King and Queen
by, Shannon
E. Kennedy
The last thing he said to me was, "stick that in
your pipe and smoke it you fat ass bitch.” And that’s why I wore a
double layer of Spanx to his funeral.
James P. Newhart, 55, of Shavertown passed away
suddenly on Tuesday, October 4, 2011...
After learning about his death, I spent my morning reminiscing
about my badass boyfriend - a man who weaved in andout
of my life for 37 years.
My memories of him are so vivid, one snapshot after
another. I could not however, remember why I called him Chester. I thought it
was his middle name but his obituary proved otherwise.
The only reference I could come up with was, as a kid, I
had a imaginary pony named Chester. Chester had dark brown hair, just like me. In an effort to form friendships, I
would invite classmates over to ride him - then make excuses for why he wasn't
there. Eventually, I told them my mother sold Chester to punish me, and they
took pity on me.
Chester, aka Harold Hart, called me by my initials, “S.
K.” Until then, only my father had given me nicknames. Pistol Pete and Buttercup
were two of his favorites. I liked this new one better. It made me feel grown
up.
I spent most of my afternoon reading letters he had
sent me over the years.
Dear S.K,
You have been a significant part of my childhood. Back then,
we were young and free to do what we pleased. I thought I would never get old
and the party would never end but it did. I have to see you before something
happens to one of us. The best memory I have of you is you laughing. I bet I
can still make you laugh...
I spent most of my evening regretting my decision not to
see him. That’s why he was mad at me. No one would blame me for not visiting
him in prison, but I didn't see him
even
after
he got out - even when I was back in our hometown.
I still have that picture you sent me of you and your
girlfriends. You were a hot bunch of girls. I went out with a lot of
good-looking girl but for some reason I can never forget the pretty little girl
with the beautiful smile, even with the braces - the one who picked me up at
the West Side School dance.
I was not allowed to go to that dance, so I made up a
story about spending the night at Lynn's house. My mother didn't like Lynn's
Mom - said she was a "do-gooder" - so I knew she wouldn't call. I
scripted it as a sleepover but had no idea where I was going after the dance.
I was 14 and he was 17, it was a huge difference back
then. I remember what I wore - a black, bell sleeved blouse that I made in home
economics class and kept hidden in the garage. I was not allowed to wear black
back then. My friend Camille wore black and my mother said it made her look
"spooky."
He
hid in the shadow of the bleachers - next to the boy's locker room.
When the Stones best selling single, Brown Sugar,
came over the PA system, I took "yeah, yeah, yeah, WOOOO" as my cue
to strut on over.
I knew before I reached him that he was bad and I was
tired of being good. It was something about his hair and the way he stared, not
just at me, but at the world. He kept both hands deep in his pockets, his chin
low, and his legs spread wide.
He was hard to understand, even when the music wasn't
playing. His tone was low and muffled, and he chuckled at everything I said.
He chuckled when I asked him to dance
,
but when I turned away he grabbed my hand, hard, and pulled me to the center of
a freshly polished gym floor. I think he wanted me to notice the intensity of
his eyes. Magnified by the overhead florescent lights – they were fierce,
gritty, and alive. When the song began he watched, and I danced.
It was another Stones song, Dead Flowers -"and
when you're sitting back in your rose pink Cadillac, making bets on Kentucky
Derby Day, I'll be in my basement room with a needle and a spoon, and another
girl to take my pain away."
He took me home with him that night, where he lived with
his mother and three brothers. His father had died less than a year before.
His bedroom was in the basement, directly beneath the
staircase. It looked more like a large closet then a bedroom. The door opened
out and you were immediately greeted by a single bed pushed against the wall.
Above it was a thumb-tacked poster of a leather clad Lou Reed teamed with The
Velvet Underground. To the right was his stereo and record collection. To the
left, on a small dresser pitted with burn stains, was a homemade lava lamp.
His mother never came downstairs to greet him but his brother Rick was
waiting for him, in the belly of the basement, poised in a yellow
upholstered chair. Without speaking, he handed him a sandwich bag full of
pot, Acapulco Gold, and then Chester led me by the hand
-
He kicked off his shoes, put an album on the turntable and
rolled a joint. When he lay down to smoke it, I curled up beside him. After a
few long hits, he balanced the joint off the lip of his dresser and wrapped his
arms around me. When I woke, the song was over, a roach remained, and
everything else was the same.
His hands never left my shoulders. Our lips never touched.
I’m not sure if "what didn’t happen" was out of respect, or because
he knew the ramifications of being with the legal definition of a “child.”
...I can do no more time S.K. the time is starting to do
me in. This is the second stretch of time I have done. I have a few pals in
here I hang with. Not many. You do not know who is a petafile or not. Sex
offenders - I can not stand them.
Because my mother forbade me to see him, he would visit me
late at night. He’d climb the apple tree and tap on my bedroom window. It was
the same routine night after night. Dressed in mod print, baby-doll pajamas,
I’d fall asleep, nestled in his arm. When I’d wake, he’d be gone.
This continued from late spring to mid December - until a
neighbor noticed him climbing in my window. In an effort to escape quickly, he
stole a bike from the house across the way, and peddled off into a bitter cold
night.
I still feel bad about taking that kids bike to get home
the night your neighbor called to tell your mom I was climbing up your apple tree.
That was me, always climbing up your apple tree even though things did not
turn out the way I wanted them to be. But it was a lot of fun trying...
Because we lived more than 10 miles apart, I assumed he
drove and hid his car on an adjacent street. To me, this made him even more James
Dean.
Eventually he moved out of his mother's basement, to a
small apartment in the center of town. The windows were covered with sheets. A
tattered twin mattress and box spring rested in the corner of his living room
dressed in a crocheted afghan and half a dozen pillows.
In the kitchen were two metal folding chairs and a rusted
aluminum legged table with a glossy, aqua and spattered white formica top -
pitted with burn marks.
He opened the refrigerator and with one hand, pulled out a
cookie tray stacked with sheets of purple construction paper. With the other
hand he pulled out a bottle of Stegmaier beer. Despite having a well-placed
opener screwed into the wall, he used his teeth to pop the top, and then spit
it in the direction of the sink.
He took a switchblade from his back pocket and cut
the construction paper into hundreds of tiny little pieces.
"What do you think I'm doing here S.K.?" he asked.
I had no idea, and I was too afraid to ask.
I watched him take the scored paper and pile it into a
round, red plastic container - a prize once hidden in a cereal box. The top was
embossed with the General Mills trademark phrase, “Trix are for Kids”
"Take this to school and give it away," he
instructed.
"The container?" I asked.
"No S.K., the acid! Give one to everyone you know and
tell them where you got it."
And so I did. First thing Monday morning I passed out
hundreds of minute pieces of paper that to me, looked more like tiny-sized Chiclets
than drugs.
I kept some for myself - tucked them inside the silver
wrapper of my Newport lights and hid them, along with my forbidden black shirt,
in the garage behind our house.
Before long everyone at school was tripping and everyone
was asking “S.K” where she got her Trix.
You know S.K., I was not in prison all these years. I got
out in 2001 and came back in 2005. I was doing well, working in the porn
business and making good money. Then my brother Rick passed on about the same
time as a good friend of mine, and that was all it took for me to start
shooting dope again. My man, Lou Reed, sings it best… "Heroin its my life,
its my wife... there is a hole in Daddy's arm where all the money goes."
Being out of control scared me, so I opted out of the
school dazed acid trips and instead, watched closely for fits of chaos. I never
witnessed any delirious behavior. These day-trippers displayed only mild spouts
of carefree, illogical laughter. They kept their dilated pupils hidden behind wire
rimmed, aviator shades. They sat through algebra, biology and history class
with their eyes closed - enjoying uninterrupted streams of kaleidoscope colors.
Trails, endless trails that rippled to the beat of their breath.
By Wednesday the acid was gone and I was in high demand. I
skipped first and second period - spent my morning in the girls bathroom -
smoking cigarettes and playing cards. When the bell rang and I exited, I was
greeted by two police officers who escorted me, handcuffed, to a centralized,
fishbowl cubical that served as the principal's office.
I was led past my exposed locker - disheveled by an
ongoing search. I was led past a congestion of classmates with raised brows,
wagging tongues, and convicting stares.
My mother was waiting for me in a stiff, wooden chair. Her
perfect posture compromised by a downward, disappointing glare. She wore a
trench coat over her sweatshirt, well-pressed jeans, dark glasses and pale blue
Keds. Her hair was freshly curled and she had taken the time to apply a thick
layer of scarlet red lipstick.
"You're up early," I said.
The investigation was grueling. I counted 6 bells in all -
the beginning and end of third and fourth period, and the start and completion
of lunch. I could tell Mother wanted a cigarette and I took pleasure in
watching her twitch from the withdrawal.
"Quite an honor," said officer # 1, “Acid Queen
of your school,” you must be proud of yourself."
"I was hoping for Prom or Homecoming Queen, but I’ll
take any crown you want to give me," I bragged.
"Tell us where you got the drugs and we'll make this
all go away."
I never told them where I got the drugs and I never want this
to go away. I was enjoying the attention and knew my wickedness would catapult
me into a hip clique known as "Heads" - a posse of longhaired,
Deadhead, deviants.
S.K., You should get in that nice car of yours and come
visit me. tell your hubbie a little white lie to go out of town for a day.
It won't be the first husband you had to tell a little lie about me. think
about it. I just
want to make you laugh again and see the smile on your face.
It's true, I lied to my (first) husband when I met
Chester at a bar back in 1977. After a few beers, we left to see the
movie Star Wars. I hated
it and insisted we leave after 30 minutes. On the way out I saw the marquee for
A Star is Born, with
Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson, and pulled him in. Chester was
tripping and would enjoy any movie as long as it was in color, but I was
desperate for romance.
To this day, A Star is Born remains one
of my all time favorite movies. I love her intoxicating voice synchronized with
his rugged good looks. I love what they forced out of each other - how her
rising success gave him pride and pain. I love the way he looked at her. I love
that she love him despite his addiction.
The next day, I told my husband of less than two years
that I was leaving. A week later I moved out of our trailer and back home with
my mother. Three weeks after that, Mom and I piled everything we could fit into
a car and took off in search of our star. We had no idea where we were going;
all we knew is that we had outgrown our tiny town.
Chester stayed behind and agreed to clean out the
contents of our house. The home I had grown up in - spent 14 years of my life
in. "Get rid of everything," Mom told him. "I don't care what
you do with it.”
It would be another five years before I would hear from
him again. By then he was in jail for selling pot and mescaline.
A quarter century later, I would stand in front of an
esteemed panel of high ranking law officers and, without a college degree, or a
military or police background, plead my case to obtain a license to run a
security guard and private investigation agency - a necessary ingredient if I
was going to take over my father's company.
“According to your High School transcripts, you maintained
a strong B average, you were student council Vice President, and Head
Majorette,” announced Commissioner Reynolds.
“Actually, no, I was co-head. They made me share the title
with Kim Wolff. I was a better majorette but she was better behaved,” I confessed.
“Apparently so. It also states that you were accused of
being the Acid Queen?”
“There is no evidence to justify that statement Sir.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“And in the summer of 1975, while your mother was away,
you had a party at your house.”
Before I had a chance to explain he continued.
“And you filled a soda machine with beer and charged
everyone .25 cents for a can of Stegmaier?
“Yes sir, that is true,” I admitted.
“Where did you get the soda machine?”
“My mother had a ceramic studio in our house. The machine
was on the back porch.”
“Where was your mother?”
“At a ceramic convention.”
“And you rented your bedrooms out at an hourly rate?”
(I had forgotten all about that.)
“Were you running a brothel Miss Kennedy?”
“I was renting out rooms, not women Sir.”
“And, it says here that you have been in contact with a
federal prison inmate.”
(Man, they’re good.)
“Miss Kennedy, why have you stayed in touch with a
convicted felon?”
“We are childhood friends Sir. He’s not a bad person, he
just made some bad choices.”
“Was he your Acid King Miss Kennedy?”
“No comment,” I answered.
…We grew up
on two different sides of the road. You live the life of the Rich and Famous,
you are very well off and I am happy for you. I don’t want to interfere in your
life. I am just a poor, broke, country. I have lived a life of crime and
danger. But I am very happy and
nuts.
I know what you are thinking - that he wrote to me
because he had plenty of time on his hands. But I know it was more than that.
One of the things that struck me about his letters was
his contentedness. He never asked for anything and he never felt sorry
for himself.
You know S.K., I would not change a thing, except
the jail time. I have two great kids and a beautiful granddaughter that I am
going to spoil the hell out of. I have to stay clean for myself but she
will help a lot.
And, he was very entertaining.
I ran into a man here who is from Greenwich, and it made
me think of you. Walter Forbes, his name is. His picture was on the front page
of the New York Times a few weeks ago with Bernie Madoff. Walter is one
of the top rip-off artists in the country. We work up at the chapel.
Well, we don't work. Walter and I go up there 4 hours a week and
talk about the good old days...
In fairness, my letters were pompous and perplexing at
best. I wrote about attending writing seminars in Paris, music festivals in New
Orleans and of course, I wrote to him about Burning Man.
How do you explain Burning Man to someone who has spent
more than half of his adult life in prison?
Your letter was very confusing. You are obsessed with
this Burning Man thing. Have you ever seen Bad Day in Black Rock, great movie
staring Spencer Tracey.
It was impossible for me to deny that, like all things, we
had changed. We no longer had a common thread - the thrill, rush and passion of
our youth was gone.
But even that's not why I didn't see him.
When I get out of here maybe we can go roller-skating or
something. It doesn’t matter, I just want to see your smile. We’ve been pals
for a long time. I forget a lot of things but I promise you I won’t forget our
deal."
Our deal stemmed from another Rolling Stones song…
"Send me dead flowers every morning, send me dead
flowers in the mail, send me dead flowers to my wedding, and I won't forget to
put roses on your grave."
Every morning wasn’t practical.
He couldn’t send flowers from prison.
He didn’t send flowers to any of my weddings.
But I knew, whoever died first would get roses on their
grave.
It wasn't until I reached the cemetery that I realized I
forgot his roses.
I was standing outside the chapel, waiting for the
hearse to carry his body up a long, winding, dirt road - pitted from recent,
heavy rain.
Oh, he’d get a kick out of this, I thought. Here I
am, in a black shirt with a double layer of Spanx
under my jeans – a failed attempt to look the same as I did the night we met.
And I forgot the fucking roses. How the hell did I forget the roses?
Only his children knew who I was. His son looked exactly
like him.
My little girl Shauna is all grown up and has a baby girl
of her own named Nevaeh. (That’s “heaven” spelled backwards). Shauna looks like
her Mom but she is just like me. My son is a great kid, he looks just like me
but he is nothing like me. He was an eagle scout, now he is in the National
Guard. He is in Chile now. He is a tattoo nut. I tell him some of my stories
and he tells me I should write a book. He says it would be a best seller. Maybe
you can tell me how to go about doing it…”
Despite his incarceration and their years apart, both
children held a genuine, unconditional love for their father.
“My father is my hero,” his son said during his eulogy.
Half way up the hill that led to his waiting grave, the
hearse got stuck. Carrying the coffin was NOT an option, so instead they lifted
him into the back of a pick up truck.
(Oh man, he is loving this!)
I returned the next day with his roses - still alive.
Me being the only sign of life, I climbed along a blanket
of gravestones and located his plot in the far back corner - in the shadow of
mature maple trees. It was easy to spot. His fresh mound of dirt was marked
with a wreath of red and white carnations that said “DAD.”
Buried beside him was his father and his brother Rick.
When I took a few steps back, I noticed there were Kennedys buried
directly in front of him. And a Chester was buried to his left.
(There really is some sort of master plan going on, and I
can’t get over the details.)
Because I’m strange I brought my 35 mm camera with me -
took pictures of his grave, surrounding headstones, and the picturesque, autumn
bloomed mountains in the background.
I was crying hard when I let go of his flowers. I had a
lot to apologize for. I let him down by not visiting him.
To calm myself, I took a long, deep, open mouth breath –
and got a misguided fly stuck in my throat.
It must have been some sort of super fly. I couldn’t cough
it up and I couldn’t get air down.
I tried to give myself the Heimlich, but it didn’t work.
I opened one of the rusty graveside spigots hoping to get some water, but
it was dry.
I knew if I didn’t do something soon, they were going to
find me, face down in his dirt.
Hopeless, I ran to a giant statue of an open bible and sat
beside it. I felt the sun on my forehead. My palms were sweating and my heart
was beating fast. I closed my eyes and waited, fully expecting this to be the
end.
Nothing flashed in front of me. There were no tunnels of
bright light. Instead, I heard the rustling of leaves. When I opened my eyes a
giant, 12-point buck stood before me. His fierce, all knowing glare, pointed
directly at me. And then, my throat cleared.
In the end, I didn't go to see him because I no longer
recognized him.
"Stick that in your pipe and smoke it you fat ass
bitch" is my interpretation of the last thing he wrote to me. What
he wrote was…
i gussu dont have enofe ballsto talk to a old friend on
the phone or mead them face to face about the way we live are lifes u hide on a
computre grow up rich bitce uhad it all handed doweto u try having to get it
all on your one u do what u hae to do i hope u have a better glase of wine then
the johesones did this week u and your douthers yankey boy toy or condo in new
orl landes conn. shobes are all the same stick that in your pip and smoe itfack
ass bitch.
It's hard to read. Not just because of the misspellings,
but because of the pain that oozes onto the page. Now that he's gone, his words
are all that I have, and I savor them - all of them.
Despite what his rap sheet looked like, Chester was not a
bad person. He was an addict, a recovering junkie, who went to prison for
selling heroin – a lot of it.
Like depression, addiction is a mental illness, not a
choice. It is a complex brain disease that causes the victim to give into
compulsive, uncontrollable drug cravings, despite being aware of the
devastating consequences.
We made a choice to stay friends for over 37 years. I
don’t know why he died and I didn’t ask. I’m hoping it was a heart attack. I
want to believe that he went out clean.
S.K., I am so glad you are still alive. Not
6 ft under. Most of the people I grew up with are no longer. I have
to see you before something happens to one of us. You know what... we have been
writing to each other for 37 years. Do you no anyone else that can say that.
That is off the hook! I have to stop for a few, my arson friend got me an
ice cream. Today is store day. Write back soon. With love always, have
fun, Chester
p.s. ask your husband if I can come up and spend a day with you
