Welcome to Truckin' my monthly E-Zine. This month's issue includes another Subway Story from me, as well as a few recycled Best of Blogs... featuring S.P.U.D. and Labor Day. Our favorite writer, Armando Huerta has recently moved to Greece and shares a cool South American experience. We have two NaNoWriMo Novel samples. November is National Novel Writing Month and this issue includes excerpts from Mona LaVigne who wrote Gysana, an odd erotic story. And take a peek of my selection from my first completed novel: Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. So sit back, relax, enjoy, and spread the word! Thanks for all your support! Salukis, McG
1. November Subway Stories by Tenzin McGrupp
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02... I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio... More
2. NaNoWriMo: Gysana: the Novel by Mona LaVigne
…Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" More
3. NaNoWriMo: Jack Tripper Stole My Dog by Tenzin McGrupp
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers... More
4. Different Customs by Armando Huerta
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome... More
5. Flutterbys by Tenzin McGrupp
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time... More
6. Kiss by Mona LaVigne
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t... More
7. S.P.U.D. by Tenzin McGrupp
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family... More
8. Labor Day by Tenzin McGrupp
2 Sept 2002... It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train... More
November 26, 2002
November Subway Stories
By Tenzin McGrupp
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02
I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio. I edited the few pages I had written the night before. My fifty-minute subway ride usually goes by faster if I can work on my projects and this morning rush hour was no different.
At the 191st Street stop, a young black guy got on. By his dusty work boots and pair of work gloves flopping out of his back pocket I drew the assumption he was in the construction business. He sat down across from me and was fumbling through his wallet. He pulled out a rolling paper and was laughing, shaking his head from side to side. He opened up a small baggie of marijuana and began to sprinkle his stash onto the rolling paper. He rolled a joint as the subway raced downtown, not caring if anyone on the crowded subway saw what he was doing. As soon as he was finished crafting his morning joint he got up and walked to the back door of the subway and opened it. I thought he was going to go to the next car, but he didn’t. He stood in between both subway cars, and lit up his joint, smoking and puffing until he smoked the entire thing!
I have seen people get high on the subway before, but not at 6:20 AM on a Tuesday morning. He sat back down, with a wide grin on his face. I do not think any of the other passengers realized what he just did. All of them were caught up in their own worlds, the usual subway daze taking over their facial expressions.
Friday Afternoon 11.15.02
I saw the little girl first. She was no older than five or six, and she was holding onto her mother’s hand as she got on the subway. The precious Puerto Rican girl sat down next to me, and her mother sat next to her, and her grandmother sat down next to her mother. Her mother opened up a plastic bag and pulled out two white boxes, the size of a shoebox, with the word "Gracias" in big red letters stamped on all the sides. The logo on the top of the box said Ayala’s Fried Chicken. Before she could open the box I could smell something delicious, what exactly I did not know.
The mother opened the box and I turned my head slightly to the left so I could see what they were eating. The box was filled with French fries. Her grandmother opened her box and it looked like it too was filled with fries. The grandmother began to tear open little ketchup packets. She would use her teeth to bite down and squeeze the ketchup on her fires, and kept repeating the process about eight more times before she ran out of ketchup.
The subway was filled as it made its way downtown from Spanish Harlem, and the family of three ate French fries the entire time. I would glance over occasionally to see the young girl stuffing her mouth with four or five greasy, ketchup soaked fries. The sides of the boxes started staining with huge grease rings and I imagined how much grease they could squeeze out of eat fry, just as the grandmother squeezed out the ketchup.
As the little girl made her way through the greasy box, I noticed the few pieces of golden battered fried shrimp and bright white tartar sauce at the bottom. The grandmother’s old, weathered and wrinkled, scared and bandaged hands drenched in ketchup shook, as she scooped up one shrimp, dipped it twice in the sauce then buried it into her mouth.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02
I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio. I edited the few pages I had written the night before. My fifty-minute subway ride usually goes by faster if I can work on my projects and this morning rush hour was no different.
At the 191st Street stop, a young black guy got on. By his dusty work boots and pair of work gloves flopping out of his back pocket I drew the assumption he was in the construction business. He sat down across from me and was fumbling through his wallet. He pulled out a rolling paper and was laughing, shaking his head from side to side. He opened up a small baggie of marijuana and began to sprinkle his stash onto the rolling paper. He rolled a joint as the subway raced downtown, not caring if anyone on the crowded subway saw what he was doing. As soon as he was finished crafting his morning joint he got up and walked to the back door of the subway and opened it. I thought he was going to go to the next car, but he didn’t. He stood in between both subway cars, and lit up his joint, smoking and puffing until he smoked the entire thing!
I have seen people get high on the subway before, but not at 6:20 AM on a Tuesday morning. He sat back down, with a wide grin on his face. I do not think any of the other passengers realized what he just did. All of them were caught up in their own worlds, the usual subway daze taking over their facial expressions.
Friday Afternoon 11.15.02
I saw the little girl first. She was no older than five or six, and she was holding onto her mother’s hand as she got on the subway. The precious Puerto Rican girl sat down next to me, and her mother sat next to her, and her grandmother sat down next to her mother. Her mother opened up a plastic bag and pulled out two white boxes, the size of a shoebox, with the word "Gracias" in big red letters stamped on all the sides. The logo on the top of the box said Ayala’s Fried Chicken. Before she could open the box I could smell something delicious, what exactly I did not know.
The mother opened the box and I turned my head slightly to the left so I could see what they were eating. The box was filled with French fries. Her grandmother opened her box and it looked like it too was filled with fries. The grandmother began to tear open little ketchup packets. She would use her teeth to bite down and squeeze the ketchup on her fires, and kept repeating the process about eight more times before she ran out of ketchup.
The subway was filled as it made its way downtown from Spanish Harlem, and the family of three ate French fries the entire time. I would glance over occasionally to see the young girl stuffing her mouth with four or five greasy, ketchup soaked fries. The sides of the boxes started staining with huge grease rings and I imagined how much grease they could squeeze out of eat fry, just as the grandmother squeezed out the ketchup.
As the little girl made her way through the greasy box, I noticed the few pieces of golden battered fried shrimp and bright white tartar sauce at the bottom. The grandmother’s old, weathered and wrinkled, scared and bandaged hands drenched in ketchup shook, as she scooped up one shrimp, dipped it twice in the sauce then buried it into her mouth.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Gysana: The Novel
A Novel by Mona LaVigne
This is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
...Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" her voice trailed off again and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her sobs. "Mitchell Reinhardt, I am just glad you are here to help raise this child. And no matter what happens, I wanted to say, you know, thanks."
Mitchell Reinhardt did not know what to say to her little speech. His mind was being ripped in a million different directions, the most prominent of which was, of course, guilt. He still could not believe that he had been so sloppy as to let Tamra, that little bitch babysitter, walk off with Gysana. And all because his dick had taken control of his mind. He had to stand there and talk to that woman, Cheryl (even though she WAS pretty hot) and let Tamra take his daughter and go to get ice cream. Had she even gotten ice cream? Or had she just taken Gysana and run? Or had the two of them been kidnapped, maybe? Whatever the case, no matter the circumstance, it had been his fault. It seemed to Mitchell Reinhardt that most of the mistakes and accidents in his life had been the direct result of stupidity in terms of his genitals…
It began at midnight on his thirteenth birthday. His mother, in a heroin-induced stupor, had passed out after the Carvel cake had been served, and his father had decided to take him to a brothel on the seedier side of town.
"Son," he had said when they were standing outside the front door to the unmarked building, "there comes a point in every boy’s life when it is time for him to become a man." Mitchell Reinhardt had looked at his father in that same innocent way that all boys look at their fathers when they are not making any real sense. "This is your time, kiddo."
They had arrived at the whorehouse and Mitchell Reinhardt, trembling with both fear and excitement, had his first sexual encounter with Miranda, a tall, buxom blonde who said she was from Los Angeles. It had been quick and painless. Painless, that is, until about a week later, when Mitchell Reinhardt developed a strange burning sensation whenever he would urinate, which also seemed to be with more frequency than usual. Of course, a quick shot or three of antibiotics took care of that, and once the discomfort passed, he remembered how good it had felt to be inside a woman. For the whole time he was in high school, he had sex with no fewer than fifteen women. A few of them were younger than he was, some of them were his age, but most of them were older. Much older, in fact. There had been Mrs. Hamilton, his biology teacher, who had offered to help him out with some "extra credit" homework. There was Mrs. Larimer, his next door neighbor’s mother. She had been paying him to mow her lawn twice a month in the summer. One day, after seeing him shirtless, sweaty, and dirty, she coyly invited him in for lemonade. Mitchell Reinhardt was not too bright, especially at the age he was then, and fell for her trap like a bee to a sweet, sweet flower. He came into some unfortunate times after having sex with Mrs. Larimer.
About three weeks after their first encounter, and about five hours after their twelfth encounter, Mitchell Reinhardt woke up in the middle of the night, only to find himself face to face with the business end of Mr. Larimer’s 12-gauge shotgun. Terribly afraid of having his brains splattered all over his cowboys and indians bed linens, he pleaded with Mr. Larimer to spare his life. "I’ll do anything you want, sir, please!" he had begged. Not a wise thing to say, he thought to himself five minutes after uttering the words, as he strained his neck with Mr. Larimer’s cock in his mouth and the cool steel of the shotgun leaving a wicked mark on the middle of his forehead. So many years, so much trouble into which he had gotten due to his libido. The worst (and best) of which had been with Mia. No, he did not really care about her, and yes, he had, in fact, murdered her in cold blood in the local state park while she held their baby in her arms (while she was breast feeding, no less). But he felt that for all the errors he had made with his cock, the one good thing, Gysana, his baby girl, made the others seem both incredibly trivial and extremely worthwhile.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from New York City.
This is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
...Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" her voice trailed off again and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her sobs. "Mitchell Reinhardt, I am just glad you are here to help raise this child. And no matter what happens, I wanted to say, you know, thanks."
Mitchell Reinhardt did not know what to say to her little speech. His mind was being ripped in a million different directions, the most prominent of which was, of course, guilt. He still could not believe that he had been so sloppy as to let Tamra, that little bitch babysitter, walk off with Gysana. And all because his dick had taken control of his mind. He had to stand there and talk to that woman, Cheryl (even though she WAS pretty hot) and let Tamra take his daughter and go to get ice cream. Had she even gotten ice cream? Or had she just taken Gysana and run? Or had the two of them been kidnapped, maybe? Whatever the case, no matter the circumstance, it had been his fault. It seemed to Mitchell Reinhardt that most of the mistakes and accidents in his life had been the direct result of stupidity in terms of his genitals…
It began at midnight on his thirteenth birthday. His mother, in a heroin-induced stupor, had passed out after the Carvel cake had been served, and his father had decided to take him to a brothel on the seedier side of town.
"Son," he had said when they were standing outside the front door to the unmarked building, "there comes a point in every boy’s life when it is time for him to become a man." Mitchell Reinhardt had looked at his father in that same innocent way that all boys look at their fathers when they are not making any real sense. "This is your time, kiddo."
They had arrived at the whorehouse and Mitchell Reinhardt, trembling with both fear and excitement, had his first sexual encounter with Miranda, a tall, buxom blonde who said she was from Los Angeles. It had been quick and painless. Painless, that is, until about a week later, when Mitchell Reinhardt developed a strange burning sensation whenever he would urinate, which also seemed to be with more frequency than usual. Of course, a quick shot or three of antibiotics took care of that, and once the discomfort passed, he remembered how good it had felt to be inside a woman. For the whole time he was in high school, he had sex with no fewer than fifteen women. A few of them were younger than he was, some of them were his age, but most of them were older. Much older, in fact. There had been Mrs. Hamilton, his biology teacher, who had offered to help him out with some "extra credit" homework. There was Mrs. Larimer, his next door neighbor’s mother. She had been paying him to mow her lawn twice a month in the summer. One day, after seeing him shirtless, sweaty, and dirty, she coyly invited him in for lemonade. Mitchell Reinhardt was not too bright, especially at the age he was then, and fell for her trap like a bee to a sweet, sweet flower. He came into some unfortunate times after having sex with Mrs. Larimer.
About three weeks after their first encounter, and about five hours after their twelfth encounter, Mitchell Reinhardt woke up in the middle of the night, only to find himself face to face with the business end of Mr. Larimer’s 12-gauge shotgun. Terribly afraid of having his brains splattered all over his cowboys and indians bed linens, he pleaded with Mr. Larimer to spare his life. "I’ll do anything you want, sir, please!" he had begged. Not a wise thing to say, he thought to himself five minutes after uttering the words, as he strained his neck with Mr. Larimer’s cock in his mouth and the cool steel of the shotgun leaving a wicked mark on the middle of his forehead. So many years, so much trouble into which he had gotten due to his libido. The worst (and best) of which had been with Mia. No, he did not really care about her, and yes, he had, in fact, murdered her in cold blood in the local state park while she held their baby in her arms (while she was breast feeding, no less). But he felt that for all the errors he had made with his cock, the one good thing, Gysana, his baby girl, made the others seem both incredibly trivial and extremely worthwhile.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from New York City.
Jack Tripper Stole My Dog
A Novel by Tenzin McGrupp
Here is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers. It was his to fill with his grandmother Justine’s famous moonshine until after World War II, when he lost it in a crooked poker game to an Army Drill Sergeant who cheated the Sheriff out of three hundred and forty six dollars and walked away with all his money, his Stetson hat, and his flask.
The flask did not stay in the hands of the Drill Sergeant for very long. The very next night he was shot dead by a milkman who came home early to ironically catch his wife in bed with another man, that man being the Drill Sergeant. He got shot in the back by the disgruntled milkman, and decided to shoot his wife as well. After urinating on the dead naked bodies of the Drill Sergeant and his wife, the milkman went through the Drill Sergeant’s clothes, stole his pocket watch, his money, and flask. He also stole his car and headed to Atlanta.
The Milkman's two Mississippi murders were just the beginning of one the worst crime and murder sprees ever recorded in the post World War II American South. He killed twice more in Mississippi, heading east through Alabama, where he murdered and raped three college students in Mobile, before striking again near Montgomery, where he held hostage and terrorized a group of nuns in a small farmhouse. The Milkman repeatedly sodomized and tortured the nuns in true Draconian fashion, before he eventually shot all of them, one by one, face down in the ground, their cries muffled by hay shoved into their mouths, their silent prayers to God going unanswered.
Next up on the Milkman’s mayhem of a route was Georgia. One night as a young man dropped off his girlfriend at her house, the Milkman followed him home and savagely killed and dismembered the popular, Buck Applewhite, an all-state football player at Emory University in Atlanta. Buck was the "Golden Boy of Emory," an academic all-American in two sports, the 1946 Heisman Trophy runner-up, and President of the Local Chapter of the Association of Atlanta Birdwatchers. He was the quick witted, handsome, laconic son of the mayor and richest man in Lilburn, Georgia, the white haired sage, the honorable Dr. Les Applewhite. Dr. Applewhite was crushed by the news of the murder of his only son, whom he had been grooming to become a future Governor of Georgia.
The news of the tragic and senseless murder of Buck Applewhite prompted the largest manhunt ever in the history of Georgia. Unable to find or catch the real murderer, the "Milkman Serial Killer", had baffled and eluded the local police. The incompetent bunch of inbred misfits couldn’t even catch a cold, let alone a serial killer. They buckled under intense pressure from the Mayor and the media, and they were desperate.
The local district attorney, himself concerned with the poor media attention his office was getting, devised a scheme to save his job, the reputation of his town, and ease the pain of his friend and cousin, Dr. Applewhite. The district attorney railroaded and framed a young black man. The patsy was a drifter from Oxford, Mississippi, called Latrell Johnson. Evidence was fabricated, false witnesses were paid off, and the fix was in. The all white jury in Lilburn unanimously voted that Latrell Johnson was guilty of murdering Buck Applewhite, and the judge, Harry Applewhite, also a cousin of Mayor Applewhite, handed down a swift sentence: death by hanging.
Latrell Johnson was hung later that month, and the Milkman Serial Killer knew he got off without a hitch so he headed north to Virginia, and got a job teaching English to reform school kids. A year later, while visiting a whore house in Richmond, his flask was stolen by one of the girls, Bubbles, a charming, self destructing, petite, curly haired nymph from Texas. She held onto it for thirty more years.
Not much is known about the time the flask was with Bubbles. She herself was an odd mystery, but it is known that she was a call girl for fifteen years in Virginia before she married a truck driver and moved to Memphis where she attend dog grooming college. She stashed away the flask in an old box in her garage, and it wasn’t until her death in 1976, that her adopted son, Reginald, found the flask while going through her things. He was frantically looking for something to sell to feed his thirty dollar a day heroin addiction. He took the flask to his drug dealer, the Reverend Henry James, and traded it for a small hit of Mexican black tar.
Reverend Henry James, a black minister at the Christ Episcopal Church outside of Memphis, was a former special operations soldier in Vietnam. He served for seven years and participated in the Phoenix Assassination program, where the CIA had arranged, funded and approved of the deaths of thousands of men and women whom they deemed were dangerous individuals and posed a threat to the national security of the United States and it’s allies, so they approved of the extermination of politicians, secular leaders, military men, intelligence officers, spies, and journalists all over South East Asia, in Cambodia, Thailand, North and South Vietnam, Laos, and Indonesia.
The Revered Henry James soon found God after his thorny time in Vietnam. He also found a solid opium and heroin connection, thanks to his friends in Air America, civilian pilots on the CIA payroll who ran guns, money and dope in and out of South East Asia, during and after the Vietnam War. He became a wealthy man importing heroin and built no less than sixteen churches in Tennessee, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Florida.
The Reverend Henry James never did drugs. He smoked marijuana three times a day, but he didn’t do real drugs. He refused to touch the stuff he was selling. He loved to drink more so than smoke pot. He held onto the flask for several more years after trading some smack for it, sipping Jim Beam out of it everyday. He loved and cherished the flask, and held it so close to his heart that in fact that the paramedics had to remove it from him when they had to quickly try to revive him after he passed out in the middle of a prayer service during Easter Sunday mass.
One of the paramedics stole the flask and his wife took it to the pawn shop one morning after they ran into financial difficulties. It had been sitting in the pawn shop for four hundred thirty-five days...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Here is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers. It was his to fill with his grandmother Justine’s famous moonshine until after World War II, when he lost it in a crooked poker game to an Army Drill Sergeant who cheated the Sheriff out of three hundred and forty six dollars and walked away with all his money, his Stetson hat, and his flask.
The flask did not stay in the hands of the Drill Sergeant for very long. The very next night he was shot dead by a milkman who came home early to ironically catch his wife in bed with another man, that man being the Drill Sergeant. He got shot in the back by the disgruntled milkman, and decided to shoot his wife as well. After urinating on the dead naked bodies of the Drill Sergeant and his wife, the milkman went through the Drill Sergeant’s clothes, stole his pocket watch, his money, and flask. He also stole his car and headed to Atlanta.
The Milkman's two Mississippi murders were just the beginning of one the worst crime and murder sprees ever recorded in the post World War II American South. He killed twice more in Mississippi, heading east through Alabama, where he murdered and raped three college students in Mobile, before striking again near Montgomery, where he held hostage and terrorized a group of nuns in a small farmhouse. The Milkman repeatedly sodomized and tortured the nuns in true Draconian fashion, before he eventually shot all of them, one by one, face down in the ground, their cries muffled by hay shoved into their mouths, their silent prayers to God going unanswered.
Next up on the Milkman’s mayhem of a route was Georgia. One night as a young man dropped off his girlfriend at her house, the Milkman followed him home and savagely killed and dismembered the popular, Buck Applewhite, an all-state football player at Emory University in Atlanta. Buck was the "Golden Boy of Emory," an academic all-American in two sports, the 1946 Heisman Trophy runner-up, and President of the Local Chapter of the Association of Atlanta Birdwatchers. He was the quick witted, handsome, laconic son of the mayor and richest man in Lilburn, Georgia, the white haired sage, the honorable Dr. Les Applewhite. Dr. Applewhite was crushed by the news of the murder of his only son, whom he had been grooming to become a future Governor of Georgia.
The news of the tragic and senseless murder of Buck Applewhite prompted the largest manhunt ever in the history of Georgia. Unable to find or catch the real murderer, the "Milkman Serial Killer", had baffled and eluded the local police. The incompetent bunch of inbred misfits couldn’t even catch a cold, let alone a serial killer. They buckled under intense pressure from the Mayor and the media, and they were desperate.
The local district attorney, himself concerned with the poor media attention his office was getting, devised a scheme to save his job, the reputation of his town, and ease the pain of his friend and cousin, Dr. Applewhite. The district attorney railroaded and framed a young black man. The patsy was a drifter from Oxford, Mississippi, called Latrell Johnson. Evidence was fabricated, false witnesses were paid off, and the fix was in. The all white jury in Lilburn unanimously voted that Latrell Johnson was guilty of murdering Buck Applewhite, and the judge, Harry Applewhite, also a cousin of Mayor Applewhite, handed down a swift sentence: death by hanging.
Latrell Johnson was hung later that month, and the Milkman Serial Killer knew he got off without a hitch so he headed north to Virginia, and got a job teaching English to reform school kids. A year later, while visiting a whore house in Richmond, his flask was stolen by one of the girls, Bubbles, a charming, self destructing, petite, curly haired nymph from Texas. She held onto it for thirty more years.
Not much is known about the time the flask was with Bubbles. She herself was an odd mystery, but it is known that she was a call girl for fifteen years in Virginia before she married a truck driver and moved to Memphis where she attend dog grooming college. She stashed away the flask in an old box in her garage, and it wasn’t until her death in 1976, that her adopted son, Reginald, found the flask while going through her things. He was frantically looking for something to sell to feed his thirty dollar a day heroin addiction. He took the flask to his drug dealer, the Reverend Henry James, and traded it for a small hit of Mexican black tar.
Reverend Henry James, a black minister at the Christ Episcopal Church outside of Memphis, was a former special operations soldier in Vietnam. He served for seven years and participated in the Phoenix Assassination program, where the CIA had arranged, funded and approved of the deaths of thousands of men and women whom they deemed were dangerous individuals and posed a threat to the national security of the United States and it’s allies, so they approved of the extermination of politicians, secular leaders, military men, intelligence officers, spies, and journalists all over South East Asia, in Cambodia, Thailand, North and South Vietnam, Laos, and Indonesia.
The Revered Henry James soon found God after his thorny time in Vietnam. He also found a solid opium and heroin connection, thanks to his friends in Air America, civilian pilots on the CIA payroll who ran guns, money and dope in and out of South East Asia, during and after the Vietnam War. He became a wealthy man importing heroin and built no less than sixteen churches in Tennessee, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Florida.
The Reverend Henry James never did drugs. He smoked marijuana three times a day, but he didn’t do real drugs. He refused to touch the stuff he was selling. He loved to drink more so than smoke pot. He held onto the flask for several more years after trading some smack for it, sipping Jim Beam out of it everyday. He loved and cherished the flask, and held it so close to his heart that in fact that the paramedics had to remove it from him when they had to quickly try to revive him after he passed out in the middle of a prayer service during Easter Sunday mass.
One of the paramedics stole the flask and his wife took it to the pawn shop one morning after they ran into financial difficulties. It had been sitting in the pawn shop for four hundred thirty-five days...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Different Customs
By Armando Huerta
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome.
This was never the case with my father. Having lived in Bolivia up until he left in his mid-twenties to continue his post-grad education abroad he clearly and completely considered himself a Bolivian. He had actually incurred the wrath of his family by not only never coming back to live there but also marrying a blond haired, green eyed Brazilian bombshell without their approval. Many was a time when my widowed aunt, deciding my sister was the weakest link of the three children, would pull her onto her black clad lap and try to convince her that if she aided in my parents getting a divorce we could all live happily with her in La Paz.
While that, thankfully, never happened, we did, as a family, make an annual pilgrimage to Bolivia so that my father’s family (8 aunts and uncles and more cousins than I can possibly count or remember) could survey us, laugh at our clothes and accents and serve us food so spicy I would often start crying at the table (I was one of those spoiled fat cry-babies).
As is the custom with old school Latin families, the patriarch was the oldest sibling, in this case my uncle Jorge. Trust me, no one could assume the role better than he. Along with his piercing blue eyes he had a no bullshit demeanor gleaned from years in the air force where he eventually was made a general. Many a times he’d march me around the yard correcting my posture and telling me to suck in my stomach. Needless to say, that combined with the altitude sickness I experienced every single time we landed in La Paz, made trips to Bolivia fall very low on my wish list.
His imposing manner did help out from time to time however. Bolivia, in that era under a military regime, was a closed economy where electronics were prohibitively expensive and scarce. As such, we would arrive packed like gypsies, carrying not only gifts but also fulfilled shopping lists which were mostly comprised of VCRs, walkmans and Casio recorders. You could see the customs agents wetting their lips and salivating when we’d leave baggage claim, their minds registering the bribes and confiscated goods they’d bring home that day transforming their humble abodes into a delinquent mall. Alas, they did not reckon facing my uncle. The minute he would see a customs agent making a motion to stop us he’d leap over the railing screaming bloody murder and waving his military ID. The agent would become petrified as my uncle would threaten him with a beating, life imprisonment and the deflowering of his prettiest daughter. This behavior used to mortify me, while at the same time I must admit, thrill me as the gates would open and we’d be escorted out of customs by kowtowing customs agents mumbling their apologies. My uncle always appreciated the humor of those moments and would laugh the whole way to hotel, pantomiming the horrified faces the agents made as he careened down the highway from the La Paz airport immune to police…. above the law.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome.
This was never the case with my father. Having lived in Bolivia up until he left in his mid-twenties to continue his post-grad education abroad he clearly and completely considered himself a Bolivian. He had actually incurred the wrath of his family by not only never coming back to live there but also marrying a blond haired, green eyed Brazilian bombshell without their approval. Many was a time when my widowed aunt, deciding my sister was the weakest link of the three children, would pull her onto her black clad lap and try to convince her that if she aided in my parents getting a divorce we could all live happily with her in La Paz.
While that, thankfully, never happened, we did, as a family, make an annual pilgrimage to Bolivia so that my father’s family (8 aunts and uncles and more cousins than I can possibly count or remember) could survey us, laugh at our clothes and accents and serve us food so spicy I would often start crying at the table (I was one of those spoiled fat cry-babies).
As is the custom with old school Latin families, the patriarch was the oldest sibling, in this case my uncle Jorge. Trust me, no one could assume the role better than he. Along with his piercing blue eyes he had a no bullshit demeanor gleaned from years in the air force where he eventually was made a general. Many a times he’d march me around the yard correcting my posture and telling me to suck in my stomach. Needless to say, that combined with the altitude sickness I experienced every single time we landed in La Paz, made trips to Bolivia fall very low on my wish list.
His imposing manner did help out from time to time however. Bolivia, in that era under a military regime, was a closed economy where electronics were prohibitively expensive and scarce. As such, we would arrive packed like gypsies, carrying not only gifts but also fulfilled shopping lists which were mostly comprised of VCRs, walkmans and Casio recorders. You could see the customs agents wetting their lips and salivating when we’d leave baggage claim, their minds registering the bribes and confiscated goods they’d bring home that day transforming their humble abodes into a delinquent mall. Alas, they did not reckon facing my uncle. The minute he would see a customs agent making a motion to stop us he’d leap over the railing screaming bloody murder and waving his military ID. The agent would become petrified as my uncle would threaten him with a beating, life imprisonment and the deflowering of his prettiest daughter. This behavior used to mortify me, while at the same time I must admit, thrill me as the gates would open and we’d be escorted out of customs by kowtowing customs agents mumbling their apologies. My uncle always appreciated the humor of those moments and would laugh the whole way to hotel, pantomiming the horrified faces the agents made as he careened down the highway from the La Paz airport immune to police…. above the law.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
Flutterbys
By Tenzin McGrupp
10.16.02
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time. Aggravated, she looked out into the distance, and her detachment from her somber thoughts were quickly enticed by the splitter splatter sounds of the rain hitting random objects. Tilting her head, she strained to see a cat stealthily walking alongside the road, dodging the cheerless droplets and side stepping soggy puddles. The gloomy cat froze as the hypnotic headlights of an oncoming car shattered the dark road and lit up the murky ground where the cat now stood. Anchored to its territory, the overconfident cat stood its ground and growled. The reckless car, gaining speed, had no intentions of slowing down or stopping. She wanted to scream out and say something, to the cat or the driver, but a blanket of indecision had been cast over her. A rattling amnesia reverberated throughout her complete body. Without blinking she saw a bright flash of lighting, then heard a clasp of thunder, as the cat pounced left to avoid the car, only to jump right into the path. As the car disappeared and the rain continued to fall, she could not see any good signs of hope, the lifeless carcass helplessly pancaked on the trivial road. Slipping out of her brief paralysis, with her skeletal hands shaking and her doleful eyes glazed with fury, she finally got her cigarette to light. She scornfully smoked and carefully listened to the curtailed remainder of her last zealous symphony.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
10.16.02
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time. Aggravated, she looked out into the distance, and her detachment from her somber thoughts were quickly enticed by the splitter splatter sounds of the rain hitting random objects. Tilting her head, she strained to see a cat stealthily walking alongside the road, dodging the cheerless droplets and side stepping soggy puddles. The gloomy cat froze as the hypnotic headlights of an oncoming car shattered the dark road and lit up the murky ground where the cat now stood. Anchored to its territory, the overconfident cat stood its ground and growled. The reckless car, gaining speed, had no intentions of slowing down or stopping. She wanted to scream out and say something, to the cat or the driver, but a blanket of indecision had been cast over her. A rattling amnesia reverberated throughout her complete body. Without blinking she saw a bright flash of lighting, then heard a clasp of thunder, as the cat pounced left to avoid the car, only to jump right into the path. As the car disappeared and the rain continued to fall, she could not see any good signs of hope, the lifeless carcass helplessly pancaked on the trivial road. Slipping out of her brief paralysis, with her skeletal hands shaking and her doleful eyes glazed with fury, she finally got her cigarette to light. She scornfully smoked and carefully listened to the curtailed remainder of her last zealous symphony.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Kiss
By Mona LaVigne
6*25*02
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t. Sitting on the cool park bench, Jonah’s hand on my knee, all I could see was that blinking neon light.
“Didja mean what you said?” Jonah whispered, his lips grazing my ear.
(three-four-blinkblinkblink)
I turned to face him.
Jonah, Jonah. Six-years Jonah. Musician Jonah. Smoking Weed In The Park On A Sunday Afternoon Jonah. Over the last four years I had been wondering “Where? What? How?” about him and now we were reunited, sitting on a bench under a rain-filled tree.
I stared at his lips, the same lips at which I had stared for the last time nearly five years ago, wondering the same thing as I was now. Will he? Does he sense that I don’t have the balls to do it? Now that I’ve told him what I had be too scared to tell him for the last six years (over dinner, no less, in a restaurant safe haven), now that it was out in the open, would he finally do it? “I’m totally in love with you and I want to fuck the shit out of you.” What did it mean to him, my confession? I had expended my guts for the evening, and now maybe it was his turn to take a risk. The blinking neon light twitched in my peripheral vision (one-two-three) and Jonah’s question hung thick in the air. Nose to nose, his hot breath on my chin, his moist lips glistening the faint orange-yellow-blue reflection of the flashing neon, I lifted my eyes to his.
“Yes. I meant every word.”
And like every perfect mid-afternoon masturbation fantasy I’d ever had, Jonah’s fingertips slid over my jaw, his thumbs grazing past my eyes, his hands curling behind my ears, and brought his mouth to mine.
When the first kiss is second nature, you know you’re in trouble.
When you’ve been dreaming and writing a kiss forever, there’s always a pretty good chance that it’s not going to live up to your expectations. In fact, you might almost surmise that it won’t so you won’t be let down. Well, how the fuck do you deal when it goes so much better than you had ever imagined? Then it’s all blown! When Jonah kissed me, I could feel my insides dissolving -- a smallpox-ian smooch.
Jonah’s best feature is his laugh. I ended the kiss almost reluctantly, just so he would smile and laugh, which he did, and my head started to spin. He rested his forehead against mine, and in typical female fashion, I said,
“You kiss really well.”
“Really?” he replied, “I always thought I was a bad kisser.”
I shook my head. “Nope. You kiss like me.”
As if to test the theory, he tipped his chin toward me and slipped his tongue into my mouth. Silenced, I could not say what I really wanted to say, and instead the words trickled out from the corner of my mouth in a vibration. The tree above us shook and the wet came down like a new storm.
Mona LaVigne is a former adult film star from Montreal, Canada.
6*25*02
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t. Sitting on the cool park bench, Jonah’s hand on my knee, all I could see was that blinking neon light.
“Didja mean what you said?” Jonah whispered, his lips grazing my ear.
I turned to face him.
Jonah, Jonah. Six-years Jonah. Musician Jonah. Smoking Weed In The Park On A Sunday Afternoon Jonah. Over the last four years I had been wondering “Where? What? How?” about him and now we were reunited, sitting on a bench under a rain-filled tree.
I stared at his lips, the same lips at which I had stared for the last time nearly five years ago, wondering the same thing as I was now. Will he? Does he sense that I don’t have the balls to do it? Now that I’ve told him what I had be too scared to tell him for the last six years (over dinner, no less, in a restaurant safe haven), now that it was out in the open, would he finally do it? “I’m totally in love with you and I want to fuck the shit out of you.” What did it mean to him, my confession? I had expended my guts for the evening, and now maybe it was his turn to take a risk. The blinking neon light twitched in my peripheral vision (one-two-three) and Jonah’s question hung thick in the air. Nose to nose, his hot breath on my chin, his moist lips glistening the faint orange-yellow-blue reflection of the flashing neon, I lifted my eyes to his.
“Yes. I meant every word.”
And like every perfect mid-afternoon masturbation fantasy I’d ever had, Jonah’s fingertips slid over my jaw, his thumbs grazing past my eyes, his hands curling behind my ears, and brought his mouth to mine.
When the first kiss is second nature, you know you’re in trouble.
When you’ve been dreaming and writing a kiss forever, there’s always a pretty good chance that it’s not going to live up to your expectations. In fact, you might almost surmise that it won’t so you won’t be let down. Well, how the fuck do you deal when it goes so much better than you had ever imagined? Then it’s all blown! When Jonah kissed me, I could feel my insides dissolving -- a smallpox-ian smooch.
Jonah’s best feature is his laugh. I ended the kiss almost reluctantly, just so he would smile and laugh, which he did, and my head started to spin. He rested his forehead against mine, and in typical female fashion, I said,
“You kiss really well.”
“Really?” he replied, “I always thought I was a bad kisser.”
I shook my head. “Nope. You kiss like me.”
As if to test the theory, he tipped his chin toward me and slipped his tongue into my mouth. Silenced, I could not say what I really wanted to say, and instead the words trickled out from the corner of my mouth in a vibration. The tree above us shook and the wet came down like a new storm.
Mona LaVigne is a former adult film star from Montreal, Canada.
S.P.U.D.
By Tenzin McGrupp
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family. The voice of reason said very little to me and to my useless mind, as it just sat there in steps and inside all the lunch boxes of the greatest small little garages, where burnt pink and jealous green cars would park side by side in parallel lines, their passengers decked out in the latest Eastern Euro-trash fashions of all sorts and sizes from places we never heard of like Grinsk and Sholjpe and that other obscure place called Helgrinistan. Sometime during the last night of our monthly security meetings, I lost sight of my mission. The gatherings were held by the dried up river, which used to belong to the green people, where they danced in the archaic moonlight until the sun rose. At that point they realized that yes, they too were the only ones who would walk inside the last orbital path of the mighty comet, whose destination lay forth to colliding with our unsettling planet, Earth, where we all just sit, dumbfounded as we stare at the last ship off the solid rock. Alas the bananas and the Olive trees stand still in the fierce winds of the hurricanes. The angry parents tow their children and drag their dogs with chain links, and the tires on their cars are very soiled with dirt and dust from mid-western tourists, who wash their mall bought shoes against their wallets. I sit and I wonder why oh why do all these people sit for hours on end, watching the TV box, and stare and do nothing. There is so much slack around that it kills me. Where is that inner motivation? Our burbs are filled with no drive, nothing to satisfy the insatiable cries of the nice politicians whom live in those glass and golden homes in places like Vail and Simi Valley, as they sip Vodka Martinis and proclaim, "Hey we must get together for the next trip to Hamptons, oh indeed!"
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family. The voice of reason said very little to me and to my useless mind, as it just sat there in steps and inside all the lunch boxes of the greatest small little garages, where burnt pink and jealous green cars would park side by side in parallel lines, their passengers decked out in the latest Eastern Euro-trash fashions of all sorts and sizes from places we never heard of like Grinsk and Sholjpe and that other obscure place called Helgrinistan. Sometime during the last night of our monthly security meetings, I lost sight of my mission. The gatherings were held by the dried up river, which used to belong to the green people, where they danced in the archaic moonlight until the sun rose. At that point they realized that yes, they too were the only ones who would walk inside the last orbital path of the mighty comet, whose destination lay forth to colliding with our unsettling planet, Earth, where we all just sit, dumbfounded as we stare at the last ship off the solid rock. Alas the bananas and the Olive trees stand still in the fierce winds of the hurricanes. The angry parents tow their children and drag their dogs with chain links, and the tires on their cars are very soiled with dirt and dust from mid-western tourists, who wash their mall bought shoes against their wallets. I sit and I wonder why oh why do all these people sit for hours on end, watching the TV box, and stare and do nothing. There is so much slack around that it kills me. Where is that inner motivation? Our burbs are filled with no drive, nothing to satisfy the insatiable cries of the nice politicians whom live in those glass and golden homes in places like Vail and Simi Valley, as they sip Vodka Martinis and proclaim, "Hey we must get together for the next trip to Hamptons, oh indeed!"
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Labor Day
By Tenzin McGrupp
2 Sept 2002
It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train. Of course I am the only one I know going to work at the early hour, aside from the subway conductor, who is already on the job, in fact I sat and pondered writing this blog in his office, as it screeched and crawled its way down to the tip of Manhattan Island. Alas, I arrived to work not as rushed as you would expect on a wet Monday morning. The humid and testy temperatures of early August have retreated and been replaced with sporadic wet and damp weather, a splash of the Pacific Northwest, with East Coast attitude, and a tinge on the cold side with a nice cold spell that this overheated and rundown city welcomed gleefully with open arms. My arrival at work was more relaxed than normal, even my attire was less than the usual suit and tie. It felt like a weekend morning at the firm, the lights were all out, only a few computers were up and running, the trading floor did not smell like the typical morning office, with the pungent aroma of gourmet coffee and the scrumcious smells of fresh baked pastries and the occasional wafting of anticipatory greed. Not this morning. The office was empty, because nearly all the French staff were returning from Europe from their summer end two week holiday, and the locals were at home, or elsewhere relaxing for the Labor Day holiday. But I get stuck working these days, but I enjoy the empty trading floor, me alone in my trench, secluded from the next trench by rows of electronic screens, equipment, and data processing information bombarding all my external senses. I sit down check my messages, read my e-mail, and read all the recent news updates from Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Africa, then South America. Same shit really. War looms in Kashmir. Famine in Angola. Rebellion in Sierra Leone. Poverty in all of Central Africa. Economic Crisis in South America. Death in the Gaza Strip. Genocide in East Timor. Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Terrorism in Sweden. And Posh Spice had a baby. Same old shit, eh? I'll enjoy this peaceful day while it lasts.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
2 Sept 2002
It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train. Of course I am the only one I know going to work at the early hour, aside from the subway conductor, who is already on the job, in fact I sat and pondered writing this blog in his office, as it screeched and crawled its way down to the tip of Manhattan Island. Alas, I arrived to work not as rushed as you would expect on a wet Monday morning. The humid and testy temperatures of early August have retreated and been replaced with sporadic wet and damp weather, a splash of the Pacific Northwest, with East Coast attitude, and a tinge on the cold side with a nice cold spell that this overheated and rundown city welcomed gleefully with open arms. My arrival at work was more relaxed than normal, even my attire was less than the usual suit and tie. It felt like a weekend morning at the firm, the lights were all out, only a few computers were up and running, the trading floor did not smell like the typical morning office, with the pungent aroma of gourmet coffee and the scrumcious smells of fresh baked pastries and the occasional wafting of anticipatory greed. Not this morning. The office was empty, because nearly all the French staff were returning from Europe from their summer end two week holiday, and the locals were at home, or elsewhere relaxing for the Labor Day holiday. But I get stuck working these days, but I enjoy the empty trading floor, me alone in my trench, secluded from the next trench by rows of electronic screens, equipment, and data processing information bombarding all my external senses. I sit down check my messages, read my e-mail, and read all the recent news updates from Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Africa, then South America. Same shit really. War looms in Kashmir. Famine in Angola. Rebellion in Sierra Leone. Poverty in all of Central Africa. Economic Crisis in South America. Death in the Gaza Strip. Genocide in East Timor. Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Terrorism in Sweden. And Posh Spice had a baby. Same old shit, eh? I'll enjoy this peaceful day while it lasts.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
What a Long Strange Trip it's Been...
From the Editor's Laptop:
I am excited for the sixth issue of Truckin'! It's a half of a year old, and I am surprised it has lasted this long! Not only has the quality of stories been improving since we first started at the beginning of the summer, but this issue has selections from NaNoWriMo novels. Thanks to the vision of the Truckin' staff, we were able to peek into the minds of two novelists and a hearty Bolivian story from Armando. I realize that this issue was lacking various voices, but I promise December & January will bring new fresh voices and plenty of more hijinks!
Again, thanks to the writers who spilled their blood and guts, and worked hard to meet deadlines to make the November issue kick ass. I am humbled and proud of all of your efforts!
Please feel free to e-mail this link to your friends, families, co-workers, cellmates, lifemates, etc. Help spread the good word about this site and the writers!
Without your help, Truckin' would be just another boring website!!
If you would like to comment or contact any of the authors, please send an E-mail to: Contact Truckin'
Again thanks for your support!
Salukis, McG
"Imagination is the voice of daring." - Henry Miller
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