Eve of Destruction

The poundin' of the drums, the pride and disgrace,
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace,
Hate your next-door-neighbour, but don't forget to say grace,
And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,
you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.
you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

Sil had always been there; his departure for “quieter pastures” was an unnoticed harbinger. May & June were great months, constant party; extreme zaniness; harmony amidst mayhem; responsibilities being met. As mentioned in earlier posts the pinnacle of the 340 Club I happened on June 17th when 4 of the five residents and a score of regular partiers descended on the Jersey Shore for a day of rock ‘n roll.

Reality began to sit in with the next day’s hangover. The 340 Club degenerated into a cesspool even by the low bar by which we measured ourselves. Rent became increasingly difficult to collect (that was my job). Sometimes, albeit rarely, tempers flared; which amazingly almost never happened at the Club. Glass shattering vibrations and, worse, structure breaking vibes began to work against the grain of the 340.

First, Kenny left … I think he left because he had to. My memory was he left to go on the road as a trucker; a career which helped get him away from some terrible temptations of food and get high. Kenny would spend the rest of his life veering between great weight extremes (maybe 325 to 175) with rare or little variance in sobriety. He was a good guy; perhaps not well served by me. I know he had friends who tried but Kenny internalized more than we knew. Definitely more than I knew. Kenny’s departure left us with four.

Next it was Mitch’s turn. His departure was another matter. He called me Crazee; I called Phil Crazy; and we both called Mitch Crazy. When one of us addressed the other it was difficult to follow the appellations. Mitch may or may not have been crazy but, like Kenny, he definitely was unbridled of life’s responsibilities and placed the next party or six pack well ahead of tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch or dinner. Although somehow he didn’t miss many of them either. Mitch is/was a great guy; the first you want to go grab a beer; cop some blow or even be intro’d to a hooker. He wouldn’t be the first you would seek if you needed to borrow a sawbuck or wanted someone to take the rent money to the man. Mitch left in mid-summer. Three.

The return of rationality came too late for me; I had already fallen in love with investment prospects of home ownership on the border of Lancaster’s ghetto, the so called Bloody Seventh. I purchased a small two bedroom, one and a half story home on Howard Avenue in Lancaster. I think it might have cost $8,500. In any case by Labor Day I was gone. This left City L and Phil to either recruit another roomie or look for greener pastures.