It’s a cool September afternoon. I'm exhausted, but instead of napping,  I’m sitting at my desk writing as I listen to Steely Dan’s Pretzel Logic. What’s keeping me awake is not insomnia, but rather a thirty-year-old memory that’s demanding equal time with all my stories told and written. 

September 8th 1979 was on a Saturday. I remember the weather to be much like this September, mild sunny afternoons and chilly nights that call for an extra blanket or another’s warm body. On that September 8th 1979, accompanying my blanket was the warm body of Sandy, a ferociously beautiful blonde with a quiet demeanor and a face that easily flushed red when excited—sexually or otherwise. 

I met Sandy on September 2^nd, the Friday before Labor Day. I was bouncing at a club in Glastonbury, working my last shift; my notice to quit included a free bar tab or so I thought—a  $600 mistake that heavily influenced my weekend party plans. My fellow bouncer and roommate, Craig, craved mega grams of coke and a weekend’s worth of Heinekens, so did I; we settled on two sheets of pyramid acid offered to us free of charge by two good friends, Butch and Carroll—they both died riding tandem on Butch’s Harley, but that’s another story. This one is about Sandy and how I nearly killed her—[Connecticut] still calls it murder: I call it shit luck.

Craig was a hedonist of major proportions: sex, drugs, more sex, more drugs, alcohol, and hunting with a M-1 Carbine his father somehow kept after WWII. I should’ve known Craig would travel early to the parallel universe, but Jack Daniels and Sandy's sexing and coke stash skewered my thinking. Yes, I too was hedonistic, wild and just 24-years old. Sex, drugs and rock and roll wasn’t just a slogan. Life was but a commodity, traded and exchanged.  Just always fooling around without falling in love....

Sandy was sleeping in my bed; I was on the floor for some reason, when Craig’s date, Sandy’s roommate (Coppertone tan with perky tits), woke us. Craig was freaking; I thought he was fucking Coppertone tan with perky tits. My little head wanted back in bed with Sandy, going downstairs before sunlight without a sexual remembrance wasn’t on the agenda. But Coppertone tan with perky tits insisted; her farther owned a car dealership in East Hartford; she was effective at closing the deal. She promised head if I checked on Craig. I looked at Sandy, now awake: she just wiggled her finger at Coppertone tan with perky tits: picture a young Kim Basinger smiling at Mischa Barton.

Possessed of the speed of the Flash on Black Beauties, I soared downstairs. In the kitchen, I heard metal rattling against window, Craig snorting pig-like. “They’re invading,” he said.

What I saw pissed me off: Craig was training the M-1 Carbine out the window towards the parking lot. On the kitchen table, a four to five hits of acid was missing from one of the sheets—at least that's what I remember. “Fucker,”  I said.

Craig looked at me with brown demon eyes; his long Fabio hair was drenched in sweat. “Chuck…” he sang my name, elongating the first syllable.

I walked over to him, slapped him in the head, and popped the clip from the M-1 before prying it from his hands. He was strong—determined to fend off the hallucinatory army invading from beyond his consciousness. I figured Coppertone tan with perky tits would help me—offer up a visual distraction, but she remained upstairs with Sandy—it seems they were bi- and horny.

I just wanted to get upstairs to become one of three. After calming down Craig with promises to call all our friends with warnings and salutations, the traveler within me became enamored by the sight of the pyramids. I decided to embark for Egypt via Machu Picchu. Soon the morning sun broke the horizon's hymen, the movie Patton began on HBO, and I was trying to partake of some serious girl on girl action happening in my own bed. Access denied. Defeated, I retreated to HBO, Patton, cold pizza, and watching Craig search his hands for the missing M-1 Carbine I stashed under my bed.

Patton seemed to be playing on HBO longer than it took to fight WWII and the Korean War. The kitchen clock began ticking backwards; my need to get naked was hilarity within itself—I was already naked. So, I put on some underwear that magically appeared from the stairs, wanting to prove to myself that when I took off those cotton briefs, I’d be dressed in an autumnal tuxedo. Remember— logic and proportion doesn’t just fall sloppy dead in a song lyric.

My Egyptian adventure intensified as the rubber band holding together time and space urged me to get on a Kawasaki 750 and ride [downtown Manchester] dressed only in underwear—my autumnal tuxedo. Faces smiled at me behind blurred masks. Traffic floated on top of cable cars, honking horns and firing M-80’s. I do remember waiving a sparkler at an older lady driving a ‘69 Camaro: I thought she was my mother. She wasn’t, but she waived back leaving magenta trails melting into the morning. My sneakers laughed; how they got on my feet, I haven’t a clue. The Kawasaki knew, but was speaking in forced downshifts.

During that ride, I guess I started jealousing over Sandy rejecting me for Coppertone tan with the perky tits. Somewhere near the Mary Cheney Library, I decided to mount my own invasion. Jacob Cheney tried giving me one of his scribbled caricatures—I was already ink on paper. 

Back inside the house, a calmer Craig greeted me. I ignored him and rode the elevator stairs to my bedroom. Coppertone tan with the perky tits laughed at me; Sandy ignored me. I returned downstairs via the bathroom elevator. Time was no longer sand in the hourglass. 

I believe Timothy Leary chastised my inner-child as I ordered George C. Scott to vacate the TV, I don't know or remember. I was serious; I had Craig’s M-1 Carbine pointed at the TV with no sound. But George C. was smart. He counter-ordered me back upstairs to deal with Sandy. “Chuck….” Craig agreed, still struggling with my name’s first syllable. Impressed, Dante promised intensity within the inferno.

Why I’m not writing this from prison is what’s keeping me awake. You see, in a moment of hallucination and paranoia I had the M-1 Carbine’s barrel leveled at Sandy’s forehead. In my mind, I was just trying to scare her; the clip was not in the rifle. I shake as I remember this sequence: I started to pull the trigger, a hand grabbed my wrist, diverting my attention, an audible clicking sound followed. Misfire…. I don’t know who cleared the rifle, but I still see the .30 Carbine round-nose 110 gr (7.1 g) bullet, copper on top of brass, floating through the air. Maybe it wasn’t a misfire… maybe I never finished pulling the trigger—that logic and proportion falling sloppy dead thing again comes into play; thirty years of watching a floating bullet encased in a cartridge haunt my thoughts; fragmented memories accented by hallucinations and a trip rerouted beyond Dante's Inferno call out to me.

LSD? Yes… I’ve indulged. Fun? You be the judge; I’m still tripping over the near demise—murder—of Sandy….

John Hiatt’s Walk On is now playing….

—Walk on, walk on

Don’t look back

Don't ask questions

Don't try to understand—

I’ll try…