The Storm-Troy Burroghs (Troy Burroghs: Surrealist-Traveler-Episode One)

You ever been in a bad storm? I have. Believe me, it is spooky. I’ve never liked them. I have traveled the world over, and never have I meant never, have I seen a storm like this one, the one I’m going to tell you about; it happened in January, no February in St. Paul, Minnesota; the coldest land next to the North Pole, and perhaps Alaska, Canada, and lets add the South Pole, and perhaps Iceland. But for me it is just part of traveling. You know, take life and live it, take it as it is, you’ve heard that before I’m sure. Make the best of it. If it snows, slide or sky. If it’s hot, swim or lay in the sun. If you got mountains next to you climb them. If you got a storm, ride it out. That’s my motto. Live and let live.

Once in Maui, there was a storm. I was on vacation, and when I got there they shut the whole island down. That’s right, the whole damn place. I couldn’t get a coke, or for that matter, gumball. I walked along the shore though. I like the winds. I think the biggest adventure in Maui, was the storm. You can tell I didn’t care for Maui all that much, or the hotel I was at. They’re all acting like hot shots. Go to Malta, or some other island, they will treat you better I believe. I did get to see some whales; thirty feet from me. But Maui is not my cup of tea. I guess you can’t love every place. In a way it was alright, the more I think of it. But you’d have to pay my way to get me back there. Of the five-days there in December, 3 ½ were days of winds and rain and, oh well, I’m glad I did not go there for the sun. I hate the sun. But the people that thought they were going to get it, did not, it was a costly “no sun ½ week.”

But back to Minnesota, land of the ice cube, the ice donut, the ice parades, the snowball, and snowmen. I was in St. Paul. In an area called the Midway area of town. I have a few friends there. And a bank I used was work at, in that area. And a storm came. Like out of the blue. One minute it is a great cold day, and the next minute, it is a hell of a cold day. I mean a rainy cold storm day, a bad one. I found myself dodging ice balls of hail. So hard they were like little bullets. And I must have got hit, because when I awoke, there were bears all around; dead bears. As I walked up the block to University Avenue, they got even bigger, huge; just lying dead. I was waiting for one to move as I walked by, but it didn’t. I knew the storm was bad, but not that bad. I slowly went up and down the streets, by Lexington and Dale Avenues. –I think I counted twenty of those fury creatures, or so. I just can’t get over this: big furry bears. I wanted to jump on one, and bounce. They actually looked like they were hibernating, all curled up. No cars coming. No humans walking the sidewalks. What was going on I asked myself; very mysterious.

I made it to the place I was staying, and noticed another storm was coming,

“OH, god!” I said, with no disrespect intended.

“Not another one.” And yes it was another one. I went back to the Midway area, not sure why but I did, and there was a huge tower there, I must have not noticed it before, (before: meaning, I had lived in St. Paul, off and on for 50-years) and a man was calling to all the people below,

“You have 16-minutes to get home.”

I said, “What!”

He said again, “16-minutes and I am counting.”

I told myself as I was looking up at him, I am missing something. In any case, I started walking back to my place quite fast. I heard a loud noise. Like a bomb. Several police come up to me asking where I head the voice. I pointed to the tower. And many people were running by me. They stopped,

“We need to investigate,” someone said, and so I followed (I followed the someone).

When we got to the tower, we slowly climbed the stairs. The tower was about seven floors I think. A man was lying dead on the floor in the tower room. It seemed like it was an airport tower, but how could it be, it was in the middle of the city. I guess you can make them to look like anything you want I thought. Yet, it still remained in my mind, it was a strange place to have it, so I told myself.

I left the scene, and started walking back to my apartment again. As I sat down on my bed, I noticed I had a letter sitting by the phone. I opened it, it read:

“Go to Panama City, Florida quick.”

As usual, I found myself walking along the beach, of Florida, it was hot, and people were running and screaming, and everything; chaos to the max. What a city I told myself. I was in this city some twenty-years ago, and it was quite calm; but not today. The city was chaos.

As I sat down on a large rock looking at all the happenings, I simply told myself, I have come to the conclusion; I have no control, and went to take a shower.

Troy Burroghs In NYC [Troy Burroghs: Surrealist-Traveler]

Boxing Fan Burroughs

I was going on a trip again to NYC, short for New York City; I love it in New York; especially Central Park; the Museum is great also, and of course, the Empire State Building. Woops, what museum, the Metropolitan, that is my choice. Then I like to walk down the street, and there is the big sign: The Tonight Show, which I’ve never been on, but at its location on all my trips; but once my wife and I went down to see if we could get in, August 14, 2001. They were on a break of some kind. We met Rufered at the “Hello Deli”; had one of his famous sandwiches. He often helps Mr. Dave Letterman with some pranks he puts on during his shows; got a picture with him. I like them two the best. This would be my 4th trip to the great city by the Atlantic. I like Paris even better I hate to say. But New York is a good runner up.

Time Warp

I can never tell when it is going to happen, but it is becoming normal, all of a sudden I was there. I was in a hallway in New York City, looking at some pictures on the wall, and waiting. My brother was with me. A man came down, called Ed; I guess I knew him from some place. I couldn’t quite place him, but I introduced my brother to him. My bother is a photographer of sorts, an Independent Contractor I would gather. He travels throughout the country, and many of his many pictures he took of me, he sold many to text books and magazines. He has his own vaults of pictures some place in Arizona; maybe it is New Mexico, Haw…! Someplace out West. He has done some overseas traveling, but not much, or should I say, like me. Not sure if that needs to be said. But my mind is racing. I like being in New York City.

I noticed as I was introducing my brother to Ed, the ex world champion of boxing, Fraaaaz…, that is all I could read. I think it was Frazer, but I can’t say for sure. He had an office in the same building, upstairs on the second or third floor. I should go check it out I told myself, maybe it is Frazer. I had seen all his fights. I have all his fights on tape, that is, most of his fights on tapes. He is one aggressive boxer. And he has a heart. He never stops. I don’t think he got the acclaim he deserves: like Ali, with the big mouth. I like him also, and he was great, but that mouth. I guess that is what people buy. Like cigarettes, package them good, and it will sell.

I remember most all his fights also, Ali that is. But then there are about six-boxers I really like. Sullivan [I have a signature of his]; Jack Dempsey [I got a letter by him], [Ali, I have a signed glove of his]; and Frazer, I got something of his but I can say right now. They were the best of the best. Oh I forgot one, Marc… (someone), never beaten champ; I have a …something signed by him also. But no one could take a punch like Frazer, and come back like he did, and fight. He was like the Spartan’s of Greece. A warrior among warriors; Ali, bless his soul, was a great fighter, with heart, and used a lot of psychology in his fighting, but…I’m getting too much into this boxing mode; back to NYC.

As I was saying, his name was on this list I was reading on the side of the wall, I just couldn‘t say for sure. I just couldn‘t make out the last letters, Fraaaaaa…r. He worked for Ed anyways. What a photograph that would be. I collect autographs, somewhat. I would have liked to have taken him for a ride had I been in my hometown and showed him around to my friends, and neighborhood. In any case, my brother was talking to Ed, and I had to leave well enough alone: let them talk. So I said it, and it must have flown over Ed’s head, because he was talking business with my brother.

Well, within a heartbeat, I found myself in upstate New York [that time warp again], by the great state of Massachusetts. I had visited a town thereabouts, many years ago, in that area. I was not far from that beautiful town either, it was called Stockbridge. But that was not my destination on this trip. I was in this little hick town, not much good to say about it in particular. Actually everyone was busy selling everything, and shutting it down. I didn’t see my brother around, but I think this was where we were suppose to be, for him taking pictures; for me, I’m still not sure why I am (was) here. For my brother this could be some great opportunity to capture posterity in the making. You know, they show them pictures fifty-years from now, how it used to be. You know the closing up of a great little town. But I didn’t see anything great around here.

In any case, I was on my own. My brother when he gets a camera in his hands, you might just assume, you will see him fifteen-minutes before you leave that town. But he does his thing and I do mine. He is two years older than I. Not sure if that makes a difference any more, it did when I was 5 or 12 years old. Maybe at 15, it made a difference. Actually, I was thinking about why I didn’t go upstairs and see if the World Ex-champ was who I thought it was. His office was not that far away. Get that picture. But I remember now, I didn’t have a camera. Get that autograph.

As I searched the town out the whole day, it seemed I was not getting anywhere, and the skies were starting to become dark, you know, dusk. That is, a little dark. I ended up in this big warehouse. I got on top of some lumber, high, up high on stacks of lumber; I had just previously found a movie-camera, an old type one, different. It looked more like a VCR-re-winder, but it said movie camera on it. I don’t ever take them with me on my travels, it takes to much time to play with, and by the time you take the movie, you lost the thrill of the moment. I was once whale watching in Maui, and took several pictures of whale thirty-feet from me. After the experience, I asked the guy who was standing by me how the whale was, since he had the movie camera. He said wait a minute, I’ll have to re-play it. He said he really didn’t get to see much, taking the picture.

As I was saying, about to say anyhow, here, here I am on top of this huge stack of lumber looking about. A few old women were doing some figuring in the front area to the side when I came in I noticed. I think they were counting the money they made on selling things. Now that I was deep-rooted in the warehouse I could no longer see or hear them. Actually I think they left. I started to move, and tripped. All of my money came out of my pockets. I hesitated to pick any of it up, but then started to anyhow. I felt I was in a danger zone, and heard vices. The criminal type, and so I said: to myself: this money change I dropped, is not going to make me or break me, let it go. My life might be in trouble. And so I did. As I was getting down the steps, Ed was walking by, looking for me. I think he had mentioned my name. I thought about getting that picture of the Boxer now, not sure why, the moment didn’t call for it, that’s for sure. I did have a movie camera now (I took it).

When I got to the bottom of the pile of wood, I found my way out of the warehouse. As I was trying to find my transportation back home, I was trying to hide my new found camera. Someone asked then, if I had seen one. I thought in my head, wait a minute, you left it there, I found it. But I really didn’t need it. When the person wasn’t looking I put it on a wooden box, and got onto the train. I expected to meet my brother there and Ed.

When I got home, I looked about my apartment. I had already a signed 3 x 5 card by the World Champ, Joe Frazer. I had purchased it a few years back. But I guess I wanted to get one, or go one more step beyond the buying stage of a signature, and get to meet the champ. That is, wanting to meet him was a want, not a need. It’s a funny thing in life, chances, choices and decisions. As Mr. Robert Frost once said in his poem: “The Road Less Traveled,” move or remain stale; he didn’t say that, it is just what I got out of it; or kind of got out of it; one turn could make a world of difference, or a life time of differences. I agree with that. Had I not bought some property some years back, I would not have been able to go to New York City, thus, not able to write this story, get that camera, take that train, or even buy that signature; and so forth and so on.

Another thing that comes to mind is: when you open a door for someone, you do it for yourself also. Not sure what door I opened in this story is or was: my brother and Ed never met me. They must have gone their own way. And just what did I learn on this trip (?) And so, it was a door not opened, and a road not taken. But I couldn’t find the door. And to be quite honest, it turned out fine, and I don’t really want to know what would have happened had I picked up the change; or found that door, or not made it to the train.; or pushed my way to the Champs office; called my brother up to introduce him to Ed. One thing leads to another. I had a fine trip, that’s good enough. I have learned in my many travels, you make the good times and the bad times, not the tag along. If you got one of them, you’re better off traveling alone. If the persons good company, forget what I said.

I once met a woman in a small town in Iceland; we were out in a group on a boat looking for whales. She said she was a little lonely. And so I took her to a cafe in town and had whale meat. For the whale lovers, it is legal there. And the whale tastes good, good, good. In any case, we became friends. When she got home to Florida, she continued to write me. And then she went to England with a girlfriend. She wrote me back and said: now I know the difference in traveling alone vs. having to have someone with you (someone that bugs you and so for, irritates you). She explained she couldn’t go any place without her complaining. Thinking it was her job to entertain her. She now travels alone. I did for 25 out of 34-years of traveling, travel alone that is, and brother, I don’t regret a minute.

Troy Burroghs Adventures: The Angry Maid (#3)

Surrealist-Traveler]

The bad thing about being a counselor is that it is like chewing bubble gum, yup that is exactly what I do, and just like that you just keep on doing it. I suppose I could pick out a better analogy but I can’t think of one. But did you know I had a brother. Oh yaw, a big brother, and this adventure takes me back a few years. I got to tell you about it. Why? Well, for my friends out there, if I have any; got to get it off my chest.

It was l969, my brother just got a divorce and had a number of girlfriends, and so I got to see a few. Well he was thinking about going back with his wife during this period of time. Well, I stopped over to his house, and there were a few people over their talking to him, and his maid, yup, he had a maid of all things. A hot shot you could say. And so…woops, his name is Mick. Now back on track. As I was saying, I stopped over to his house and we …woops, he had a beer, and I a coke [I was on the wagon]. As I was about to say, his friends were walking around aimlessly waiting for him. I guess he was going over to his youngest daughter’s house to see her, some kind of an ‘after-wedding shower,’ of sorts; she had gotten married two years before.

Samah, his maid started looking in the mirror powdering her face. Mick grabbed the mirror from her and made stupid looking faces in it, mocking her. I said to myself, is this brother doing such a thing. I knew we were a little strange, but not goofy like this: I mean he kind of reflects me, if not so, than our heritage, somewhere along the line.

Fine, to make a long story short, or a short story shorter, I guess that is the real truth of it, I asked Mick,

“What are you doing?”

“I have a contract with her she wants me to pay her off,” he commented.

Fine, I kind of knew what it meant, let me explain: He was going back to his ex-wife, and no longer needed her services, and for the most part could not afford them. And living in Montclair, California was a little expensive back then. I looked at Samah, and she was crying. I wasn’t sure if it was for the ridicule in front of his friends, or because she lost her job, or what. But it was a tense situation for me. Not sure why, everyone else seemed to be taking the situation quite well. My brother could have eaten an apple, and you’d not known if he had a worry on his mind: not considering his pocket book. But Mick and I are different. I take things a little different than him. Matter-of-fact, I often wondered if I could extract some of his genes and swallow them to calm me down; I got all the damn over-sensitive ones I think. That is not to say Mick does not feels, or has feelings, it simply implies he will most likely out live me by 30-years or so—anyways, back to the story.

We now were all standing by the bathroom door. The three guy friends of Mick in his apartment were by the bedroom waiting for Mick, and now here is the Maid crying, and Mick looking at me, and glancing at the Maid. She then went up to my brother and tore the contract up in front of his face.

Mick looked at her and said,

“That was nice,” cool as a bag of ice in the freezer.

And she turned around and continued to be angry and cried, but did not say anything bad: bad words that is like: .uck you or you ass…le or you son of a .itch (which I kind of expected).

Mick said,

“If you want Samah you’re invited to the party.”

She didn’t respond. I then approached her, said,

“Why not you and I have a cup of…a coke for me that is, I was going to say coffee, but I remembered I do not drink coffee if I’m going to have a counseling session, which she didn’t know this was going to be, only I.

Let’s try again: I said let’s go to a private room [Mick had three bedrooms], and talk. On the way I made her coffee, and grabbed a coke from the frig. In the bedroom she sat on the bed, I sat on a chair, and left the bedroom door open a crack. No sir, I’m a good counselor, not one of them: ‘I got you babe,’ ones. And I’m not going to let you think otherwise.

Any ways, let’s get to the good stuff. When I say good stuff, I guess I am implying I was proud of the Maid.

She said, “Yaw, now what.” I said to myself, every time I get a new client, that is what I get, “Yaw, now what.”

“I’m quite impressed in what you did,” I said.

She replied, “I bit my tongue, and I gave your brother an out, that’s all.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t. You gave yourself an out. You could have fought him in court and won, and it would take a few months, but you would have only got money. It would have went for an appeal, and taken another several months. And lawyers fees, and anger and you know, knots in the stomach; insomnia and a few headaches, all those kinds of psychological illnesses. What you really did was free yourself of the burden, so you can go on in life; and yes, Mick of a financial situation.”

“I suppose, I guess I just didn’t want to deal with it, and make a point.”

I said, “You made a point, and it was to let go. Revenge works on two people always. It is not simply the other person you are getting; it is yourself: believe it or not.”

“Yaw, I suppose, I kind of knew that I had to do something, guess he’d make my maid service hell for two years; miserable, you know.”

“Well,” I commented, “I guess you could put it that way, but from another angel, you’re allowing yourself to move beyond this point. Plus, you got a party indentation. And I recommend you go, who knows, maybe you might get another job. Plus, you’re good reputation is in tact. If some one hires you, they will see you’re not a hot head, but as someone under presser you can count on. Everyone out there has a bad day or financial upheaval in their lives. It is how people around you respond to it.”

“I suppose,” she said, but this time she was wiping her tears, and smiling. And then I told her a story about me. And I normally do not do this, but I did not want her to look back and say, ‘I wish I would have got him, I had the chance, and screwed him out of all that money.’

“You know Samah, the demons work on such a primes.” And so I added for safe keeping on her behalf,

“Samah let me tell you what happened to me on my third divorce. My wife found a boy friend, and I had a lasting and disabling illness at the time. She asked for a divorce. The lawyer told me I could get 70 to 85% of our assets because she was divorcing, or abandoning me during an illness. Well I thought, we don’t know the strengths and weaknesses or desires of our mate do we; and I’d like to have gotten the $85,000 retirement fund + the $22,000 +CD’s and house and other things in question, but I asked her for $1400. And to be honest with you she hesitated, and I explained to her I would not offer this twice, to talk to her lawyer, because I talked to mine.

“Well, she did, and the offer was taken. And I guess she did say something to the effect, ‘Why?’ I never answered the question. But I will tell you. First of all, money is only money. You can make more, and I did, my best revenge was becoming a millionaire. Second, I freed myself so I could go on with life. Third, I did not carry any hate, some anger, but that is normal. And so revenge did not have its day in the way it wanted to which would have been to destroy both of us.

“Life is funny, Samah, it gives you the tools to live, but you got to make decisions on thinking not emotions, I think that was my biggest hurdle. And what I seen you do was make a decision on thinking.”

“Gee, I guess I did. Maybe I will go to the party after all. Who knows maybe I will get a better offer and end up cleaning OUR home…if you get the drift?”

“Oh yaw, I get the message loud and clear.” I thought as we walked out of the bedroom maybe she had eyes for my brother. HMMMMMMMMM makes you think.

Well I suppose you want to know what happened at the party! I can’t tell you, I never went, but she got a job I heard, married a man, self-employed plumber who made $60,000 a year, and back then that was money; he was 15-years her senior, but who cares. He got a young-babe, and she got her dream, a good man, a house that belonged to her, and never had to clean another house or someone else. No kids, but she didn’t care, she had a lot of time visiting Her sister’s and brother’s kids; and he retired early, and they fly to Europe three times a year. You can’t get better than that my friend. You see, you just never know what walking out that door will bring.

Note: 9-21-02 12:21 PM [revised 12/8/2005]

Troy Burroghs, and the Snow Sign

Life never is a piece of cake for me, oh no, it has always had its ups and downs. I know, for I’ve had my share.

I was driving the other day to the movie theater; it was in the State of Minnesota, in the middle of its most deadly winter, snow up to your elbows, and so I parked the car, went into see the movie, got all the stress of the day out of me; that is why I usually go to the movies, half the time anyhow, I don’t even watch the movie, unless it’s a real good one. In any case, I ate my popcorn, and my diet pop, and I was in the valley of happiness. My stress level was .00001, way down brother.

Well, to make a short story shorter, I came out of the movie house, and found a ticket on my car. I looked around for the police and they were long gone, went home for breakfast I suppose, it was late. I was not a happy camper, I was angry. I almost went back into the show house to get rid of this new stress, but I didn’t. I made ten-snow balls and threw each one at the sign that said, “No Parking, Handicap.” Then I thought, boy this is either a $200, or $500 dollar fine.

Things were not looking good. And so I threw more snowballs at the sign. Then I noticed I had covered the sign up with snow, it was sticking on the sign. I got a bright idea: I threw some more snowballs at the sign: and more and more snow balls at the sign. Then I took a picture of my car and the sign. Knowing I had this damn ticket.

Well, the next day I went down to the courthouse, asked for the “Interceder’s’ office for city transportation violations (the referee), to talk to him about the ticket that is, and showed him the sign was not clear, that snow was on it and thus, how could I read it, and therefore was not responsible for parking where a snow-covered sign said: ‘no parking, handicap’. He looked at me, and looked at me. Then he kept looking at the sign. It was a $300 fine, I now found out. He said,

“Well, Mr. Burroghs it would seem you and the officer are a little both wrong. I’ll cut the fine to $100-dollars!” Then he looked at me to see if I would agree. I hesitated, pretending to be a little discontent, but after losing my job at this bookstore some time back, I needed to get even with society. I am not a revengeful person, but I lied, didn’t I. Anyways I said thank you to him and beat-feet out the door. Sometimes you just have to make life a little more fare, you know, make it happen.

Note: Dedicated to my wife Rosa, she really likes this one for some odd reason; 6/2002 Modifed 12/19/2005

Troy Burroghs, in Chicago

(December l969) I was going on leave, from Army Basic Training; it was Christmas time, and I stopped in Chicago, a short stay, and only but a few hours. I pulled the string of the bus and he let me off. I was thinking this was my stop, seeing a sign that said Greyhound, but when I got to it closer that is, the station was abandoned, and the sign indicated where the new station was. I had taken a plane to this mighty and windy city, and I wasn’t all that far from my hometown, to be quite honest. I look around for a cab, no luck. For another bus, no luck, and then I saw a Spanish dud coming.

He came to about four feet in front of my nose. I looked about, and there were three others, all standing in a funny diamond shaped geographical design. On corners, and within running distanced, as if they were covering the four corners of the world. I knew I was being set up to be robbed: and I felt it was act now, or never. He clicked his finger in my face with the “West Side Story Look,” on it.

I saw as I was about to open the door of the little barber shop next to me, a lady, and when she saw the sit-up, she shut the inside door, and locked it. She was cutting another woman’s hair, and another customer woman was waiting. I went to see if the door locked completely, because I heard the latch possibly miss, as she walked away. I think she was hoping I didn’t notice it, but she didn’t turn around anyways. I did open the door, and I went in.

“Can you call me a cab Miss; it’s getting a little dangerous out there.”

“No,” she replied.

I looked about. Everyone was just doing their thing. No eye contact. I looked out the window. There was that dim short looking Mexican, with his pals nearby.

I turned away from the window and looked at her again. She did catch my eyes this time, but did not say a word. So I sat down. It was 3:45 PM. She would be closing I thought soon, and she’d have to let me use the phone.

I kept looking out the window, for about twenty-minutes. I never saw a cab. No buses. Then I thought I seen a bus coming my way, meaning, anyway at this point was my down. It was now up a ways, by a four way stop and go light. I got up to take a better look. Put my duffle bag around my right shoulder and went outside.

Thus, this hot shot came up to me as I was standing on the corner trying to see if it was a bus or not. He came up to me, but before he took that last step from four feet to three feet, he pulled a knife out this time, and when he put his foot down, to stand three feet in front of me, I hit him between the eyes, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. I grabbed the knife, turned him over to see if he had any other weapons, pushed my duffle bag off my shoulders. Yaw, he had a gun tucked away in his back.

He was awake but drowsy,

“You’re a dead man,” he sputtered in some kind of English.

Funny I thought, he was on the ground and I’m the dead man.

“No,” I said, “I don’t see it that way…“ I told him.

One of the other three fellows came running up, I took the knife and threw it, it landed between the man’s eyes, and he was about six feet from me when he dropped to the ground. Then I took the revolver and shot the other two men: one by one they dropped, about ten feet in front of me. The Hot Shot looked at me, now not quite in a daze, and tried to swallow his tongue I think after witnessing his comrades being put out of commission, it spoiled his appetite. I put the knife and gun in my pocket, saw the bus coming my way, and so I got up, and caught the bus as I had always intended to.

I noticed, looking out of the bus window, the man trying to get into the barber shop as the bus pulled away from the corner, and I noticed the woman’s eyes catching mine. I think she was in disbelief, crying for help, in fear the man was going to do her harm. The man was screaming something in Spanish”dejame entrar… carajo!” …

Dejame entrar…

Carajooooooooooooooo…

De

jame”

4/2002/Modified 12/19

Troy Burroghs, and the Cake

I was in a little town I call, “Somewhere in North Dakota,” outing with a few friends. I guess they were supposed to have been friends, they were supposed to be—but! I took a picture of Johnny and Johnny. I asked them to take a picture of me, but they wouldn’t, I’m not sure why and I left it at that for the moment—a forever moment. I guess it didn’t matter all that much, I noticed I didn’t have any film in the camera anyhow, so all the better, and I got to see what they were made from, or out of.

Then I noticed a store nearby, saw the roof of it to be frank, over the trees somewhat, and as I walked towards it, I discovered I was walking the wrong way; in any case, a black man came walking by me wanted to help me, and I said:

“No need to, “not sure why those exact words came out, but they did. Perhaps I was mad because Johnny and Johnny didn’t take my picture with my camera that didn’t have any film; perchance a delayed reaction, a little Post Traumatic Stress, I hear so much about that nowadays.

He asked for a Chesterfield cigarette, and some candy: yes, yes, we’re still on the black man, he now wants a certain cigarette brand and candy; as if I’m the store I was headed for before I went the wrong way. He was on his way to his mother’s house he said, and asked if I wanted to go with him. I got moving, in motion as he was talking, I thought maybe he wanted my Dobbs hat, but now that I think about it maybe it was my wife he wanted. She wasn’t with me though. Who knows what people want, you can’t read their minds. I once asked a black man:

“…why do you date white women?”

I mean there are a lot of black pretty women out there, I’ve dated a few. And he said,

“They’re easier…!” I was in shock, I didn’t ask: easier than what, because I was still trying to figure out if I was going to get into a cockfight or not over this. Anyhow he didn’t have blood in his face when he said it, it was just down to earth honest to gosh truth. So I left it at that.

At this point, I decided to forget the store, and went into the restaurant. I asked for a coke and coffee, I like drinking them at the same time. Sometimes they bring the coke back without the coffee, and it gets me mad, irritated, you see I know what they are thinking, but they are not taking the time to think what I had asked for, rather they have interpreted my little sentence to mean what they’d like it to mean, thinking how can a person drink a cold and warm drink at the same time, it’s possible, I do it all the time. It is like the trinity, no big thing to figure out if you got a big god; hard things to figure out if you have a little god. Besides all this other talk, a coke and a coffee is just that, no more, no less. I didn’t say one for today, the other for tomorrow: oh no, I left it up to their brains to digest. But, and this is a not too good but: this time she had it together, and she brought both at once. Awa! a bigger tip she wants I thought. A friend of mine was in the café, asked where I got my hat: I thought: what is the big deal with my hat today, I told her not to make a fuss about the damn hat. That I didn’t get the Chesterfield cigarettes I had planned on either (she didn’t know what I was talking about). She didn’t listen to me she was only for herself doing something with her face. Then she said,

“Could we eat at McDonalds?” I was thinking she was with the black man, that wanted that cigarette, but I guess not.

“Decisions, decisions that is all I make all day. I do not care if we eat at Porky’s or McDonalds, or whatever.”

She looked at me now. She said,

“Ok lets eat here, I want some cake,” and so we ordered some; I really prefer pie to cake, but to keep the peace, I said ok, and we got the cake. Then out of the blue, she said,

“You have to eat some if you want to ride my bike.” Well, first of all I do not like cake, second of all, I never knew she had a bike, and could care less if I got a ride on it, I was supposed to get back to my camp site, and wasn’t sure how she got into the story in the first place, perhaps she snuck into my dreams, and third, she could stick the bike up …can’t think of where, but you get the picture, any old place.

“Well, Troy,” she said with a smirk, “are you, or are you not, going to eat this cake with me?” I thought I have only one of those alternatives, how lucky I must be. She pointed to the cake; I picked it up and shoved it in her face.

I bet she was thinking those white guys are real jerks, being a black woman. But I know one thing, she didn’t go looking for that black guy.

Dream Writing: 4-2002/Revised 11/13/2002; re-edited 12/28/2005

Troy Burroghs: and the Doc

Surrealist-Traveler

At the Doctors Office

“What’s the difference between a crazy man who kills you and one who is not crazy (?) I would think they both are crazy, or both are not. Isn’t killing without motive, simply against our values?” said Troy to his Psychologist.

The good doctor looked at Troy, smiled, and laughed a little, “You been watching them courtroom battles haven’t you?” Troy smiled.

“Well, it’s simply documentation,” commented the good Doctor.

“Do I have good documentation,” replied Troy.

“I think you are thinking about suicide my good friend,” commented the doctor, adding “…please tell me about your week. You know what you got to do so get it out, off those rounded shoulders of yours, so you can let go, go forward in life, smell the roses again. My job son is to bring you back, back, back to being a healthy person.”

“Say Doc,” asked Troy, “I wish I had more friends to talk to, and then I wouldn’t have to see you. Spend all this money so someone will listen to me. Do you believe doctors are simply good listeners?”

“Troy, get back into telling me about your week, you are avoiding the real issues. I will feed you back your distortions, generalizations, your incomplete white lies so you can look at the real issues,” said the doctor with a slight slant towards irritation.

“Maybe all I need is a good listener; do you know where I can find one? Maybe I do not need an interpreter, I’m not a Picasso you know,” replied Troy.

“Oh, that is quite a good analogy my friend, quite good, quite good, but you are avoiding again, yes indeed, avoiding the real issue!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Well doc, if you must know, I have been a little mixed up lately; things have been somewhat confusing this week for me. First, I went running around trying to find a camera, a Browne camera; like my mother first bought me in the l950’s. I know my childhood is coming up. But you know, you know I like taking pictures, it relaxes me.

My next stop was Tuesday, that last one was Monday (‘I know‘, commented the doctor) the Browne that is. As I was saying, going to say, got to say, I had a gun in my hand in my old house where I grew up, where my grandfather and mother and my brother lived with me years ago. I shot all the rounds in the gun, except three didn’t go off. I took out all the bullets then, to include the ones that didn’t go off: the bullets and shells that is. But I put one back in, I think that it is the one you called the suicide bullet.” The Doctor shook his head in agreement, and said ‘continue.’

Then on Wednesday, I found myself on top of that house again, and I had to mend a big hole in the roof, but in checking it out—you see I had bought the house, I do own many properties you know, and they all bring me headaches, but they bring me money also—I found myself going through the roof down onto the kitchen creating a second hole. I think you would say doc, I am having distress with the whole show of reality, and that is what can happen, will happen, in such cases; and simply look forward to more things like that happening, thus, you get more stressed out, you’re in the wrong business—this is what I think I should tell my second self. You know, all that kind of stuff and garbage.” Again the doctor shook his head in agreement, and said ‘continue’.

“Well, then it was Thursday, I found out my grandfather was richer then I knew, and I was brought to this warehouse he owned. I was given a tour around the place and they had all these distorted animals, as if they were breeding them as hybrids. One got to me doc, but I think it is the whole gamut of events, so, the world I live in now, and sometimes the demon world it seems like, it all got to me. Something else I remember now that we are talking, that I am talking; my old female boss’ daughter was there. She was working for my grandfather; as if it was a conspiracy against me, gathering information to tell him to fire me.” The doctor’s eyebrows went up, and said, ‘good, continue.’

“But doc, can’t we look at this a little deeper. Here are my bosses…”

“I said continue Troy!”

“Well, doc, we’re up to Friday,” Troy looked at the doctor waiting for an answer. Put his hand on his head,

“Can we not have a dialogue instead of this one man conversation?”

Replied the Doctor with discontent, ”If you think I am going to pay you for listening to me you are crazy.”

Having said that Troy continued: “Well as I was saying, I’m at Friday and I find myself a little mixed up, and tired, fatigued if you will. It keeps coming back in my mind, everything, so many doors, and meetings,” the doctor starts to write this down something, “and I just can’t figure out what doors, and who the introduction is intended for.”

Commented the doctor, “It is my doors, and I am the person you are producing the introduction for. But really it is not an introduction, since we do not have a theme, plot or ending.”

“But I do have an ending, and theme, I just haven’t got to them yet—with my story here. You know, when you read a book, it’s got its insertions you never expect, and you must read the whole book.”

“Mr. Burroghs are you the doctor now!” said the doctor with a heightened voice.

“Sorry sir, I mean doc.”

“Then continue Mr. Burroghs,” added the doctor.

“Well, I’m at Saturday now. I don’t know where I’m at, I forgot. You know doc I don’t really want to continue with Saturday, Sunday, Friday or this Monday. I just want to put the garbage under the rock and leave it there for the worms.”

“No, you must let the worms come out. Leave the rock where it is. If you must, skip to Monday, and let me know how you feel now…so do it,” moaned the doctor with a deep release of air from his chest.

Troy didn’t say a word, mimicked the doctor with a deep sigh release from his chest, and simply pulled out his handgun, .357 Magnum, pointed it at the doctor and shot—but it wasn’t loaded of course, the doctor was trying to find his pad, where he wrote out his bills. The doctor never looked up at Troy knowing what was happening he was too busy writing. Then Troy simply stood up, walked out of the office, it was close to lunchtime and the secretary was gone. He left the handgun, with a note on his desk (paid in full), and went home for a good days sleep.

3-2002/Revised 12/29/2005;modified 2/22/06

Troy Burroghs: Eagle Eye

I’ve learned in life you got to have an eye like an eagle and senses like a panther to survive. Oh yes, it’s that kind of a world my friend. Survival is the name of the game. People like me need to be one step ahead of the other person. Got to have the edge you know. Life teaches you the hard way if you don’t listen at first, you may lose your edge. I know this for a fact, because I came from a school down in Missouri, if you get my drift. In my life I was in the Army three different times. Just like Muhammad Ali winning the championship three times. You can do it, it’s a simply fact, mind over matter. And this is where my story starts, the third time I was in the Army. This is what I call a happening.

I went for training up to Camp Ripley. I got a private room being a staff sergeant. During this two-week training period, I ended up going to a few military meetings; doing some paperwork, and some drills.

Being a Staff Sergeant, I got to have a private room. It was on the third floor of the barracks. One of the two brothers I had met during some of the weeks training, noticed I had $300 on my money clip, these two brothers had a room under me on the first floor along with two other dudes; and as I carried my groceries up to my room they watched me intensively. They had evil eyes: evil, evil eyes. I had to go up three flights of stairs. The older brother came to my rescue, said he would help me, me being a little short winded, I said sure. But you get them senses you know, I did anyways, and I should have said no, especially with them evil, evil eyes I had noticed. But that is history now. I said, “Yes.” And so he grabbed one bag of groceries and climbed up the stairs like a bird: he didn’t smoke I suppose.

When I finally reached the top, walked through the door, I noticed my groceries were all over the floor, some lying about on the table, but all were out of the bag, and the bag wasn’t ripped. I then put my bag down and started to pick them up thinking the young lad must have fallen or something. Then I turned around hearing some footsteps behind me, and there they were the Death Brothers. They were both smiling at me, a smirk, and they were testing me to see what I would do, and how much power they had. I smiled.

Then I said, “This wasn’t necessary,” and they stepped in closer. I smiled a bigger smile, and commented on how nice their mustaches were. Then they stopped. They must have thought it was better to leave it for the evening, whatever they had in their young minds, only the Big Guy upstairs knows. Perhaps the glorifying comment got to them. And I think it was that clip of money they were after. But I gave them the sense I was easy prey, and you can’t throw your secrets to the swine you know, because I wasn’t easy prey.

As I fell to sleep that evening I had set a plan B in motion. It was 2:00 AM I was awakened. I heard the door open and a shadow come into my bedroom, I mean I didn’t hear the shadow, I heard the person who was a shadow to me, because that is what I say. Anyhow, then two shadows stood there and the voice of the older brother sounded,

“We…ee com…come for rrr the money,” it didn’t sound too spooky to me, but it did to them I think.

I said with a trembling voice, “Come forrrr theee mon.eeey, please come over here and geeet it.” I tried to sound scared.

I held the money clip out to him and as he went to take it, I pulled out my .357, six-inch barrow pistol and within a flash I shoved it in his mouth, cracking two teeth, like a guy I head of called Arizona Blue. Then the other brother started crying, saying,

“We were just kidding,” and I said, “I’m not!” And I said, “This was no Paces Bill, crap, this was Arizona Blue stuff, and they were going to die.”

Then I ordered the other brother to empty his pockets out on the bed, take off his cloths, and to take the money out of his brother’s pockets also and do the same thing, and he did. I then told them they had ten-minutes to get out of town: I mean out of Camp Ripley or I’d come looking for them in the morning.

I ended up with $700 plus my three hundred, plus they went AWOL. And that is the beauty of it. And now if we had gun control, I might just as well have kissed ass, I mean my money good-by, and handed it to him with a smile. And for an appetizer, watched them spend it at the PX buying crap, and the judge saying: “We’ll do you got proof these two robed you, bet the shit out of you, no need for a gun you know.”

Written: 7/2002/Revised and edited: 1/4/2006

A Troy Burroghs: "Escape For Your Life or Die Farting" [In Spanish & English]

This is not a story about farting by far, no sir-ree, it is a story about almost farting and dying. I was a drunk for twenty-two years, and I had some fart problems when I stopped drinking.

Now if you’ve drank before, and I personnel know 70% those in the US do drink, and while in Germany, 98.6% of them drink. And while in Iceland, 99% of them drink and while in Alaska, the Arctic region, and I flew with a mail carrier delivering mail (yaw mail up my tuba… (?))just in case my wife is reading this; she likes Troy, and I may have it out yet)), he sold whiskey when I wasn’t looking. Anyways, I’m not here to get him in trouble, but in the deep artic 99.6 % drink. They wanted me to stay and work for them in the arctic, back in ’96, because they were going to open up the area for legal drinking…yaw you get the picture, legal, legal, legal…rehab…rehab…lots of farting is going to start.

Now you may think this a bit to the left my friend, you know, Mr. Burroghs is not telling his audience the full truth of the matter, baby you are getting it full steam…the bare truth of the matter. I’m a 100% man, all the way, traveled the world 24-time around. Oh yes, 2 and and 4…got it. Yes, yes and and yes, and for 22-years of traveling, them planes got stinky…farting all the way; if you drink, you fart: that is the gospel truth; don’t try to tell me otherwise, I’ve been down the tail too many times. No questions asked. That is the mighty truth. You can bank on it…that is right and as good as gold.

Now, as I was saying, I was a counselor, and sitting out on this nice sunny day in July, sitting out in Wisconsin having a group therapy session, about nine people involved. And here was this guy and his wife. The wife came down to be with him on this occasion, not sure why but I let her join the group, after asking the group permission, you know, because they’re going to reveal some stupid private information—us ex-drunks think no one in the world knows a damn thing about our behavior, when it’s plastered all over kingdom-come. Yes, the butcher knows and so does the baker, and the electric company knows because you didn’t pay the damn bill; because it is all about you, baby it is all about you—Right!!

We don’t pay any of the mother suckers. None my friends…all they got was ZERO>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>take that to the bank

now comes the big D, in this story D does not sand for what is going on through your mind, oh now, when you’re a professional drunk like me and my friends, or clients (take your pick), you don’t need the Drunk part, but you get the D part, and that is FARTING is free. I really got to get on to the premise of this thing, the plot is already set…see, we are sitting in the humble circle telling one another what everyone in town already knows, and what we had forgot, until now—black out time. And this couple, call them Tom and Jerry [Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous—so I don’t get sued], Jerry being the wife. Now they are sitting together with the rest of us thinking, yes just thinking, about what the other person is thinking, or trying to figure out what they are thinking. You want to know what they are thinking…I’ll tell you, “I don’t know if I should say this, they’ll watch me, I’ll be in the spot light…” that kind of gobblegook. Who really gives a rabbit’s foot? Number one you have been seeking the spot light for twenty-years, now you’re humble. It doesn’t make sense, but that’s a recovering fart for yaw.

Now let’s get on to the mystery. As I was about to say, we are sitting there on the humble sunny July day, in Wisconsin, up on this hill in a free standing in and out care facility. I’m the hot shot counselor. Hello—are you listening……………………………………..

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFf…it started, this grows like a rocket going to Mars, no kidding: -- yes Tom started a little fart it got louder, everyone now is looking at one another in the circle, you got it we’re all looking at Tom☺ for the moment we are smiling. But this friend is the longest fart in all of human history. We couldn’t talk, and the air was pushing it all away thank goodness. And we looked, and we looked and we looked, now the laughing was being held back, and Tom smiled ☻and smiled ☻ and smiled ☻…and the farting never stopped.

It must have went on for five minutes, I know that is a whole lot of seconds, something like…fffffffffffffffff♪♫♪♫♪♫F F F F F FFFF FFF ffffff ♫♪☻☺♫Ω yes my friend something like that, it had rhythm to it, a beat one might say and we all smiled. Now why did we smile? Think about it. Here would have been the Guinnes Book record had we had a recorder for the longest fart in history. He farted so much he couldn’t even get up to go wipe himself because he kept on farting.

You might be saying, you can identify with this, and your girlfriend is sitting by you and damn if she peaks over at what I’m reading…shut the computer off quick, tell her you’ll read this later, she doesn’t’ have to know, she will not know what you were reading, and if she catches you she’ll say,

“You mean you enjoy reading about some drunk farting…” she will not get the picture, you’re an old drunk and just wait until you get married, and then you’ll find out. I don’t think that guy’s wife knew he had such problems. So I don’t want to be responsible for a breakup.

Anyhow, but to reality: the poor man and his wife, sat there…you got it, ☻☻ with that stupid smile (s). But what could they do. Tom shock his shoulders, he was young and figured after 4. 5 minutes, I’ve lived through the hard part. I could only fart for 15-seconds, and I thought that was long.

So if you have re-opened this computer, or book, to finish the story, and your gal is gone, there isn’t much more to really say, except, we had a little laugh, and a huge one internally, I think we all had a gut ache afterwards from holding in…and I’m sure some of us held in our farts so not to be criticized, if you are asking if I did, you will have to hold that in for a Dave Lettermen show interview….

12/2002/Revised and edited 1/4/06

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Uno De Troy Burroghs: “Huye por tu vida o Muere por tirarte un pedo”

Esta no es una historia acerca de pedos por mucho, ninguno señor, esta es una historia acerca casi pedos y muerte. Yo fui un borracho por 22 años, y yo tenía algunos problemas con pedos cuando deje de beber.

Ahora si tu has bebido antes, y yo personalmente conozco que el 70 % de aquellos en los Estados Unidos lo hacen, y mientras en Alemania, el 98.6% de ellos beben, y mientras en Islandia, 99% de ellos beben y aunque en Alaska, la región Ártica, y yo volé con una empresa de transportes repartidora de correo (desvió enviado por correo mi conducto (¿) solo en el caso de que mi esposa este leyendo esto; a ella le gusta Troy, y yo puedo ajustarle cuentas ya)), el vendió Whiskey cuando yo no estaba mirando. De cualquier forma, yo no estoy aquí para ponerle a él en problemas, pero en la profundidad del ártico 99.6% bebe. Ellos querían que yo me quedara a trabajar con ellos en el ártico. Antes en el 96. Porque ellos iban a abrir el área de bebida legal, desvío Ud tiene la imagen, licito, legal, licito, rehabilitación, rehabilitación… muchos gases iban a comenzar.

Ahora Ud. Puede pensar esto un poco torcido mi amigo, Ud. Sabe, el Señor Burroghs no esta diciendo en su entrevista toda la verdad del asunto. Nene tu estas llevando esto completamente empañado… la verdad desnuda del asunto. Yo soy un hombre 100%, en todo lugar, viajé, alrededor del mundo 24 veces. Oh si, 2 y 4 eso es. Si, si y si, y por 22 años de viaje, esos aviones consiguieron oler mal…pedos todo el tiempo; si tu bebes, tu te tiras un pedo; ese es el evangelio de la verdad; no trates de decirme lo contrario, yo he estado con la cola baja demasiadas veces. Ninguna pregunta preguntada. Esa es la grandiosa verdad. Tu puedes depositar en esto… eso es correcto y tan bueno como el oro.

Ahora, como estaba diciendo, yo era un consejero, y sentado afuera en este día soleado de julio, sentado afuera en wisconsin teniendo una sesión de terapia en grupo, cerca de nueve personas envueltas. Y allí estaba este muchacho y su esposa. La esposa vino para estar con el en esta ocasión, no seguro por que pero, le deje a ella unirse al grupo, después de haber pedido al grupo el permiso, Ud. Sabe, porque ellos iban a revelarnos alguna información privada entupida- Ex – bebedores, pienso ninguno en el mundo conoce una cosa maldita acerca de nuestra conducta, cuando esto esta ebrio completamente hasta el día del juicio final. Si, el carnicero sabe y así hace el panadero, y la compañía de electricidad sabe porque tu no pagaste el maldito recibo; porque esto es todo por culpa tuya, nene esto es todo por culpa tuya- correcto!

Nosotros no pagamos nada de los chupones de mama- ninguno mis amigos…todos ellos consiguen estar en Zero……………………………lleva eso para el banco.

Ahora viene el gran D, en esta historia D no se asemeja por lo que esta pasando a través de tu mente, Oh ahora, cuando tu eres un bebedor profesional como yo y mis amigos, o clientes (toma tu pico), tu no necesitas despedirte borracho, pero tu consigues la parte D, y eso es, tirarse pedo es libre. Yo realmente consigo hacerme a la idea de esta cosa, el terreno ya esta preparado, …ve, nosotros estamos sentados en un circulo humilde diciendo uno al otro lo que todos en el pueblo ya conocen, y lo que nosotros hemos olvidado, hasta ahora dejando a oscuras en el tiempo. Y esta pareja, llamados Tom y Jerry (Señor y Señora Anónimos- entonces yo no consigo demandar), Jerry siendo la esposa. Ahora ellos están sentados juntos con el resto de nosotros pensando, si solo pensando, acerca de lo que las otras personas están pensando, o tratando de imaginarse lo que ellos están pensando. Tu quieres saber lo que ellos están pensando… Yo te lo diré, “yo no se si yo podría decir esto, ellos me miraran, yo estaré en el punto iluminado”… esa clase de trago oriental. ¿Quien realmente le da de comer a los conejos? En primer lugar tú has estado buscando el punto iluminado por 20 años, ahora tú eres humillado. Esto no tiene sentido, pero eso es una recuperación de tirarse un pedo por cambio de actitud..

Ahora déjame ir hacia el misterio, como estuve a punto de decir, nosotros estamos allí, sobre el humilde y soleado día de julio, en Wisconsin, arriba sobre esa montaña en un libre permaneciendo dentro y fuera de cuidado fácilmente. Yo soy un consejero importante. Hola- tú estas escuchándome……………

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF…esto empezó, esto creció como una roca yendo a Marte, ninguna broma: si, Tom comenzó un pequeño pedo este consiguió hacerse mas estruendoso, todos están ahora mirándose uno al otro en el circulo, lo conseguiste todos nosotros estamos mirando a Tom #9786; por el momento nosotros estamos sonriendo, pero esto, amigos es el mas grande pedo en toda la historia de la humanidad. Nosotros no podíamos hablar, y el aire esta empujándolo todo hacia afuera gracias a la bondad. Y nosotros miramos, y miramos y miramos, ahora las sonrisas están siendo dejadas atrás, y Tom sonrió #9787; y sonrió -#9787; y sonrió #9787; y la tirada de pedo nunca paro.

Esto debió haber continuado por unos cinco minutos, lo se, eso es una completa cantidad de muchos segundos, algo así. Ffffffffffffffffffffff ♪♫♪♫♪♫, F F F F FFFFF FFF ffffff ♫♪:♫♪♫Ω si mi amigo algo así, tuvo ritmo para esto, un golpe uno podría decir y todos nosotros sonreímos. Ahora ¿porque sonreímos? Piensa acerca de esto. Aquí nosotros podríamos tener el record del libro Guinnes habíamos tenido nosotros un record por el pedo mas largo de la historia. Él se pedorreo demasiado que no podía ni levantarse para ir a limpiarse porque el permaneció tirandose pedo.

Tu podrías estar diciendo, tu puedes identificarte con esto, y tu enamorada está sentada cerca de ti y maldición si ella pica sobre lo que yo estoy leyendo… apaga la computadora rápido, dile a ella que tu vas a casa a leer esto mas tarde, ella no tiene que saber, ella no sabrá lo que tu estas leyendo, y si ella te coge ella dirá.

“Tu piensas que tu disfrutas leyendo acerca de algunos borrachos pedones” ella no se imaginara, que tú eres un viejo bebedor y solo espera hasta que tu consigas casarte, y luego tu encontraras, yo no piensos que la esposa del muchacho sabia que el tenía tales problemas, entonces yo no quise ser responsable por un rompimiento.

De cualquier modo, pero la realidad; el pobre hombre y su esposa, sentados allí, lo tienes,………☻ ☻ con esa entupida sonrisa.(s) Pero que podrían hacer. Tom sacudió sus hombros, el era joven y se imagino después de 4 a 5 minutos. Que Yo había vivido a través de la parte difícil. Yo podría solamente tirarme un pedo por 15 segundos, y yo pienso eso era largo.

Entonces si tu has abierto otra ves esta computadora, o libro, para terminar la historia, y tu galán se fue, no hay mucho mas realmente para decir, excepto, que nosotros tuvimos una pequeña sonrisa, y una enorme internamente, yo creo todos nosotros tenemos dolor de tripas después de disimular…y estoy seguro alguno de nosotros disimulamos nuestra tirada de pedos y así no ser criticados, si tu estas preguntando si yo lo hice, tu tendrás que aguantar eso hasta una entrevista a Dave Lettermen…

12/2002/ revisado y editado 1/3/2006

Troy Burroghs: Water [Now in: English and Spanish]

I was watching TV a few days ago and it just come to my mind, one of them flashbacks you hear about I suppose—you know, PTS: those Post Traumatic Stress flashes.

Anyways, the guy was talking on TV, calm like, mildly well dressed in his early ‘30s style attire, representing an insurance company. Maybe he knows about my flash backs, I thought, maybe he has flashbacks, he’s selling insurance, so perhaps this has something to do with it.

I was now wondering about my flash-back potential a while ago, and this trigger it again, it gave me the willies.

Well, he was standing in this apartment you see, and said on the TV screen, “Water, yes it can save you when you are hungry.”

(Get to the damn point, my subconscious was trying to penetrate through the smoke screen in my mind.)

Then he just looked straight at me and said,

“No kidding.” Can you believe that? Then he goes on to say, “Just drink water, it will file you up until your insurance money comes to you.”

Then this creep adds, “We pay a few days early,” not sure where he is going with this, but I hope you don’t have to drink water that long to collect.

Now he says, “Don’t go away, I got more.”

This jellyfish is giving me flashbacks. Now he is walking outside of the apartment to a front lawn. What is this guy up to, and was he really talking to me, I mean—really?

He picks up a water hose with one of the adjustable spouts, turns it up, “Fuel up,” he says, with excitement. Boy, this fish is way out of water I tell myself. Now I don’t know if he’s selling water or insurance, maybe the hose. You ever see those commercials it takes forever to tell what is being sold, well, this was one.

That was it, I had to turn the TV off and go talk to my wife. This guy made no sense, plus he irritated me; I had to take calm down pill. He could have told me to make ice cubes, and it would have make more sense than ‘now you can fuel up,’ something like that, that would have been better than a hose being shoved in my face in front of my TV. The ice cube was my flash back; I think, yes, yes, yes indeed, the ice cube. Yup, when I was eighteen-years old, I was so hungry, I had to eat ice cubes, and I was thinking about robbing a boy scout of his candy one night but couldn’t, and this guy says fill up with water; no way Jose that was my ice cube flashback.

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Troy Burroughs: Agua

Yo estuve viendo TV hace pocos días, y justo vino a mi mente, una de esas escenas retrospectivas acerca del que oíste yo supongo-Ud. sabe, PTS: esos destellos de tensión Post-traumáticos.

De cualquier manera, el muchacho estaba hablando en TV, tranquilo como suavemente, bien vestido en su atavió estilo de los tempranos años 30, representando a una compañía de seguros. Talvez el conoce acerca de mis escenas retrospectivas, yo pensé, quizás el tiene escenas retrospectivas, el esta vendiendo seguros, por lo tanto talvez esto, tiene algo que ver con esto.

Yo estaba ahora preguntándome, acerca de mi potencial recuerdo retrospectivo hace un rato, y esto lo activó otra vez, esto me dio las inquietudes.

Bien, el estaba de pie en este apartamento que usted ve, y dijo en la pantallas de la TV, “El agua, si esto puede salvarle cuando Ud. esta con hambre”.

(Póngase al punto maldito, mi subconsciente estaba tratando de penetrar a través de la pantalla de humo en mi mente).

Entonces el justo miro directo hacia mí y dijo,

“no me digas”.¿ Puedes tu creer eso? Luego el continuo diciendo, “solo bebe agua, esto te mantendrá hasta que tu indemnización de dinero llegue a ti”.

Entonces esta persona desagradable agrego, “Nosotros pagamos unos días adelantados”, no seguro a donde estaba yendo él con todo esto, pero yo espero que tu no tengas que beber tanta agua por mucho tiempo.

Ahora el dice, “no te muevas; yo tengo mas”

Esta medusa esta dándome escenas retrospectivas, ahora el esta caminando fuera del apartamento al césped del frente. Que esta tramando este muchacho, y estaba realmente hablándome, yo creo- realmente?

El tomo una manguera de agua con un pico ajustable, lo doblo, “impúlsalo” el dijo, con entusiasmo, muchacho, este pez esta fuera del agua, me dije a mi mismo. Ahora yo no se si el esta vendiendo agua o seguros, talvez la manguera. Tu alguna vez viste esos comerciales que toman una eternidad decirte cual esta siendo vendido, bien, este fue uno.

Así fue, yo tuve que apagar la TV. E ir a hablar con mi esposa- este muchacho no tuvo sentido, mas él me irritó; yo tuve que tomar pastillas calmantes. El podría haberme dicho para hacer hielo en cubos, y esto podría haber hecho más sentido que “ahora tú puedes impulsarlo”, algo como eso, podría haber sido mejor, que una manguera siendo empujada en mi cara en frente de mi TV. El cubo de hielo era mi recuerdo retrospectivo; yo creo, si, si de verdad, el cubo de hielo, yup, cuando yo tenia 18 años de edad, yo estaba tan hambriento, que tuve que comer cubos de hielo, y yo estaba pensando privar a un boy scout de su caramelo una anoche pero no pude, y este tipo dice, se llenan con el agua, de ninguna manera José, ese fue mi cubo de hielo retrospectivo.

Troy Burroghs: The Omaha Spy

The Omaha Spy—1967

I know—, Omaha isn’t the biggest city in the world but I liked it (until they through me out, kind of); and yes I was really there. I especially liked its museum with all the Indian artifacts, and a girl named Piggy, yaw: let’s get to the story. I was a young man back then, just turned 19-1/2 years old. I was working for Military Intelligence, which worked with the FBI, whom didn’t want to work with the local police. One afternoon in fall season, some of my friends, black friends that is, were taking me to a party and a car pulled up, full of black folks. This wasn’t the best moment in my life, I got a little scared. I was the only white person in the immediate vicinity. They exchanged a few negative words, and went on their way. But I noticed a woman in the other car, they called her Piggy, she was the second white person, now that I think of it; long blond hair, thin, big breasted, about five foot five inches tall. Long legs my friend, very long legs.

As I was saying they took off, and George told me he had to let me off, right there, in the middle of nowhere land. And so I got out of the car, and he raced off. I found myself walking for miles, and miles, and then I found myself by a row of old looking houses. And there was Piggy getting into her small MG Sports car. She smiled at me and waved,

“Hi Troy!” she knew my name, but how I don’t know, but she went on to say, “everyone talks about you Troy, the only white man in an all black car. You live dangerously.” Not sure if that was a question or a statement, or a statement-question, but now that I look back at it, well, I’d have to say, back then, in l967, it was a show of strength to do such daring deeds as that, and so I played it down and asked:

“How about a ride home, Piggy?“

She told me to jump in the car and that was that, I did jump into her car and we took off. We got talking about what she knew about me and what about herself. She mentioned she knew I had some property in the area and was successful in the real estate business; that I had attended college, and was working for some private organization but didn’t know its name. She said I was a lot like her boyfriend, Tony. I heard of Tony, he was one of the crooks stilling cars in the area, and selling either the cars or the parts he’d take off of them. She said she wanted to go to college someday like Tony and I; to open up a little dress store, or something along that order. To get married, have a few kids: a white or black picket fence: whatever floats the boat.

The Apartment

As we talked we seemed to bond. She was 18-years old, not a big difference in ages I thought. She pulled the car over to one side of the seven story building she lived in, and started to kiss me. I think I was a good listener. She asked me if I was married, and I said no. I told her the truth. I was divorced, had been married for fifteen-months, that an old girlfriend taught me how to well—for hours. Her eyes brows went up, up and higher then her forehead it seemed,

“No way!” she said in amazement.

I said, “How do you know, I‘m the man who lives dangerous so you said!”

Smiling at me she kissed me and then took me up to her room. Curtains on the window you could see through, like a nightgown, and I guess that was it, not much more in the apartment, the kitchen was and I guess I didn’t care a ting on the dirty side.

Piggy sat down on the mattress of the bed, with me and we made love. I thought does she thing I’m going to be her big lollypop, you know, sugar daddy, pay for the big car payment, she was starting to think of me as her lollypop, I now it, I could see it in her eyes. So I sat straight up. She was starting to work on me though and I was starting to like it, and fall in love with her I think. Then for some odd reason I was thinking too much, two hour went by and she fell to sleep. It could do it I told myself, but why try to prove anything. I was tired and would try a little later on I told myself.

The Door

At that moment we heard a knock at the door, Piggy looked at me, wakeup, and looked up, a little concerned too, and told me she’d answer it, and got up.

As the door opened and Piggy stepped outside of it, I heard her talking to someone for a moment. The voice sounded like someone I knew, she came back walking in with a tall white man following her, while another one stood by the door. I was putting on my cloths, I mean my shoes, that’s as far as I got. It was Henry, the tall legged man who worked with the FBI. Actually he had just started working for them and didn’t know the ropes all that well. He looked at me, and then looked at her. She went back to the doorway and told Henry to beat it, that he had nothing on her, and she was with her boyfriend, ME.

At that Me-moment, I walked up to Henry, said,

”Funny seeing you here.” He wasn’t laughing and replied,

“Yaw.” A man of few words, then Piggy looked at us dumbfounded.

I pulled him over to the other side of the door, told him to hold Piggy, she was involved with one of the men who was steeling cars and selling them in the area. Piggy had thought Tony was a good guy, I knew different. He had told her he was one of them college bound kids, with daddy’s bucks, and working at the grocery store. I guess that impressed her. He was really a wise guy, thug if you will.

Henry told his friend to hold and book Piggy on being an accomplice in a string of crimes; or if anything conspiracy charges would hold her until they could make something up to put her away for a long spell—it takes time you know to figure such things out. Piggy looked at me and said with a hatful grin,

“You don’t know the trouble you’re in my short legged friend.” Henry looked at me, a little worried now, “She could be right Troy,” he said.

“Take her down Henry.” I answered. “Let’s get on with the show.”

In Jail

Well, the hoods came by a few times looking for me, but I moved to a different location, St Paul, Minnesota to be exact. But I did go visit Piggy once more, while she was in hold for pre trial, meaning she was being held until her court date at a halfway house. I heard she got one year in prison, three years probation. I guess that isn’t so bad, her boyfriend got three years in prison, and one year probation. I went down to see her you know, to face her and you know, say what a man’s got to say, that kind of stuff.

She came out to see me; I was in the guest lounge, one that kind of looks more like a cafeteria. She sat down and shook her head saying:

“I really liked you, I loved you.”

I told her as sweet as a man can,

“And I loved you that is why I did what I did,”adding“you know Piggy, love isn’t having log legs and knowing how to use them all the time. Sometimes it’s…and listening.”

I got up and walked away like the Lone Ranger used to do. I guess he’s out of date now. Maybe more likened to the X-Files. The mystery was solved. The ugliness was destroyed. And like it or not, she knew her boyfriend was a bum; if she went back to him she was crazy. And many do. And many don’t. And I guess I was also, a little sad. Anyways I walked out of those doors never to look back. Thinking about them long, long, legs.

The Troy Burroghs: The Thief [Now in English and Spanish]

The Troy Burroghs Adventures [Impressionist-Traveler]

The Thief

You just never know what is around the corner on this planet do yah. I was somewhere in Boston I think, I think I was a little out of it, you know, drunk and found myself in another town, place, kind of like a Giant Black-Out, anyways here I am at the mission, and I got to eat, got some sleeping gear here also, I put it over in the corner for the moment, found myself in an earthquake looking at someone from across the table, the building’s shaking.

A thought went through my mind: go outside, and so I did, I found a money clip with some money in it, my hands a little nervous, I quietly put it in my pocket, a black guy saw me do it. I checked out my pocket again yaw it’s there. I had two sets of keys, where did I get them I ask myself. I don’t have a car to drive. This is weird. I then gave the black guy one of the two money clips I found in my pocket. Yup, I had two of each, money clips and sets of keys: weird things happen in my life I’ll tell you. I must have found them somewhere (I’m talking to myself I think). I remember the one money clip, I kind of stole it, back in the old days, in my old neighborhood, back in the early or mid 60s we called it scarfed it: there’s no such word but I didn’t know that back then, I mean it’s not in the dictionary—the ‘ed’ part of it anyhow; let’s see now, where was I (?): you know, I found it, them in my pocket. As I was about to say, I gave one of the money clips with some money in it to the black guy. He looked desperate, like me I suppose.

You know, we get our good and bad days; this is a bad one. I now took out one set of keys and threw them into the street, as I stood along side of this building.

Now I heard a cop’s voice say:

“Who threw those keys, they belong…” that is all I could hear. The black guy looked at me, threw the money clip on the ground with $5.00 in it, and hi-tailed it out the back way up a hill. I figured dandy, I’m standing here and he scoots to who know where.

I stood there for a moment, then said to myself,

“Guilty or not guilty, get your ass moving, if the black guy did, he knows, get going: they got these build in antennas you know, and they are better than radar…” and I hi-tailed it around several street corners—dodging incoming rounds as if I was in Vietnam.

I had escaped, not sure what, but I suppose: being suspicious and being interrogated; then I heard the cops found the black guy and questioned him, he had a record but I didn’t, therefore they couldn’t find me; didn’t know my name, nor did the black guy. No one knew me from Eve, I mean Adam; nor did the people at the mission, where I had supper. I think the world is coming to an end.

Written: 11/2002/Revised and reedited 1/7/2006; the writer was in Boston, in l969, just for a few days, on his way to Germany, and thereafter, to Vietnam.

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Las Aventuras de Troy Burroghs (viajero impresionista)

El Ladrón

Ud. Justo nunca sabe lo que hay a la vuelta de la esquina en este planeta ¿verdad? Yo estaba en algún sitio en Boston, creo, Pienso que estaba un poco fuera de esto, Ud. sabe, ebrio y encontrándome en otra ciudad, lugar, una clase de amnesia gigantesca, de cualquier manera aquí yo estoy en la misión, y conseguí para comer, conseguí alguna ropa de dormir allí también, lo puse en la esquina por el momento, encontrándome en un terremoto mirando a alguien a través de la mesa, los edificios sacudiéndose.

Un pensamiento vino a mi mente: ve afuera, y así lo hice, encontré un sujetador de billetes con algo de dinero en el, mis manos un poco nerviosas, discretamente lo puse en mi bolsillo, un muchacho negro me vio hacerlo, yo comprobé mi bolsillo nuevamente, yaw esto esta allí. Yo tenía dos juegos de llaves, donde los conseguí me pregunte. No tengo ningún carro para conducir, esto es extraño. Luego yo di al muchacho negro uno de los dos sujetadores de dinero que yo encontré en mi bolsillo. Yup, yo tuve dos de cada uno, sujetador de dinero y juego de llaves: cosas extrañas suceden en mi vida te diré. Yo debo haberlos encontrado en algún sitio (estoy hablando conmigo mismo pienso). Yo recuerdo uno de los sujetadores de dinero, una especie de faja. Atrás en los viejos tiempos, en mi antiguo vecindario, atrás en los tempranos o a mediados de los años 60 nosotros los llamábamos scarfed it. No hay tal palabra, pero yo no lo sabia entonces, pienso que no esta en el diccionario- la parte “ed” de esto, de todas maneras, déjame ver ahora, donde estaba yo (¿): tu sabes, los encontré en mi bolsillo, como estaba a punto de decir, le di, uno de los sujetadores de dinero con algún dinero en el, al muchacho negro, el miro desesperado como yo, supongo.

Tu sabes, nosotros tenemos nuestros buenos y malos días, este es uno de los malos, yo ahora, saco un juego de llaves y los tiro a la calle, mientras yo permanezco a lo largo de este edificio.

Ahora escucho la vos del policía diciendo:

“Quien tiro esas llaves, ellos pertenecen” eso es todo lo que pude oír. El muchacho negro me miro, tiro el sujetador de dinero en el piso con $5.00 dólares en el, y huyo agachado por el camino trasero hacia el cerro. Me imagino afectado, yo estoy permaneciendo aquí y el se escabulle a quien sabe donde.

Yo permanecí allí por un momento, luego me dije a mi mismo,

“Culpable o no culpable, consigue mover el culo, si el muchacho negro lo hizo, el sabe, muevete: ellos consiguieron fabricar antenas tu sabes, y ellos son mejores que un radar” y yo agachado alrededor varias calles esquivando esquinas entrantes de ida y vuelta como si estuviera en Vietnam.

Yo había escapado, no seguro de que, pero lo supuse: siendo sospechoso y siendo interrogado: luego oí que los policías encontraron al muchacho negro y lo interrogaron, el tenia un record, pero yo no, sin embargo, ellos no pudieron encontrarme; no conocían mi nombre, ni el muchacho negro. Nadie me conocía desde Eva, pienso Adán; ni la gente en la misión, donde yo había cenado. Yo pienso que el mundo esta llegando a su fin.

Escrito: 11/2002/ Revisado y reeditado 1/7/2006; el escritor estuvo en Boston, en 1969, justo por pocos días, en su camino hacia Alemania, y de allí, hacia Vietnam.

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Troy Burroghs: The Deep Blue Sea

I was walking through Herald’s in London it was Thanksgiving Day in the US of A, —2001. As I was getting onto an escalator I met a young Spanish woman. I said Hola; she smiled and returned my greeting. She was Peruvian I think, like my wife, it must be I told myself, very lovely. We walked a little together, or at least it seemed we were together. I told her she had deep dark eyes. I’m kind of glad my wife wasn’t there because Peruvian women can get real jealous, even though my gesture was harmless, sometimes Peruvian women do not see it that way, they see it quite the opposite, harmful; yet my wife seems to understand my complements to others quite well, —most of the time….

I said to her: you have deep beautiful eyes—she smiled evermore, she lost her breathe for a moment, and then got it back.

‘I’m happily married….’ I added.

She looked a bit puzzled, but smiled anyways.

Anyhow, here we are on this escalator again, and a girlfriend of hers shows up, says:

‘Here’s a gift from a young admirer,’ it was a plastic ship. I took it out of her hands and in the process of taking it and examining it, the top of the smokestack fell off, broke. I commented, ‘It reminds me of the Taj Ma Hal,’ she looked at me with excitement. Then we walked a ways.

As we passed a jewelry stand, I made a 180-degree turn back, bringing her with me, and picked out a gold chain with a boat, figurine attached to it, sold gold. I bought it for her $139. 68, put it around her neck and said it was a gift.

She looked stunned, speechless.

As we walked a little farther, I stopped, put my hands on her face, by her ears and told her to look at me in my eyes, as if she wasn’t doing it already, for she was I think. Then I said,

‘Listen, my deep eyed beauty, you got to go into the Deep Blue Sea that is where you will find him.’

I then put my hands down and walked away taking the plastic ship with a sticker tag that read $4.28, and tossed it in the garbage can. I know she seen me do that, even though I do not have eyes in the back of my head, because I could see her reflection from the glass doors ahead of me.

I read about this girl who got married a few months ago, she was Spanish, in London, she had married a Yacht-builder, the owner, and was sailing off into the deep blue sea, to Easter Island, and Guam, or so it read in the paper. The picture looked like the same woman I had met, a year before this happening.

On a little different note, yet related to the happening above, let me say, it is funny how things turn out. I remember once being in Kyoto, Japan, about four years ago, met a Geisha in the famous Geon district, and talked to her but only for a minute or two. When I got home I went as usual to the Har Mar Mall Barnes & Noble Bookstore Deli, sat at a table (in Roseville, Minnesota); yes indeed, went into the bookstore, sat at a Barnes & Noble Deli table, reading one of the many books I read free there, $20,000-dollars worth of free books I should say of which I read their each year, spending about $5,000 on four-shot lattes, $2000 on books and magazines—I get my monies worth— (and they get theirs); looking through a book, I noticed the woman I had greeted on the street in Geon, yes in that very book I had in my hands, of the several books on my table. I went to compare it with my picture at home I had taken of us together, and sure enough, it was her. The world just is not big enough for me I guess. And you already know the end I had to buy the book, so it is $2015 that I spent on books that year.

Written: 11/28/02/Reedited 1/8/06

The Troy Burroghs Adventures [The Bridge of Latin Ville] #24

The Troy Burroghs Adventures [Impressionist-Traveler]

Episode: #24

The Bridge of Latin Ville

As I sat along side of the bridge I noticed many people wanting to see the bridge, this cool Thursday afternoon. I sat looking over its edge pretending not to notice, or trying not to be too noticed, although I was the only gringo in town until 10 PM or so. I was quite impressed with how many people I counted, maybe 200, which is not bad out of a town of 400. This was a nice bridge; I called it the ‘Good Bridge.”

Actually I was an undercover city employee, hired to do a job by the Mexican government. I knew a little Spanish, like Hola, and adios amigo, y amiga, you know those big words. Also how to get food if I was hungry, I can’t think of it at the moment how to say it, but when I get hungry I’ll figure it out I suppose; when I get hungry, I’ll come back to the paragraph and insert it, in this diary note. As I was saying, or about to say, there were about 200-people that walked across the bridge this Thursday (I just remembered Tengo hombre), well they hired me because I was bilingual, plus I had two degrees; that kind of stuff.

Then I left this bridge and walked to a more notorious area a different bridge: to a bridge called “Unpleasant Bridge” a groovy name, it fits though; out by the nasty marshes, I got out of my Super Jet VW, turned on my music loud: if the blacks can do it back home, I can do it here (so I told myself, plus…), so can the gringo, so I thought, plus, the Mexicanos do also, so I was in like Flynn (so, so, so so…); so here was me playing cool as I walked toward this hum-drum of a bridge, dilapidated.

When I got there I had noticed more rats and crap under the bridge than people, no one was walking across it willingly; but I did notice three small groups: one, people smoking pot and shooting up (under the bridge, and laying down where the creek was, laying in the mud, they had fallen and was too drugged to get back up); two, a blissful drunk with wine bottles in his hands (and he buddies); and third, a group trying to get to the other side, they looked more respectful, maybe trying to get home, a few of the drunks were making faces at them, trying to grab one of the women’s dress as if to scare her. The drunk had left his abode and snuck up to the top of the bridge and tried to pick under her dress; and so I walked among them, under the bridge where most of them were, a-bout twenty or so.

I left early that day I had seen enough, but I came back three days later and went through the whole process of observation again. I was supposed to be taking some kind of a survey to see how to spend the County’s money wisely. But Unpleasant Bridge was always the same, and the only wise money to be spent would be to demolish it, and the Good Bridge was always good, so no need to spend money on something good already, and so I gave my report, not to spend any money, and picked up my check, turned on my music loud, and drove back to Minnesota.

Written: 11/2002 [Reedited: 2/2006] Unpublished

Troy Burroghs in Affshafenburg [#25]

The Troy Burroghs Adventures [Impressionist-Traveler]

Episode: #25

Troy Burroghs in Affshafenburg [West Germany]

I was over in West Germany a few months once, and I remember when I was stationed there in the l970s as well, man I had a blast, I mean blare-outs with a double TT. I was young, a little too much young for some folks, so they said, and said I was too much to the left side of life, if you know what I mean, and oddly enough them Germans chicks just dug me—the men pretended they didn’t understand me: my English, or German, and I pretended I didn’t understand German, and so we got along just dandy—maybe, just maybe we will never know, maybe, just maybe, neither one of us really wasn’t pretending, I don’t know and dont give a hoot…

as I was saying, about to say, I was in Ashaffenburg on vacation, with a big mother of a VVVVVVVVV…I stayed there by my little lonesome self for two big—and I mean bigg—weeks; the other reason I’ll tell yaw later: maybe. Anyhow, I went to its museum; I had been there before, as I first mentioned, but never to the museum, this time I wasn’t in the big AAAAAAAA for Army, I was on the mother of VVVVV’s [Vacation]. The museum had about four floors to it. It looked more like a castle than a museum; 13th Century I think. There I saw a copy of the Gutenberg Bible, something like that, only 10-left in the world. It was on display, and I looked at it. It was I think the translation from Latin or Greek to German. I had myself a 1967, VW, green automobile, I had it parked outside of the Castle. The castle was made out of pink or red sandstone. And I kept thinking, that the bible was very old, 16th century I think, and why did it, or why was it here of all places. I mean, it could have been in a hundred museums, like in Frankfurt, or Berlin, but here it was. It is funny how things haunt you. And so I dreamed about that Bible, and I was not a Bible totting Christian, I was a Christian, but only because my mother took the time to have me dunked in the Christian well when I was young. So here I am having dreams about a Bible in a pink castle, in Germany. I wonder if the Lord is or was trying to tell me something?

11/2002/Re edited 2/2006

Troy Burroghs: Over a Flat Tire

A flat tire, I know what you’re saying: big deal the world isn’t fare but this beats the coke. I went to the mall yesterday with my Volkswagen, to the back where there were some women, young, they were inside the door and they were where big, so I had my brother hold the doors open and I drove inside. They laughed and as I was backing the car up, I almost went through the huge bay window. Three girls were handing out parking vouchers to park free, what a joke I thought. I drove my VW out along side of the building now, my fun was over. Then this young dark haired gal took out a stack of quarters, put them in the palm of her hands and starting feeding the meter where my car was, free eeeeeeeeeeee I was a happy camper. Maybe I impressed her [?], so I told myself.

“Part of your new style advertisement,” I humbly commented.

“YES Sirrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” she said with a big smile. I liked the Yes, but not the smile for some reason, kind of, I should say I am used to a smirk vs. a smile, so I told myself. I got thinking, she may be taking this to extremes, but then maybe the place needed customers, and, you know, do what you can to get them.

Then I stopped thinking about that, and looked at my front right tire, it was flat. I told my brother I was getting the spare tire out of the back, and that gal was just talking away to the other girl and my brother put the tire down, then went to join them, I waited until they stopped yakking [incidentally I know I said I was getting the tire, but I got tired, so my brother did, ok]. Anyways, I waited until they stopped yakking like two chipmunks fighting over some nuts, then when I turned about to see how my car was, it was gone. UNBELIEVABLE!!!! My left hemisphere of my brain was saying ‘pay attention Troy; don’t look at the yakkers so much.’

Around the corner I ran looking, and looking but no where could I see my car: now thinking the Yakkers are probably still yakking away.

As I searched high and low for the car, I got thinking again, “Who would they take a car with a flat tire?” You tell me! Then when my brother and I got back to the location, for he was running behind me in support of my mission, the women were now inside the station, or hall entrance of the Mall. I went in, asked if they seen anyone out and about who took my VW. The dark haired gal, you know the one with all the quarters, had called the Big K-Garage to pick it up and fix it, that she was trying to get my attention but I kept farting around with that tire endlessly. That’s a lie I told her, I started to fart around, and then my brother took over for me, and I just stood around.

She said, “Yaw, sure…” and something else I couldn’t understand.

The girlfriend then turned about to talk to a blond girl, who said to her, looking at me, “Big K-Garage, is going to do some other work on it; that it was in bad shape, $1000 worth of work.”

My eyes almost popped out of its sockets, “Whattttttttttttt!!!!!!,” I said as calm as I could.

I had my brother call the garage, he knows about cars, and he asked what the heck was going on.

Then the gals started locking up the Mall, it was closing I guess, but it looked like a party was starting. They told us to stay if we wanted.

“But my car,” I said, “what about my car?”

Then the blond got close to me as if she thought her body could repair my VW. She was not even hot. Anyways I pushed her back, “…my car honey!” she said calmly,

“It’s only $1000.”

As I looked into her eyes, I saw: blackmail signs.

I told myself, the car isn’t worth $1000.

I starred back at her with $500-dollar eyes “That’s all the car is worth, baby…”

That’s exactly what I said. Now who had to make the next move, me or her? One of us.

“You know, life is like a lost turtle on a highway, you got to walk down it, you just hope the drivers don’t smash you on your Journey, that’s my philosophy of life…!” That’s what I told her, eye to eye. She said,

“Give me the buck’s son, and I’ll get the tow truck back here, quickly.” The deal was signed and sealed, and we had a party.

Written 11/2002 (re edited: 2/9/2006]

Troy Burroghs: Death of an Army Friend

I was 27-years old back then, a Corporal; my friend Tom Bach, was 22 and a Private First Class. It was our night out on the town, kind of: you know when soldiers get thirsty and they want to get a little wild—it was Sunday, in Huntsville, Alabama, we were at a local pub talking about our son-of-a-birchen barracks Sergeant. We got talking about how we’d like to shoot the crap out of him for having us work seven days a week, and enforcing bed check. Most of the Army was done with that damn bed-check crap, I mean, bed check was going out of the window, it was out dated we were in the modern army, and women were coming in. It was the new modern Army; l969 was the year, a new day for the soldier. Now that I think of it, and am getting older, every ten years I hear them say, “This is the New Army.” But things were changing back than; it was at least for us.

As some of us did, I lived off base, no kids just a little wife, and two friends who lived in our little rented house who helped pay the rent. They each had their own room up on the second floor.

Well, to make a long story short, Tom went back to the barracks that night, as Mathew, Cory, my wife and I went back to our house.

There was a chill in the air that following morning as I was trying to start my 1961, Valiant; I think it was a Ford product. Anyways, it was a faithful little bug of a car; I brought down to Alabama from Minn-a-so-ta.

As every Monday for the past two months, while stationed at Red Stone Arsenal, I would ready myself for the morning row call at the barracks: 7:00 AM sharp; where we had our formations. I expected to see Tom, but when I got there, parked the car, and started walking up to the formation area which was alongside the middle half circle area by the barracks, I quickly realized something was wrong, but than my mind shifted, and I started thinking, Tom wasn’t around—he might have a hangover from last night; so I looked about, and still no Tom, but no one was around, either, not Tom, the platoon sergeant, nobody. Something was very wrong. I got thinking then, did I miss something, like a drill. I called for Staff Sergeant Henry, no one answered; he was the sergeant we were talking about last night at the bar. The one Tom and the rest of us said we’d like to shoot: jokingly.

All of a sudden as I was walking out of the barracks, the Military Police pulled up, “Corporal, you part of this platoon,” meaning part of Company C although we were separated by platoons? This was an advance training area for munitions and explosives.

“Yaw, why, something happen?” I asked.

“It sure did,” said the Military Police man, leaning his hand out of the car window.

“Private First Class Tom Bach, shot and killed Staff Sergeant Henry.”

“What?” I said in shock.

“He came in about 1:15 AM last night, woke up the staff sergeant, and put a 22-gun to his head, and pulled the trigger twice; we’re looking for him now. Matter-of-fact, so is your whole platoon.”

I had to catch my wind; it was like I got hit in the stomach. We were just kidding I told myself, as the MP’s slowly drove away, watching me out of their side mirrors. I just shook my head. Then it dawned on me, he’ll most likely go to my house. I told myself, I knew he was a little slow thinking, but I never thought he’d do this. Quickly I grabbed my keys to the car, ran back to the parking lot and jammed the key into the starter and drove off base to my house.

When I got there, I noticed my other two friends were home. I slowly walked through the doors, there was Tom sitting on the couch, my wife standing by the archway from the living room, to the kitchen, about 15-feet from Tom, and my two friends sitting on the floor. Tom was shaking his head. I tried to pretend nothing was abnormal, but everything was.

“Why you guys mad at me, I got rid of that asshole; I did what you guys couldn’t do; hay Corporal Chris, your wife is a little scared, tell her I’m not going to do anything.”

“Put your gun down Tom, your scaring everyone. And as far as you doing what we couldn’t, -- that’s hogwash. We were just joking last night. We always talk like that.” I started to go upstairs.

“Where you going,” Tom said curiously.

I pretended to pay not heed to it, and simply said, “I got to wash up, my hands are dirty, I’ll be right down.” He looked at me, and nodded, as if to copy my behavior as this being insignificant.

I quickly ran into my bedroom, got my .357 pistol out, which was under my bed, and made sure it was loaded; then I went into the bathroom turned on the water, leaving the door open so Tom could hear it. Than slowly I started to walk down the stairs with my shoes off. There was about fifteen stairs. I walked down three, I could see Tom talking, looking, as if he was trying to keep his mind going. I needed one more step than I could focus my firearm through the poles of the railing.

Tom looked at me, “What you up to,” he shouted, making a 60-degree turn in the chair with the gun in his right hand starting to focus it. A shot went off automatically, and my wife started screaming, I was hit, but it was only the lower part of my left hand, a little hole right through it; right below my little finger.

I slowly aimed through two of the poles, he was aiming reckless, and quickly: he thought he was John Wayne I think. I was now laying on the steps on my side, with the gun 90% focused, I needed to put him out with one shot or he’d kill everyone down there, he was close enough to, he just hadn’t thought about it yet. Another of his shots hit the door underneath the stairway, it was real low. Now he turned a little more, his gun still aiming freely towards me, his eyes at my wife, I shot, the bullet went through the top of the sofa chair right through and into his side. I told myself, trying to aim the gun upward, I hit him, but where, his lungs, heart. I wasn’t sure. His eyes bulged, and he caught his breath; I watched him slowly, then fell back a foot, his gun waving in the air. Then he fell on to his back, his neck quivering like a chicken’s when it is cut off; the gun falling out of his hands.

Everyone stood exactly where they were, in disbelief. It was over; everything was silent. The world had ended for all of us for that very moment. He never stopped starring it seemed. We all looked at one another, as if to get permission to move, to talk, to go on living. Then my wife said, “Are you all right,” looking at me, I smiled, even though it hurt to smile. She needed to know I was ok, and it was hard to talk.

I picked myself up from the stairs, rubbed my eyes with my right thumb and finger from underneath my glasses. A few tears were coming. I wasn’t sure if that was from killing, or saving.

Extracts From the Dead Diary of Troy Burroghs

Extract #1 of 2 Day one and two From the Dead Diary Of TB [written in St. Paul, Minnesota, January 2004; re- Edited 4/29/2006]

Being dead was not a big thing to me, at least not as big as I thought it might be, or could be, but then, then I’ve only been dead for a less than a day, maybe a few hours, let’s say, several hours. Listen up now, I had seen most everything anyways, that is, most everything a man wants to see in his life time, like: war, poverty, being rich and traveling 24-times around the world; being married four times, having five kids; having forty some jobs. You get the picture, right? Sure you do. Pardon the expression, but life, as I knew it was getting a bit boring. So it was a good time to die, as good as any I expect. Had I lived longer, I think—with my personality—I’d just got into more mischief.

All in all, I am dead as dead can be—and to be quite honest, to be down right frank, things couldn’t be much better. I now have the whole universe to explore; --that is, once I figure out all the angles, and angelic beings, and the horde of fiends and the imps hiding here and there, in this new abode of mine. And so the great discovery, the one I waited for, as humans hate to acknowledge, but mentally wait for, hoping the day never arrives: mine arrive several hours ago. On earth it was pretty much: ‘A dog eat dog place.’ Here it seems—and I’m not sure yet—I am on my own pretty much. On earth everyone had what you called ‘Advise,’ and no place to store it so they gave it away, free for the taking, or in many cases, it was shoved down one’s throat. I don’t sense any shoving out here, out in this inky-atmosphere. That is why it is ‘free,’ advise, still on that word, that troubled word, you know, they got no room to store it so they throw it at you like: ‘garbage’; generally speaking, that is the reason it’s free. [I know I am repeating myself in this diary, but in lack of not much more to say, I say it twice, ‘free garbage.’]

For the record, and I suppose every new-comers who die say the same thing (I shall find out soon), or so I suppose, I find my feet wanting to stand on something solid, but again it is something I have to get used to, like glasses, after a while you don’t even noticed you got them hanging on your nose, but they are there nonetheless. Out here in space [and now I know why they call it Space, that is all that is out here, lots of room, too much to absorb], out here in space, as I look down, down by my feet I see earth, it’s winter time in Minnesota, so it was even better to die now because in Minnesota, man-oh-man, the winters are nothing but hardship. You race from one warm place to another. I don’t feel warm or cold; actually I don’t feel anything at all. Not sure how this is going to be in the long run, not a physical body, in a somewhat physical universe. But then I’ve only been dead a few hours, I know here I go again, ok, 7 hours and 15-minutes to be exact: still getting acclimated.

I really like the fact, I don’t have to buy gas for my car, or car insurance, or pay taxes anymore, or for that matter, get on them damn buses and trains and planes, to get to my destinations; it seems I can go pretty fast without these old rusting objects now. I have found I can go faster than the speed of sound, how do I know this, I sneezed, and then I jumped as far as I could, and it took a second or two for the sound to catch me. No big scientific discover I’m sure, but it was interesting. I went from the moon to Mars in one or two seconds, about 250-million miles I think. I also think it was more by thought than by action, but I guess it’s really a mixture of both. I can see a faded configuration of myself. To be frank, I liked the sound of the ‘whiz,’ the sound when I went sailing in Space, its inky-nothingness, ending up at the Moon and then on Mars, the sound was amazing, kind of like ‘…whizzzzzzzz…’, and there I was, no special effects, just a ‘Whiz,’ sound. Matter-of-fact, when I took-in [a while ago] a breath of this black-ash sky, or sphere-air, whatever one calls it, I was on the moon, when I was simply above the clouds of earth before, which is 250,000-air miles for anyone collecting them. If I am to record my reaction, it was:

“O-boy!!”

I thought for the first few hours of my death [being a little disorientated] I was simply in a dream state of some kind, when I was alive, I often was in such a state of existence: then I shook that off as being preposterous, once I seen my mother coming slowly in the distance; —for she had died some six months ago.

“Ay—ay, hello son…!” said she, in her calm and direct way. That’s when I had to take a double take on her, ‘yup,’ I said to myself, ‘that’s my mom all right!’

“Ay—ay, Mom!” I said in a sloppy surprised look, yet very happy to see her again, then added to the dialogue, “…how fast can you travel?”

She hesitated for a moment, said, “First things first son,” and gave me a big, big hug, then said—“hm…mm, possibly I can reach Mars in a millisecond,” [I read that to mean, a clap of the eye; I gave that a slight little frown, also] for when she died I was faster than her, now she put me in place, it took me at least two seconds. Oh well, I thought, leave well enough alone (she’s had more practice), and put back on my face a caring smile.

Nevertheless, I said in awe-belief: “You don’t say, my goodness, that is fast…” I couldn’t finish my statement-question, for mom butted in by saying:

“You’ll never change—questions, questions and more questions, that’s all you did on earth, ask questions—but I love you nonetheless,” and she smiled with a deep joy to her countenance. I guess she was never one to worry about such things, she let life glide along as it may; for myself, I was always was in panic state, or at least most of my life. As if I couldn’t get to the end quick enough.

[A long pause took place, son and mother looking at each other in the great expanse of nothingness of the inky outer space.]

“Did you every go back to earth Mom?” I asked her.

“A few times to see you, and…well, you know, a mother’s job is never done, but you made it through the grieving process, I was unsure for awhile, after passing on; other than that son, no reason to go back there.”

[Again they both had a long pause, looking at one another, —happy to be together again, if only for a moment.]

As I looked at my mother, not sure how one measured time, but night was falling over a section of the earth, the side I was looking down on. It must have been but a few minutes or so I thought, but possibly a few hours for earth. Then looking about, I marveled at the asteroids and comets zooming by my head, the monstrous sounds they created, and the cold they carried with them, I could see the ice on them. And the emotions that went in my shell of a body was tranquil, calm, as if every emotion went through the process of osmosis [before it reached my adrenalin]; in and out of my invisible skin my transparent form it seeped blazing with controlled emotions, and descriptions of everything that passed me, colors, many colors, the sun’s drifting behind the moon.

“Yaw, ya, ya, so what’s on your agenda now son?” asked my mother with a tone a cleaver tone, a mothers tone if you get me: that seemed to be losing its enthusiasm for just standing about; I think she wanted to get on with this new life, she was always creative and busy: making things. I suppose my whole family was, myself and brother included creative in our own rights; my brother being the only one alive yet. All that healthy living he does: eats good, works out with weights, and all I did—being a redhead, was travel, write poetry, Army stuff, and fight battles, either in war, or in words, or in temperaments.

“Mm m m,” I murmured, “let me see: “a trip that is what is on my mind,” that is what I told my mother. She smiled at me again, knowing I lived to travel, traveled was part of my reason for living, or so it seemed; having been around the world in my earthly lifetime some 25-times (or is it 24?). Most tedious for her I suppose, but most regrettable for me if I didn’t take advantage of this opportunity, to check out more of the universe.

Said she [she: being my mother]: “I should have guessed that, you know you could grab onto a comet, and who knows where it may take you.” Not sure if that was sarcasm or not, but even in the after life, you don’t get smart with your mother.

“Or an asteroid,” I added to that statement, why not join her in her sarcasm, if you can’t beat them join them. We both laughed, it felt good.

“Did you know I met Serr’el, the angel you wrote about on earth in your book?” I was a bit taken back, when she said that, but not too much.

“I kind of made him up Mom, you know, but then I kind of did not, I mean I knew an angel was there, and tried to figure out his name, and that came to me.”

[With a stern voice] “Yes, yes I know that, but he is on the other hand, REAL, so you should say hello, that is, after your trip, if that is how you’d like it.”

I got thinking: we are who we are when we die, and whatever we are is who we are, like it not, somehow I had the thinking, I’d be thinking differently, but I’m not, the only thing different is my environment, that is to say, my mother didn’t lose her spunk.

Day Two:

It was a good meeting with my mother, and I did meet Serr’el at this point of my new journey. And now I see the sun rising on the earth, so it must be day two. I think I shall move on, blow myself like an invisible wind going through a whistle, blow myself some place, any place. And finish my diary as I live this new life.

As I look about, I can’t seem to find any fast moving rocks, or asteroids, or whatever (woops, a piece of metal just flew by, I spoke too soon ((must have been from a spacecraft from earth, you see we are even cluttering up outer space; unbelievable)). I just got to thinking: if I go too far out into outer space, than what, I might get lost; anything is possible. Matter-of-fact, I wonder if you can get lost? I should have asked my Mother that, or Serr’el. By and by I shall, but for now, I don’t really care—do I? Being lost can be fun, I think. I did it in China, and once in Spain, and, oh well, in half the countries I ventured in, I got lost. Zoommmmmmmm—asteroid.

[And like a ship sailing away, Mr. Troy Burroghs sailed and sailed away until an asteroid came by, then he was whizzed away…end of extract one, day one and two of the: ‘Dead Diary of TB’ —short for Troy Burroghs; extract one and two are the last of the Troy Burroghs stories written by the author. Part two “Death Diary” Extract #2, day three and Four to be given…]