John Asyer Thunker was born on a brisk day in December, under the pale sun, his screams came out, and the world heard but they did not listen.
His mom called him Porgie from day one, for whatever reason, known only to her.
He began his life tragically, in the bed, the same bed, where eighty nine years later, he would die, quietly, in his sleep, his hands around his throats.
From that first breath, to that last, he would live life.
He would start as a writer in the summer of his 12th year, shyly he would write in the darkness of his fort, built in the forest of his childhood, backed up against a brook he had named Critter Creek after his old blood hound, Critter.
He had read some authors, his father's stash of magazines with names like Beat This, Tribulations and Howl(ing) at the Moon.
He began his journey feasting on the road, in the groove, and on the moon and he ended up hating everything he had written before this time.
"Jack, who art in Heaven, give me a sign, should I continue?"
The voices made no sound, the Heavens didn't open up and give any answer.
He continued to write, about his adventures into the soup kitchen, the place his mom forbid him to go, but he went.
He wanted to see the faces of the masses, the people at their lowest point, and he saw them, at the ground level.
Fifteen years of age, he was published, not much, a story here, a letter there, God hated his stuff but the checks were nice, enough for a movie date AND two sodas and a popcorn if it was a national magazine.
Then, before he hit twenty, there was 'The Lift Off', the zoom, he was an author of some respect, no limos at the airport or anything like that, but he was making headway, talk shows here, a signing there.
"You're like a shooting star!"
Thirty nine, he tried to kill himself, jump off a bridge into the ice cold river below. "I'm a super star ma!! A FUCKING SUPER STAR!!"
He got talked down by one of the finest in blue.
"Get down sir before I shoot you! No one commits suicide on my watch!"
Sometime, he began to think about giving up, moving into the mountains, build a place, call it something, like Xanadu, or Moth Ball City.
There would be a cabin, a little place, nothing fancy, a bed to lay his body in, somewhere to cook and a place outside to sit and watch the birds crash into the ground.
"Delightful! A wonderful place indeed! To kill yourself!!" his friend, Truman, said as he walked around the'Estate', flicking the ash from his long cigarette.
"You CAN'T be serious!" he continued, settling in on a rustic chair on the porch as they chatted, drinking a glass of semi-warm water spiked with something. "You're a city boy, charmed by the street lights!!! You'll be raped by a bear here!"
"If I am, it shall be marvelous!"
He stayed up there for two nights, coming into town to find himself a transvetite hooker but never finding a single gal even closely resembling his Uncle Buck.
"Damn shame! I thought you were going to make it as a mountain man!" Truman said, smiling that smile he did when he knew he was being an asshole but didn't care.
Sometime, when the spring rains fell, he would still sneak away to that cabin, sit there at the table he had bought at a flea market somewhere in Ohio, or was it Iowa?
He would sit there and watch the birds crash into the ground and he would laugh, hysterically and flap his arms wildly.
"Caa! Caa! Smash!"
"Caa! Caa! Smash!"
He would stand up and flap his arms and run around the small room, in a frenzy.
"Caa! Caa! SMASH!"
He would then fall to the floor, exhausted, still caaing and smashing and laughing till he would fall asleep.
On a warm summer day, up in the pine trees of a forest, his friends and family gathered about.
"He was a good...well...I wouldn't say good, maybe senile!" Truman began the eulogy. "We gather here today to witness the wind to take away these ashes, to raise them up to Heaven...where they will be rejected! Porgie, go now, be with your birds!"
"Caa! Caa! SMASH!" the wind howled, the crowd disappeared....