The Crazy Years

By Geoffrey C. Parks

In this second book of the trilogy about the life and adventures of Chip, we find our protagonist drawn into the wild sixties lifestyle of Waikiki, replete with hippies, prostitutes, and tourists dressed in matching Hawaiian prints. But Chip never loses a gnawing feeling that there must be something more to life. His friends from the mainland, M

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Oct 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649902948

Geoffrey C. Parks

Born Geoffrey Charles Parks in Queens, New York, in 1946, I was raised in a lower- class, typically normal, dysfunctional family. Shooting marbles, tossing baseball cards, banging the tambourine for the Salvation Army, and going to Far Rockaway and the Bronx Zoo with my dad and brother were some of the highlights of my early years. We moved to California for a better life; Dad had a history of incarceration. This move didn’t help as he was back in jail within a year. We lived on welfare in a dismal apartment with no gas or electricity. Mom would send me to the market with a few bucks and some food stamps and tell me to get what I could get. I’d purchase the staples (bread and milk), having first stuffed cold cuts down my pants. I got what I could get. Most of the time, hungry and preoccupied with survival, school didn’t work out for me. In ninth grade, I was expelled for beating up a guy that had bullied me all through eighth grade. I hung out with two equally disturbed youths. We decided to steal a car and head east to Key West. Then we set off for Cuba to free the prisoners of the Bay of Pigs. We were caught breaking into an army navy surplus store trying to steal guns for our mission. We spent twenty-eight days in jail. The big thing I learned from that experience was that, no matter how bad my life was on the outside, I never wanted to be in jail again. Fast forward three years. I graduated from Pasadena Barber School and began a career I’ve enjoyed for fifty-two years. Along the way, I spent fifteen years as a professional actor, and another twenty writing screenplays. Life’s wild and crazy quest dropped me at my kitchen counter to write my first poem. As a hairdresser, I have met so many amazing, crazy, happy, sad, and broken people who have helped shape who I am today. I don’t believe there is another profession in which people open their hearts to one another as much as in this business. I have learned to listen patiently to my clients’ needs and to offer my creative input with empathy. I feel blessed. I have lived with my wife and soul mate, Heather, for thirty-three years. I have four children and nine grandkids. I still surf, snowboard, and exercise regularly with my wife. I have had thirty years of amazing psychotherapy and meet every week with a group of loving men. We share our fears and our joys; together we attempt solve the mysteries of the universe with all the humility and humor we can muster. My poetry is my response to my past and current life experiences. Every poem I write is a cathartic experience for me. I know that it’s me writing them, but I have never, in all my years of writing, felt a presence supporting my words as I do now. Today I believe in my own heart more than I ever have, and if my poetry touches your heart or comforts you in any way, I have done my humble part. Peace and love, Geoff

Book preview

HAWAII

I

t was 11 a.m. on a Saturday, and LAX was teeming with people. I'd never flown on a commercial airline, so I was excited and anxious as fuck. My good friend and roommate Matt was with me, and he was carrying one of my beat-up duffle bags, which was packed with all my worldly goods. It was 1969, before all the security shit, when the world was a little smaller, because we didn't have internet, or even terrorists, as far as I can remember. But I don't know if I'm a good judge, because I'd never even been on a jet before, or even out of the country. Bags checked, we headed up to the gate, Matt leading the way and me trailing behind, caught up in all the people rushing, rushing. Parents yelled at their kids to stay close. Couples argued about who knows what. And here and there a happy couple or family excited to be going somewhere. I was headed to Hawaii, not exactly on what you would call a vacation. I was running away from my life, again—the life I had stumbled through for the last twenty-three years. My name is Charles Becker; my friends call me Chip. It's me again, just eight years older. And as you have probably guessed by the title, these are the crazy years. Which, considering my history, is no big surprise.

We had an hour before my flight departed, so Matt suggested we get a Bloody Mary—on him. I appreciated that, considering I only had a hundred and eighty bucks to my name. I planned on living in the jungle on the island of Maui. I'd heard that people do that—just live off the land, not a worry in the world, nobody to answer to but myself. Jesus, that sounds like a line right out of Mice and Men, and come to think of it, I sound a little bit like Lenny. He's the character in the story who is retarded, and sometimes I think maybe I'm retarded, or just crazy. Anyway, if you haven't read Steinbeck's book, it's damn good. It's the first book that ever made me cry.

Matt guided us over to the airport bar and ordered a couple of shots to go along with the Bloody Marys. When the drinks were placed in front of us, Matt belted out, To Hawaii.

To Hawaii, I responded with gusto. We downed our shots and followed them up with a gulp of the Bloody Mary. It was a damn tasty one. It had a big stalk of celery and a green olive in it and just enough kick to disguise the vodka. I don't remember what we talked about during that hour because Matt shoved a couple of Lilly F40s, in my mouth. We called them reds for short and eventually just RDs. Reds are a barbiturate and in the drug class known as sedative hypnotics. They can cause anything from mild sedation to death. Never, ever, to be combined with alcohol, LSD, cocaine, or any other shit, which is exactly what we did, in copious amounts. Gimme an RD, we used to say to each other. How many is that? would be the response. We liked keeping track. The more you took, the tougher you were. I think the most I ever took was twelve, but I'm not certain because after about six you didn't know your ass from a hole in the ground. When I say we, I'm referring to Robby and Greg, my two other crazy, drinking, drugging, rock ‘n’ roll, partying buddies. It was like our own special drug language. We frequented whatever the hottest clubs were at the time, so the bartenders knew us. They would set us up with double shots of tequila, a lime, and a saltshaker. We thought we were so fucking badass, cool. We'd down our shots, on top of the two or three reds we had taken earlier, and howl at the moon. Our motto: drink and drug till you drop or till you hook up and get laid.

Robby and Greg said they would come visit me on the island once I got settled in. I told them I would have a nice spot for them in my tree house. They never believed I was gonna live in the jungle, but that was my plan. Matt told me he was gonna move over in a few months, but that he was not going to slum in the jungle. By the time the hour was up, I could barely walk, and neither could Matt. When I handed my ticket to the gal at the gate, she called security, and they told me I was too drunk to get on the plane and had to sober up. Matt made a stink; he didn't like people telling him no. He had a bit of a chip on his shoulder, and when he had a couple of reds in him, it was more like a fuckin’ brick. But as I look back on it now, I think he just had more confidence than me. I didn't like confrontation and would always do my best to avoid it. Anyway, he only made things worse, and the security guard, who was a decent fella, told me to just sober up and that I could get on the next flight, which was in three hours. Matt had to go, so we did a macho, drunken drug hug, and I watched him stumble off. Anyway, I don't know how it all worked out, because I was too fucked up to remember how I got on the next plane, but it did. Generally speaking, people liked me, probably because I had an ability to adjust my behavior to just about any situation. My seat was next to a cute, blonde, suntanned chick about my age. I gave her the once over and my best nice guy, bad boy look, but as soon as my ass hit that seat I was out.

A voice on the intercom announcing our arrival over the Hawaiian Islands pulled me out of my drug-induced sleep. The shade was up and my blonde friend next to me was looking out.

I gazed over her shoulder and said, Wow, I've never seen the earth from this high up. It's amazing. She looked at me as if I was from another planet. I felt really bad because I might have said some pretty bad shit to her before I passed out. I apologized, but she just smirked and turned her gaze back out the window.

The plane dropped down for the landing. The flaps came down, and the wheels touched the ground with a jerk and a screech of the brakes. The blast of the jet engines kicked in along with the brakes and pushed my body forward a bit. I wondered if that was a shitty landing or if it was just the normal way a plane lands. Nobody seemed upset, so I figured normal. I was ready to get off the plane, so I was up out of my seat while we were still moving. The stewardess yelled down the aisle at me to remain seated until the aircraft came to a complete stop. I didn't want any trouble, so I sat back down. The blonde girl was shaking her head at me in disgust. I didn't know all the rules of an airplane, but I realized, even if I was an asshole when I was loaded, this girl had such a mean ass attitude that I didn't want anything to do with her. It's that attitude that makes a person ugly, no matter how good-looking they are.

We exited the plane onto the tarmac, and the hot, humid Hawaiian air hugged my whole body. I loved it. As I walked to the terminal, a pretty Hawaiian woman put a lei around my neck.

I tried to stop her, but she took my hands away and said, Aloha. Welcome to A-wa-he. I smiled and bowed. I learned that from my four years of competitive judo. Everybody was always bowing even though underneath they wanted to kick your ass. I don't know why I did it; I don't think she was Japanese. But she smiled, bowed, and moved on to the next visitor.

The flowers that the lei was made of were potent, and even though I wanted to like them, I didn't. They did weird shit to my nose. I knew they were a gesture of kindness, so I didn't want to offend the woman who gave them to me, but I couldn't wait to take them off. As usual, I felt guilty for some dumbass reason, and, for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. If you don't like something, you don't like it. Why should you have to act as if you like it when you don't? I know, I know, it's not polite. But maybe that's what's wrong with the world—everybody is trying to be polite instead of honest. I'm not saying throw the damn flowers in the trash; that's mean. But maybe thank you very much, but I don't like the smell. My damn eyes started itching, so I headed for the bathroom and popped into one of the stalls. I took the smelly thing off my neck and hung it on the hook on the stall door. I laughed to myself as I exited the bathroom thinking that's a good gesture, in case someone unloads a stinky one.

I made my way down to the baggage claim amongst throngs of Hawaiian shirts and muumuus. I saw some local bros in board shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops. The girls wore halter tops with bathing suit tops underneath (or nothing) and shorts. All of them were suntanned. I felt white. My long, straight hair hung to my shoulders, and at six feet tall I was a lean, muscular 176 pounds. I was proud of my body and couldn't wait to put on my bathing suit and hit the beach to soak up some of the rays. I had no idea where I was gonna stay, only that it had to be cheap.

I grabbed my bags off the carousel and headed outside. I was a man on a mission. Bullshit. I was scared as hell with no idea what I was gonna do next. Dragging my bags to the bus stop marked Waikiki, I felt like a real vagabond tourist. The bus driver grabbed my bags and threw them in the luggage bin of the bus.

He grunted as he did so and said in Hawaiian pigeon, Hey, brah, whatch-you got in here? Gold?

I shrugged and said, I wish. I was obsessed with his language. Brah, brah, not bro, I repeated to myself. It sounded so cool. We drove out of the airport toward Waikiki, and I grabbed a seat right behind the driver. I asked if he knew of any cheap motels in Waikiki. Nothing cheap in Waikiki, brah…maybe one place. I'll let you know when we get there.

Thanks, brah, I said. It didn't sound quite right, but he nodded and didn't give me any shit. I repeated it a few more times to myself. I kind of had a way with accents. I was always able to adjust mine to fit in wherever we lived when I was growing up.

We were on Kalakaua Boulevard, which was the main drag in Waikiki, when the driver told me this was it just before he pulled over and the doors whooshed open. He got out and opened the luggage bin and yanked out my bags of gold. He gave me a card for a motel with the name Bill written on it. He told me Bill was his brother-in-law and to tell him Akoni said to give you a good deal.

Thanks, I said.

He said, Shaka, brah, and did this thing with his hand where he folded the three middle fingers in and let the thumb and pinky hang loose as he shook it at his side. It was so fucking cool.

Shaka, brah. I couldn't wait to try it out. He directed me down an alley and pointed at a building with a tattered pink awning. He told me it was the Shore Dump Motel. I half carried, half dragged my bags of gold up to the Shore Motel. He had added the Dump part. I pushed my way thru the puke green front door. A heavyset blond guy sat behind a desk watching a small TV. The desk was covered in ugly, stained grass paper, and there was a little bobble Hawaiian figurine that jiggled when I leaned against the counter.

Is Bill around? I asked.

I'm Bill. Can I help you? I didn't expect Bill to be a blond white guy. I figured he would be Hawaiian. But then I thought, Bill isn't a Hawaiian name.

Yeah, I said. I'm Chip. Your brother-in-law Akoni recommended I come here.

He laughed and said, What did you do to piss him off?

He said to give me a good deal or he would tell his sister to leave you. I felt a little awkward saying that, but I figured I would try to be part of the family.

Bill laughed, The best I can do is thirty-five bucks a night. My hopes sank, no way could I pay thirty-five bucks a night. Bill saw my disappointment and said, If you come back after ten, and I have any rooms left, I can give it to you for half that.

Thanks, man. I appreciate it.

Where you from? Bill asked.

Burbank, California. Ever heard of it?

Nope.

What about you?

Houston, Texas.

Nice. I went through there once when I was a kid, heading to Cuba.

Cuba, he said, I didn't know you could go there. I didn't know if I should tell him the whole story, but I thought, what the fuck? I went through the crazy tale about freeing the prisoners from the Bay of Pigs, getting caught breaking into the Army Navy surplus store in Key West to steal guns, and getting thrown in jail. He kept saying, No shit. Really? No shit. By the time I was done, I had made my first friend on the island. He stored my bags behind the desk and let me use a room to change into my bathing suit and use the head. He turned out to be a really good guy.

I strutted down to Waikiki Beach feeling happy and free, not a worry in the world. Well, I was hungry. It was already past lunchtime, so I figured if I could hold off till around five or so, I could get by with just eating dinner, even though by California time it would be eight. On the way to the beach, I spotted a Swedish Smorgasbord: $1.50 for lunch; $1.99 for dinner. The summer season hadn't really kicked in yet from what Bill had told me. He said that as soon as June hit, the college and high school kids would swarm the island and all hell would break loose. I walked along the waterline trying to look like I belonged. I noticed some touristy types looking at me and wondered if they thought I was a local. I had surfed some during my teen years and was pretty good at it. I had felt comfortable on the beach ever since I was little and considered myself a waterman, but this was different. It was Hawaii, the island of the big waves. I started to feel all uptight inside, thinking about paddling out in thirty-foot surf. Then out of nowhere, I caught sight of a Frisbee coming straight at my head. I jerked to the side, and it blew right by me into the hand of a young Hawaiian guy.

Sorry, brah’ he said.

No problem, brah,’ I shot back. I was surprised how naturally brah already just rolled off my tongue. I plopped down in the sand up the beach from them and tripped out on the art of throwing a Frisbee. These guys were insane. I was pretty decent at throwing a Frisbee, but these guys were at another level. There were a fair amount of people on the beach, and they were curving the Frisbee around people, just inches from smacking somebody in the noggin. But I'll be damned; they never hit anybody, although they came close, and I would laugh out loud when someone jerked their head the way I had. These guys were definitely locals and seemed like okay guys. I had heard rumors that if you were a Haole, basically any non-Hawaiian, you were probably gonna get your ass kicked sooner or later. I figured I would try to avoid that. I'm not bragging, but like I said before, I'm pretty likable. These guys played for hours and eventually I fell asleep in the hot sun.

I woke up with bad cottonmouth and my chest had a red glow to it. I already had a good start on a tan and hoped I hadn't burned so much that I would peel. I felt mad at myself, but I thought of what my uncle Joe used to say, No use worrying now; what's done is done. The beach had emptied out, and my stomach was telling me to get my ass over to the Smorgasbord, so I put my shirt on and headed over. I paid the gal at the cash register and asked her where the restroom was. I took a pee and, as I washed my hands, I stared into the mirror at my glowing red face. Probably gonna peel, I thought.

Then it happened. An overwhelming sense of anxiety hit me. My heart was racing, and I felt paranoid. Thank God the restroom was empty, and nobody could see. I felt dizzy and started to shake. I fought to calm myself down. Then I thought of Frank hanging in that shitty bathroom in Florida. I guess once you see a dead person you never forget it. I got so shaky I had to hold onto the sink. I wished I had a red on me, but I had left my stash in my bag at the motel. The bathroom door swung open and a young busboy walked in.

He stopped and looked at me for a moment. I must have looked pretty fucked up because he said, You okay, brah?

Yeah, brah, no problem, I said in a shaky voice. He went over to the urinal and took a pee. I threw some water on my face and held my mouth under the faucet, taking a couple of big gulps of water. Then I made my way out of the bathroom into the restaurant and to the counters, where all the food was lined up. I filled my plate to the top with mashed potatoes, meat loaf, green beans, carrots, and these soft, hot, fluffy rolls, and tons of butter. I sat at a table by the window and shoved it in. At one point the food went down the wrong pipe, and I choked and coughed for about five minutes. I gulped down a big glass of water and took a couple of deep breaths. I looked around the Smorgy to see if anyone was watching me. There was a family sitting across from me, and one of the kids, a boy of about three, was checking me out. He was a cute little fucker wearing a Hawaiian shirt, brown shorts, and little sandals. We made eye contact. I winked at him and made a funny face and he smiled—damn did that make me feel good. I didn't realize how all alone I felt sitting in that big Smorgy. His mom noticed he was staring at me and turned him around and told him to eat his mac and cheese. I felt better and went back to eating, every once in a while making a funny face at the little guy sitting across from me.

I thought of my little brother who had been drafted at eighteen and spent six months in boot camp. He was sent to Nam. Six weeks later he was shipped back in a coffin. They said it was friendly fire. In other words, he was killed by one of our own bombs, which were supposed to be giving him cover. I hadn't heard from my dad in years, and my mom refused to go to the funeral. When his body was returned home, I had to go identify him. I stood at the door for a few minutes looking into the room where the casket was before going in. I walked up to the casket and looked down at him. It was the second dead person I had seen. Frank's body had looked horrifying hanging in that dingy bathroom, but my brother's looked just like normal—like he was sleeping. A sleep he would never wake up from. I didn't cry. I went in and signed the form that identified him and walked out. They did a twenty-one-gun salute at the funeral, and at the end they folded up the flag and handed it to me. I wondered where my sister was. I hadn't seen her since I was about twelve. I walked back to my beat-up old car. As I drove away, I cried.

I looked over at that little kid sitting across from me, his mouth full of mac and cheese, and thought that if he died you could bet your ass his whole family would be there crying their eyes out.

I went back twice for different entrees before I dove into the desserts. I ate strawberry short cake, cheesecake, and a cup of chocolate pudding. By the time I was done I was fucked; I really did think I was gonna puke. I knew I should have stopped after the strawberry short cake, but whatever that thing inside of us is that drives us to keep eating had its depraved claws in me big time.

By the time I walked out of the Smorgy, the sun was just going down, so I walked out on the beach and plopped down in the sand in front of the Royal Hawaiian where I had watched the brahs throwing the Frisbee earlier. I leaned against the wall and let out a big breath. My gut was really distended. I looked like I was three months pregnant. I rubbed my hand over my belly, and I got to thinking about how it must feel to be pregnant, to have something growing inside you. Fuck…the idea of it was overwhelming. How do women do it? I had to stop myself from thinking about it because it scared the shit out of me and made me feel bad.

The sun dropped down to the horizon and seemed to shimmy as it sat there, pulling the surrounding clouds, me, everything to it. Time slowed down as I watched. I sat in awe of the magnificent array of colors that melted into one another and didn't move from my spot till the last bit of sun disappeared from the sky. The darkness overtook the light as it always does; stars began to appear, and the magic of nature created a new landscape. A couple walked by, hand in hand. They looked relaxed, natural, like the sunset. No pretense, just nature at its best. It was one of those moments that, even though I gave up on God a long time ago, I couldn't help but feel something, something I couldn't fully understand.

I wandered around town for a while, getting the lay of the land. I stumbled into The International Market Place in the center of town. It had a lot of open-air shops nestled under huge banyan trees strung with twinkly lights. This seemed to be the gathering place for tourists; it was packed. I strolled through looking at all the Hawaiian trinkets, knowing full well I couldn't buy anything, and I had given up stealing a while ago because it gave me too much of a gut ache. So, I just roamed around, feeling deprived, until I spotted this sexy island girl working in one of the shops. She caught me looking at her and smiled. I wandered casually over to the shop as if I hadn't noticed her. It was filled with an assortment of stuffed animals, and I picked up a stuffed monkey as if I might buy it for somebody.

What's up, Haole? she said, in that laid-back Hawaiian drawl. She was pretty and had long brown hair with sun-kissed ends that hung down to her waist. I was never comfortable talking to girls, unless I was loaded.

So my reply was, Huh?

You into monkeys? she asked with a smirk on her face. What the fuck did that mean? Was she busting my balls or trying to be friendly? She stood there looking at me, waiting for an answer.

I said, Are you asking me if I fuck monkeys? As soon as it came out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I wanted to run away, but I just stood there like a dumbass.

She looked at me with this half-ass smile and said, Well, are you? I was lost. I had no idea what to say in return, so I just walked away mumbling to myself. But I still wasn't sure if she was flirting or just a ball buster.

I headed down Kalakaua Boulevard to the Surf Dump Motel. I needed something familiar, something that didn't make me feel crazy like the exchange I just had with the monkey girl. The warm night air smelled of patchouli oil and carnations.

Some grungy kid with hair down to his ass and squatting next to a wall drawled, Need some hash, brah? I just kept walking. Then I felt someone at my side.

A longhaired dude whispered, Pakalola, brah. I shook my head. Instinctually I knew not to look any of them in the eye. Sprinkled amongst the tourists wearing their leis and matching Hawaiian outfits were all these young hippie kids, bumming.

A rail-thin hippie chick who looked to be about sixteen whispered, Psychedelics, no speed, mellow shit. She had sores on her arms and face. I walked faster and pushed the depraved image from my mind. Then I caught sight of two ladies in high heels and short, tight, glitzy dresses. I couldn't help staring. They caught me and made a big fuss over me, asking if I was looking for the happy place. They had a real sexy banter going. One grabbed for my dick. I jumped and they laughed like hell.

It was tempting, but I smiled and said, No thanks. The street was lined with kids selling drugs and prostitutes selling ass and tourists spending money. It was the fucking Wild West