family

I’m alive and I will survive,  show the world that I can take it

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I know I’ve shared about this before but it in 2025 it’s important to remember these things are still happening.  

In 2001, I was working for a little internet start up company.  Well, a smallish, to medium size start-up company. 

In May of that year, my little company was bought by the big company Pitney Bowes.  By the end of August all of my favorite employees had been let go.

For some reason, known only to someone more powerful than me, I was kept on. 

My friends all got six-month severance agreements.  Meanwhile, I kept going to an office that used to house 7 of us that now housed me. 

Then 9/11 happened.  

And if you’d read my post by 3:00 on September 11, 2001, I’d been ordered to report to Danbury, Connecticut on September 12. 

I said no.  And didn’t report until the end of the month.

I continued to commute to Danbury until the next spring. 

On Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. I’d arrive at the Hertz car rental on 34th street at Penn Station and rent a car.  I’d drive north and get to work just before 9:00.  

I’d spend the week at the Danbury Ramada Inn, which also housed an Outback Steakhouse.  I’d get to work at 9:00 a.m.  Do my thing. Leave at 5:00.  Go the gym.  Drive back to the hotel.  Order food to go from Outback.  (They always forgot my silverware). And be in bed by 11:00.

On Friday, I’d leave work at 5:00.  Drive back to NYC.  Return my car.  And take the subway home. 

My life was horrible. 

There is more to the story, but I’ll save that for another day. 

On May 9, 2002, I was called into the HR office, where I was told they were restructuring the marketing team and that my position was being eliminated. 

On the outside I was pissed, while on the inside, I was popping champagne.

They slid the severance agreement across the desk and said here’s what we are offering.

(I had just read a post in Men’s Health that said severance agreements are negotiable). 

I told them, I’d have to read it over, and that I’d get back to them.  

In the end, they paid me 10,000 dollars more than they offered, plus back bonuses.

However, I was happy, happy, happy to never drive back to Danbury, Connecticut ever again. 

Truth be told, 25 years later and I’ve never been back, although I’ve been told the restaurant seen is a little more vibrant now. 

It’s the end of May.  I’m unemployed, and my old boss calls me.  He tells me that he’s just been hired by a company in Chicago that is opening their first New York satellite office.  He wants to know if I want to join the team. 

I immediately say yes. 

My first day is on June 10, 2002.  I arrive and do my thing.  I’m office manager, and I’ve been tasked with setting up a new office.  We need computers, printers, internet, paper, phone etc.

I get to work.

All is well.  

My boss calls me on Tuesday, to let me know that the owner of the company, Marge, will be in town on Wednesday and wants to meet me.  She has arranged for us to meet for lunch. 

I get to work on Wednesday and get to work. We’ve received a million boxes and I get started opening them.  On my fifth or sixth box, I slide the scissors across the tape, only to slice my finger open.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck. 

It’s still bleeding at noon when I am needing to leave for lunch with the owner of my company.  

I wrap a paper towel around my finger, wrap rubber bands around it to keep it in place and leave for lunch. 

Lunch is pleasant enough. 

She’s nice.  She asks about my goals.  Where I see myself in five years.  I talk about theater, wanting to be a lighting designer.  It’s fine. 

When I leave lunch, I go immediately to the St. Vincent emergency room and get five stitches in my finger.  

The next day, I go to work as usual. 

Then Friday, I repeat the process. 

Around 11:00 my old boss calls and tells me to stop work.

Then proceeds to tell me what has transpired in the last 48 hours.

Thursday night, he’d had a meeting with Marge, and her assistant, where she said,   Mike (the assistant) I know you are gay.  Jeff is obviously gay.  Looks at my boss and says, I assume you are gay.  I won’t have my New York office run by all gay men.  Jeff has to go.

My old boss took copious notes.  Said he’d deal with it.  And left the meeting. 

On Friday morning, when he called me he was supposed to be on his way to a company wide meeting where, he’d be introduced to the company as the head of the new New York location.  Instead, he was on his way to the airport to fly home to New York. 

He told me to pack up any personal shit I had, take the new espresso make home with me, and get out of the office.  By noon I was on my way uptown. 

First stop, the NYC LGBT center.  I met with one of their employees, who gave me the number of a civil rights attorney. 

A week later, my old boss and I are sitting in his office, telling him our story. 

Fun fact, it’s illegal in NYC to fire someone for being gay.  

Now to the fun part of the story. 

On Saturday, after the firing, my old boss, talked to her assistant, who corroborated the whole story.  All the details, etc.  My boss recorded the conversation.  Mike never spoke to either of us again, but the damage had been done.  

The lawyer sent the transcript of the phone call to the opposing attorney.  

They asked for mediation.

Mediation was us sitting across the table from her, while she told me all the ways I was unqualified to do the job I’d been hired to do.  Simply because theater was my first love.  I’d like to say, that if you walked into any new office in NYC right now, half the employees at line level want a theater career.  They may never have it, but that’s why they are in NYC. 

Mediation ended poorly. 

By now it’s approaching the end of 2002.  The legal process is not fast. 

Sometime in late November, we were called and told that they other company was settling. 

Each of us would be awarded $250,000 each.  

Hehehehehe.  

We got checks in January. 

It’s the most money I ever made for the least amount of work.  

I took my money and promptly applied for graduate school. 

In the end Marge’s bigotry bought me a new red Mini Cooper 5-speed, moved me from NYC to San Diego, paid for my apartment and got me through my first year of grad school.  

It’s never nice of her don’t you think. 

The point is, I was fired for being gay.  

It’s still happening.

This is why we have pride month.  This is why we fight.  

Right now, my trans brothers and sisters are being asked to leave the military.  Men and women willing to die for your right to be a bigot. 

There are people still being fired.  Silenced. 

So fight.  Don’t be silent.  Don’t be complicit. 

Do the right thing. 

At remember, bigotry doesn’t pay, except when it does.  

Goodness gracious, that’s why I’m a mess!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

During the last weekend of April, in 2000, I flew to Washington D.C. from NYC and met my friend Michelle, her girlfriend Meredith and my friend Sam for the Millenium March on Washington.

It was the first real gay event that I’d ever attended.

The weekend was packed with events, a concert, protests, a march and a festival.

We all met there, and checked in to our very cheap, budget hotel.

It was a Friday morning and the fun, pride filled weekend lay in front of us.

There are a few things that stand about the weekend.

Sam was at the hotel for about three minutes, said he was off to meet friends, and I didn’t seem him again all weekend.

Meredith and I fought all weekend about the thermostat. She thought the a/c should be on 78. I thought it should be on 60. She won.

And I’m pretty sure when we said goodbye on Sunday night, it was the last time I saw her.

On Friday night, there was a huge concert at JFK Stadium, called Equality Rocks. We had nose bleed seats, but the energy was insane. It was sold out, and the crowd was going wild. So many amazing people performed.

Melissa Ethridge, KD Lang, George Michael, Garth Brooks, Chaka Khan, and the Pet Shop Boys.

The most moving moment of the night was when Matthew Shepherd’s parents took the stage. His mom spoke eloquently about the role of she’d been thrust into by the murder of her son.

She was everybody’s mom that night. She owned it.

It was late when the concert was over.

The three of us, started down from the top of the stadium. Taking one escalator after another.

On the third escalator, a man caught my eye.

Very much caught my attention.

He waited for me at the bottom.

We talked for a few moments, and then we both started our journey again toward the exits.

We got outside the stadium, and were now very much in love.

He asked me if I wanted to come home with him, and how better to celebrate the gay movement than by being gay.

I told Michelle, I’d meet her at the march the next day, and we walked to his car.

As he drove me to his house, he let me know that he was a police officer in Boston, and that he’d flown down for the March. He was in D.C. staying with his family, who very supportive of him.

We got back to his place, shared a beer and fell asleep.

Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a PG story. Plus, it’s been 25 years I barely remember that it happened.

We woke up the next morning, to breakfast cooking.

He asked me if I was hungry? I said sure, did you cook breakfast.

He replied, no but my mom did.

He’d failed to mention that when he said he was here with his parents, he meant at their house.

Ever hear of the walk of shame.

Well, I got dressed, and went downstairs and was introduced to the mom, the dad, the two sisters and the family dog.

We all had a hearty breakfast, while I pretended not to be embarrassed.

After breakfast, he drove us back in to DC, and dropped me off near the spot I was to meet Michelle and Meredith.

I found them, we marched.

At the end of the day, we all went our separate ways. Me back to NYC. Them back to Chicago.

Two interesting facts about the boy in question.

He has a very distinct name.

Two or three years later, I was reading a true crime novel, set in Massachussets, and the book mentioned him as a investigative police person in the case.

He was also booked on American Airlines Flight 11, out of Boston to L.A. on 9/11. He missed the flight and the rest you can say is history.

We stayed in touch for a bit. One of the last times I spoke with him was just before I moved to San Diego to start grad school.

And a quick google search has shown that he is now a very high ranking Boston police officer and makes a ton of money, because it’s public info.

I found him on Facebook.

He has a cute boyfriend.

And a dog.

Something bad is happening.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

By the time I graduated high school in 1983, AIDS was no secret.

It wasn’t getting the national attention it should have, Reagan was still pretending it didn’t exist, and gay men were dying across the country.

In Central Kentucky, I felt isolated. I felt protected.

I won’t say I was as careful as I should have been.

I went off to college, also in central Kentucky, and it was very much the same. Still not as much attention as it should have been getting. Reagan might have mentioned. it by then, and by this time the number of deaths were staggering.

Still, I felt isolated, protected.

In September 1987, I moved to Atlanta.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in little “ole” Kentucky.

Suddenly, I knew gay people. Suddenly, I was out of the closet.

I was much more careful, but not as careful as I should have been.

By the time I left Atlanta, it was a full-blown national nightmare.

I moved back to Central Kentucky.

I was terrified. I’d met men who had been diagnosed with HIV and AIDS, it was very close to home.

And yet. It was 1989, and I had never been tested.

I’d seen the posters around town. In the bars. On the bulletin boards at school.

Finally. I said I’ll do it.

I drove to the health department on Newtown Road. Around to the back. In a satellite trailer, similar to the ones they use at high schools now.

I went in, took a number.

I was scared to death.

I waited about 16 hours. Actually, I don’t remember how long it actually was. It seemed like a decade.

I was taken back. I was asked some questions. I was told the test could be anonymous.

The nurse was very sweet. Caring. Gentle.

She drew the blood.

I was given a sheet of paper with a number on it. As it was anonymous, it would be how I’d be matched to my result when I came back.

In two weeks.

What the fucking fuck?

If the wait to draw blood was a decade, the two-week wait was a century. Everything was in slow motion those two weeks. Work. School. Rehearsal.

Two weeks later, I made the trek back out to the trailer.

I was taken into a room with a counselor. I was told they always have a counselor just in case it’s positive.

The envelope was opened.

A breath was taken.

I was told

It was.

Negative.

The emotion that rushed over me, was immense.

How could this be? I was only kind of careful. Surely it was wrong.

But it was not.

Fast forward 35 years and I’m tested at every physical. It’s part of my routine blood work for cholesterol and my A1C.

I’m still not sure how I remained negative.

I spent almost 12 years in New York City. I was always kind of careful.

I’m forever grateful.

So many people in my generation were not so lucky.

The care has come a long way, but there are still people worldwide, who are suffering and dying from this horrible disease.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’m pretty sure I’ve shared this post before but it’s always worth repeating.

From 1995 until 1998 I taught lighting design at the Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts. SCPA.

Who knew that a high school could have a teacher dedicated to all things lighting. It was a life changing adventure and I’m proud to say that my past students are spread to the far reaches of the US, still doing amazing things.

I had been mostly out of the closet before I moved to Cincinnati and I wasn’t about to walk back in and start hiding again. One of the first things I did was put a rainbow sticker on my car.

I’ve never been a huge rainbow flag person, but at the time, I thought it was important to own who I was.

First semester of my second year there, I was teaching an intro class to a group of 7th graders. I was taking roll, going through my grade book (I still have them by the way, if any of my students want to know how they did back then).

I got to a young girl, who said she was here and then asked me if the red escort station wagon in the parking lot was mine.

I replied, yes it was. I called it my family car. When I bought it, I couldn’t afford a truck and I needed a way to cart students and lights around to projects I worked on.

The girl started to giggle and and hid her mouth behind her hand and said, so is that the one with the rainbow sticker on the back. Hehehehehe.

I said yes it is. Why do you ask?

Hehehehe, I was just curious, she said, still giggling.

She was trying to be passive aggressive, emphasis on the aggressive and I was having no part of it.

I said, Do you know what the rainbow flag stands for?

She really started to giggle then and wouldn’t answer.

I didn’t wait long before I continued, the rainbow symbol was adopted by the great Reverand Jesse Jackson as a symbol to celebrate and encourage diversity. I have the sticker on my car, because I teach in a very diverse school and I want all of my students to know that I appreciate who they are no matter what.

She stopped giggling and stared at me.

I looked at the whole class and said, does anyone else have a question about the rainbow sticker on my car?

Then, let’s get started.

What are the four qualities of light?

I am what I am.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

The summer of 1984.

I worked at Wendy’s in North Park, in Lexington.

I had just finished my freshman year of college.

One hot, humid evening, a car pulls up to the drive thru. I’m on the register, and take the order. I ask the car to pull around.

When the car pulls up to the window, I lean out and give the guy driving the car the price. He’s super cute, and has a huge smile. He pays me, but keeps looking at me, and smiling. I hand him back his change (I’m not even sure we took credit cards back then), and he’s still smiling.

After a bit, I hand him his order and he asks me what I’m doing later.

I look around to see if any of my co-workers are watching. They are cleaning, cooking, not paying me any attention.

Since no one is watching, I ask why he wants to know. He says, he might want to come back later and see me. I tell him I’ll be off around midnight.

He replies, “Don’t be surprised if I come back.”

I didn’t think anything of it, and went back to work.

Sure, enough though, when I walked out to my car 90 minutes later, there he was sitting in the parking lot, waiting.

As I write this, all I can think of is Jeffrey Dahmer, but in 1994, all I could think was impure thoughts. He asked if I wanted to grab a drink with him, but I confessed I wasn’t 21. He said, how about a drink at my place.

Innocent Jeff, followed him to his apartment. And may or may not have spent the night.

The next morning, we got up and had coffee. He introduced me to his roommate, and we sat and chatted.

I said that I needed to get home, but he asked if he could see me again.

I said, of course. I’d love that.

What followed next was a stupid, infatuation on my part, that had no chance of going anywhere.

I was too young. He was too old at 26.

For a few weeks, though, I’d meet him at the Video Library on New Circle Road, help him close up, then we’d go back to his place.

What I didn’t know, when I met his roommate over coffee the first morning, was that his roommate was a drag queen by night. Confession, she was the first drag queen I’d ever met. I’m not even sure I had a word for it at the time.

The affair lasted about 30 seconds, and one day he told me it wasn’t going to work out.

I was devastated. I spent the next week mourning, while I was spending time at my aunt’s house, watching Grease 2 every day on HBO. She’d ask what was up and I’d just say I don’t feel well.

I of course got over it.

School started a month or so later.

Fall of my sophomore year.

The year when students were allowed to pledge fraternities and sororities.

I went through pledge week. And at the end of the week, I accepted the bid from the Phi Kappa Taus.

My friend Kara’s father is a Phi Tau, which is kind of fun.

That fall I did all the fraternity stuff. Parties, events, etc.

Then came hell week.

During hell week, the first chore was to put newspaper over the windows to the lobbies. Then lots of top secret stuff that I’d be killed if I shared with you.

Part of hell week was a scavenger hunt.

It was silly things really.

But one item stood out.

Get a signature from the bartender at Johnny Angels. The gay bar. Still in business today.

I volunteered to go in. It’s funny, it never occurred to me till right this minute that we didn’t get carded, which means I could have gone back at anytime. Alas.

Myself and a pledge brother walk up to the bar and ask for the autograph.

While I’m standing there, I look to my right, and there is the drag queen friend of my summer fling. She winked at me. Watched the proceedings. And then turned back to her friend.

We ran out, and got on with our evening, but at the time I so grateful she didn’t say hello.

I spent the next three years terrified of being found out.

Now, all of the people from that time know me as Jeff. Who lives in Maine with his boyfriend. His five cats. And his slew of lesbian friends.

Seems silly to have worried about it all that time ago.

Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

32, 013 words.

23 Chapters.

A million miles to go.

I called my Aunt Debbie yesterday, just to check in. She is the last of my mom’s siblings. We’ve been close my whole life. Well since her parents passed, and my mother became her guardian.

That was 59.5 years ago.

I check in every so often to see how she is doing. What’s up with the family I never hear from and to have a connection back to Kentucky and home.

Yesterday she asked me if I was still writing.

I assured her I was.

We talked about what I was writing. How it was going. And how much longer till I was done.

It felt nice to be asked. To have someone in my family be interested in what I’m doing.

I had told her about my writing about 6 or 8 months ago, as I needed her help. I needed facts, stories, folk lore about my family. I confessed to her that I was writing a book about my mom’s passing. Of course, that was just the way in to the rest of the story. It’s actually a book about me, my family, and where I come from.

I like to think of it as Hillbilly Eulogy without the eyeliner and hate.

Thing is, most of the people I’m connected to, that know the truth are all gone. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because there is no one to yell at me for the telling the truth. A curse because there is no one to confirm that it is the truth.

A while back, I reached out to Debbie to ask questions about something I was including. The death of my mother’s father. The details of which I knew with broad strokes, but did not know the exact details. I had written a chapter about his death and wanted to know how close I was to reality.

The facts were there, but I’d invented a good portion of it. Which is fine. It’s far from non-fiction. I was never an astronaut, but when the books starts, I’ve just gotten back from Mars. I kid, I kid.

When we talked 6 or so months ago we talked for about an hour. I was typing notes as she filled me in on the truth about his death, but also the stories of a million other things that I wanted to know.

My mom’s best friends? Who she dated? Where she worked? What kind of car did she drive?

I now have about 10 pages of notes that I took that night.

After we talked, I realized that most of my details of my grandfather’s death were far from factual. The question became, do I make it real? Or do I let it play out in my way?

Anyway.

I talked to Debbie yesterday. And she asked if I was still writing. It felt good to know she cared.

Someday, I’ll let her read it, reminding her that it’s my version of what I remember hearing around the dinner table.

Now on to Chapter 24.

Dear Pen Pal.

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

Last night I started out to write a post about my freshman year at Georgetown College.  

Perhaps this will be that post.  

In late summer of 1983, I attended a freshman orientation.  I remember two things about it.  

The first person who saw me on campus that day, walked up and said, and I quote, “Hi, my name is Karen. Are you saved?”

I should have immediately taken a gap year, transferred to EKU, and attended the state of Kentucky’s party school.  

I did not do that.  

I do not remember my response, but I do remember to this day, thinking what an odd way of making friends.  

At some point during the day, I met a guy named Gary.  Without looking through a yearbook, I have no idea what his last name is.  

We instantly hit it off and by the end of the day, had agreed to be roommates.  

Fun fact:  I was told when filling out paperwork to live on campus, that if you said you had asthma you would not be put in the freshman dorm and instead would be in the new dorms on the other side of campus.  Dorms that had air conditioning.  Turns out this was absolutely true.  

In mid-August, I put all of my worldly belongings into my 1971 Ford Galaxy and drove it to campus.  This consisted of clothes.  A few books.  And not much else.  

However, we were determined to have a cool room, so by the end of August we’d bought a cool couch and a recliner at the local thrift store.  The recliner was bright green and the vinyl covering had seen far better days.  Somewhere I have photos of all of this. 

Gary was from St. Louis, was in the ROTC and LOVED Christian rock music.  Petra was his favorite band, and by the end of the first semester, it was a favorite of mine as well.  

Funny, how you get caught up in what everyone else is doing.  The only reason I attended church as long as I did, was because I loved the music.  In fact, long after I stopped believeing I’d attend church, just to sing the hymns I grew up with.  By the end of my first year at Georgetown, I had bought albums by Sandy Patty and Amy Grant and of course Petra.  El Shaddai.

About halfway thru the fall semester, Gary was talking with a friend of his on the phone.  Attached to the wall.  With a cord.  (Remind me to tell you about having an answering machine).  He was talking to his friend Valerie who he went to high school with.  She wanted to know if he wanted cookies or brownies in a care package.  He asked me my preference, and I said brownies, and a few days later a package arrived with brownies.  

We were excited to get them because getting packages at college was fun.  This went on for a few more weeks and eventually, I sent Valerie a thank you letter.  She wrote me back.  I wrote her back.  And thus began the back and forth of letters between Valerie and Jeff.   

The letters were silly.  Lists of questions we had for the other person.  Thoughts about school.  Thoughts about the world.  At the time her favorite perfume was Lauren, by Ralph Lauren, and she’d spritz the letters. She’d send boxes.  I’d send boxes.  

This continued into the spring semester.  With both of us sending three, four, five letters a week.  Multiple letters at a time.  Numbered of course.  

Sometime in mid-February, and I don’t know how it came up, it was suggested that I go visit her over spring break.  And I did.  My Aunt, and her boyfriend at the time, drove me to St. Louis.  With her kids.  We went up in the St. Louis Arch.  We toured the church beneath it.  And on a Sunday afternoon, Val and her parents picked me up and took me to their home. 

It was a perfectly lovely week.  We laughed.  We had fun.  And the ONLY thing I remember about the whole week is that we saw Footloose at the movie theater, with her friends.  It was on Friday night, the last night I’d be there.  Footloose will always be the movie of my freshman year of college.  Let’s hear it for the boys.  

On Saturday, my aunt came back to pick me up.  

On Monday, school started again.  

And I think I got one or two more letters after I visited.  

She stopped writing.  I stopped writing.  

And that was the end of that.  Never to be heard from again.

But. 

Here’s the fun part.  

Every letter that I ever, ever, ever received from the time I was eight or nine until well into my late 20’s, is in a box in my office.  Including every letter I ever received from Val.  

Part of me thinks I should toss them.  

Part of me thinks I should look her up and see what happened to her.

Part of me thinks I should open up ALL the letters and reminiscence.  

Part of me says, wait till I’m dead and let Adam deal with them.  

Gary, didn’t return for our sophomore year.  And I never heard from him again either.  

Fun story about Gary.  One day his alarm went off, he got up, showered, dressed and left for ROTC stuff, only to find out someone (NOT ME) had fucked with his alarm and set it two hours early.  He arrived at 4:00 a.m. instead of 6:00.  We had a good laugh about that.  

In the meantime, I haven’t written a letter in 20 years.  But if in fact, you were one of the people I corresponded with in my 20’s, Jayne Sadlon, and Julia Roberts then I still have those letters. 

Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Picture this. Sicily 1902.

Actually, the date is summer, 1983. I have just graduated from high school. I’m working at Wendy’s and mowing a friend’s lawn to make money.

The weekends are spend going to Rocky Horror in Lexington, to a dollar cinema in Chevy Chase that ceased to exist around a million years ago.

A typical Saturday night involved, picking up my friends. Stephanie. Scott. Kendra. The list goes on. I would drive until I wrecked my car. Actually, Stephanie wrecked my car, as I was teaching her to drive.

We’d drive to Lexington, and then stop at the drive thru liquor store on the way into Lexington. We’d ask for a bottle of cheap vodka and was never, ever carded. The glory of drive through liquor stores and friends who looked over 21. Actually, I don’t think they cared.

The truth was, the county I grew up in was dry. No liquor sales. Not ever. Period.

In college we’d talk about going West which was the name of the liquor store just over the county line, West Liquors. It also had a drive thru.

We’d drive thru the liquor store, and then stop for orange juice at a convenience store.

We’d find parking near the theater, and then pour the vodka into the orange juice. We’d pass it around and it only took a sip or two for most of us to swear we were tipsy.

Finally, at 11:50 we get out of my 1971 Ford Galaxy and walk toward the Chevy Chase Cinema.

The movie is The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I saw that move 50+ times ove the course of the last year. I know all of the lines. I know all of the actors.

We take a seat and then at exactly 12:01, the movie starts.

Michael Rennie was ill
The Day the Earth Stood Still
But he told us where we stand
And Flash Gordon was there
In silver underwear
Claude Rains was The Invisible Man
Then something went wrong
For Fay Wray and King Kong
They got caught in a celluloid jam
Then at a deadly pace
It Came From Outer Space
And this is how the message ran

We brought all the props. We screamed out all of the added dialogue.

We were far from virgins. By the end of summer, I’d seen the movie more than 50 times.

Sometime in the middle of the summer, on a rainy night, my friend Stephanie was driving. She pulled onto the street, skidded and ended up hitting a truck.

It’s when I learned that auto insurance goes with the car, not the driver, her father could pay for the damage, and it was the end of a car that I would give a million bucks to still be driving today.

A 1971 Ford Galaxy, with red leather interior and a creamy off-white exterior. 15,000 miles, only driven by my mom’s bosses, wife.

At the end of the movie, we’d stand and celebrate the success that was our attendance at the movie.

Then we’d find my. The small bottle of vodka, properly disposed of in the trash barrel on the street. Any hope of tipsiness long gone.
We’d laugh about how awesome we were to know all the feedback.
And I’d drive us home.

In Georgetown, I’d drop everyone off at their cars, or their homes.

Then I’d drive Stephanie and me, to Sadieville.

The ritual, repeated itself until we all left to go our separate ways at the end of the summer.

In August, I’d start Georgetown College. Baptist College. No drinking. No girls in your dorm room. Only having had dancing for the past 4 years.

Fun fact. This was a post about my Freshman year at Georgetown, and ended up being about the summer after my senior year of high school.

More to come later.

New Kid In Town

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t written publicly in a while.  

Privately I’m 30,000 words into a novel about…well something.  

However, I do miss writing for an audience.  Actually, I miss it a lot.  

I have a million ideas.  Seriously.  If I was more motivated.  More driven.  More focused.  I’d have probably already signed a trillion-dollar book deal.  Or at least have published a pamphlet I leave on people’s cars.  I enjoy it a lot.  

So to back up, on Sunday, I worked a very long shift.  And I mean very long.  It was very busy.  It was crazy. We are at the end of restaurant week and to be honest, it’s been a great help to an otherwise boring spring.  

When I came upstairs from the office at 4:00 to check in on the staff, make sure the doors were open and inspect the dining room Cher was playing on the speakers.  I smiled to myself.  Who doesn’t love Cher.  Although, it did make me remember that my 23 year old host from Norway has no idea who Cher is but that’s another story.  

As the night started at 4:00, the music continued.  I learned that the station was a Cher station on Pandora.  The music continued and as it did, the songs I knew continued.  One right after another.  And every song that played had a story.  Dolly, Journey, Billy, The Bee Gee’s, even Elvis.  

My young host and servers were all hanging out waiting for the night to begin and as the songs played I kept them entertained with a story about each one.  And is always the case, I thought to myself, this would be a great writing exercise.  Sharing music stories with all of you.  

This is the first.  It might be my last and only one.  But it IS my first. 

New Kid in Town:  Eagles.  1976/1977. 

For me it’s January 1977. 

It’s snowing.  It’s been snowing for 12 months.  

We missed the last day of school before Christmas break, which was supposed to be the day of our Christmas party.  It’s now the middle of January.  It’s still snowing.  It’s been almost a month, and we have still not been back to school.  For almost 8 days we didn’t leave our house.  Our road, Carrick Road, has not been plowed in a week.  Our yard, stretches out for a 100-yards, even though, 50 feet from our house, it’s supposed to drop 5 feet to the road.  It is snowy.  

When the plows finally clear a one lane path, my parents need to go back to work.  I’m in 6th grade and my mom the worrier won’t let my brother and I stay home by ourselves.  

On the first day of clear roads, we get up at 6:30, get dressed and by 7:00 are on our way to Lexington with our parents.  We’ll stay at my mom’s office with her, while my dad goes to his job.  

It is snowing.  Hard.  The snow in the headlights looks like a scene from some space movie.  There is snow on both sides of the road.  My father has both hands tight on the steering wheel.  He is hunched over, paying attention.  You can tell he knows it’s his job to drive, to get us to our destination in one piece.    

A song plays on the radio station WLAP, 630 am.  New Kid In Town by the Eagles.   The song wraps up and a DJ tells us about the weather.  The news.  They continue to talk as my dad slowly maneuvers the slippery roads in his pick up truck

There is no talking. 

We drive.    

My mother lights another cigarette, she hates traveling in the snow.  She will smoke non-stop until we arrive at her office. 

After what seems like 6 hours we finally arrive in Lexington on Newtown Pike.  The roads clear.  There is a collective sigh of relief as the worst of our trip is behind us.  Finally, we arrive at 200 Cox Street.  A tile and carpet subcontracting building.  

We have made it alive.  My mother is happy.  

We get out of the truck, and climb the icy concrete steps to the cold aluminum sided building she works in. She unlocks the door.  We are the only ones there.  She flips on the over head fluorescent lights and turns on the heat.  There is no plumbing in her office so they keep the heat off when no one is there.  It’s about 4* and won’t be warm till around the time we eat lunch. 

She is a bookkeeper.  She has been a bookkeeper for years.  She started this job, working for my uncle three years ago.  Her office is wood paneled, covered in maps.  There are sample books of carpet and tile everywhere.  The walls, the “art”, the maps on the all are all yellowed from years of smoking in the office.  The office smells of damp cold air and cigarette smoke.  

My brother and I will spend the day here.  I’m 11 but my mother doesn’t trust my brother and I to spend the day alone at home.  We will go to her office every day.  We sit on the floor if anyone else is there, as she only has one chair and it’s hers.  There are two offices behind hers is occupied by the man who runs the business.  The back office, the owner of the company, I haven’t seen in weeks.  We get settled and we countdown the 8 hours wait until we can go home again.  This pattern repeats itself, every day till the second week of February.

I wander around the office.  Looking at calendars.  A map of Lexington.  The blueprints of a school they have been hired to carpet and tile.  I go through drawers.  I open boxes.  It’s 8:45 and I’m bored out of my mind.    My one consolation is that I can read.  Once I figure out where to plant myself, I’ll pull out a book and get settled.  

Today I am reading a book called Today I Am a Ham.  I love reading.  It’s saved me from my life more times than I can count.  

My mom turns on her radio, pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and starts to work.  I can hear the sound of the adding machine and typewriter.  The phone rings, Good Morning, L. Standafer Company.  My mother has a phone voice.  She is a different person when she answers the phone.  Calm.  Kind.  Relaxed.   Not at all how she talks to us.   

She answers the questions.  Takes notes.  Say’s goodbye and hangs up.  She goes back to work.  

I wander around the building.  Into the warehouse, which is not heated.  I can see my breath as I walk around looking at rolls of carpet and boxes of tiles.  I eventually find myself in her boss’s office.  It is filled with blueprints.  Even to this day, I’ve been fascinated by floor plans.  I look through them, thinking one day I might like to be an architect. 

I seat myself in her boss’s empty chair. I pretend to be the boss, picking up the phone.  Opening and shutting drawers.  Finally, I pull out my book to read.  The time goes by faster when I am reading.  I open the book to the first page.   I’m a little old for it, but I had it at home and it’s been a favorite for years.  I read, and read, and read, and read, and read.  I start to get drowsy. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m asleep.  

When I open my eyes, it’s time for lunch.  We eat boloney sandwiches, with potato chips and dessert is a Little Debbie oatmeal pie.  After lunch the day repeats itself, with my mom answering the phone, me reading and my brother doing who knows what. 

At 4:30 my father arrives, to start the drive back home.  It’s as treacherous as the morning drive.  

Everyday for 6 weeks I hear the song New Kid In Town.  And to this day, when it plays, I can see myself squeezed in to the middle of the pick up truck, listening to the lyrics, followed by the news on WLAP.  

I have a love hate relationship with this song.  It’s a lovely song, but the music, the lyrics, take me back to the winter of 1977 and my long trek to the 200 Cox Street.  

But something was missing, I never quite knew, That something was someone, But who?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

More than a year ago, I posted that I’d finally found a photo of my biological father.  I didn’t know anything about him, but I did know what he looked like, thanks to a friend of mine from college

Meanwhile, during 2020, I’d tested on Ancestry hoping to match.  

Unfortunately, everyone was a 2nd or 3rd or 4th cousin.

So imagine my surprise when I logged on today for the first time in forever, and discovered a new match.  A sister.  With a name.  To be honest it knocked the wind out of me.  I knew that she existed but I’d always been hesitant to reach out on Social Media until I knew for sure.

Finally, there was proof. 

So I took a deep breath.  I took a drink of bourbon and I wrote the following:  

Hi.  My name is Jeff Fightmaster.  I was born in Paris, Kentucky in 1965.  My mother was from Paris and had lived in the area her whole life.  My mother was not married when I was born and I’ve spent my life not knowing who my father was.  Years ago, after a huge argument she finally gave me a name.  That name was ____________.  She would tell me nothing more.  She died 6 years ago, and took to her grave whatever the truth was concerning my birth.  I did ancestry during COVID but the matches were vague.  I reached out to a few people, but to be honest I think they thought I was trying to scam them.  Which is far from the truth.    Imagine my surprise when I logged in today for the first time in months and saw that you had tested and were listed as my half-sister.  I had done a little sleuthing and knew you existed, but I was hesitant to reach out to you without knowing for sure if it was true.  I have wondered my whole life about my father.  What he was like? Was he happy?  Was he smart?  Was he kind?  These things mattered very much to 12-year-old Jeff.    I live in Maine now, with my partner Adam.  I have had a great life, and don’t expect anything from you.  However, if you were open to it, I’d love to know about the man who was my father.  I’d love to know more about you and your family.  And I think from a little checking, I also might have a brother. I know this is probably shocking to you.  It would be to me as well.  If you are open to chatting let me know and I’ll reach out with my number.  I looked you up on Facebook, and I saw that you are friends with _____ and _____  ______.  ______ was one of my best friends when I was in grad school at the University of Kentucky, and I’m sure if you reached out to them they’d assure you I’m an okay guy.  I hope I haven’t shocked you too much.  And I do hope to hear back from you.  Best Wishes.  

I read through the message a couple of times.  Then took another deep breath and a drink of bourbon and hit send.  

I’m in full anxiety mode right now.  

But the deed is done.  As with everything else in my life.  I’ll keep you posted.