My great uncle, the wallpaper hanger

I first learned I had a great uncle named Frederick when I visited my family's Hillside, N.J. cemetery plot last November. His tombstone had been pulled from the ground and tossed to the side. The family headstone had fallen on the ground, and was laying on its face.

It was like standing outside an abandoned restaurant and trying to figure out what was on the lunch menu. I had little hope that I could draw anything from this decrepit scene.

But a visit to the graveyard office, and a death certificate from California gave that ugly scene some meaning. In fact, it was downright symbolic.

At the graveyard office, I learned that Frederick died of gas asphyxiation with his mother, Lydia, on Oct. 4, 1928. Their deaths weren't ruled a suicide, though the circumstances seemed strange and suspicious. Five years later, Frederick's brother, Edward, died the same way.

I later learned that Frederick led a rather undistinguished life, working for his Civil War veteran father as a "wallpaper hanger" and as a clerk for his brother, Edward, who was my great-grandfather.

Then, three weeks ago, the death certificate for Frederick's oldest son, Clarence, arrived in the mail - three months after I asked for it. The informant was his son, Donald. We talked, and the flood gates opened.

I learned that Frederick was married. I learned that his wife, Matilda, up and left in 1915, taking the three children to California and leaving Frederick behind, alone.

I talked to Frederick's great-granddaughter, Sharon Winans Pearson. In that conversation, I learned what I long suspected. Frederick, most likely, was another symbol of the long history of mental illness in my family.

Sharon did a great job in filling in the holes in Frederick's life that came as no surprise. Here is what she wrote:

Matilda married Frederick Winans on June 29, 1892. Frederick's father was of English-Dutch origin and his name may have been Winant. Unfortunately, Frederick was not home very much. Rumors tell us he had an alcohol problem. Therefore Matilda was on her own to raise the three children:

1. Mabel, born 1893,
2. Clarence, born 1899, and
3. Merrill, born 1907.

To support the family, Matilda ran a two-story boarding house in Elizabeth, N.J. Although Matilda may not have visited church on a regular basis, she did attend certain events. Merrill remembers his older sister helping him get dressed and ready for these special occasions. Family documents show Matilda was baptized and married at Christ Church (Episcopal), in Elizabeth.

In the early 1900's it was customary for wealthy women to have a seamstress come to their home for a period of time, and live with the family. Matilda, who was an excellent seamstress, was able to secure jobs of this type and would stay with families for extended periods. Young Merrill, who was probably under the age of eight at this time, accompanied his mother. Many of these homes had beautiful gardens and Merrill would often be sent outside to play. As he wandered along the pathways he began to develop an interest in planting his own garden. Later in life Merrill would excel as a landscape architect.

It was not uncommon for young boys to be at the train station (see above picture). One could find out the latest news, pick up the family mail, and watch travelers from far away places bustle back and forth across the streets. One day Clarence pulled Merrill in a wagon along the busy street, when suddenly he stopped and pointed toward a man in the distance.

"Merrill," Clarence said, "That is your father."

This is Merrill's only recollection of his father.

A break, coming out of nowhere

In every family, there's always some guy who comes out of nowhere, who doesn't seem to have any connection to anybody other than blood.

It's the guy who lives a mysterious life that sparks curiosity, but he disappears before he yields any clues.

Researching for my book, "Generations: My Family's Struggle with Mental Illness," I came across a great uncle by the name of Frederick Winans who apparently gassed himself on Oct. 4, 1928.

I never even heard of him until I saw his gravesite last November, and I discovered that his tombstone had been pulled off his gravesite and turned upside-down.

He, his mother and his dog died all at the same time, making front-page news in the Elizabeth Daily Journal the following day.

Later I learned that he was a "wall-paper hanger" who was married to a woman named "Matilda." She left him for California, it appeared, with their three children.

He just seemed to represent another layer of misfortune in a family with several generations of mental illness and alcoholism. But even that wasn't a guarantee since his death wasn't officially labeled a suicide.

Frederick is the one guy who could make or break a book. He's like a big hole in a story that can't be ignored.

He's not absolutely central to the plot of the story. But knowing a little more about him could provide some inspiration.

And his story, however benign or bizarre, could make the entire book that much more attractive to picky publishers.

Last week came a break. A death certificate for his son, Clarence, arrived in the mail, two months after I requested it from the state of California.

I discovered family names I never heard of. I called Frederick's grandson, Don, and we talked for an hour. He confirmed everything: Frederick went into the Navy, and then disappeared after he split up with his wife. Matilda went to California to start anew.

Guess what? Mental illness and alcoholism runs in Don's family, too. So does intelligence - Don helped design the Hubble telescope. His uncle was a landscape architect.

Hopefully, that's just the start of a new chapter.

Where are the enablers?

Their best friend was gone, laying in a casket at a star-studded funeral, but Liz Taylor and Diana Ross were nowhere to be found.

Funny. When Michael Jackson was deep in the throes of drug addiction, these two members of the Hollywood elite were always close behind, suffering from their own personal woes of pill-dependency and drinking.

They hung onto him like bugs at a picnic table, supposedly providing him comfort and care while Jackson mired himself in plastic surgery disasters, and began to display increasingly erratic behavior.

Face it: Michael Jackson had mental illness, and displayed symptoms of anorexia and obsessive compulsive disorder. In his interviews, he displayed the symptoms of a dope addict, talking as though he had just undergone a lobotomy and failing repeatedly to utter full, coherent sentences.

But he did little to help himself, falling victim to self-medication. Like a typical drug addict, he hung around with a rough crowd. Judging by their own well-documented behavior, these are the kind of people who do more to feed a habit than to end one.

And when the moment to pay a public tribute came - just as the police were searching for clues as to why Jackson died so suddenly - Liz and Diana failed to show at the memorial service and hid behind their public statements.

Liz's problems with drug addiction are legendary. Diana Ross has been accused of drunk driving.

Throw in Macaulay Culkin, who has had his own problems, and you have what they call in hockey a "hat trick" of people who didn't provide the kind of role modeling that could have inspired Jackson to live a healthy life.

Culkin, Ross and Taylor have said little to nothing since Jackson's death, even though Jackson did what he could to provide comfort and care to these people when they suffered through their own person traumas.

Its too bad that Janet Jackson took such an image hit with her "wardrobe malfunction" at the Super Bowl a few years ago. Save for that episode, she's led a relatively stable life for someone in show business.

By all accounts, she did as much as she could to steer her brother the right way, and even helped lead an intervention - something that probably didn't sit well with Jackson if he, indeed, was as much of drug addict as reports indicate.

What happened? Janet was written out of the will. Diana Ross is second in line to get the kids.

In the end, Jackson stuck with the people who may have enabled him, not the people who wanted to help him. But, in the very end, Liz and Diana did what enablers do when the heat is on: They were no-shows.

"Dirty Diana" lyrics, by Michael Jackson

You'll never make me stay
So take your weight off of me
I know your every move
So won't you just let me be
I've been here times before
But I was to blind to see
That you seduce every man
This time you won't seduce me

She's saying that's ok
Hey baby do what you please
I have the stuff the you want
I am the thing that you need
She looked me deep in the eyes
She's touchin' me so to start
She says there's no turnin' back
She trapped me in her heart

Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, no
Dirty Diana
Let me be!

Oh no...
Oh no...
Oh no...

She likes the boys in the band
She knows when they come to town
Every musician's fan after the
curtain comes down
She waits at backstage doors
For those who have prestige
Who promise fortune and fame
A life that's so carefree

She's says that's ok
Hey baby do what you want
I'll be your night lovin' thing
I'll be the freak you can taunt
And I don't care what you say
I want to go too far
I'll be your everything
If you make me a star

Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, no
Dirty Diana...
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, no
Dirty Diana...
Diana!
Diana!
Dirty Diana!
It's Dia...aa...aa...ana!

She said I have to go home
'Cause I'me real tired you see
But I hate sleppin' alone
Why don't you come with me
I said my baby's at home
She's problably worried tonight
I didn't call on the phone to
Say that I'm alright

Diana walked up to me,
She said I'm all yours tonight
At that I ran to the phone
Sayin' baby I'm alright
I said but unlock the door.
Because I forgot the key.
She said he's not coming back
Because he's slepping with me

Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, nah
Dirty Diana, no

Running your way through life

I think it was David Letterman who said it best: When you borrow an idea, you're not necessarily ripping them off. You're merely paying tribute.

So I'm going through the post-masters-degree let down of returning to the routine and ordinary, and I'm watching friends of mine (Bob Rebach, Theoden Janes, Bill Borden) report their latest athletic accomplishments on Facebook.

So, as a way to get through the doldrums of a still-sour economy and a weak book market (anybody reading between the lines?), I'm getting through it all by paying tribute to them.

I've returned to the "gym," and my 5-mile time has dropped from 40 minutes two weeks ago down to 37:44. It's not the time I ran when I was 17, but I would have been happy with that when I was, oh, 24, 34, 38 etc.

The time is a little skewed because I'm doing it on a treadmill, and I can regulate when or when not to sprint (or, as runners call it, "kick"). But there's nothing better than slamming that red "stop" button, seeing a time that's 10 seconds faster than what you did last week and wiping off the sweat machine.

Oh, there is one thing that's better - posting it on Facebook and reeling in the compliments from shocked observers who can't believe that a 42 year old can still run like a 24 year old.

That's nice.

The Chicken Zoo, part 5: The bar (a non-fiction novel)

[This story is based on my experiences as a reporter for The Delaware State News from 1990-93. Some names and dates have been changed. This was part of my unpublished novel, "The Chicken Zoo," that I wrote five years ago.]

Morning came, and I got up the minute my eyes opened and the sunlight popped through the shade in his bedroom. My brain, however, was still focused on the dream I just had.

In it, Evan – the 7-year-old from Driftwood Beach – and a band of pit bulls attacked me in a forest, tore off my clothes and chewed him to bits. They left me bloodied amid a pile of leaves and tree stumps, and tree branches fell and slammed on my stomach. I screamed for help but all I heard was laughter.

Then I saw a group of children holding hands as they danced in a circle around my naked body. While they did, a photographer snapped pictures, and the light of the flash burned my eyes. The children laughed harder.

I was bleeding, I was sick and I was cold. But what finally woke me up was when I looked at my reporter’s notebook, and it was still empty. That’s what I really cared about. And that’s when I woke up.

I got dressed, and went to work. I was exhausted, still, so I floated through the day. Thankfully, he thought, Jenny stayed in her office nearly the whole time. When she finally did appear, I disappeared into the bathroom.

The bathroom was my favorite place. I always liked to hide in the stall. Nobody could bother me there. It was like the demilitarized zone. When they did come looking for me, I could always pick my feet up.

On this day, however, I was greeted by somebody the minute he swung open the stall’s metal door.

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy said.

“Tom Davis,” I said. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You don’t know me? What kind of reporter are you?”

“I’m OK,” I said. “But you’re not making a very good impression with me.”

He extended his hand. “I’m John Matlack, from New York,” he said. “I used to be an editor here, but the fuckheads demoted me.”

“John Matlack? Wasn’t he a pitcher for the Mets?”

“Everybody knows that, you schmuck,” John said. “He’s my favorite fucking Met – outside of Seav-uh, Nails and Mookie.”

“I’m a Mets fan, too,” I said.

“Yeah, I hear you’re from fucking Jersey,” John said. “We may be the only ones from civilization here.”

“Ever see the Mets play?”

“What kind of stupid question is that, you fuckhead,” John said. “Look, I don’t have time to hold your hand right now. I’m doing a story on Joe Biden right now that’s going to win me the fucking Pullitzer….After this one comes out, they’re going to fucking nail him to the cross…”

“Cool,” I said.

“I’m getting this in the can around 6 p.m.,” John said. “Then we’re going to go out and fucking celebrate…You with us?”

“Sounds good.”

“Good,” John said. “Meet us at Blather’s, on Governor’s Avenue, around 7 p.m. Got it?”



I got it, and showed up an hour late. I walked in, and immediately thought: Am I in another state?

I marveled at the 200-year-old bar with chandeliers that dangled from on ropes, stretching four feet down from the old, cracked roof. The floor was as flimsy as the bottom of a tree house. Paint from what appeared to be George Washington’s time was chipping everywhere, and pieces were falling on the floor and creating a fine dust. No one ever swept it, it seemed.

I noticed, however, that the patrons didn’t match the age of the place. Long-legged women with tan bodies, each of them bright, beautiful and young – and with perfect teeth – seemed to fill every seat at the bar. Crash Tokyo was there, and rocking. And with each pounding beat, the crowd either pounded their fists in the air or knocked back a beer or two.

There, I instantly found John and a rather large assortment of State News reporters and editors milling near the bar. Some of them had drinks sitting on the wooden surface of the bar; others clutched their beer bottles and held them up to their chests.

I drifted closer to the group, and John rose up from the window sill he was learning on. “What’s up, Dink?” John said, rousting him a bit.

“Dink?” I said. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. You just seem like a Dink,” John said.

“What is a Dink?”

“A dummy.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“Well, think about it,” John said. “Who would claim to be a Mets fan but not know who Jon Matlack is?”

“Whatever,” I said. “Where do you get beer here?”

“See,” John said. “That’s what I’m talking about. Only a Dink would openly question how to order a beer when he’s only inches away from the bar.”

“Just shut up.”

“OK, OK,” John aid. “I’m done beating up on ya. I’ll get you a beer.”

John squeezed between two women at the bar, and ordered two Buds. He returned, smiling.

“So I heard you were hanging around with the Microwave,” John said.

“Who’s the Microwave?” I said.

“Nikki.”

“Nikki?” I said. “How did you know that?”

“I know everything,” John said. “Because I’m fucking good.”

“Why do you call her the Microwave?”

“Because she heats up fast…”

“My God,” I said.

“So they got you covering the murder, huh?” John said.

“Yeah,” I said. “And I’m getting nowhere…”

“That’s because they’ve got you talking to people like Nikki…”

“Well, doesn’t that make sense?”

John took a swig of his beer. His smile disappeared.

“Come over here,” John said.

“Where?”

“To the bathroom. C’mon.”

They walked through the crowd, squeezing in-between the drunks. I waited patiently for John, who was a bit on the chubby side and had difficulty maneauvering.

They found a wall and leaned against it.

“Basically, Nikki and I had a thing, and then I ignored her.”

“OK,” I said. “Then what?”

“Then what? What, are you fucking stupid or something?”

“Do you know any other words besides ‘fucking?’”

John learned against the wall, and look out toward the crowd. He drank from his beer, and gulped it slowly. His eyes were blank.

“Well, you know, when she started flopping with anything that moved, it was kind of funny at first,” John said. “But then it got fucking scary. You’re fucking next.”

“How so?”

“You’ll find out,” he said. “I mean, I feel bad about what happened. That was back when I was an editor, and eventually, everything caught up to me. They found out what I did to Nikki, and those fucks were afraid that she’d slap a sexual harassment case against me.”

“So what did they do?”

“They fucking demoted me back to being a reporter, just to shut everybody up,” John said. “It was the most humiliating day of my fucking life. It made me think about everything. I mean, I know I’m an asshole, but I fucking try, okay? I gotta fucking heart. But I knew then that I was going to far, that I had to do something. I had to show people that I wasn’t some freak, that deep down, I’m a good person. I really believe that.”

“I suppose….”

“I even went back to Nikki and tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t have it,” John said. “So now I’m like, well, fuck you, if you don’t want to be fucking open-minded, and hear me out, then screw you. I almost think that maybe this whole suicide-fucking thing she did was a ruse, and she’s just fucking playing with people. You know what I mean, Dink?”

“I’m trying to figure it out,” I said.

“Nikki and me, we’d have these knock-down, drag-outs in the office,” John said. “Everybody fucking watched them. Everybody knew our fucking business. People wasted so much time listening to this shit, and it even divided up the newsroom, with people taking sides. Fucking Theresa Barton was having a fucking field day. That fucking redneck.”

“Who’s Theresa Barton?”

“Who’s Theresa Barton?” John said. “Christ, you really don’t know anything…let’s just say that you’ll know Theresa Barton when you’ll see her.”

“Right.”

“And then we got all these fucking memos banning ‘fraternization.’ It was fucking ridiculous,” John said. “I mean, I don’t even know what the fuck that means. All I know is, ever since then, I’ve had to watch my ass.”’

Just then, a tall black man walked in. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he was struggling to light it. He was so thin, I thought, that he didn’t have to squeeze through the crowd. He cozied up next to John.

“Hey Dink, let me introduce you to somebody,” John said. “Tom Davis, meet Dan Curtis…”

“What up, dude?” Dan said. They shook hands.

“How’s it going?”

“You need somebody to help you? This is the guy,” John said. “He used to work at the State News, but he got fired. He knows everybody and anybody. I wouldn’t fucking doubt it if he partied with the killer.”

“Well, I hope not…” Dan said.

“If you’ve partied at Uncle Tom’s,” John said, “then you’ve partied with killers…”

Dan laughed, and John slapped him in the back.

“I’ll leave you to shitheads alone,” John said. “I’ll order more beer.”

“Hey, can you give me a couple bucks?” Dan said.

“You are so pathetic,” John said. “Fuck it. I’ll just add it to your tab…”

John stormed off.

“So you used to work for the State News?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Dan said. “You’re covering the murder?”

“Christ, why does everybody know what I’m doing?”

“It’s OK,” Dan said. “Let’s just say that I have an interest in what you’re doing…”

“How’s that?”

“I worked there a lot of years – 12, to be exact,” Dan said, puffing on a cigarette. “My first assignment was the Jim Jones massacre.”

“No way!”

“Yeah, I was pretty young, About 22 I think,” Dan said. “I worked with Jenny…”

“Jenny? Really?”

“Yeah,” Dan said. “We were contemporaries…”

“Ooh,” I said. “So that explains everything..”

“I'm glad you could make it,” Dan said. “What's going on at the Chicken Zoo?"

“The Chicken Zoo?”

“Yeah,” Dan said, taking his beer from John. He balanced the bottle in one hand, and pinched smoldering cigarette in the other. “Well, we do call it the Chicken Fart, too. You’ve got ask yourself, what the hell is a ‘Delaware State News?’ and that’s what we came up with. But you know how jokes are – the name totally morphed into something else. ‘Zoo’ seems more appropriate.”

John re-emerged, holding his own beer. “Hey Dan,” he said. “My dick is so big, I need to send up a satellite just to trace it!”

“My dick is so big, I’m its bitch!” Dan said.

John slapped Dan in the back, again. They laughed, hard. But their mouth formed frowns as soon as a small, pudgy woman walked up to the bar.

“Oh, fuck,” John said.

“Who is that?”

“That’s fucking Theresa Barton.”

It seemed like Theresa was about to introduce herself. But her eyes popped upward, distracted by the television screen that was suspended over John’s head.

“Look at them people!” she yelled.

“Theresa, what the fuck are you talking about?” John said.

John and I checked out to the television, while Dan hung close to the bar rail. It was a commercial for “Do the Right Thing,” which was coming out on video.

“I can’t believe them people,” Barton said. “Can you believe it? I tell you, too many of them got TV shows. Every time you turn on the television, it’s black this, black that. When are white people going to get shows? Why you got all these Cosby look-a-likes all over the fucking television nowadays?”

“Theresa—” John said.

“It’s like everything is some ‘In Living Color’ bullshit or something,” she said. “You know what that is – that’s just the colored version of Saturday Night Live. They should just call it ‘Dark Night,’ because that’s all it is.”

“Hey Theresa,” John said. “Hold your fucking fire, you dumb shit. Dan’s here.”

I looked over at Dan. He was quiet, staring at the top of his beer, and taking occasional puffs on his cigarette.

“See,” Barton said. “He don’t mind.”

“Hey,” John said, “you gonna help find Anan’s killer or what?”

“I ain’t gotta do shit,” she said. “He’s the one getting all the big fucking bucks. Let him do that shit.”

Theresa walked away, and slipped into the crowd.

“Who the hell was that?” I asked.

“She’s the fucking cops reporter,” John said.

“What crawled up her ass?” I asked, again.
“Two words,” John said. “West Virginia.”

“Oh.”

“She came out here to be closer to the city,” John said. “Or, as she says, ceee-ty.”

John and I laughed, and they even managed to get a chuckle from Dan. He finally broke his silence.




The drinking and the laughs continued, for hours. I never had this much fun south of the Mason-Dixon Line before. By 11 p.m., he had a cool buzz, and he was ready to go home.

By chance, I looked up and saw something he didn’t want to see. It had curly blonde hair, and it was bubbly. It was Nikki, carrying a shot glass in her hand. Her legs seemed as wobbly as the legs of the 200-year-old tables.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“What?” John said.

“Nikki’s here.”

“Where?”

“Right over there.”

“Well, whatever,” John said. “Just keep you’re fucking distance.”


In the background, Crash Tokyo was playing its last set, and the calls for “Butt Steak” were beginning. Dan was digging in his pockets, and doing it loudly.

“Everything OK there, Dan?” I asked.

“Hey,” Dan said. “You gotta a couple bucks?”

“OK.”

I reached in his wallet and pulled out $2.

“Not just a couple,” Dan said. “I need five.”

I shook his head, and pulled out a $5 bill. John noticed.

“What the fuck, are you working on him now?” John said. “I’m going to have to take out a collection plate for you.”



By this time, Nikki was hovering around the room like a helicopter. Dan walked over to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. “You okay, Nikki?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m having a good time. Where’s John?”

“John? You mean John Matlack?”

“Yeah, isn’t he here?”

“He’s over there, with Tom..”

Nikki’s face turned white. She dropped her shot glass, which smashed on the floor. She then fell toward a seat, prompting another person to rush across the room and pull it under her.

She turned to John, who – despite his rugged, Irish looks – sat there in what appeared to be obvious fright. For a second or two, Nikki stared at him, and he stared back. Then she sucked back into her throat, and spit at John – right between the eyes.

“Are you fucking crazy!” John e yelled, wiping it from his face. “What the fuck do you want from me? How many fucking times do I have to say I’m sorry? You need fucking help!”

Then she faced me. I was, at this point, hiding behind John and keeping my distance.

“How could you do this to me?!?” she yelled at him. “How could you do this to me?!?”

I brought her to the bathroom. “Okay, look, if you feel sick just let it out right here,” I said. “Don’t be embarrassed or anything. Just get it out of your system.”

Nikki showed little patience with his orders. “But I’ve never thrown up before,” she said.

“There’s a first for everything,” he said. “Now, c’mon, concentrate.”

“But I CAN’T do it!!” she screamed, her voice scratchy and weak. “I just can’t do it!”

“Concentrate!”

“I can’t,” Nikki said in a low-pitch mumble. “Just get the fuck out of here.”

“But…….”

“I said, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

I did, pushing on the swinging door and walking out.


I walked back to the bar, where John and Dan remained. Everyone else looked on, curiously, but I wouldn’t acknowledge them.

“So give us the update, Dink?” John said.

“I was just helping her….”

“Helping her?” John said. “She’s beyond help.”


Fifteen minutes passed, and I nervously sipped on his beer.

“Hey Dink,” John called out. “You’re going to join us for Oyster Shuck this year, right?”

“Okay, someone is throwing their guts up in the bathroom,” I said, incredulously. “And you want to talk about an ‘Oyster Shuck?’ ”

“Yes!” John said. “In fact, this is the best time to talk about it!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, conceding. “What the hell is the ‘Oyster Shuck?’ ”

John shot him an impatient look. “You’ve never heard of the Oyster Shuck?”

“No,” I said.

John slurped the last few drops of his mug, and slid it back to the bartender.

“In the spring, the rednecks in Sussex County do this thing where they invite people from all over the fucking place,” he said. “Fat rednecks go to this barn and just shuck oysters all day, and get fucked up.”

“Sounds like a gas….”

“Yeah. It’s even better than the ‘Pumpkin Chunkin,’ ” John said. “Plenty of beer at that one, too.”

“What is a ‘Pumpkin Chunkin?’ ”

“That’s another redneck event,” John said. “Big fat rednecks go to this barn in Millsboro where the floor is made of dirt and hay. They bring these giant slingshots and – I kid you not – sling pumpkins from them as far as they can.”

“They sling pumpkins?”

“Yeah, no lie. They bring these little catapults and they dress them up so they look like NASCAR.”

“You’re not pulling a fast one on me, are you?” I said, chuckling a bit. It was the first time he laughed in more than an hour. “People go to a bar to see smashing pumpkins?”

“It’s not the pumpkins that attracts people, idiot,” John said. “It’s the food and the booze. The rednecks bring truckloads of steamers and pour them into buckets and give them away for free. Then they bring in trucks, stick taps in ’em, and the beer flows endlessly.”

The talking was stopped by a woman looking for me.

“Excuse me—do you know the woman in the bathroom?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’d better go in there right now…”

I pushed through chairs, tables and people who crowded the bar floor. I scrambled so quickly that he kicked over glasses and ashtrays, and didn’t even notice them smashing on the floor.

I entered the bathroom and saw Nikki. She was strung out and limp, her eyes dull and dim.

“Oh my God!” I said, running out of the bathroom and pleading to the people at the bar. “Somebody call 911!”

“911?” one woman said. “What’s that?”

“Call emergency, goddammit!” I yelled at her. “Get the police here! Get an ambulance! Hurry the hell up!”

“Okay! Stop yelling at me!” she said, angrily. “Jeez. You must be from Wilmington or something!”


In the ambulance, five or six tubes poured stuff into Nikki’s veins. A 250-pound paramedic tended to her while I sat next to her, and watched.

I sighed and looked at Nikki. She tried to manage a smile. He then leaned over and scratched her head. “Do they have good food at this hospital?” I asked.

Nikki, fading in and out of sleep, managed a small grin. I smiled, too, and then clutched her hand and rubbed her thumb.

“Nikki, are you awake?” I asked.

“Mmmmm. Maybe.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, now near tears himself. “I am so sorry.”

But her eyes shut too quickly, and she never heard it.




Later, they arrived at the emergency room, where the paramedics quickly whisked Nikki out. I followed behind, but he was soon stopped by another large man. He laid his big hand on I’s chest.

“Sorry, can’t go any further.”

“But I’m with her,” I said.

“Are you a family member?”

“No.”

“Then you’re going to have to wait in the waiting room, like everyone else.”

“Well, can you tell me what’s happening in there?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t reveal that information.”

“Look. I’m afraid she’s not going to make it without me.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Put your faith in us,” the guy said. “That’s why we’re here.”

I slumped over to a chair, my energy completely sapped. I pulled out a Time magazine and leafed through the pages. He did this for nearly a half-hour, half-reading the articles before a man in a white coat finally walked out.

“Are you Tom?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“She’s doing well. We just pumped her stomach, and she’s resting comfortably,” the man said. “We’re going to keep her overnight for observation, so there’s no need for you to hang around.”

“I’d like to visit her.”

“Well, actually, her parents are going to be here. Do you know them?”

“I know of them.”

“Oh. Well, it was requested by her parents that all Delaware State News people should stay far away from her,” the man said. “Do you work for the Delaware State News?”

“Well, uh, yeah.”

“Well, I think it’s in the best interests of the patient that you leave, because her parents are going to be here any minute.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever’s best for her,” I said.

“I just want to avoid a confrontation that may not be beneficial to the patient.”

The doctor walked away, and I walked out. It was late, and it was dark. I
stood on the grass, and scanned the checkerboard of lighted rooms that were scattered on the side of the facility. I made one last attempt to look for Nikki – a foot, a head or any other signs of life peeping out of the windows. I found nothing.

I turned around, reluctantly, and walked, shoving my hands in my pockets. The walk made me sweat, so I stopped, rolled up my sleeves and wiped sweat from my brow. Only another person emerged, this time from the parking lot. His feet were pounding on the pavement, and his pockets were jiggling.

It was John.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

“Just lay the fuck off,” John said. “I just wanted to see what’s going on here.”

“On the contrary,” I said, smiling. “I think this is your way of saying that you do have a caring bone in your body. Well, I’m flattered.”

“Well whatever,” John said. “How the fuck is she doing?”

“Well, it’s hard for me to say. They won’t let me in.”

“They won’t let you in? They can’t fucking do that.”

“Well, I guess they’re getting away with it, because I’m out here, and she’s in there.”

“Well, fuck that.”

“And now I feel terribly guilty, even regretful about the whole thing.”

“Well, don’t,” John said. “Hey, now you can understand how I feel. Open your eyes, man. You got by her without getting in too much deep shit. As Springsteen said, ‘Say goodbye. This is your independence day.’ ”

“I guess so…”

“See, that’s what you gotta understand, Dink,” John said. “That’s why I was put on Earth, to remind you of what life is all about.”

“How’s that?”

“Remember this: You may be totally sane, but everybody else is crazy. It’s not the other way around. That’s how I get through life. So you just gotta deal with whatever cards you’re dealt with, and go from there.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Never fucking mind it,” John said. “Let’s go home…”

Will Michael Jackson's children be "normal?"

Even Michael Jackson knew the masks and veils would have to come off one day, as The Associated Press described it.

But will his children ever be able to live the so-called "normal" life?

After a lifetime of hiding from the media glare at the insistence of their impossibly famous father, Jackson's children are front and center, according to the AP. Though their inevitable debut came a way no one could have predicted, those close to Jackson and the family say his three kids may be better prepared for the onslaught of attention than anyone could expect.

"They are going to grow up in the limelight," said Al Malnik, a former Jackson financial adviser and friend, "but I think because they way that Michael has brought them up and that they have the capacity to deal with it."

They are also — for now at least — being cared for by Katherine Jackson, who has raised a whole family in the public eye, the AP said.

A psychologist, Linda Papadopoulos, told The Daily Mirror that it's traumatic for any child to lose a parent - a hugely defining moment of their lives. In Michael Jackson's case, the children now not only lost their father, she said, but have to see his face in every newspaper and on every television channel around the world.

And then they learn every other significant person in their lives - their grandmother, nanny and the mother they hardly know - is fighting over them. All that can only make the trauma much more complicated and heartbreaking, Papadopoulos said.

The custody battle is going to be destabilising for them, when what they need most is stability, she said.

"When children lose one parent, they become very attached to the surviving one. They fear they will lose them too. This parental role is being filled by their grandmother Katherine, but with her being almost 80, this fear of yet another loss will be very real," she said.

Most children can just grieve for their loved-one privately. But these children don't have that luxury, Papadopoulos said.

"These kids have lived in the shadow of their father during his life and now they have to deal with their grief in the shadow of his death. Less time may be spent on working out how they are actually feeling than on trying to figure out what's going on around them," she said.

The lives of Michael Jackson's children never qualified as normal. They had no mother, wore masks to conceal their faces and traveled the world while being raised by one of the planet's most famous figures, according to the AP.

But by all accounts from those who have watched and been close to the children, Prince Michael, 12, Paris-Michael Katherine, 11, and Blanket (Prince Michael II), 7, are not only normal, but model children: unaffected by fame, sweet, polite and very smart.

"Those kids are exceptionally bright. They really have the capacity and understanding," said Malnik of Jackson's kids, who were home-schooled.

But, as the AP reports:

Whether they will retain those qualities following the death of their father, a potential custody fight and the enormous media scrutiny that they have been placed remains to be seen. Already, they have been on the covers of magazines and tabloids, their images endlessly replayed on television — ABC this week devoted an entire hour in prime-time to an expose on their lives.

Katherine Jackson, who Michael named as his choice of caretaker in case of his death, was named by a judge as the temporary guardian of Jackson's children, and they have been with her and the entire Jackson clan ever since his June 25 death. Their longtime nanny, Grace Rwaramba, has also been with the children, according to a source close to the family who is not authorized to speak for the family and requested anonymity.

While the Jackson family has long been perceived as dysfunctional — their battles have played out famously on the public stage — what struck many people at Jackson's memorial service on Tuesday was their display of unity.

Paris-Michael clutched grandmother Katherine during the service, while Prince Michael held onto his Aunt Janet as his sister made her tear-jerking testament of love about her father. Blanket hid behind a phalanx of Jacksons siblings onstage, and when Michael's brother Marlon broke down while addressing the Staples Center crowd, the entire Jackson family, including the children, embraced in one powerful group hug.

The public images of a Jackson family united in grief may help Katherine Jackson as she heads into Monday custodial hearing involving Mrs. Jackson and the biological mother of Jackson's two oldest children, Deborah Rowe. Rowe, who was previously married to Jackson, has not had a relationship with Prince or Paris-Michael, but since Jackson's death has expressed interest in raising not only her two biological children, but Blanket as well, to whom she has no relation (the mother of Blanket, born to a surrogate, has never been revealed).

It is unclear if a custody battle will develop. Rowe's attorney said she has not decided it she plans to seek custody, and people close to interactions with both camps, who requested anonymity because of the sensitivity of the subject, said both sides have been gracious and cordial, not contentious.

Still, some have expressed concern that the Jackson's kids may suffer by being placed with their extended family. Michael's father Joe has been roundly criticized for promoting a record label on television in the days after his death, and Michael had long described him as physically and emotionally abusive. Katherine's age has led to questions about her ability to look after adolescent children.

Dr. Arnold Klein, Jackson's longtime dermatologist and friend, told "Larry King Live" on Wednesday night he feared that the performing family might turn Jacksons' kids into "The Jackson 3, their intelligence dancing away — because these children are bright."

Michael Jackson gets his memorial - but nothing to recognize his mental illness

"Your daddy was not strange," Al Sharpton told Michael Jackson's children. "The way people dealt with him was strange."

Michael Jackson got his memorial today. Jennifer Hudson, Mariah Carey, Stevie Wonder, Usher, John Mayer, Lionel Richie and Motown founder Berry Gordy were all there. Some sang; others talked. All paid tribute to the man who, to quote David Bowie, sold the world.

Tucked in the middle of the tributes and in the news articles on the memorial, however, were some poignant words that explained the real tragedy here. Perhaps Al Sharptons words, as glorifying as they were, came the closest, and exposed the elephant in the room.

We've heard dropped hints of anorexia, obsessive compulsive disorder, arrested development and even "Body Dysmorphic Disorder," a severe distortion in how one views his or her body. Michael Jackson was a star, a controversial one. But he was symptomatic of mental illness, and his death is more of a symbol of failure and ignorance than hope and promise. The failure to address the "Wacko Jacko" stigma that he carried for so long was, perhaps, the biggest tragedy here.

His fans, instead, gave Michael just what he always wanted, glorifying and deifying an obviously deluded an flawed individual. They talked about how he changed music, which he did. They talked about how he sold more albums than anybody, which he did. They talked about he was as big or bigger than Elvis, which was debatable.

It's certainly reasonable to say that he was the biggest star of the past 30 years, one who united the races for a time before his behavior became, to many, reckless, erratic and intolerable.

These stars, however, reminded us only of the Jackson from the 1970s and 1980s, the child prodigy who became a megastar, because that's what people close to Michael Jackson do. They did and do everything he wanted.

But they weren't the only ones talking. There were the older people from the age of Elvis, and before, who just didn't get what Jackson once met to people.

I read in Time magazine that those from the so-called Generation X, the post-baby boomers like myself who were born in the age of Vietnam and Watergate, most likely remember the first time they heard "Beat It." I was a Led Zeppelin and Clash fan, but I actually can remember -- I remember hearing the song on rock radio, and feeling stunned that Michael Jackson was invading my radio space. Few born before 1960 can relate to that.

There were people who seem to always misunderstand the words of our founding fathers, that all people are innocent until proven guilty. Rep. Peter King of New York used You Tube as a platform for calling him a pervert. Others ripped Los Angeles for spending money on a memorial for an entertainer when the state of California is in the midst of its worst fiscal crisis.

Many of the critics, however, made solid points. Why was this man getting a funeral worthy of a president? We can pay tribute to the music, but can we pay tribute to the man?

The ones who should speak the loudest are the mental health advocates who have been challenging the politicians and the public to better understand mental illness and its potential effects. In terms of effects, Michael Jackson was an incubator for them.

In that sense, he wasn't so much a legend like Elvis. He was Howard Hughes, self-destructive and self-medicating, and he'll be among the many celebrities who became lasting symbols of those with mental illness left untreated.

Maybe the answer is to not try to glorify or demonize. Perhaps the answer is to learn and understand.

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Mental health care independence

Every time I hear any mention of health care, I recoil in horror.

The old conservative feelings in me come out, and I wonder if this is just another blown kiss to industries that support political causes.

I think about the 2000 presidential campaign, when Al Gore talked about health insurance as a "right," not a privilege, and how he wanted to put the nation's security in a "lock box."

Every time he said it, his face contorted in such a phony way that, well, it's no wonder Darrell Hammond from Saturday Night Live did more to destroy his campaign than Al Gore himself. He was such an easy target for imitation.

In this case, imitation was the most sincere form of abuse, not flattery.

On Independence Day, however, I'm not thinking about politicians and promises and tax increases. I think of those who are too dependent on others to stand on their own.

I think of people with mental illness, the people who can't find the same access to medication as Michael Jackson.

If government is going to do anything, maybe the politicians need to only think of the people who are too brain sick to make independent decisions. They're too ill to understand the importance of holding down a job, and get the kind of therapy they need.

When we think of those who died for freedom, perhaps we should consider that they died so everybody could be free to make their own choices to protect their health.