Tales of Rock – Bon Scott

Ronald Belford “Bon” Scott (9 July 1946 – 19 February 1980) was a Scottish-Australian singer and songwriter, best known for being the primary lead vocalist and lyricist of the Australian hard rock band AC/DC from 1974 until his death in 1980.[1]

Scott was born in Forfar, Scotland, and raised in Kirriemuir, before moving to Melbourne with his family in 1952 at the age of six. They lived in the suburb of Sunshine for four years before moving to Fremantle.[1] Scott formed his first band, The Spektors, in 1964 and became the band’s drummer and occasional lead vocalist. He performed in several other bands including The Valentines and Fraternity before replacing Dave Evans as the lead singer of AC/DC in 1974.[1]

AC/DC’s popularity grew throughout the 1970s, initially in Australia, and then internationally. Their 1979 album Highway to Hell reached the top twenty in the United States, and the band seemed on the verge of a commercial breakthrough. However, on 19 February 1980, Scott died after a night out in London. AC/DC briefly considered disbanding, but the group recruited vocalist Brian Johnson of the British glam rock band Geordie. AC/DC’s subsequent album, Back in Black, was released only five months later, and was a tribute to Scott. It went on to become the second best-selling album in history.[1]

In the July 2004 issue of Classic Rock, Scott was rated as number one in a list of the “100 Greatest Frontmen Of All Time” ahead of Freddie Mercury and Robert PlantHit Parader ranked Scott as fifth on their 2006 list of the 100 Greatest Heavy Metal Vocalists of all time.[3]

 

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Duncan – Touchdown – Part 1

“Whenever his plane lands he always texts me the signal: “Touchdown.” I know he’s landed in Philly and the fun is about to begin. But in that moment I didn’t realize how his phrase would ring true this fateful weekend.”

Duncan had planned on coming into town to visit me. It had been a while since we’d hung out. But this was a very special weekend. He was turning 50 and the Philadelphia Eagles were playing in the Super Bowl.

Whenever his plane lands he always texts me the signal: “Touchdown.” I know he’s landed in Philly and the fun is about to begin. But in that moment I didn’t realize how his phrase would ring true this fateful weekend.

My schedule has changed since he last was up here in Philly. I work every day and only get every other Saturday off. I don’t mind because I love to work and stay busy. We’ve got two businesses to run and this blog’s not going to write itself.

While I was walking into work today, I realized that even though we don’t see each other very often, Duncan is my very best friend. We’ve known each other for 20 years.

He later rolls into the salon on Friday afternoon. It’s great to see him. He walks up to me and practically jumps into my arms.

I give him the tour of the gym and salon. It’s been over a year since he’s seen it. The last time he was here the space was an empty husk of a fallen restaurant. Now it’s a busy tanning salon with a personal training fitness center up front. We’ve come a long way since then. He’s impressed.

We takes a seat in the waiting area and we chit-chat. This time together gives us a chance to catch up on what’s happening in each other’s lives. It’s been slow at the salon so we can talk. Duncan also likes all of the young attractive women that come in to tan. It’s like an endless pageant of beauty.

I get a couple of cheese steaks and sodas delivered and we happily munch them, while bringing each other up to date. We discuss current events, business, work, the women in our lives, and most of all Super Bowl LII.

When I finish we decide to go to Duncan’s favorite bar at the Ritz Carlton. He stayed there last year and we loved it. I got him a more modern and less expensive room at the Hotel Palomar at 17th and Sansom. But there’s no bar that looks like what’s at the Ritz Carlton. It’s a vast space with high ceilings surrounded by pillars. It’s like you’re having a drink at a beautiful white marble bar in ancient Rome. (But with all the modern amenities) If you ever get to Philly, check it out.

We park it at the bar and Duncan goes for his favorite: Rum, Bailey’s and Cream. It’s like a White Russian but more like a milkshake for adults. I like my drinks with a touch of evil so I go for the Manhattan, Bulliet Rye, Sweet Vermouth and brandied cherries. A lethal and elegant classic cocktail.

We get into it. We’ve been friends for 20 years. We know basically everything about each other. But there’s always new material. Stuff you know, but we go for the deeper dive. We both have issues with our parents. Who doesn’t our age? Especially boys.

We agree that the only way we could have moved forward in our lives was to forgive them and embrace all of the great things they did. Not dwell on the horrific things they did to us growing up.

We used to just listen to heavy metal and go to concerts and eat and party in the old days.

We relive those days of simple joy. Building our time together around concerts, meals, drinks, drugs and fun. But now we’re both men in middle age that have held our friendship through truth and our common interests. But mostly growing up in the same era and loving all of the same things.

The pain we suffered growing up has always been there, but tonight in middle age we let loose and agree to forgive. My gentle friend’s childhood was way worse than mine. Our parents were so good to us and they did the best they could, but why the violence against us?

Nothing good came from any of that. It was all just an emotional and physical release for them to escape from their own pain and frustration. None of our sisters knew this, but the sons did. The humiliation. The beatings. It was awful.

How could you do that to a child. By today’s standards, it is a 911 call.

I know my best friend’s life was worse than mine. There is always someone who’s had it worse than you.

I Love Duncan and treasure him as my distant best friend. We are always connected even though there are miles between us.

Our cylinders run an engine of friendship that transcends time and space. Business, values, marriage, relationships, philosophy, politics. comedy, film, Star Wars, comics, music. Everything. I just adore him.

20 years. You can’t build that without your ups and downs but there’s love there. It’s something we both have wanted our entire lives. I met my very best friend 20 years ago through the banking industry.

You never know when you’re going to meet a best friend. Sometimes you don’t even know who they are when you have them. But you open your eyes one day in this fleeting life and there they are 20 years later and you are just as you were when you first started.

You love all of the same stuff. There’s a little bit of new stuff, but the vein runs through it and it is pure. That’s your guy. He gets you. He knows your secrets and all of your fuck ups and weaknesses and he hangs in there anyway.

You can tell him anything and he won’t ever judge you. That’s a friend. He has all of his shit, and you have yours. You have both taught each other to forgive those that have hurt you. They only were doing the best they could with what they had.

They’re lives were so much harder than ours. Their parents came from a harder place and were even more ignorant than we are. But we’re the next generation and we love them. They did so many great things and that outweighs most of the awful mistakes that they made with us.

 

I’m plowing Manhattan’s and Duncan is destroying his White Russians like he’s John Bonham. Then for the first time in our 20 year relationship we finally dig into the darkness.

The agonizing pain of our childhoods and how ignorant our parents were. I describe what happened to me and with Duncan I feel safe in telling him what my childhood was like.

Then he describes incidents from his childhood and I am horrified and tears come to my eyes because I can’t imagine that happening to my friend.

It’s way worse than any of my punishments and almost seem like a call to child services would have been in order back then.

But as awful as it all is as we laugh and throw our cocktails back we discuss forgiveness and understanding. We both realize where our parents were in their lives back then. Where they came from and how far they came with all of us kids.

It was a different time back then and they didn’t know any better. They really did a lot of great things. Fantastic things for us kids, but there were moments where they made missteps that marked us forever.

They could never have foreseen the long-term effect on how what they gave us would propel us into greatness, but in that same moment, provide a weight, a nearly disabling weight that could destroy us in the same moment.

Some of their children would prevail and soar high and clean. Others would crawl from the wreckage of their upbringing broken and fragile, but would still find their way.

Maybe these birds cast from the nest would find their way and eventually fly back to the nest and rescue their own parents from their on demise.

Simply as an act of kindness.

Because they had become good people.

They were able to take the best of what they learned from their parents, and forgive the worst. Learn from it and be the best people they could be.

That’s my Duncan.

It’s late and we’re elated but wiped out. The bill comes and it’s $200. My God.

Duncan pays it.

I feel a twinge of regret but he insists. The weekend is only getting started and I’m stupid happy to see him.

I love Duncan. Our history is so rich, we could write a phicklphilly book just about our stories. (I probably will)

Our friendship has aged beautifully. Middle age hasn’t been kind to any of us, but we’re still tight as super glue. Our friendship has transcended time and space. We still love and hate all of the same stuff together. Now we’re in our fifties and I would love nothing more than to sit beside my dear friend watching whatever new Star Wars incarnation Disney can create and be happy.

We just want to share a moment, a drink, and a laugh.

We’ll do more than that this weekend, but for now… I’m just happy to have him in my life after all of this time.

 

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Sun Stories: Aishah – The Wages of Fear – Chapter 2

A few days go by and once again lovely Aishah returns. Of course I remember her name and I greet her and make a fuss over her. I ask her how school is going and what’s up for the holiday. She says she’s going home to see her folks in North Jersey then off to Costa Rica for the winter break.

I send her to the Cadillac in room 6 this time. Let’s see what happens this time.

A few minutes pass and the bed lid squeaks closed. The bulbs light and her session had begun. I’m doing my thing around the salon and I’m coming out from the back room with some towels when I hear the familiar squeak of the hood on the Caddy, (We call it the Cadillac because when it’s closed it looks like the front of an old Caddy.

OPEN

CLOSED

The bed must be open or at least partially for that much light to stream forth from the room. I decide to ask her if everything’s okay with the unit when she comes out.

A few minutes later and hot Aishah appears. She’s waving goodbye and I motion her over. I gotta find out what’s going on.

“Aishah, got a sec?”

She nods smiling, she approaches. “Yea. What’s up?”

“I noticed when you’re in tanning during your session, a lot of light is coming out of the room. It’s as if the hood of the bed is open. Do you have any questions about the machines?”

I see a nervous fear wash across her lovely visage. She takes a deep breath and drops her gaze to the floor.

“You alright?”

Aishah looks back up at me. “I’m so embarrassed. You’re going to think I’m crazy. It’s so silly.”

“We’re all professionals here. Whatever is happening I’m sure I can help. What’s up?”

“Okay. Here goes… I have really bad claustrophobia. Like… really bad.”

“Okay. That’s more common than you’d think. Please don’t be embarrassed about it, dear.”

“It’s just an awful feeling. Like, I know I really need to tan, so I go in and breathe and lie on the bed and just wait. I try to stay calm. The bulbs come on, and I slowly close the lid. I try to just chill and breathe. I try to think of anything else, but in a few minutes I start to really panic. Like trembling with fear. I have to push the hood up immediately just so I can breathe.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry Aishah. That’s why you don’t do the stand up units.”

“Oh no! That’s an even smaller space. I could never. I’d run out of the room.”

“Well between now and the next time you come in maybe we can think of some ideas to get you tan and not scare the hell out of you in doing so!”

“That would be nice. I’ll try to come up with something as well. I’m so claustrophobic I don’t even like how I feel when I close and lock the doors on the room. It’s like I’m locked in a tiny room and then in a box with the lid closed. It feels like I’m being buried alive in a crypt.”

“Holy shit. That is scary!”

“Yea, it really is. If I ever had to go into one of those MRI machines I’d jump out a window! But I do feel better talking to you about it though. (takes my hand in hers) I really appreciate you taking the time to ask me if I was okay. That really means a lot to me.”

“Yea. Don’t worry. We’ll come up with something to help make you feel better.”

“Okay. Well until next time. (She smiles weakly and walks out the door.)

 

This poor girl. I never thought about it before but that’s a new one for me. I’ve heard people say that they do get a little claustrophobic in the stand ups. But not this bad where some one is literally having a panic attack. I kind of like cozy places. Probably because of my anxiety and depression. To be in a small womb like space. It always feels safer to me. Just the opposite for poor Aishah. She feels trapped like a frightened animal in a cage.

We’ll figure something out. We always do. I need to do some research.

 

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Wildwood Daze – Winter of 1979 – Tools of the Trade

I think because I was doing well in school and they had failed me as parents in my obvious musical upbringing and had handed over their money to Mr. Buckwalter to teach my sister Janice piano lessons so she could please my dad and not be able to play a fucking note they had no choice.

I started to think about buying a real guitar. I was excited about the notion of getting a REAL guitar. Obviously this rock and roll thing was sticking and I needed a proper instrument. Jim had a Fender Stratocaster and it was a good guitar but it was brown and sensible. A Gibson Les Paul was simply too heavy and way too expensive.

I wanted something that would define me as a rock star. I wanted something else. Everybody played Fender, Gibson, Yamaha, Guild, and whatever boring guitars were out there. A Gibson Explorer crossed my mind but looked too bulky. A Dean looked too much like everything else.

One day I was reading Creem or Circus magazine, (Other than Rolling Stone, they were the two leading music mags of the time) I saw Paul Stanley from the band Kiss playing and interesting looking axe. The way it looked really touched something in me.

Yes. That was the guitar for a future rock star.

I had to have that.

A 1979 Black Ibanez Iceman. Double humbucker pickups. Rosewood neck, and a sexy young body. Just like the girls I liked. That hook. That stinger. Yes!

I had to have that guitar.

Jim had introduced me to a guy that gave guitar lessons in town. He was an older dude who’s father owned a storefront down on Pacific avenue when that meant something. It was a radio and TV repair store. A dusty old place that felt like it’s time had come and gone.

I was surprised how many people Jim knew at his tender age, but he was a seeker and was always thirsty for knowledge. He somehow found Charlie Billaris the son who was this great guitar player back in the day.

He introduces me to Charlie and he’s a really nice older guy. (Now when I say older, I mean back then, late twenties because we were so young) He had been teaching Jim some songs and I thought he was cool.

We would sit in this old store full of old TV’s and radios and just jam. It was beautiful and primitive. He had taught Jim and I wanted some of that. I think I would give him ten bucks and he would teach me songs by Led Zeppelin and basic blues runs.

Charlie was a great guitar player. He had once played in a band called 12 Gauge years ago but they never made it and now he worked in his dad’s shop. I wondered how a guy that was this good had never gone forward to pursue music full-time. But he was married now with a baby and had already been burned out from the circuit. I assured that would never happen to me. I was going to be a rock star like Joe Perry and become a great songwriter.

“Charlie.”

“Yea, man.”

“How can Keith Richards be such drug addict and still perform and make great records with the Stones?”

“When you got it… you got it.”

That was his only answer. He was right. Simple and complete. He was older. He knew stuff.

He taught me so much. I got better. I started to really understand my little Silvertone guitar so much better. Under Charlie I wrote better more melodic songs and was really coming along as a guitar player. I wanted it so bad it was coming on fast. My mind was starving for rock and I just breathed it all in. I would go home and learn the songs and keep writing and playing non stop in my room.

One day Jim and I were at Charlie’s house just hanging out and jamming. Jim starts talking about how I was thinking about getting a REAL guitar.

I tell Charlie the guitar I’m dreaming about.

“I can get you that. But I have to go to New York to get that baby. She’s rare.”

I had to clear that whole transaction with my parents because it would be my entire savings from working as a busboy all summer at the Dolphin restaurant for this guitar.

I think because I was doing well in school and they had failed me as parents in my obvious musical upbringing and had handed over their money to Mr. Buckwalter to teach my sister Janice piano lessons so she could please my dad and not be able to play a fucking note they had no choice.

It was money I had earned being a busboy so they technically couldn’t say shit. I’m doing my homework. I’m excelling as a student. I’m not getting into trouble. I’ve somehow adjusted to this nightmare I’ve been dropped off into so let me do what I want with my money.

I gave Charlie $250 to go get the guitar of my dreams in New York City. That seemed like a world away back then.

A week later I get a call from him and he says he’s back and he has her.

I call Jim. We have to go together to collect my dream!

We walk out to Charlies house and I’m excited and apprehensive. This is the biggest purchase of my life and it’s tied to my greatest love of all time. MUSIC!

We knock on his door and his wife answers. (Lisa was a hot little blonde. Just saying….musicians pull sweet tail)

We go in and Charlie comes out. We’re nervous and excited because we both are anticipating what’s supposed to happen. We sit down and he offers us both a beer. We’re teenage boys so of course we’re going to respect and accept but we’re not really drinkers. (Yet… Me. Not Jim)

We’re nursing out beers trying to be cool during this watershed moment in my young life. Then he brings out this black rectangle flight case and lays it on the sofa like a coffin. My mind can’t comprehend what’s inside of that box.

“Go ahead. Open the case.” Charlie’s wife is smiling.

I set my beer down and go to the flight case. I unsnap the buckles and locks on the case. I slowly raise the lid.

Tears fill my eyes.

There she is!

That’s my new axe! That’s my girl! That’s going to be what will carry me forth in rock and heavy metal in my future. I already feel that I am going to go beyond Wildwood and everything in my worthless anxiety filled life with her!

On the little box inside the case where you keep your picks, slide and other cool goodies I decorated it with twin skulls, a little scarab and a miniature Iceman pin!

This IS Rock and Roll. I have arrived on life’s stage as a musician. A worthless nothing with depression and anxiety has taken a step to strap on an elegant guitar to make great music for the world and be a star!

I remember my eyes not being able to accept the instrument before me. The possibilities with Jim. The songs we would write. The incredible jams. The songs we would play together on stage. Everything was coming together for me. My dreams were coming true!

I told Charlie I had the other half of the money in my account. (That guitar cost $500 in 1979. That’s a shitload of cash for a busboy back then. That’s basically all I made that summer) He is hesitant to let her go, but his wife intercedes.

“They’re good boys. Let him take it.” (Is she into me?)

I promise to bring Charlie the difference tomorrow, and they let Jim and I leave with my brand new battle-axe.

I had to stop two times on the way home and open up the case and just look at her again because she was so beautiful. She was the most beautiful guitar I had ever seen and I couldn’t believe she was mine. Having this guitar and looking upon her was like taking little Terri to Star Wars and kissing her for the first time and feeling what love was.

It was just an amazing time stopping moment to stand under the street light at 22nd and Central with my best friend and favorite guitarist and open that case and look at that guitar.

It reminded me of when I was there when my mom first saw the shore house completely remodeled by my dad.

“Oh Hoss… this is too nice for us.” my mother said.

This was too nice for us. But I’m an overachiever and this is the perfect guitar for me.

I have arrived.  I just hope Jim and I can make the band work out.

Here’s an amusing footnote: The Ibanez Iceman that brought me years of joy upon acquiring it cost me a whopping $500 in 1979. An incredible instrument!

A friend of mine recently sent me this….

Nice investment that I’d like to be buried with.

Oh, and still rocking out today…

Here’s a song I used to love to listen to at the beach in the summer of 79. Great pop song and solo.

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Maria – Chapter 6 – She Has Returned To Me

After my successful coffee meet up a few weeks ago with my muse. I told her to come in for a tanning session before she goes to Florida.

“Thanks for meeting me for coffee today. It was great seeing you! I’ll get you a link to my blog. See you Saturday!”

“Yesss coffee was good. Thanks! See ya then! Send me the addy so I don’t get lost lol.”

I send her the link to my blog. This is so exciting. The girl who inspired me to write again will get to read about herself on the very platform that she inspired!

Saturday rolls around and I’m working at the salon.

“What time are you in today?”

“11 to 5”

I love that Maria is coming in to tan. She comes in and we chit-chat. It’s always great to see her and talk to my muse. She wants to get a base for her trip to Florida. She buys a 5 pack which is great because she can do a couple of sessions before her trip and use the rest to maintain her color when she gets back. (And I get to see her 4 more times!)

She does her session and heads out. I figure that would be it. She’d pop in occasionally and brighten my day. I was satisfied just having coffee with her last week. Just to reconnect with her and actually hang out with her was brilliant.

But a few weeks pass and I’m sitting at my desk at home writing. It was probably around midnight when her text comes in.

“Hey Charles, I know you said you don’t do social media. Not sure if you keep up with the news but the restaurant where I work is closed down for a few months due to the fire next door. We are not only taking money donations but any donation to be raffled would be raffled would be greatly appreciated.”

Of course I’m going to spring into action. Maria needs my help!

“I read about the fire in the news and immediately thought of you. What can we do to help? What will you do financially? Are you available to meet up to discuss this week?”

“Def sucks. I’m waiting to hear back from a couple of places. Anything honestly. We can since I have so much time now.”

“Alright. I’m going to hit up all my contacts up to get you some shifts. Can you meet up on Monday at noon?”

“Yea I’ll take anything. I babysat tonight. Just trying to be optimistic. Yeah I can do that.”

“I’ve placed a few friends in jobs. I’m so sorry this happened. I’ll start making calls tomorrow. Meet me at Cavanaugh’s Rittenhouse Monday at noon.”

“Sounds like a plan. They are actually donating to the raffle.”

“Okay I’ll talk to my partner at the salon as well. Come in and tan if you want today. I’ll be there from 11 to 4, if not see you Monday at Cav’s. I’m sure we can find you something!”

“Awesome. I really hate asking for any help honestly. I’m going to Chop tomorrow to visit my relative, but yea def Monday. Thanks again Charles!”

“I’m on it. I’ll call everybody I know in the hospitality industry to help you. No worries.”

The next day I send her a bunch of names and places she can apply. She’s very grateful. I tell her not to worry if some of the spots I send her are places she’s not interested in. She can pick and choose what places she thinks she’d like work. I’ll just keep sending. I’m just happy to help her.

Monday I’m sitting at my table in the back of Cavanaugh’s. Maria rolls in and as usual I am delighted to see her.

Maria always looks beautiful.

I feel bad for her misfortune but it wasn’t anything she did that’s put her in this predicament. The building next door to where she works burned down! It may be months before they open again.

I order my usual Monday special the 1/2 off cheese steak. Maria goes with the turkey burger.

We talk about her current situation. I tell her I’ll keep asking around to all of my contacts in the industry. I also tell her that I’ll get her a gift card to the salon that she can raffle off. She’s happy about that. She’s really been working hard to raise money for their event.

I ask her when it is and she tells me they are having it on Sunday. I tell her I can’t attend because I have to work that day. But if she sends me the link to where I can buy a ticket, I’ll purchase one just to make a donation to support her cause.

Maria is stressed about being three months away from graduating from college with her degree in Marketing, and now she has to find another server job to pay the bills. There’s also her relative that’s in Children’s Hospital. That and her own stomach disorders. Poor thing!

I can relate with all my stomach disorders. So at least we have that in common and can discuss our challenges.

She tells me more about this guy that’s she’s dating. He’s one of the managing partners of the restaurant where she worked. Okay, I know they say never shit where you eat, or don’t dip your pen in the company’s ink. But we’ve all done it. You spend a great deal of your waking hours with your co-workers. You all have a common goal and share the same mission in your daily lives. It’s very common for there to be workplace romance.

But an owner and a server? That doesn’t sit right with me. He has the power to fire her at anytime. I’m not saying that would happen. But she’s entered into a romantic relationship that if it goes badly, could put her in the unemployment line.

There’s no harassment suit because she entered into that relationship as a willing partner.

But it’s none of my business. She’s an adult and a survivor. She’s tough and she’ll figure it out. I respect that about her.

Then she tells me an interesting story. She said she wrote in to some online publication about her relationship with this gentleman. They actually changed her name to ‘Kristen” and published it. She wants to share it with me.

I get really excited at the prospect of publishing the story on Phicklephilly. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve posted a dating story by one of my followers on this blog. But not by my muse! Not a dating story by the girl who inspired me to create this blog. That’s internet gold to me. I’m honored to publish something Maria wrote!

So if she sends me the link, I’ll post it in the next installment of this little saga.

After lunch, (Of course I pay, and I really want to because my friend is not working. Girl’s gotta eat!) we walk along Sansom street. I’m looking at her, with the tawny highlights in her luxurious dark mane. I’m listening to her words and I’m happy just to be walking down the street with Maria.

She’s going to stop in at Harp and Crown and see if they’re hiring. I’ve got to get to the salon. We promise to text later about what we spoke about and I wish her luck.

We hug and off she goes. I turn and head down 16th street. I light a post lunch/Maria encounter celebratory cig and smile in the afternoon sun.

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day at 8am & 12pm EST.

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Sun Stories: Trish – Crash and Burn

When we last left our hero he was forced to go in and run the salon after Trish simply didn’t show up for work. He had plans with Cherie after 3pm that day and needed to do some chores to prepare for her arrival. But Because of Trish’s disappearing act, he now had to change his plans. He was working at the salon when suddenly Trish burst through the front door.

“I’m so sorry…”

She’s visibly upset on the verge of tears. She runs to me and hugs me.

“What happened?”

“I was arrested last night.”

“What? How? Why?”

“Well, I’ve been feeling kind of fucked up lately in my life. I used to do a lot of coke when I was in college and I just felt like I needed a lift to do some artwork I was working on.”

(Sounds like my buddy, Johnny R. He has all of these thoughts in his head but feels like he needs to drink, do coke and/or do some Adderall to put pen to page. When in reality, he’s not much different than Trish. You don’t need any of that shit to create. You just need to create everyday. But neither of them can focus long enough to make anything of any significant value because they don’t do it consistently. Simple as that.)

“So what did you do?”

I called this hot black guy I met at Ray’s Birthday Bar a few weeks ago. I asked him if he had anything and he said come down to where he was. Normally I would ask the person to deliver it to my house so I didn’t have to go somewhere that I’m unfamiliar with.”

“So then what happened and why did you break your rule?”

“Because he was really good looking.”

“Ahh… Trish yields to beauty! I can relate. So then what?”

“I ride my bike down to where he is and he tells me he has to go in some bar and get it. He asks me to come in but I tell him I’ll wait outside. After a bit, he comes out and we make the exchange.”

“So what happened next?”

“He goes back inside the bar and I start pedaling home on my bike and some guy gets out of his car and tells me to stop.”

“Was he dressed like a policeman?”

“No. But you could tell he was a cop. You just know. I’m like… What the fuck? The dude shows me his badge and they place me under arrest for conspiracy to commit a crime and possession of an illegal controlled substance.

“Whoa…”

“Yea, they also pinch the dude I bought it from. Apparently it’s his second offense so he’ll probably get sent up the river for three to five.”

“Why do I suddenly feel like I’m on some TV cop show?”

“So that’s where I’ve been for the last eighteen hours. In the can.”

“That sucks. This was supposed to be your last day here too. I’ve already taken your shift. You’re probably in no shape to work today.”

“Yea. Is it okay if I just hang out and help a bit?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’m going to go get my bike. I’ll probably UBER down to South Philly later and retrieve it… if it’s still there.”

So Trish cleaned a few beds, and later left to get her bicycle. She returned saying that she was happy the bike hadn’t been stolen or vandalized and that this had been a wake up call for her. She did some sweeping at the end of the shift and she an I walked back to our building in Rittenhouse.

I felt bad for Trish, although Achilles would later simply call her an asshole or a crackhead for not showing up for her shift and not calling or texting. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time Friday night. Think of how much cocaine was bought and sold and consumed last night in this city. She hadn’t bought coke since she was in college. Here she was at nearly 28 years old and gets pinched the first time she tries to get some again.

She took several Saturday’s off and I covered her shifts when she was shooting a pilot for a TV show. It was supposed to be a reality show about hot girls searching for the paranormal in Gettysburg, PA. That sounds like a load of shit, but if Trish were on a show and she was wearing hot outfits, I’d watch it.

But the pilot got made and the actors never got paid, and to me it was a waste of time. The purveyors got their pilot done and got free help to be in it. They will shop it around to some networks and if it never gets picked up that’ll be the end of it. Trish never sees a dime and is actually out more money because she took time off from work and the costs associated with getting to and from Gettysburg.

Now she’ll have a criminal record. I’m sure for a first offense she’ll get a slap on the hand, a fine, and have to take some NA classes but that’ll be it. Maybe she can even get it expunged from her record in the future.

Trish didn’t want me to write about this, but it happened. It happened on her very last day at the salon. She blew it with a single bad decision. I’m simply writing about what happened on the day I was supposed to be off and spend time with my beloved. My girlfriend who I never get to see as much as I would like to and had to tell Cherie to push back our union. No, you can’t come and see me at 3pm. I don’t care what arrangements you’ve had to make with your family, your job or your son, because Trish fucked up. But when people make bad decisions they never realize how it will affect the people around them. That’s why they are who they and why they are where they are in their lives. I need to leave those people behind to wallow in their failure.

Trish still can come to the apartment and hang with my daughter, Lorelei, and I’ll be civil. But she fucked me and Achilles and the salon. And for that, we are done with her.

But the saga is not over yet.

 

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day at 8am & 12pm EST.

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Sun Stories: Trish – Critical Mass

“Today was supposed to be her last day at the salon and no one knows where she is.”

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen my love, Cherie. But we’re accustomed to that with what our schedules are. We appreciate what little time we can spend together. We make every minute count.

Cherie planned to come down on Saturday around 3pm and stay until 8:30am Sunday morning. I thought this was good, because I could at least have dinner with her or take her out somewhere, before we went back to the bat cave and tore each other to pieces.

I wake up Saturday morning. I stayed up late the night before because I knew it was my first day off in a while and I wanted to sleep in. I could take myself out to a nice breakfast, put some fresh sheets on the bed, prepare my bedroom for the inevitable and run some errands before Cherie arrived at 3pm.

I’m lying in bed and I look at my phone. Achilles had called. Achilles also texted me.

“Do you know if Trish went to work?”

(Okay, Trish is my neighbor who lives in the apartment below me. I got her the job at the salon, but how in the hell am I supposed to know if she went to work today?)

“I’m assuming she did.”

I text Trish. “Hey can you see if I left my charger there? It would be plugged in under the counter.”

(That was just a ruse to see if she was there. I didn’t want her to think I was checking up on her.)

Achilles: “No answer at the salon.”

Me: “Fuck.”

“I’ll head over there now. But I’ll need about 30 minutes.”

I jump out of bed and into the shower. I’m dressed and out the door 30 minutes later. I speed walk over to the salon and when I get there I see four people sitting on the steps and the salon is locked and dark. One of them is the new girl I’ve been training, Jill.

I tell everybody I’m sorry for the today’s delay, but I can get them all in to tan right now. Jill is obviously upset. She had just come in to tan when she saw the place was locked. It’s nearly 1pm now. We’ve lost 2 hours worth of business, and there’s been no word from Trish.

“I was so worried when I texted you and didn’t hear anything.” Jill said.

“I wouldn’t have heard my phone, Jill. I was rushing to get over here to see what happened.”

I get everybody, including Jill, into their respective rooms to tan. I’ve got everything under control. But still no word from Trish. I roll with the notion of what’s happened around in my mind. I no longer consider Trish a friend. I tried that but I can’t take the crazy, so I’ve stopped hanging out with her. But she’s a sweet person and she comes up to the apartment all of the time and hangs out with my daughter, Lorelei. So I decide that whatever circumstances have caused Trish to miss work I’m not going to be angry, because I don’t want it to be weird when she comes over to see my daughter, or worse I don’t want her to feel bad that she can’t come up to the apartment anymore.

Trish has been expressing for the last two months that she’s tired of working in customer service. She’s a 27-year-old graphic artist. I think her own mind is what’s been holding her back from getting and keeping a real job in her field of endeavor. Which is sad. Here you have all of this talent and it’s being squandered on a daily basis. I can actually smell her talent being sledgehammered by the familiar stench of marijuana smoke that I experience everyday as it wafts up through the floor into my apartment. Morning and at night. (So she’s using to simply get through each day instead of for fun. If you want to use to create that’s great, but if you use to just leave the house and deal with life, that’s a problem.

I like to drink. I love alcohol. But I do it at the end of the day, when all the work is done. Trish has to smoke weed just to leave the house everyday. That coupled with the oceans of coffee she drinks on a daily basis to cope with the dope. She really should be on some sort of cocktail of medication and in therapy at this point. It’s very clear to me.

Something that should be enjoyed and used as a treat has been a coping mechanism for her. It’s the same for the person that needs to take a drink in the morning to “take the edge” off the day. They’re called alcoholics.

Up till now I haven’t cared about her burning up her talent and watching it go up in a puff of smoke at the end of a joint. But I brought her into the salon.  Now after a year she’s fucking up. That, or returning to her true self. When we hired her last year, the busy season was over. The job was easy then. But now we are being overwhelmed by the clients and business In general. You have to run the salon. You can’t let it run you. We’ve gotten a bad Yelp review recently because of her. Clients have complained of late openings and a bad attitude around closing. Trish shouldn’t work with the general public. She can’t handle the fast paced environment of a busy salon.

Achilles would send me in to help few nights lately. Instead of working like a well oiled unit like Summer and I did, I do all the running and Trish takes her foot off the gas and takes it easy. That’s not how it works.

So that’s why we’ve brought in Jill. She has previous salon experience, and I could see from day one that she would probably work out. Poor Trish just doesn’t have the temperament to work with people.

So the situation we find ourselves in today was supposed to be her last day and no one knows where she is.

Jill comes out from tanning and asks if she can do anything to help and says if I have plans she can work today, because she has nothing going on. I tell her I’m good, and hand her a shopping list for her to go to Wawa and get me some food because I’m going to be here until 6pm.

Oh shit! Cherie is coming at 3pm! I text her and tell her we’ve had a crisis at the salon and I have to work until 6pm. Of course as wonderful and flexible as Cherie is, she is fine with it and tells me she’ll come down at 7pm. I apologize and thank her for being understanding. So Trish’s whatever has fucked up the plans of some innocent people, so she better have a good excuse for bailing on work  on her final day and not even telling anyone what was going on.

Cherie is a mother, and has to make babysitting arrangements when she comes into the city to see me. I feel bad if that’s causing my girlfriend stress and money because of someone else’s fuck up.

Suddenly Trish comes blazing through the door to the salon.

“I’m so sorry…”

She’s visibly upset on the verge of tears.

“What happened?”

“I was arrested last night.

To Be Continued…

 

 

Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day at 8am & 12pm EST.

Instagram: @phicklephilly            Facebook: phicklephilly      Twitter: @phicklephilly