Out of the Gutter Art

Author: ST Martin

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    Crossing the Mighty Mississipp…

    …wasn’t easy on foot, with a brindle boxer, calico kitten and Danny.

    Fortunately, before we got a few miles out of Fort Deposit, an 18-wheeler rolled onto the shoulder. Although my recollection was challenged by a bad case of the heebee-geebees at the time, and many years of hard knocks since, I recall a strange exchange of words. The skinny driver had one good eye and a drawl, and asked how we thought we’d get a ride with a stupid dog. Maybe he let us get in as a source of entertainment, but he let us all pile in. In retrospect, I’m sure he was jacked as high as 4 blue Aces; at the time we had no trepidation at all. Spice was all wiggly, wagging her stump of a tail and slobbering; she was quickly settled on the floorboard, while Binky burrowed further into my sweatshirt.

    °Z

    Danny wasn’t keen on leading conversations. He was a quiet, contemplative man. It had been less than a year since I’d gotten out of jail; he seemed content to exist in my orbit. I was quite a handful in those years before a proper diagnosis and medication regimen. Bipolar Disorder was previously known as Manic Depression, and my brain loved to latch onto the mania. (One of my nicknames was “Runs With Scissors”.) In this instance I was chatting my head off to our new trucker friend. We got underway, his truck shuddering as he skipped a gear or two pulling onto the interstate.

    The ride was rough, this was no tricked-out big truck. I forget what he was hauling, but I remember bouncing around the cab over the poorer sections of pavement. As the engine roared and belched, conversation became impossible. I dozed on Danny’s shoulder as the miles slowly crept past.

    Half a day later we rolled into a truck stop, gassing up before the Mississippi River Bridge. Our driver showed some extraordinary kindness. Buying a bunch of hot dogs, peanut butter and bread, we had a veritable feast. The temperature really dropped that night, and he made us get out while he slept a few hours. He may have been generous- he was also careful. Near daybreak he suggested we all stretch and use the restroom, as he wouldn’t be stopping for a while. He said something about “the bridge”; it really didn’t seem important at the time…we loaded up and held on.

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry!

    Cross Country: On the Fly…

    Escape Artist by Susan T Martin 2023

       I really dont want to make myself sound heroic…but then, again, I really do. I think I am, in the sense that I survived. The odds were definitely not on mine and Danny’s side, not even with his martial arts abilities and my athleticism and amazing wit. No, we were not favored to make it out of this situation. Our addiction was the biggest obstacle.

       If ever there were 2 humans inclined towards getting high, Danny and I were they. We lived just to escape the fact that we did. I knew that bucket of slop that lurked I my locked closet of memory, but I was not too certain what his closet contained. He spoke of childhood abuse in vague terms, a mean father who could break cinder blocks with his nether parts. A trick from the old Hungarian countryside, I presumed. I was really too stoned to see past my own misery, too selfish to feel pity for what he had been through. The world owed me, and I was going to steal what I could to get back at everyone.

       At the time of my leaving Palm City, I had been telling everyone that I was really Hank William’s daughter. By virtue of a blood transfusion when I was born, that by some magic, this had made me his offspring. I insisted to my Danny that we drive up to Alabama, to Hank’s hometown, where I would find my lost family. All we found was a bar where we spent our last few dollars.

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    chapter 2

    Sleep never came that night,

    and morning had our breath turning to steam in the frosty air. Dear Danny had laid across my freezing feet for the hours before dawn…I hadn’t left Palm City prepared for this experience. I was still resolute to keep heading west, car or no car. I had burned my last proverbial bridge, in my mind there was no turning back, no forgiveness left to beg. I had disappointed my parents for the last time.

    There had been so many second, third and fourth chances at a stable, successful life. This was my geographical cure, no real plan except to keep moving-as far away from consequences and reality as I could get. How does a person in the depths of delusional thinking reason on dire reality? How does one say to their own manic, unmedicated self that their decisions will lead to near death experiences. Danger and adrenaline were my beloved companions, more intensely now befriended than ever before. The discomfort of freezing and detoxing, in a tee shirt and shorts in the bushes by a highway was less important that being the coolest person I knew. “Go West young woman!”

    Westward Ho! Westward Hoe?

       As dawn broke we tried to consolidate our belongings, and, while unbagging this and bagging that, I donned more layers of clothes. I put on a pair of Danny’s jeans and an old concert tee-shirt.

       I was at my 23 year old finest in those days. A year in the county lock-up had left me many hours as a trustee to watch “The Body Electric” Aerobics program, and follow along with my cell-mate Sally. On our breaks in the exercise yard I had run in circles around the yard for the hour, minus some time to slip notes to Danny thru the chain link fence. He was a carpenter on the new jail annex, and my former fiancé had quit taking my calls months before. Upon my release on Christmas eve of ’87, it was only hours before Danny and I shared a joint and a passionate kiss. He was a sandy-blonde, tanned, 3rd degree black belt in Jui Jitsu, and a yellow belt in Taekwondo. Looking at old photos now he looked like a pot-smoking, rough cut Patrick Swayze. He was very kind, and gentle, with the oddest habit of falling asleep at random moments when doing so was wholly inappropriate! But, alas, I have veered into the weeds in my story…