No Niggers Allowed (Two innocent stories about race)

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Story One
by Keith Lowell Jensen

I was seven years old. I was playing with my brother Erick in the backyard. This was 1979. Erick was, and is four years older than me. The neighborhood we grew up in was made up of about 50% Mexicans, 40% Whites and a sprinkling of Japanese, Samoan, and assorted other folk. There were two black families that I knew of, so when we saw an afro tall enough to clear our back wall go cruising by we knew that Duane was beneath it.

"Hey Keith" Erick whispered to me. "Go tell Duane that there are no niggers allowed in our backyard." My brother wasn't (and isn't) a racist, but he loved to stir shit up. I didn't know what a nigger was, but figured Duane should know that we had a spot free of them.

I climbed the fence and called out to Duane, "Hey Duane."

"What's up, Keith?" Duane answered. He was about the same age as Erick and had always treated me like I was his younger brother.

"There's no niggers allowed in our backyard." I told him.

"Is that right?" he asked, seeming to find this information comforting. "Say, is Erick back there with you?"

"Yup." Surely this was okay, as Erick couldn't possible be a nigger.

"Say Keith, you mind if I come back?"

Of course I didn't. I hopped down and opened the gate for Duane who thanked me and then calmly walked over to Erick who he began, methodically, to beat the crap out of.

I ran into the house where my mom was hosting a Parent Teacher Association meeting, a real rainbow gathering. I was almost in tears as I shouted the news to my mom. "Mom, mom, I think Erick's a nigger." I alarmed her, full of panic.

Mom was cool. She knelt down to me in front of many calm brown faces and a few shocked and worried white ones. She asked me if I knew what the word nigger meant. I did not. "It's a horrible word used to hurt black people, and if you love Duane and Richey and Lonnie you never want to use that word again. No you go play and tell your brother I'd like to see him."

It dawned on me then what Erick had put me up to. I ventured back into the backyard and took a seat with a good view of Duane jumping up and down on my brothers head.

Story Two
by Keith Lowell Jensen

My little brother James moved in with me in Sacramento. This was his first experience having his own place.

We didn't live in the best neighborhood but we got along pretty good. I brought a couple of beers over to the quiet Mexican man who lived next door to us, just to say hello. He was a cool mellow guy who said he couldn't come to our parties because his wife saw too many pretty girls going into our place. I laughed and hanging out with Art became a tradition.

James congratulated me on making friends with the king pin of the drug dealers that operated in our neighborhood. I couldn't believe it. Drug dealers don't have cute little wives who won't let them party. My friendship with Art meant the rest of the neighborhood welcomed us. We were part of a neighborhood watch program. They would watch each other steal shit from our downstairs neighbor, but they would warn each other off of messing with us. Had our downstairs neighbor not been such a uptight prick I might've introduced him to Art and let him buy the beers for a change.

We had a lot of homeless in the neighborhood, regulars. We knew them by name and we'd put our recyclables out for them. Gene even got Christmas presents from my girlfriend and I. He was just our neighbor who lived between the houses instead of in them. He watched out for my girlfriend when she walked to work early in the morning and he helped negotiate when when she bought me a dope bike for ten bucks from a crack head. Our buddies at the local punk rock house had a guy named Ramone move onto a couch that they left on their front porch and he would keep up on all the household gossip. He would even help them work out their differences when they'd have roommate tensions.

Some of the homeless were not so enjoyable. Like the guy who took off all his cloths, jumped in the lake and never came back up. Or the lady who came through one day with an out of proportion puppy that she was feeding beer and rotten milk to.

Little brother James decided to help out the dog. "Hey lady you can't be feeding that dog that shit."

"You gonna buy him something better." she asked.

"He aint my dog."

"Sure he is. Gimme ten dollars."

"No."

"Then shut up, and mind your own business." She went back to feeding the dog beer.

James didn't want to get in a fight with an old black lady. No matter how many beers I drank with the drug king, this would not fly. "Okay look, I'll give you five bucks, you give me the dog." he offered. The deal was made. The dog's name, the lady about to buy a five-dollar-rock informed James, was Indo.

I almost killed my brother. Indo sucked. Not only was his head way too big for his body, Indo crapped all over our house, wouldn't come when called, shredded the furniture and farted something awful. James worked and worked on teaching that dog something, anything. He walked it, and pet it and loved it, and Indo was happy. James and I were not.

One day James is walking Indo in the park across from our house and Indo gets loose. James chases him but Indo thinks it's a game and keeps running getting dangerously close to the street. James starts calling him. "Indo, come here. C'mon Indo." but Indo gets further and further away. "INDO!"

Two black pre-teens ask James why he's yelling Indo in the park, figuring this is not a smart way to find someone selling weed. "I'm calling my dog." he explains.

"That dog?" they ask. "That's our old dog. His name aint Indo."

"Well what's his name?"

"His name nigger." they answer.

"I CAN'T STAND IN THE PARK YELLING NIGGER!" James shouts, catching the attention of the crowd of guys who sit next to the basketball courts all day holding basketballs in their hands and drinking forties.

"We'll get him." and they start calling "Nigger" and Nigger comes running and happily jumps in their arms. They wrestle with him and play tag and then turn him over to James.

"Hey, if he's your dog you can take him." James offers.

"Hell no. That dog stinks."

James brings the dog upstairs. Weeks of frustration have taken their toll and James' eyes are looking moist.

"What's wrong dude?" I ask.

And James cries, "My Dog's Name is nigger!"




PS: The dog now lives with our friend Caroline. He still ugly as hell. His name is now JoJo the Dog Faced Boy.

"Moustaches are for perverts and child molesters." ...................................

"Moustaches are for perverts and child molesters." Michelle Pariset once informed me.

I was playing a role in a comedy skit requiring me to wear a mustache. I picked one from Broadway Costume's extensive collection of "Real Human Hair Mustaches," wondering where this real human hair came from. I knew there were better options than working for a living and I always kept an eye out for exciting new careers, like "Facial Hair Farmer." I took my real human hair and promptly glued it to my real human face. It was then that my whole world changed.

I'd discovered the wonders of instant pariah. I ventured into the video store to pick up The Best of COPS, which we were using in our skit. The hip young lady at the counter regarded me coldly, giving me a sneer as she looked at the title I was renting.

"This stuffs hilarious" I offered. Another sneer.

Suddenly thanks to the state of my upper lip I was not a down town scenester laughing at the Best of COPS but rather a hopeless square laughing with the Best of COPS.

My once cool retro duds were now just out of date wannabe wear.

My shaggy hair no longer represented my free spirit and lack of corporate employment but rather suggested an inability to let go of the glory days of my teenage years. All because of a wee bit of real human hair.

I took my video and headed toward home in my '71 VW bus. I gave the old peace sign to another bus along the way as is tradition between VW drivers. In response I got a look that suggested I belonged in a bitchin camaro. No return peace sign was offered. Stupid hippie.

Sitting at a stop sign by Faces, the local gay hot spot, I finally got some friendly hellos. More in fact than I'd gotten on any previous occasion when I'd found myself passing through the lavender part of town. I waved back and admired a few very well groomed mustaches myself before heading on my way.

Once home I found several messages from my partner in this skit, Kevin.

"Dude, the mustache has got to go. Everybody hates me. My kids hate me. I'm shaving."

Kevin had previously worn a full beard and shaved the bottom half to be in character. Why such a different reaction?

"The beard says Santa, or daddy." Kevin informs me, "The mustache says pimp."

I talked Kevin into keeping his 'stache for a few more days so we could finish our project and then I headed to the Gas and Go for some carbonation. The cop that hung out there all night every night, sipping Slurpies and explaining to the counter jockey how Sacramento cops were so underpaid said "Good evenin'" and then he gave me a nod. He'd never said a word to me before. I got in line. "Some great weather tonight eh?" Was he talking to me? This was too much. Did I belong to some strange fraternal order now?

"Watch out for those chili dogs, they'll get you." I warned my new found buddy and gave him a little pat on the tummy as I left the store.

Since this time I have worn a John Waters pencil mustache which caused little gay raver boys at Burning Man to offer drugs to all of my buddies but none to me. I've worn a fu-manchu which got me out of a speeding ticket. And since growing a mustache just like the fake one I'd glued on for the comedy skit my wife has left me, my dog wont be seen in public with me, and I've been excommunicated from the Jehovas Witness church despite the fact that I'd never even belonged to the Jehova's Witness church. Oh well, I have a fabulous new friend name Bruce and he's a fantastic dancer. And for some strange reasons most of the donut shops in town are giving me a discount?

Special Ed's Rocket Trip To The Moon ..................................................................

Play Part One

Play Part Two

I think I was about seven or eight years old when I took a rocket ride to the moon.

My brother Edward is two years older than me but you would've guessed he was more like four years older. In fact Edward was best friends with our brother Erick who is four years my senior and the two were often mistaken for twins. There was also John - the oldest, and James - the toddler.

This left me as the odd man out. Not that my age was my only issue. In large families, roles are assigned and can be serious business. John's role was as the oldest, the leader and he was the athlete of the family. Erick was the mechanic and the grump. Edward was the independent one. He's probably also one of the smartest people I've met. He did awful in school. He had a rough time with reading. It would later be discovered that he was dyslexic. Back then though, he just figured he was dumb. Edward was put in Special Ed which he proudly announced was named after him. I got the title of smart one. I didn't do much better in school but I tested well. One Saturday morning Edward proved how smart I was.

"Hey Keith, I made a rocket. Come check it out." he invited me into the back yard where he'd been busy throughout the morning cartoons.

Stepping into the back yard I spotted a large refrigerator box that Edward had crafted a snazzy rocket ship out of. It looked like a rocket The Little Rascals might have built, the kind of detailed work that real kids rarely pull off. He'd even put a sign on the side, "To Moon, or Bust."

"You want to go to the moon?" he asked.

Hell yes, I wanted to go to the moon. Edward was more likely to head into the hills to catch snakes and lizards than to play with me in the back yard, so I of seized the opportunity.

He opened the door he'd cut into one side of the rocket ship and as I climbed inside he carefully positioned me facing a window that he'd cut, allowing a view of our backyard. "10... 9... 8... 7... " he began the countdown. "5... 4... 3... " at this point he was shaking the rocket, and I was thrilled with the production he was making of this, all for my benefit. "2... 1... Blast off!" and with this I was turned ninety degrees to face a window he had drawn on in markers, depicting the earth as seen from space. Edward rocked the ship back and forth, maneuvering it about and warning that we'd better watch out for asteroids. I was turned another ninety degrees to find another window had been magic markered depicting a view of the moon, bigger than life, with craters and all. Edward thumped the side of the rocket and turned me sharply, one more time. I was now facing the door we'd entered through, on the back of which Edward had carefully drawn a moonscape, complete with a view of the earth shining in the sky.

I was expecting to jump through that door and be on the moon. This was up there with the greatest attractions at Disneyland. But Edward stopped me. "You're on the moon genius. Do you want your head to blow up? You have to depressurize." Yes. Of course. Depressurize. So Edward sat me down, slowly, precisely, and as I made contact with the ground, the soft squishy ground, I knew I had not landed on the moon. I knew instantly what had really been Edward's destination. I was fully aware that I had landed in a large of pile of German Shepherd poop, and that I had been delivered there by an expert pilot who was now falling backwards out of a refrigerator box rocketship laughing hysterically.

I reached down and easily tossed the box off of me. I began running to the house so that Mom could be informed of this great injustice, and the forbidden mistreatment of a pair of toughskin jeans.

"Wait!" Edward called after me.

WAIT? Why on earth would I wait. I turned around and glared at him, ready to hear his pathetic attempts to play this off as an accident, or otherwise talk me out of reporting this to mom.

"Don't tell mom." He tried to sound concerned and serious but giggles were still escaping.

"Why not!" I barked.

"If you don't tell mom, you can poop in a can and I'll eat it."

Now this was an offer. I couldn't think of a better revenge than this. Ever since the story of Alice Cooper eating Frank Zappa's poo onstage came to our town I'd been dying to subject someone to just such a torture.

Edward continued, "Go change your pants, I'll hose those off for you, and then you can poop in a can and I'll eat it."

I was sold. I went in an found a new pair of tough skins, carefully shedding the disgraced pair, which I delivered to Edward. He led me around the corner to where our dad kept a small boat leaning, inverted against the house creating a nice hide-out for us kids.

"The can is under there. Go ahead and poo in it, and bring it to me when you're done. I'll be around the corner"

I crawled under the boat, and there was a good sized paint can. I squatted, and I conjured. I have never again been able to create such a work of art on command. I must have wanted this revenge with every fiber of my being, because what came out came out of me on that morning was truly a thing of beauty. One giant log that had to wrap around the can. ...and stinky. I climbed out from under the boat and got a deep breath of fresh air. Then back under I went to retrieve my prize. Proudly holding the can containing my masterpiece in front of me I rounded the corner with a shit eating grin on my face, running into Edward... and Mom!

"I told him to not to do it, Mom. I told him to use the bathroom inside." he was telling her. "We had just finished playing with the rocket I'd made him and then he tells me he's going to go poo in a can."

My eyes were big in shock as I reeled at my own stupidity. I looked up at my Mom who was obviously getting a whiff of the unholy contents of the paint can.

"What are you doing?" She inquired at top volume.

I had to think fast. I looked around the yard. Missing Abigail the German Shepherd, my eyes settled on Karate Judo Kug-Fu, our kitten.

"The Cat did it."

"It's Bigger Than THE CAT!" My mom shouted, trying to express anger but unable to suppress a giggle. That giggle said it all.

I was the smart one alright. The smart one threw away the paint can and went to his room. I was even more insulted never to have been given any kind of punishment, as if even Mom herself acknowledged that my humiliation and shame must be greater than any punishment she could dole out.

My Grandma .....................................................

My Dad's Mom is five foot ten, a giant for her generation. She is single minded in the best and worst ways. Only a few people get to benefit from this single mindedness. Grandma is fiercely loyal to her select group of intimates and the rest of humanity is seen as potential and likely threats. Needless to say Grandma is a racist. She is sure that the members of the other races, like members of other families, and even certain members of her own would love to get one over on her. Grandma played basketball as a young woman. She plays for her team. If you're not on her team, you can burn in hell for all she cares.

When my father was in school his mother would argue with the principal or teacher even as my dad confessed to her that he had indeed commited whatever crime he was being reprimanded for. She would insist that her son was just taking the blame because he didn't want to get someone else in trouble or make the principle/teacher look bad. It meant my Dad strived to keep his nose clean just to save himself the embarassment of his mother's defense.

Nobody had ever heard my Grandmother speak Polish until the day she ran into some Polish speaking women, conversed at a brisk pace like she'd been speaking Polish all her life and then nobody heard her speak Polish again.

Durring the year after her husband's death my Grandma was living all alone in the Pokono Mountains of Pensylvania. She called her daughter, my Aunt Joanne, to report that a deer had wandered onto her property and died. The law says Grandma is responsible for disposing of the deer. Her mother being an eighty year old woman, JoAnne mades arrangements to come up that weekend and help with the deer problem. She figured the snow will keep the deer from decomposing too badly over the couple of days until she can get away from work and drive in from Long Island, New York to help Grandma find someone to come haul away the deer.

Joanne arrived at Grandmas place and had to ask where the deer was.

"Oh, I threw it away." Grandma answered, as if stating the obvious.

"You threw it way." Joanne must have begun wondering if being alone in the mountains too long had done some damage. "Mom, was this a baby deer?"

"Oh no. It was a full sized buck."

"And how exactly did you throw it away. You weren't able to lift it?"

Grandma again had to help Joanne with obvious as she pointed out the axe leaning against the trash can at the edge of the yard. "Well I chopped him up first. Come on inside it's cold."

I've never gotten along with my grandmother terribly well, but I love the image of her standing in the snow, eighty years old, swinging a bloody axe as she dismembers an animal twice her size.

Most of my images of Grandma aren't as pleasant. I just laugh when, watching me eating my vegetables and rice she tells me, "I hope you don't think I tell my friends that my grandson is a vegan. Ooh, they'd say 'What? He doesn't eat meat? Why wouldn't he eat meat?' They would think you're some kind of crazy. I love you anyway, but I won't tell my friends about you and your vegetables." It's harder to laugh when Grandma corners my Mexican sister-in-law, asking about her families holiday traditions only to suggest merrily that she might be happier celebrating Christmas with "her own people."

I was visiting my dad recently when my Grandma was there. We had a nice dinner, only a few vegan comments and then my dad served some dessert. How the subject of race entered into this peacefull evening I'll never know but my grandmother asked me why so many criminals are black. Not a question that troubles me, I tossed back "Why are so many criminals poor." This set her in motion. "Blacks are poor becuase they're lazy. I've been poor and I didn't become a criminal. It's easier for blacks to get jobs then whites becuause of affirmative action." I actually thought I could keep it simple and unemotional and give my Grandma real answers. As if by respecting her right to ask these perfectly reasonable questions and then asnwering them in a matter of fact way I could cure the woman of her lifelong 'go team' mentality towards other races. Of course this idea was and is perposterous and in no time at all I was getting flustered and raising my voice.

"Mom! Mom!" my Dad got my Grandma's attention. "Mom, what came first, the chicken or the egg?"

Granma looked at her son like he was the biggest fool she'd ever met and answered, incredulously "The Egg!"

Grandma turned back to me and continued her rant but I no longer heard her. My dad was smiling, satisfied with having illustrated a point so perfectly. He stirred his coffee and I let my grandma hate the black race.

Jesus loves me, pretty girl does not

When I was in high school I fell hard for this beautiful christian girl.

Erin had long blond hair, great shoulders and real, live, actual breasts. She was smart, cool, and for some reason she liked me. I got up the nerve to sit with her durring lunch a couple of days in a row, and then I started walking her to her class after lunch. The long awkward period of saying goodbye outside of her classroom would leave me late for my own class. Finally, one Friday, I swallowed hard, wiped the sweat from my palms and aked her if I could give her a kiss. She said "Yes." I kissed her. She kissed me. It was great. Then she asked me if I'd spend the night with her.

Erin invited me to a "Lock In." A "Lock In" is this goofy church youth-group thing. Anyone familliar with youth-groups know just how "Wacky" and "Zany" they can be. So the "Lock In" (I just have to quote it) consisted of the youth group kids and their invited guests staying up all night, that's right, I said ALL NIGHT, in this cafeteria type room. You were "locked in" meaning once there you couldn't leave, you were in for the long hall, one for all and all for one, ALL NIGHT! ALL DAMN NIGHT! Once you commited there was no wimping out. There was no leaving. THE DOORS WERE LOCKED! There just aint no arguing with that.

The night started with silly games to break the ice. I'm pretty shy so these were hard for me but I met some nice people. One game involved the first kid chosen laying on their back, and then the next kid would lay, also face up, with their head resting on the first kid's stomach. The third kid's head rested on the second kids stomach, etc. making a chain that wound around the room. Than the first kid had to say "Ha." The next kid said "Ha Ha." Each consecutive kid added a "Ha." The idea was to see how far around the room you could get before everyone cracked up. This seemed pretty dumb to me, but when Erin lay her head up on my belly and I reached down and ran my fingers through her hair, well, I was willing to keep saying "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha" all night, All Damn Night.

We played some weird game of tag with all the lights off. All the games seemed to invite physical contact and even some groping which could easily be passed off as accidental. I guess the Christians need to compete with MTV somehow.

Eventually things got serious! The leader of the group was this clean cut guy who was real into fun... and sincerity. He had this way of calling you "Man" with so much empathy in his voice. When he called you "Man" you really knew he meant it... man. I don't remember his name but I bet it was Ron.

Ron sat us all down to talk about gods love or some such zaniness. He passed out postcards and little pencils and invited us all to write down any questions we might have had, but were afraid to ask. The questions would then be answered, the asker remaining anonymous. So I wrote some question regarding my problem with faith. Faith is dangerous, allows nazism, etc and is also what keeps people pretty much inheriting their folks' religion. I don't remember how I worded it, but I'd come to a decision that I'd only believe things if they were supported by compelling scientific evidence, and even then I'd seperate theory from law. No room for faith. Okay, enough of that, you get the point.

Ron starts reading the questions. Ron was pretty sure that pets would be in heaven, man. He had a dog that really touched his life, man. and it was obvious that god was present in that dog, so he was sure that this dog would be in heaven, in one form another, man. Nobody asked if Beef Cows would be in heaven. I hoped so because I didn't want to have to eat Ron's Dog, regardless of how much of God's love was in it, man.

My card came up and as Ron read my question I felt proud to have written it. He then laughed it off and gave some bullshit answer about god living in all of our hearts or something. WHAT?!?! I raised my hand. I pointed out that he didn't really answer the question or even address it. I restated the question differently, pointing out that faith will keep the Muslim from considering Christianity, etc., That this creates a breeding war amongst the various brands of faithfull around the world. He fluffed me off again and so started a little friendly debate. He didn't like the debate, which I can honestly say I tried to keep polite, I mean hell I was a kid talking to an adult authority figure and I was sober, so I wasn't that bad. He put all the cards away and suggested that we play more games. I thought he might suggest Spin The Bottle to recover from this one.

I was waiting for throngs of kids to flock to me, amazed by my amazing intellect and audacity. Instead, I had become pariah. Nobody would come near me. And seeing this, Ron didn't do anything to discourage it. Like he wanted to peer pressure me into being a Christian, or maybe he was just glad that the good little christians were staying away from my Satan loving ass. Worst of all Erin was staying away. She was obviously embarassed to have brought me.

After enduring a humilliating hour of being avoided like a leper I snuck into the office and used the phone to call my dad. Dad's religious beliefs were still a mystery to me though I had observed that my own years of being "born again" seemed to have been more tolerated than actively encouraged by Dad. He answered the phone, sounding sleepy and I asked him to come get me. He reminded me that I was at a "Lock In" and that they wouldn't let me go. I had explained this him very carefully and precisely when seeking permission to attend. I assured him that they'd be happy to let me go.

My dad pulls up about ten minute later. As I walk to the doors one of the faithfull narks me off.

"Hey that kid's leaving."

Ron calls out "What are you doing?"

"Leaving, man." I answer unlocking the door and walking through it.

Hopping in my dad's car, I look back at all these kids now gathered at the door and glaring at me through the glass with looks of hatred. I'd fucked up the "Lock In." I'd broken the sacred rule and in doing so had blown the titillating illusion of the lock in. It turns out anyone choosing to stay all night was indeed choosing to do so.

My dad puts his hand on the back of my neck and I guess that he's proud of me, proud that I'm not with the sheep. We ride home in silence. Erin never speaks to me again.

Two Stories about my father

My dad's a strange cat. Every couple of years I ask him where he's going when he dies. He usually answers by asking me where a toaster goes when it dies. I ask him if this scares him and it doesn't. That weirds me out. I don't know where we go. I figure we just quit being, but I at least have the decency to be scared out of my wits about it. Anyway, here are two stories that I feel capture my dad pretty accurately. I call them my Zen stories not because my dad is any kind of Zen master. I seriously doubt my father has ever used the word zen. But these tales illustrate what I see as a very zen approach to dealing with life. An approach that my dad has done his best to impart to me. The bit of it I've managed to grasp has helped me deal with the world around me tremendously. And a quick note to my dad, if he should read this; I don't care if I got these stories right. It's you who taught me that telling a good story is way more important than telling a true story.

Me and my Dad. We've since given up the devil horns.

Zen Story One

Two instances in my life taught me about a wonderful trait of my father's while teaching me just the kind of lesson a kid should learn from his pops.

The first instance was relayed to me second hand, many times, by my father who loves to get the maximum mileage out of a good story and expects you to keep quiet if you’ve heard if before. As the story goes, my dad went out to get a bite to eat. Outside of the restaurant a man stood talking to himself, passionately.

"No! No, you can’t come in! NO! You stay here!" the man spoke loudly to his unseen companion.
Dad didn’t think much of it and headed into the eatery. Inside things were tense as everyone focused on the crazy man on the sidewalk. The girl at the counter was pondering whether or not to call the police. Dad, deciding he’d better step in with his unique superpower and save the day, stepped back outside.

The one sided argument continued. "You can’t go inside. No! Wait for me here! NO, I will not. You have to stay out, you can’t go in. You can’t."

Approaching the increasingly agitated, seemingly insane man my dad casually suggested, "Hey, why don’t you let him come in with you? He looks hungry."

The stranger's attention now focused on my father in the form of an agitated leer. Dad smiled back politely waiting for a response. After a few more awkward seconds the man again addressed his imaginary friend, "Okay fine. Come on."

My dad held the door for the two friends and followed them inside where everyone had a pleasant and uneventful meal.

Zen Story Two

The second time my father was called on to use his abilities to diffuse a tense situation came when my parents relocated my Uncle Cy to Los Angeles from New York. Cy was growing older and as senility set in he began suffering from paranoid delusions. Most of our family had left New York and it was agreed by all that Cy needed to be brought out west as well so that he could be assisted and looked after.

The move to a small one bedroom apartment at the top of a long unpleasant stairway was completed and Cy seemed to have taken to the move just fine, he was pleasant and sounded glad to be in sunny California. Different family members took turns checking in on Cy and all seemed well for the first couple of weeks. My father and I stopped by to pay Cy a visit and found him in an agitated state. He hurried us inside and with great urgency told my father, "I’m gonna have to move."

I was scared to see my Uncle like this, though I had been told of his weakening grasp on reality. If my father was uncomfortable or troubled he didn’t show it, expressing instead a sincere concern for Cy’s trouble. "Why, Cy? What’s going on?" he asked.

"They found me. Dammit! They found me here. They know where I live. We’ll have to find another apartment. I can’t stay here, they know where I am."

My father appeared to share Cy's frustration. "Damn that was quick."

I was beginning to wonder how firm my dad’s grasp on reality was. I wanted to pull him aside and remind him that Cy was "having some troubles" just as my mother had explained it to me.
Then my father placed one hand on Cy’s shoulder and took a hold of my hand with the other. "Cy, we moved you thousands of miles and they found you this quickly. What are we gonna do now? Move you a couple of blocks? I think we’re just gonna have to live with them."

Cy considered this for a moment, lips pursed, brow furrowed. Then, "Yeah John, I guess you're right. I guess we’ll just deal with ‘em. Dammit!"

Cy never mentioned moving again as he settled into his routine of doctor’s visits and family lunches.