Outpost of Humanity: 1979

Jimmy Shay & Vicki moved on and I needed a roomie. It just so happened that there was this guy who was a fixture at Zangari South: friendly, drunk, older, handy. I hadn’t known him long or well; nevertheless I asked Ron Botzum if he needed a room anyway. He turned out, despite his carpenter skills, to be more trouble than he was worth. Now, suddenly I no longer lived between the corner bar without the license and the drug store without prescription drugs but I lived with bar’s best customer and, somehow, one of the pharmacy’s suppliers. Ron, while not a real drug pusher, turned out be a con artist, a small time dealer, and the self described master of the “hookup.” Living with Ron meant always having a beer in front of you, nightly nonsensical discussions about who knows what (“what can you do without no buffalo sex”), infrequent rent payments but plenty of shoddy carpentry in lieu of payment, illogical rumourmongering about the youth of the neighborhood, and even break-ins that appeared to break-outs from within which lead to an insurance payment in excess of the value of my stolen worthless stereo.

Life at the Outpost continued to be exciting if nothing else. Given that I worked at City Hall I had ample opportunity to receive feedback from the police. From time to time I would get word about my drunken roomie, rumors of drug deals and warnings to keep my nose clean. Lest I paint a less than ideal picture it was an interesting, educational times, with a party only a few feet away at all hours of the night.

Near the end of the year there were several noteworthy events. One day I came home to see writing scratched into the wood of my front door. It simply said “Randy Brown 555 1212”. You will recall Randy had debuted at the 340 Club in March 1978 by getting unceremoniously tossed from the famed 340 porch to a convenient nearby snow pile not once but twice. At this point in my life, in ’79, Randy was an acquaintance not a close friend. Further he had disappeared into Keroauc’s America hitchhiking to the left coast and his scratching on my door provided the first evidence of his return. From the moment I called his number, however, unto this day I number Randy among my best friends.

Late in ’79 Randy began hanging at the Outpost and he & Ron, despite Randy’s efforts at friendship, began to clash. Eventually, as Ron’s behavior deteriorated; Randy looked more appealing as a roomie. Ron sensed that and began to act out. One night, a particularly drunk Ron began to threaten Randy and eventually took a baseball bat and chased Randy into the street. When Ron tired sufficiently I was able to approach him and disarm him. This served to level the playing field and, while fisticuffs never ensued, Randy & Ron came to terms with each other that night and Ron was gone not too long after that. As I write this I am reminded that perhaps the final straw came when Ron went to the County Prison; perhaps that was when Randy moved in. Ron was a good guy just a drunk. I visited him in prison. I have received rambling phone calls from Ron – from eorgia I believe – on a couple of occasions in the past decade.

Once Randy moved in the drinking became less serve but the parties and the chicks more prevalent. Three events that capped the year were the Pirates capturing the World Series and Fred Smedley finding me after too much celebration in the gutter next to the Royal Hose (he got me home safely), my car having sugar put in the gas tank at Halloween (a prank or retribution for making the candy man leave the Outpost) and getting into a fight at a speakeasy from which Randy saved me by pulling my opponent off me but not until after I had shit my pants. I guess we were even; I having taken a baseball bat off his attacker and he having separated me from a young lad more willing to do me harm than I was to do him. Life in the Bloody Seventh. It certainly was different from how Phil was living at “Manor House.” Needless to say; both Phil & I were longing for the good old days on West King Street.