The Glass, The Leg, and The Whole Bloody Mess!

(continued from last blog) 
11:42 am
Unable to cope with Markie's D death, Ralph walked in concentric circles talking to himself.
 
Pinky was so big, the Wolf-Pack made fun of him saying things like, he couldn't see his feet and that they didn't know how he tied his shoes. That always brought a big laugh from the mean Viking tribe. "Water retention" and "big bones" was his favorite retort of denial.

Knowing it was hard for him to bend over, Joan snapped at Ralph, instead. Interrupting him in the middle of his Catholic "Mea culpas" she barked, "Ralph get over here. Now!"  Without even knowing what she did to Tom a couple minutes earlier, Ralph stood at attention like a mindless Zombie under her control. "Hold this together" she said, putting Markie's leg back together the best she could and made Ralph hold it in place with firm pressure.

Pinky took Kjersten and Annie and Tommy in the other room. He didn't think it was right for 9-year-olds to see a dead body: the glass, the leg, the blood was already too traumatic.

Joan picked up a fragment of the broken glass the size of a John F. Kennedy silver dollar and held it under Markie's nose. She waited a full 20 seconds (that seemed like a year) and became ecstatic when she saw  fog on the glass.  Barking out more orders like the ranking medic of a mash unit, Joan ordered Pinky to fire up the 57 Chevy as she carried the limp body trailed by Ralph (who was covered in blood), as he continued to obey his senior officer and held the dangling appendage together while mumbling Altar Boy Latin.  

Although there was condensation on the small fragment of glass, Joan knew that time was of the essence.
Pinky had wedged himself behind the steering wheel and had the motor running. Joan knew that letting Pinky drive was a mistake, but couldn't think of any other way to manage the situation. Laying Markie out on the back seat on a beach towel, she told Ralph to walk the younger kids home.

11:50 am
In the passenger side of the front seat, she leaned over the back and kept pressure on Markie's leg while trying to talk Pinky through driving a stick shift. One time she even shifted the car from second to third with the heal of her right foot, when Pinky's hand got caught between the steering wheel and his belly.

It was a sight to be sure. The way the car lurched and bucked and roared down Lincoln Boulevard towards Santa Monica, it looked like a drunken cowboy on a bunking bronco.

12:20 pm  Blood-drenched Ralph, delivered Annie to the front door of the Lennon Sister's house and it was as if sirens had gone off: Questions...Interrogations...but the only thing Ralph could do was mutter and stutter and look at the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary in their front window and kept repeating the, "mea maxima Culpa" thing.

By the time Ralph dropped Tommy off at the Blaser house, rumors had begun to spread like a wildfire around Harding avenue that ranged anywhere from death to amputation.


The hippy Wolf-Pack knew they made the right choice in not going with Joan to the rescue.
"Oh my goodness, what a nuisance"
"How inconvenient... that little twerp!"
"Geez, we still have a lot of partying to do."
"Dude...that would have totally harshed my mellow." 

By the time the sixth needle went into Markie's arm, one of his eyes opened to half-mast and he asked the emergency room doctors, if this had anything to do with Flea-Bait's loogie.  Four of them looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders thinking the kid was reacting to the drugs.  Then more shots. A billion in the leg and lot of them deep. Many of the shots still hurt regardless of how much Novocaine they shot into him.

The second eye opened as Markie was trying to find out what all the fuss was about. He wasn't sewn up yet and inadvertently saw the bloody mess attached to his body that was once a leg. A nurse held his head down and he began asking questions as the guy with the broken arm next to him was released... and then the person with stitches in the forehead had come and gone...and the motorcycle guy with the puncture wound had come and also left repaired.  The stitch after stitch in the deep tissue and layers of muscle didn't hurt much, but this was before they got to the outside layers where the 42 shots of Novocaine had begun to wear off and each one of the 97 stitches on the outside of the leg really did hurt like heck. Markie was no stranger to pain and had been through bows and arrows with needles and the Hamper of Death and thrown over a cliff and didn't think that this pain was worth saying anything to the doctors - and suffered in silence.   

As far as Markie D could ever remember, he never saw anyone in his family cry. Mr. D had always said that "Swedes don't cry and pain will make you stronger."    

1:30 am  '0 dark thirty of the wee hours of the morning: "The Sewing party" was finally coming to an end.

 Even though his leg looked worst than Frankenstein's monster, they managed to put it all back together and save it.

Markie had never seen tears nor had he ever heard the "L" in his house. Oh, the "L" word is "love" in case you were wondering, but reckoned what Joan had done to rescue him, as love. That was all he was looking for as a human being. He wanted to know - he wanted to feel that someone cared.

He missed school for weeks and Joan had her sixth grade class write get well cards. He liked the cards and felt this was also another way of his mother showing she cared.

Two weeks later:   

















                                                       Thank you Tom Colajezzi.










Thank you Perry Halachis.













Thank you whoever you are.



Thank you Mom and Pinky!

And Ralph, stop mumbling - it's okay, I forgive you.

And Thank you Lord, I'm still alive...
                                                     
Oh, and thank you "Weltz" for letting mom "borrow" your car.  Sorry about all the blood in the back seat and your sore jaw.  No one knew Tom's last name before...but the black and blue welt on his jaw provided the perfect nickname. 

Good intentions are one thing but real love is often measured in sacrifice. I think that's all we really want. Isn't it?  To feel as though someone cares and to know that you are loved!  
                                                             
                                                                                           Markie D.

Next the Veloci-rooster and the "Chicken Lady"

The Day the Music Died.

 "Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live"

                                                                                          Norman Cousins

11:37 am 

Like a salmon swimming upstream, Joan forged her way through the party animals that crowded the downstairs of the large turn-of-the-century Craftsman house.

Noise!

Loud noise! 

 

"I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag

I was schooled with a strap right across my back

But it's all right now, in fact, it's a gas

But it's all right, I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash

It's a gas! Gas! Gas

I was drowned, I was washed up and left for dead

I fell down to my feet and I saw they bled

I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread

Yeah, yeah, yeah"

The Wolf Pack and their friends had the new Rolling Stone album b lasting on the Hi-Fi record-player...needle skipping occasionally as they rocked out to the music - shaking the floor of the old house.

As usual, Mr. D was off selling real estate. Today it was West Covina. 

Dancing

Long golden hair flung wildly.

""Yeah, yeah, yeahs" sung off-tune.

Joan's distressed pleas for help went unanswered - falling on deaf and uncaring ears.  Suddenly, she became the least popular person in the entire universe when she dragged the needle across the record as a last resort.

It was like the proverbial "Shot heard around the world."  It was symbolic for her. Her youngest boy was 2 miles away with a torn appendage in a pool of blood. For her it was the day the music died.

With the stereophonic console silenced it took another 5 minutes for most of the hippies to realize that Mick Jagger wasn't even singing lead vocals any more - as the Hippy clones droned on.

Markie's leg has been cut off!" she screamed, trying to get their attention. "And he might be dead. I need a ride this instant" she demanded with urgency, trying to solicit help and a car. Most of the Wolf Pack knew what THAT meant. It meant that if Markie wasn't dead, it would be a long and boring trip to Saint John's emergency room in Santa Monica that would interrupt what had begun as a good day. 

No one budged. No one said a word. It was like a "Mexican-Standoff" where the first person to speak - loses!

Nothing was ever serious in our house. Everything had to be a joke! In the far back of the living room someone ducked behind a wall of smelly teenage bodies and lowered their voice, pretending to mimic dad and said, "It'll be one less mouth to feed."

Laughter.

Not much at first.

Some of it nervous. The non-Dahlins weren't sure this was an appropriate time to be laughing.  But the "Mexican Tomato Plants" had a way of dulling the senses and made ordinary things funny.  "Hahaha...dude...look at my hand. Where did that come from? Hahahaha"

The little bit of laughter seemed to grant permission  for them not to take the situation serious as one of the clever older boys shouted, "We never liked him anyway."  

More laughter.

Bad timing!

Joan was upset. "Hell!" she exclaimed in utter frustration. She looked out the window and saw that her car was packed in behind twelve other cars and that it would take an Act of God to extricate it within the next 40 minutes. Tom Weltz' 57 Chevy was parked catawampus - half-in and half-out of the driveway. Maybe out of control. Maybe out of mind. Maybe doing the right thing, She swung and caught Tom with a right hook to the face - knocking him to the ground. Don't mess with the lioness when one of her lion cubs are in trouble.

Tom was dazed, but not completely out, so Joan ordered Pinky off his Lazy-Boy throne and made him pin Tom to the ground while she frisked him for his keys.

Pinky was the only one on the first floor that had not inhaled the skunk-smelling herbs. Finding the keys in Tom's tight pants pocket she yanked them out and sprang from the porch with Pinky lumbering close behind.  Hoping upon hope the two of them hijacked Tom precious hot rod.  Pinky couldn't drive a stick shift so Joan did the driving as the car sank on the right side under the weight of Pinky's massive frame.  "Water weight!" and "Big bones" Pinky always said in denial. Yeah, well tell that to the shock absorbers.

Joan popped the clutch twice killing the motor...and jerked backwards out of the driveway on the third attempt.

Stomping her foot on the gas pedal as if she could push it through the floor, she dumped the clutch and pealed rubber all the way down the street towards the Lennon house on the corner.

Mr. Lennon came out with his 4 iron and golf ball to make sure it wasn't Leland, only to be totally flabbergasted to discover it Joan behind the steering wheel of the car that sped around the corner towards Saint Mark's Church. He shrugged his shoulders and rooted for her to make the left turn at the end of the street without crashing through the doors of the church. 

Tearing around the corner she made a sign of the cross and breathed a silent prayer while shifting into second gear, chirping the tires and barely missing pedestrians at McDonald's.

11:39 Am 
Meanwhile, back at the Harding house...the Wolf-Pack turned on the record again as though the brief annoyance had never happened.

 "But it's all right now, in fact, it's a gas

But it's all right, I'm Jumping Jack Flash

Its a gas! Gas! GAs!

Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas

Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas

Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas 

 Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas 

 Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas

11:40 am
Left at Lincoln Liquor Locker - down Zanja - she screeched to a halt in the dirt ally stirring up a dust cloud that enveloped the car.  Frantically emerging from the brown cloud, Joan found 3 crying 9-year-olds, a delirious 12-year-old talking to himself like a mental patient and what appeared to be the corpse of her baby boy laying lifeless in a pool of blood. 

Joan shook him, but there was no response! Pinky meant well when he said the first thing that came to him mind, "kick him!"  (You see, it was hard for him to bend over, so using his feet just made sense to him).  Seeing the leg and blood, Joan felt she had arrived too late.

"Long-Hair Hippy Commies" and Markie's Death

11:21 AM

The phone rang like 20 times before one of the hippies finally decided to answer it.  Normally, no one in our family would answer the phone – that was Joan’s job.   Joan was my mom.

Our living room and dining room were filled with the delirious Wolf Pack that had been back in the hidden ivy hangout we called "Wall Drug" communing with the herbs they secretly grew under the code name of “Mexican tomato plants” 

So our house was filled with the likes of this group...(including "Pinky" pictured far left).

 and this motely crew...

And this bunch...

along with this heterogeneous collection...

...all except for Bob of course.  He was in Vietnam! 

             And I'm not talking about a vacation. 

You see, my older brothers (that's all my brothers- by the way, if you haven't caught on by now), no longer used the affectionate and intimate designation of “mom” and “dad.” Instead, they called our parents by their first names or with titles, like - Joan and Mr. D.  I think mom and dad had come to terms with these labels that expressed a distance in relationship. This remote detachment was safe for the unfeeling Wolf-Pack because it was a declaration that there were no demands on their relationship other than existing under the same roof as hostile roommates. 

 

I don’t think my parents minded that too much because it represented a separation of values. Although we were all born democrats, my parents were conservative “Kennedy Democrats”  - you know - a strong America… less government… programs that care for people… but not giving away our future by putting the yoke of debt around the necks of generations not yet born – through wasteful government spending.  Though the world had changed a lot in the last five years since Kennedy’s assassination, their political views remained unchanged and they considered the motley – long-haired, draft-card-burning crew as “dope-smoking commies.” 

 

I think a couple of the Lennon boys were present –  and if I had to guess, they probably still called their parents "mom" and "dad."

Anyway, Chewbacca finally answered the phone and couldn’t make out what Kjersten was saying through all the blubbering sobs and stupid stuff about a leg being cut off and someone dead by the side of the pool. This phone called was just a nuisance to him so he kicked Flea-Bait in the butt and told him to tell Joan she had a phone call – half thinking she might have already been eavesdropping with her little suction-cup-bugging-device she used for wiretapping every conversation the boys had with their girlfriends.

In our house, no one ran up the stairs anymore to tell someone when they were wanted on the phone.  It was viewed as a frivolous waste of energy.  Our communication system was standing at the foot of the stairs and screaming as loud as you can – making sure to use derogatory nicknames that the Wolf-Pack invented –so the Steadmans and the Tripps across the street could hear.

“Hey Puke Breath, phone’s for you!” Or  “Lardo…Pick up the phone!” or “Dooh-Dooh Pants…” they would scream at the top of their lungs while hitting the wall with a broom like dad does on street-cleaning day, and then they would top that off with something really nice like, “You stupid idiot you got a phone call.”  

  

Kindness was not generally found among the list of adjectives used to describe our family.

“Joan”Flea-Bait yelled, hoping to please the older boys.

"... pick up the phone!”

Flea-Bait felt his job was done and Chewbacca had set the receiver down, forgetting about who was on the other end and the urgency of the call altogether. 

Like most typical Saturdays (ever since the zoo incident), Mom had locked herself in her room. Trying to drown out the noise from the raucous below, she turned up the volume on a rerun of Gun Smoke.

11:30 am

When the episode was over, she picked up the phone to call Ida Nargie, who lived across the street, for gossip only to discover the sobbing and the tearful pleas of Kjersten still begging on the other end of the line  hoping someone would eventually walk by and pick up the abandoned receiver.  

“Please!” cried the desperate 9-year-old.  “Someone help us. I think he’s dead!” were the first words mom heard. 

“What Kjersten?” she panicked ―freaking out.  “What’s going on?”

“Mom” Kjersten said almost undecipherable through huge sobs that interrupted her words. Mom could hear the frightful crying in the background from the other kids at the pool.

Choking back the word she dreaded to say. in a battle between lips and brain, her brain finally won as she spit out the foulest tasting words a 9-year-old might ever have to experience. “Mom” she bellowed, “he’s dead.” More crying!  More tears!

Shock! “Kjersten, who’s dead?”  Mom asked, screaming through the receiver in order to get Kjersten's full attention.

 “Markie!” she answered as the flood gates of words began spilling.  It’s Markie… there was a booger and vomit and Ulrich and then there was cold water... and then a pushing match and…and…and…and Ralph went one way and Markie went the other―”

“Kjersten, slow down and just tell me what happened.” 

Kjersten began bawling again. “And…and…and…Markie flew through the glass wall… and his leg is cut off… and he’s lying in a pool of blood…and we think he’s dead...and we didn’t know who to call. Help…Mom!” she resorted to, desperately pleading in incomplete thoughts and tears.

Joan jumped from her bed, unlocked the five latches on her bedroom door and frantically leaped into action. She raced downstairs parting the red sea of long-hair commies partying below, hysterically soliciting help and trying to find the keys to a car that had more than a bucks worth of gas and that didn’t have to be push started.

  

11:03 am - 30 minutes earlier

Markie wanted to show Ralph who was boss and slipped out of his grip again. Just as Markied had planned, Ralph shot backwards like a rocket ship right into the pool. What Markie failed to calculate into his equation was the 12 foot stationary wall of glass 2 feet directly behind him.

 “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”

Markie shot like the Apollo 7 launched a few days ago and flew backwards crashing through the glass wall. Up to this point, the 12-year-old had proven to be pretty indestructible (he had bested pits, and arrows, and ropes and hampers and lived through Salton Sea, but this time he was no match for the tremendous force of this fatal impact. The plate glass shattered spraying shards and fragments throughout the entire recreation room adjacent to the pool. 

Laying bent over the couch, which was just inside the room behind the glass panel– Markie straddled the galls wall - half in and half out of the room. Thankfully, shock had immediately set in and Markie felt no pain, but neither was his brain capable of  processing the severity of the accident! It wasn’t until he tried to stand up by hoisting himself off the couch that he saw the pointed top of glass, which had been protruding through his left thigh.  

Pushing up off the couch, he staggered to his feet as the glass ripped open his entire leg. 

Blood 

Bone

Blood

Muscle

Blood

Looking down into the middle of his leg, Markie laid down on the cold deck where blood mixed with water and tried to hold his dangling appendage together. He told the other kids a joke to ease their pain and to help Ralph with his guilt. Slipping into unconsciousness he told Kjersten to call home… “EXbrook 8 - 0466” he told his baby sister not sure whether she knew the number.  Closing his eyes, he quietly slipped away  whispering the "dying" prayer Sister Edith Mary taught his 7th grade class.

Crying and hysterical, Kjersten made the call and waited for what seemed like an hour after Chewbacca put down the receiver and had kicked Flea Bait in the butt.   

Feeling helpless, Tommy Blaser and Annie Lennon cried, having absolutely no idea what to do. Things like this just didn't happen at the Lennon or the Blaser house, so this was new for them.

Meanwhile, Ralph was useless. He just walked around in circles crying and talking to himself as if he testifying about his innocence in a court of law.  Either that or he figured that if his excuse was good enough, he could buy some time out of  purgatory, not to mention the guilt he was feeling - having had something to do with the murder of his best friend. 

 "Be nice to each other, while you have the chance. You might not get another one."    Markie D   5th grade