I grew up in Memphis, Tennessee, land of yellow fever, broken glass, where Jeff Buckley drowned, trying to swim the river in boots.
There was an iconic bridge from which my father threw my butterfly knife, which he considered contraband.
I remember going to a party my dad took me to, at which I sat on a couch that was mounted high on the wall, on which I sat with some interesting person who showed me a tiny cartoon flipbook, that you would run the pages over your fingers to make the images on the pages appear in motion. It was book of Mickey and the Beanstalk, the giant chasing the mouse.
I remember going to the Brooks Museum with my dad and looking at some art exhibit there, in which there was a photo of a North Mississippi All Star, who had a zit. The zit was unhidden, proof of perfect imperfection.
I remember going to a party in el centro, at which fried chicken was deep fried in on the roof of frriends 5 story home, at which we jammed econo jazz in the basement.
I remember seeing Lucero perform at an art exhibit, when the band wore blue Work body suits. I was very little. I commented to the singer “you guys rule, but you drool.”
I attended University of Memphis for a little over a year. I changed from someone who dressed like a punk to someone who tries to present himself attractively. I felt so alien, so ashamed. I felt the life I desired was beyond my grasp, the people I wanted to get close to who I would see at the Hi Tone and around campus did not like me back. I did not know how to befriend them. I felt embarrassed of owning some red Dr Martens, got rid of them. I wanted to be in a punk band, a desire that quickly dissolved into inachievability as it became something I wanted so badly and hated for being beyond my grasp, a goal that made me question myself.
I went to 201 Poplar for a couple hours, when I got arrested one night, driving home, after drinking a huge bottle of Vodka. The system let me post my own bail, which was $100, and did not require me to have someone sign me out. In Nashville, when I was arrested driving home from the bar, two years later, they required both more bail money than I could afford and also someone else had to come get me from the jail.
I studied for my GED in a building, behind Monsieur Jeffrey Evans house, on S Tucker, in midtown. A sweet older lady tutored me in math (i.e. slope, pre-calculus, calculus). She brought me to a level at which I would be able to pass. I passed the GED on Airways Blvd, where a sweet girl called me red bird.
