The Pilgrim

By Dennis Bieker

Set in 1969, the story chronicles one year in the life of the author.

Fresh out of high school, he travels to south Florida with his father to work in the booming construction business.
He is soon swept up in the late sixties’ world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
Questioning his own values and the morals of those around him, our hero takes many paths on his journey to self-discovery.

Social unrest, racial injustice, the Vietnam War and the specter of recent assassinations are just some of the issues facing the youth of this era.
Throw in young love and the pitfalls that it brings and the story gets even more complicated.

Funny, insightful and sometimes heartbreaking, this is the age-old story of young versus old, ideals versus reality.

Told in a fresh, entertaining manner, the story will leave you anticipating a sequel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483542027

Book preview

seventeen.

Partly Truth and Partly Fiction

It was one of those moments in life when you stop and say to yourself, How did I get to this point? Who would have thought a year ago I would be here, doing this?

Now, depending on if you’re a glass-half-full or a glass-half-empty kind of person, this could be a good thing, or a time to reassess your options.

Considering I was sitting on a stationary motorcycle under the influence of a hallucinogenic drug, in a front yard other than mine, I chose to take stock of my life, as little as there was to take stock of at that time.

I was eighteen years old, and this was definitely a turning point. I knew I didn’t want to do this anymore. I knew there had to be more than this. Things had to change. And soon. I had a nagging feeling of mortality. While most people my age felt invincible, I always thought I would be dead by the time I was thirty.

Looking back, if I’d known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself!

So, how did I get there, and where was I going?

Let’s start at my high school graduation and my eighteenth birthday, which both happened on the same day: January 6, 1969.

Since I had enough credits, and mid-year graduation was still an option, I elected to graduate high school a half-year earlier than I was scheduled to. So with a class of 35 students, I left the hallowed halls of Solomon Juneau High school with little pomp, and much circumstance.

At a very low-key post-graduation celebration, my father took the opportunity to announce we were moving to Florida.

Here was the plan: my father and I would go first, and get jobs and an apartment. My father’s brother, my Uncle Sal, had already secured us jobs with the construction unions in Ft. Lauderdale. My father was already in the painters’ union, and I could start work with the laborers’ union until I got into the painters’ union as well. There was a construction boom going on in south Florida, so work was almost guaranteed, and the pay was very good.

My mother and two sisters would remain in Milwaukee until my older sister’s wedding in June. After the wedding my parents, my younger sister, and I would all return to Florida.

My older sister and her husband would remain in Milwaukee, and everyone would live long and prosperous lives. Well, it looked good on paper anyway.

None of this was a surprise to me, because my parents had talked to me about it weeks before. Financially it was the smart thing to do, since there wasn’t any kind of boom going on in Milwaukee at the time, unless you wanted to work in a factory. It didn’t take much to convince me in a Wisconsin January to move to Florida and a high-paying job, even though it was manual labor. It also was a favor to my mother...she made me promise to keep an eye on my father, who I failed to mention had a slight drinking problem.

Slight drinking problem is like saying you’re a little bit pregnant. There was nothing slight about it.

Evidently, in the early stages of their relationship it was non-existent, or hidden. But after he returned from four years of combat in World War II, and they married, the drinking became a very real part of their lives.

He would drink to the point of passing out, and sometimes throwing up blood. Finally my mother gave him the big ultimatum: get help, or she would file for divorce. He joined AA the next day, and became a model recovering alcoholic. This all happened before I was born. And he stayed sober for about eight years. Then the binge drinking began. He wouldn’t touch a drop for months at a time, and then out of nowhere he would be late coming home. We all knew what it meant—that sinking feeling knowing he would come home drunk and they would argue, and then the days and sometimes weeks of silence.

It’s a feeling I still get when someone I care about is late and doesn’t call, or can’t be reached. I guess our minds are trained liked Pavlov’s dogs. Conditioned reflex.

The things we carry with us....

Gotta Travel On

So, a week after graduation, my father and I left for south Florida. It felt good to be on the road, even if it was with my father. There’s a sense of freedom and joy when you know that all you have to do that day is drive until you’re tired, eat a big meal, stay in a strange bed, and then get up the next morning and do it all again.

The only time I felt anything close to homesickness was when we would drive by the softly lit farmhouses after dark, and I would feel a strange longing to drive up and look in their windows. Were they eating dinner? Watching TV? Or reading the newspaper? Whatever it was, I wanted to be there where it was warm, and safe, and still. And they probably saw us drive by and wished they were traveling somewhere into the night.

Do we spend our whole lives chasing illusions in the dark?

Two and a half days later we were in Florida. Palm trees, white sand and orange groves. This sure beat the hell out of what we’d just left behind—barren trees, white snow and cold, cold air.

Did I mention how much I hated winters in Wisconsin? Walking back and forth from school and home, I developed a hunch from arching my shoulders and turning my collar to the sub-zero wind. In the months leading up to my graduation, I vowed I would never spend another winter north of the Mason-Dixon Line. And I never did.

Uncle Sal met us at a predetermined exit on the turnpike and led us into Ft. Lauderdale and his house.

I had only met my Uncle Sal once before, and he had always seemed to be, in my mind, a mysterious character. Tall, thin, with jet-black hair combed straight back on his head, I always imagined he was somehow connected to the mob. His fast- talking Chicago accent, and the fact that he always drove a brand-new Cadillac didn’t hurt the image, either.

Truth is, he was a welder, but it was far more interesting for me to think of him torching a rival Mafioso than a slab of iron.

Five minutes after our second meeting he told me to drop the Uncle and to just call him Sal.

We’re all adults here, he said. You just call me Sal, and we’ll get along fine.

Okay, I said, and from that moment on we always did.

Now, Sal was a master organizer of the highest order. He had everything mapped out for us. I guess today he would be called a control freak, but in a good way. He always meant well.

We had the weekend to rest from our trip, but Monday morning we would be on the job site and ready to work. Sal had talked to the contractors and the unions and arranged everything. All we had to do was show up and sweat.

He played the role of big brother to my fathers’ kid brother, and enjoyed every minute of it.

I could tell it irritated my dad sometimes, and I found it all too amusing.

Now, Cal, he would say. Have all you need laid out Sunday night. Your work clothes, union card, social security card, tools, lunch bucket....

For Christ’s sake, Sal, I’m fifty years old! my dad pleaded. I’ve been on a job before.

I’m just sayin’, Sal said, slightly backing off. I want to leave here at 6:00 a.m. I like to get to the job early so I can get a good parking space.

My dad rolled his eyes. Fine, we’ll be ready.

Good, said Sal, always one to get in the last word. He stood up, threw his shoulders back slightly and walked to the kitchen. You want some ice cream?

It was now nine o’clock, our first night in Florida, and we had yet to meet Sal’s wife, Faye. She worked as a waitress at an exclusive country club, and would be home soon.

She’s a hard worker, and a good moneymaker, Sal would say often. You wouldn’t believe the tips she makes. She makes almost as much as me.

Hard work and money were important to Sal. It’s what he believed in. He preached it, and he lived it. And in Faye, his third wife, he found his most faithful disciple.

At ten o’clock Faye’s Cadillac pulled into the driveway. When she walked in the door, Sal got up, walked over to her and kissed her quickly on the lips. There she is, my little moneymaker. How much did you make tonight?

SAL! she almost screamed. You haven’t even introduced me!

Oh, that’s right, he said. I’m sorry. Faye, this is my brother, Cal, and his son, Danny.

Either my dad didn’t catch it, or he didn’t want to correct his older brother.

I guess it was understandable; my name is Dennis. My parents called me Bud.

My sisters called me Denny. Danny sounds like Denny. Maybe it was his accent.

Maybe he was calling me Denny, but it came out sounding like Danny to everyone else.

Nevertheless, I became Danny from that moment on whenever I was around Sal and Faye.

As the pleasantries were being exchanged, I studied Faye. She was a small woman; very thin, with black hair sprinkled with gray. Mid-fifties, I thought. She was probably quite attractive as a young woman. What struck me most, though, was her skin. It was very tan and lined. Reminded me of leather. I guess all those years in the Florida sun before the days of sunscreen had taken their toll.

As she walked to the kitchen to get a Coke, Sal called out: So, how much did you make tonight?

Two-fifty, she answered.

Did you hear that, Cal? Two-fifty! I told you she was a good moneymaker.

Pretty good, my dad said