The hat

There was a man.

Sometimes the man’s head would feel cold.

And the man would put on his hat.

The hat warmed his head.

One day the man lost his hat.

He started walking in search of his hat.

In the search for his hat, the man met many other men.

And he would ask each of them if they had found his hat.

But without answering they would only look at him with a puzzled expression.

Dismayed by his inability to find his hat, he sat beneath a tree and thought.

And his thoughts soon turned to dreams.

In his dreams, the man saw himself walking in search of his hat.

When he woke from his sleep, the man stood, stretched, removed his hat, scratched his scalp, looked to the sky, smiled, put his hat back on his head, and started walking home.


I searched the sky for a sign of you and i came across a cloud of smoke.

You died before i could tell you.

Do you remember how we sat on the cold stone below the skyscrapers and ate our lunch together. And you listened sweetly with a smile as i dreamed of living on that homestead in Nebraska.

Well i’m almost there, Frances. Almost there.

A guy walks into this bar, gets a haircut and a lesson in civics.

After a detour into Colorado, i was back on 80 headed west. My first ride took me from Cheyenne to Rawlins where i was dropped off in town – right in front of a bar.

It was bright and sunny that afternoon. And as quiet as things were in town, that bar seemed like a good place to sit for a bit, have a beer, and relax before getting back on the road.

I opened the door to the bar and stood there for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside.

And then, at the precise moment the place came into focus, the group of cowboys standing at the bar all turned toward the open door, straining to adjust to the blinding light pouring in from the street.

Oh shit, i thought to myself, this no longer seems like a good idea.

With two steps back and a turn to my left, i was gone. I was a few doors down the street before i was able to turn and see that no one had left the bar after me.

When i came upon a barbershop i decided to go inside and get a haircut.

Though there were four or five people already in the shop, i was first up and invited to sit down as the barber got up from his chair.

Unlike every other barber shop i had ever been in, this one was quiet. No jokes or talk about the weather. Everyone there was glued to the television set that sat on a shelf high on the wall near the corner of the room.

It was the slowest haircut i’ve ever had. It seemed like an eternity between snips of the barber’s shears. Everyone watched in silence and disbelief as Senator Dirksen coaxed a disturbing truth from the witnesses that day in May of 1973.

Two guys walk into a bar: a Christmas story

Our plans were set. We would leave early for midnight mass on Christmas eve.

We were 16, juniors at a Catholic high school, and in possession of newly purchased fake draft cards. And we weren’t really going to mass. Mickey and i planned to go instead to a bar a couple of blocks down the alley from where Mickey worked and conveniently in the same general direction as the church.

Dressed like little men wearing jackets and ties and displaying a shaky air of confidence, we arrived at the bar around 11 and went in through the alley entrance – just like one of the regulars.

We walked over to the bar where the bartender was busy washing glasses. There were only two people in the bar when we arrived – a man way down at the end and a bit in the shadows, and a woman about half way down. I sat at a stool. Mickey stood to my left. He leaned into the bar, placed his elbow on its worn leather edge, and glanced at me. I heard him quietly say, “OK. We’re in, everything’s cool, so far so good.”

Just then the bartender looked up at us and asked for our id.

We gave him our recently purchased draft cards.

He looked at us, then at the cards, and then again at us and with a bit of a smirk asked, “What’ll you have.”

I asked for a beer.

As the bartender started to pull my beer he asked Mickey what he wanted. Mickey answered, “Gimme a Sloe Gin Fizz.”

Just then the bartender let the tap slip from his fingers. He looked straight at Mickey, paused for a moment, and asked, “What are you, some kinda pussy!”

Uncertain of where this was going, i looked away. I turned to my right and caught the eye of the woman sitting two stools away. She was obviously listening to what was going on. She smiled, raised her glass an inch or two and said, “Merry Christmas.”

Christmas 1968

Mum Freeze

People to whom i describe the game of Mum Freeze refuse to believe such a thing.

Here’s a description of the game from someone who grew up in New York City’s South Bronx. The same brutal game we “played” in our neighborhood in Queens.

From STREET STORIES: Growing up in the South Bronx

When I tell people about this “game”, it never fails to elicit a few looks of disbelief. As always, we would choose to determine who would be the first victim. Then the rest of us would gather around, with the victim in the middle. After a tense count of three, we would all start to pound mercilessly on our selected friend. Punches would rain all over the unlucky person in the center as he quickly counted to ten and shouted “mum freeze”!

At the shout of mum freeze, everyone would have to freeze, like a statue, in whatever position you found yourself. Any movement or sound by you (hence, mum/freeze), and you would immediately become the next “victim”. At this point, however, the original victim is still in the middle of a bunch of living “statues” whose arms are suspended in mid-punch. As long as he was facing away from you, you could sneak in another punch, here and there. Once he extricated himself, however, he would walk slowly around the group, throwing simulated punches at their faces. If someone flinched, he became the next victim. It was hard not to flinch because at any point, the victim could just call your name and you were the new victim, whether or not you flinched!

On the road

Yes, that’s right. It’s another story with references to Kerouac’s novel. [Yawn]

When i was 19 (that would have to be in 1971) i lived for a while in a small apartment on east sixth street on the lower east side of Manhattan. A fire in the empty building next door resulted in the death of two of the three dogs belonging to the young man and woman squatting there at the time.

And during the time i lived there, i had the opportunity to attend a poetry reading at St. Marks Church in-the-Bowery, a few blocks away. Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, Gregory Corso, and one or two others were there to read from their works. But mostly they giggled and poked at each other. They looked like they were having a lot of fun. I think a lot of the young, dark-haired hipsters sitting in the pews intent on being enlightened were disappointed.

It was a couple of years after that that i found myself hitchhiking across Nebraska with my dog Buck. I was headed to Wyoming where i hoped to find work.

Near Grand Island i got a ride from a guy driving a big Pontiac. One of those real big ones, a hard top. And all the windows were rolled down. It was like riding in a convertible.

It wasn’t long after Buck and i got in and got on our way that the driver lit up a joint. He lit up using the cigarette lighter from the dash. And we traveled west towards Wyoming talking and listening to the radio.

We hadn’t quite reached the Interstate 80 split when the Pontiac quit running.

We rolled to a stop on the side of the road. And we just sat there. For what seemed like a long time, nothing was said.

And then the guy tells me that the trunk is full of weed and that he thought i probably should get out and get as far away from the car as possible. Before i could say anything he was out the door and leaning into the back seat gathering his stuff. He said he was going back the way he came and headed across the road, thumbing for an eastbound ride.


I got out, grabbed a hold of Buck’s leash, and together we trotted down the highway. Then we walked. And then we ran. And then, out of breath, we walked again.

We never seemed to get far enough away from that car.