I'm used to being discreet." he answers. "If I contact you, I'll switch names. You'll always recognize me though.
"Anybody ever tell you you look like John Kennedy?" I say to him.
"I hope not," he replies. "I hate the guy."
"Why?" I ask. "I know the Bay of Pigs was dumb, but he pulled out at the last minute. He didn't get us into a war."
"Just wait," replies Clay, "that bastard wants to go down in history as the man who ended it."
"Ended what?" I ask.
"Ended history." he replies, nearly yelling. "That motherfucker wants to get us all killed. I only hope the Russians aren't as dumb as he is."
"He's not going to do that," I tell him. "He's going to help the colored people."
Having regained his composure, Clay now smiles. "Call me when he disappoints you," he says.
It doesn't take long. The next year, 1962, Kennedy proves Clay right. In February, the President says US "advisors" in Vietnam will fire on Vietnamese. Then, in October of the same year, he goes completely bonkers.
US spy planes see defensive missiles in Cuba. The info comes from the CIA. This is the same group Kennedy said he'd disband.
Besides that, the Russians are no nearer to America then NATO missiles are to them. Why should we care? But, that doesn't stop Johnny the K.
"If you don't get those missiles out of there," thunders Kennedy. "We'll start World War Three."
Luckily, the Russians back down. They ARE smarter than "we" are. But holy shit! Clay was right. This guy wants to go out in a blaze of glory. Atomic style. Unless he's stopped, there will be a next time. And another. Until finally, they don't back down.
I call my old pal in New Orleans.
"You were right," I tell him.
"I always am," he says. "Want to do something to save the world?"
"Sure," I say. "I used to think that was working for Kennedy. But now??? Who's left?"
"Not who, but what," says Clay. "Hang tight, I'll send you a plane ticket and meet you in New Orleans."
Clay meets me at the airport. Soon, his Lincoln pulls up to a big old house somewhere outside the city. It's an old-style southern mansion. The white fence and large bay windows makes me think of Tara from GONE WITH THE WIND. There's no plantation here, though. It's in the middle of the swampy woods. Only a small gravel path leads to it from the road.
Inside the house, a Negro butler takes my jacket. Clay leads me through a set of double doors into a large living room. Inside is a huge table. Around the table stand a bunch of men at least twice my age-- maybe older.
"This is that attractive sharp-shooter I was telling you about," says Clay, his arm around my shoulder.
"You're right on one account," says a short pudgy guy with a funny-looking wig. "I guess we'll find out about the other one."
Clay and I approach the table. I see there's a huge map on it. It's a city map, with a continuous red line twisting down a few streets.
"The patsy be over here," A tall skinny man points to a spot on the map. He speaks with an accent. "They find him in a second.
He won't do no damage... and he won't last long for nobody to find out nothing."
"We need one here and here," says the pudgy man pointing to various places on the map. Then he points to me.
"You," he says, "you'll be up here on this knoll."
"What the fuck is a knoll?" I ask. "Nobody uses a word like KNOLL."
"How do I know what a knoll is?" he answers. "The guy who made this map says it's a knoll, so you're going to be on the knoll."
"What's this all about anyway?" I ask.
A pall of silence drops like a shroud over the group. After an awkward eternity, the pudgy man turns to Clay.
"You didn't tell him?" he says.
"You'd better come with me." Clay says to me, again putting his arm around my shoulder.
We go off into the kitchen. He motions for me to sit down. I pull up one of the chairs around a wooden table in the center of the room. Clay sits across from me. He looks me square in eye.
Then he explains what we're going to do.
From this point, everything passes like a dream. I don't really feel my body in any specific time or place. It's as if I'm watching myself ask questions, get instructions, work out signals, details, receive those airline tickets to Dallas the next November.
The pudgy guy meets me at the Texas airport. He hands me a pocket radio with an earplug, a map and the most beautiful rifle I've ever seen. Polished wood stock, telescopic lens, perfect balance. This is not an airgun. This is the real thing. Against my shoulder, it's as good as sex.
I've never had a better map than the one I used to get to the knoll that day. Every step, every building, laid out in perfect detail.
Before long, I find myself alone on that knoll. I look through the rifle's tele-sight. I can see the finest detail. On the street ahead, almost a half mile away, I can see a man about 30 years old. He wears a black suit, with a Hawaiian print tie.
His fly is open.
No time to enjoy the new toy. A cheer goes up from the crowd on the street. I'm ready. That bastard isn't going to get us into a war. I'm going to stop it.
I kneel on the grass in front of me. As the black open-top car comes forward, I sight carefully through the lens. I'm calm.
Clear. I don't shake. I don't waver. Through the scope I see the black car turn the corner. I raise the gun, looking for the target. Not a person, but a body part. A throat, just a throat.
That's the thought that runs through my mind as I focus in.
There's nothing in that scope except the throat. My mind is clear. I'm completely focused. I pull the trigger.
ENDNOTES:
-->Gastrointestinally challenged dept: Yale University has announced new guidelines "to avoid humiliation of a so-far ignored group of students." They have prohibited "rude comments" and "inappropriate laughter" when in situations of "passing gas."
"This is a natural phenomenon that some people are more affected by than others," says John Stewart, Dean of Students.
"It is nothing to laugh about. We should not make fun of the victims."
Roger Goldstein, president of the local chapter of PWF (People With Flatulence), responds, "The Dean has his heart in the right place, but I resent being referred to as a VICTIM. I'm simply a person with flatulence. I'm not helpless."
Dean Stewart has since apologized.
-->Merging punks dept: The German fanzine TRUST and the American gross-out controversy zine ANSWER ME have decided to join together in what might be the first binational punkzine. To be called TRUST ME, the new issue features an article on punk massacres throughout history. There will be closeups of bodies mutilated in mosh-pits, and an interview with a murderer who kills by tying victims down then rolling over them with a spike- covered leather jacket.
-->I found this one on the internet. It is from December 12, 1998, I think its appropriate to mention now.
MOSCOW (AP) -- Russian legislators agreed Thursday to consider a motion appealing to Monica Lewinsky to help halt the American attack on Iraq.
"The State Duma appeals to Ms. Lewinsky to undertake corresponding measures to restrain the emotions of Bill Clinton," said the motion by nationalist lawmaker Alexander Filatov.
The bill was approved on a vote in the Duma, the lower chamber of parliament. It will be considered for inclusion in a broader resolution denouncing the attack on Iraq.
