Guest Writer #2

SPECIAL NOTE TO READERS:
This story uses the premise from Contest #3, “Disguise.”
See this issue’s “Publisher’s Note.”

Richard Blasi lives in an “exclusive, gated community” in Louisville, Kentucky. He won a place in that community by being convicted of Class‑D non-violent drug-related charges and receiving a ten-year sentence. He says prison gave him two opportunities: become a better criminal, or a better person. He chose the latter. He has just been transferred to a “community custody” facility so he can attend community college, where he currently carries a 4.0 GPA.

“Changeling” is his first published fiction piece.

Richard would like to thank Dr. Marc Wessels and Ms. Sherri Grissinger, who are the prison’s chaplain and chapel secretary, for helping him stay in touch with Tarl and Bethany at “On The Premises.”

Changeling

by Richard Blasi

The first nine sessions of psychiatric aftercare with the lovely Dr. Candice Rhodes went as well as could be expected. I got some things off my chest, and cleaned out and sorted through a lot of old baggage, plus she was quite attractive. As far as I was concerned, the only real benefit of these sessions was that Dr. Rhodes truly presented something pleasant to behold.

I don’t mind admitting that more than once as I stared at the gentle curve of her calf, elongated by the stiletto heels she wore during each session, my mind wandered into a state of impure-thought as she sat cross-legged opposite me, scribbling notes on her yellow legal pad.

However, our short-lived relationship, which had only lasted for one hour a day, once a week, for nine weeks, would soon be over.

As I nosed my ’71 Pontiac Firebird towards her office at Ninth and Broadway, I felt anxious. Anxious to get this over with and move on to whatever the future held for Old Dick Blaze, unencumbered by anything other than my monthly reports to probation and parole. Notwithstanding this would be the first weekend my daughters would spend with there recently paroled, clean and sober father. I’d put them through so much with my addiction. I wanted so badly to prove to them that I had changed for the better, and would from now on be the kind of father they could be proud to have.

After parking the car and traversing the seemingly endless parking lot, I entered the building and hopped onto the elevator that would whisk me skyward towards her fifth floor office. I exited the elevator and rapidly covered the hundred or so feet of lime-green institutional tile that led to her office door. I entered office 501, sat down snatching up what would most likely be a three-month-old copy of the first magazine I saw and waited patiently.

It wasn't long before I went into Rhode's office and took my place on the couch across from my lovely counselor’s chair. She came out from behind her desk, walked over to her chair, ran her hand across her little round bottom smoothing her skirt as she sat down, then crossed her legs exposing that calf I spoke of earlier, and once again my mind began to wander. Just what did she look like under those clothes? However, before I was carried away mentally undressing my psychiatrist, I politely asked, “How are you doing today, Dr. Rhodes?” She responded, “Just fine, Mr. Blaze, how about you?” I said, “Fine,” then asked if it would be possible for her to dismiss the formal tone and address yours truly by my first name for this, our final episode.

Her reply came very prim and proper, “That's fine Dick; however, for professional purposes please don’t be offended if I ask you to continue addressing me as Dr. Rhodes.”

So with the pleasantries as well as the formalities out of the way, she went on to ask her usual questions:

“Did anything special happen this week?”

“How are you dealing with the world?”

“Did you think about anything we discussed last week?”

My answers came quick without thought or emotion:

“No.”

“Fine.”

And, “Not really.”

Now just when I thought I would escape this final session unscathed, she popped one on me from way out in left field. She said, “Well Dick, the final question I ask everyone at the end of these sessions is, after going through the Substance Abuse Program, being released from prison and spending your first nine weeks on the streets in five years, is there anything about your physical appearance, mental attitude, or behavior that you want to, or think you should change?”

I was not ready for that question. I took a deep breath and thought to myself, what does she mean asking me if I think I need to change? I would think we’d already touched enough on that subject over the last nine sessions. I’ve told her about my addiction. How I have tried to give back what I’ve received. All that AA and NA stuff. I guess she needs the extended version. I exhaled that breath and took another. “Well Dr. Rhodes, do I think I need to change? Let me first say that we don’t have enough time to discuss Dick Blaze and change. That is a can of worms best not opened. An hour is nowhere near the time necessary to review in depth the changes I’ve been through during my life. Change has been good to me as well as bad. I guess I’m no different than anyone else in this ever-changing world; however, all I can say right now is that if you truly want me to be honest and keep it 100% real, you’d better clear your calendar for the day.”

She stood up and gently smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt then went over to her desk and called her secretary via the desk intercom. The secretary’s voice entered the room. “Yes Dr. Rhodes, can I help you?”

“Mr. Blaze and I have moved into a territory that may take more than his one hour appointment to cover, would you please cancel my next appointment, as well as the one after that if necessary. Do not disturb Mr. Blaze and myself until further notice for anything short of a death in either of our immediate families.” She then turned back to face me, grinned just a little and said, “I believe that will supply sufficient time for us to traverse the epic boundaries of Dick and change. Please go right ahead sir.”

I metaphorically picked my jaw up off the floor and tried to find a place to start. She had clearly called my bluff, but at the same time, my amazement went beyond her simply clearing her calendar for the day. There was something in her eyes as she made that last comment, a flirtatious glimmer I had not noticed before but now became as clear as fresh mountain spring water. Had she developed a slight infatuation with the Old Dickster? Why not? I wasn’t so bad to look at. I’d broken many a heart in my day and still had that rather rough handsome look that many actors carried into middle age. Besides, over the last two months she had gotten to know the me that, back in the day, good girls like her found irresistible.

I grinned with my newfound insight, decided this was my chance to give her the extended version, and started as close to the beginning as possible.

“You see as a young boy I was extremely sheltered by an over protective mother. Being the only child of a single mom, you tend to feel the full brunt of all her emotional attachments.

“The first time I changed anything about my physical appearance was between the fifth and eight grade. I started getting hassled by the older boys because my overbearing mother forced me to wear an undershirt year round. You weren’t cool wearing an undershirt in the early summer months. You had to be able to show off your chest hairs; both of them. To make things worse, I've been cursed since childhood with a single eyebrow and once the hashing over the undershirt started it wasn’t long before I started getting shit over the uni-brow too. I decided I could fix everything with two simple changes. I’d shave between my eyebrows, and would take my undershirt off at the bus stop and hide it in my lunch bag. The first day I sat down on the bus with my changes made, some little bastard noticed immediately my shirt unbuttoned and the absence of an undershirt. Tony Malloy, I think it was. That little fist-fucker got his a year later when he was caught masturbating in the girls’ locker room by four cheerleaders that were coming in from practice to shower, who later told the entire school. Ain’t karma a bitch?

“Anyway, he started in on me. ‘Did Momma finally let her baby boy leave his undershirt at home?’ After ten minutes of that, he noticed my shaved eyebrows and that was the beginning of the end that day. The entire bus ended up laughing repeatedly at me the whole way home and eventually that rat bastard guessed where my undershirt was. Taking my lunch bag away and revealing its contents was all it took to leave me a crushed, crying, eleven-year old boy who just wanted to fit in.

“That sums up my first attempt at change. The next came in high school where I grew my hair long, started smoking pot, drinking, and consuming any mind altering substance necessary to gain acceptance from what I considered the ‘In Crowd’. The only thing set into motion by these changes was a life long addiction to escape by whatever means available. I almost instantly became the kind of addict whose drug of choice was more of whatever happened to be on hand.

“I did okay in this character for awhile. However, soon after dropping out of high school I evolved into what I like to refer to as a changeling. Sara Frayes invited me to go to Berkeley California to see the Grateful Dead and after a four-day road trip, I found myself right in the middle of the inter-state LSD trafficking trade. Within a year I had at least five separate wardrobes for the sole purpose of fitting into any environment necessary to mule LSD nationwide. At a Dead show, I would be your typical post-70’s mod hippie, selling LSD by the hit or by the hundred like a peddler selling balloons. On an airplane, I became a hip young business executive, flying wherever to deliver a briefcase, complete with a false bottom, filled with thousands of hits of LSD.

“Now the best of and hands down, first place winner of any drastic change of appearance story is the story of how I assumed the identity of One-Eyed Walter. While living in San Francisco in the late 80’s, the Haight-Ashbury District and the panhandle of Golden Gate Park became the only unexhausted topography in the entire Bay Area we had left to peddle our wares. Berkeley, People’s Park, and the surrounding Telegraph Avenue area now crawled daily with narcs. We, the group that lived at 707 Filmore, were fairly well known by the San Francisco drug task force and needed a cover; a way to sell out in the open undetected. I refused to let the house on Filmore become another casualty of our on going pursuit for financial gain from illicit entrepreneurial endeavors. If we started to use the house to sell out of, it would only be a month at the most before the police kicked the door in and I for one really liked the house as well as its location.

“One night after dipping twenty thousand hits of LSD with no rubber gloves to keep it from being absorbed directly through the pores, in a haze of LSD induced clarity, I had an idea of such elaborate proportion, it was as if it spawned straight from some lost chapter of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

“It would involve everyone living at the house: Allie, Rommie, Floyd, and me, not to mention the transient hippie girls that hung out at the house year round. Aside from this colorful cast of characters the only other things necessary were twenty dollars or so worth of clothing available at the local DAV or Army Surplus stores, plus a large assortment of Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler magazines. The plan went like this: I would assume the identity of One-Eyed Walter, a perverted derelict dressed in khaki cargo pants, a dirty red and green striped sweater, army issue combat boots without laces, and a ratty old London Fog trench coat. Along with this Walter wore an eye patch over his right eye, had matted long hair, a nappy long beard and carried in every pocket old warped, water soaked and wrinkled, pages-stuck-together copies of the aforementioned adult magazines.

“Now, you might be thinking, what the hell does an one-eyed derelict have to do with selling LSD in the Haight-Ashbury? That my dear Dr. Rhodes, is the genius of the entire plan. In order to become incognito as our wares were sold, the plan was to first water soak the magazines, then dry them, and somewhere near the middle pages, glue fifteen or so pages together. Then a nine-inch by five-inch rectangle would be cut in the center of these pages creating a cavity large enough to hold a twenty hit by fifty hit sheet of twelve-gauge cotton fiber blotter paper soaked in grain alcohol and the best Sandos, pharmaceutical grade, triple separated LSD 25 in the Bay Area. A page glued in front of and behind this cavity concealed the contraband. A new twist on the old western trick of dressing as a preacher, hiding a gun in a craved out Bible, and saving your partner from the gallows. Periodically throughout the rest of the—peer-e-odd-ik-al— other pages were glued together to give the magazine the appearance of a, pardon my graphically crude description here, cum-soaked pages-stuck-together jack book, owned by one low-life transient pervert named One-Eyed Walter.

“The entire premise was to have Walter as a bagman, for lack of a better term, and everyone else as legmen. The remaining cast of characters would solicit the avenue looking for potential customers. Meanwhile Walter carried all the product. When a pre-paid customer was instructed to approach him and the proper hand signals were given by one of the leg men to indicate a green-light and the amount of product to distribute, he would engage the customer in a conversation, pretend to sell them a dirty book for a dollar to get a beer. When the magazine switched hands so did the LSD. And the transaction took place right out in the open under everyone’s noses, undetected. As unlikely as it might seem, this method worked flawlessly for nearly a year. The only reason we stopped was Jerry, our connection for the LSD went south on us, literally to Mexico to escape prosecution on felony distribution charges, and we no longer had product to sell. Thus, we lost the house on Filmore and all went our separate ways. The funniest part of this entire story took place the day Walter made his debut on Haight Street during what we called a "dry run.” The magazines were prepared exactly as if they concealed LSD, but only had old Polaroid photographs in the secret compartments just in case something went awry.

“The first time Walter went out we spent the entire morning getting ready. The girls matted up my hair and the guys dirtied up my clothes. The main objective for the day was to coerce the police into searching Walter; to see if they would find the secret compartments. As we left the house Allie decided it would make things interesting if we took this maiden voyage tripping. So the entire crew, me included, ate five hits of acid apiece and headed towards Haight Street and the panhandle of Golden Gate Park.

“After sneaking down the back steps and out the back gate, I walked while the rest took the bus. On my seven-block walk the acid really kicked in and by the time I reached The Full Moon Saloon, the place we all agreed would be best for Walter to stake his ‘transient claim’ the initial rush from the acid had passed and I had settled into a heavy visual and mental trip.

“I really got into character, hanging out on the corner, sitting on the curb, panhandling change and offering to sell Walter’s magazines to passersby for just enough money to get a beer or something to eat. After an hour or so I finally managed to attract the attention of a pair of beat cops patrolling on foot. They were a fine pair; an older veteran about forty and a young snot-nosed rookie about twenty or so just out of the academy. The young one took a long look over his right shoulder at me and my first thought was, It’s Show Time! So I turned it up a notch and started harassing the public in hard-core fashion in an attempt to insure the confrontation I was after.

“Within a couple of minutes the two cops were heading straight for yours truly. As they approached the young one asked, ‘How you doing, Big Guy?’ I replied with, ‘Better if I had a beer,’ then asked the older one, ‘Do you want to buy a dirty book,’ and held out one of the magazines.

“Now this was the mid-80’s and police weren’t quite in the practice of carrying rubber surgical gloves all the time and he said, shooing me and my magazines away with both hands up in front of himself, ‘Hoo…ooo…old on there, just sit what you got there down right here,’ pointing to a paper box next to a garbage can. The two of them guided me to the paper box and I laid the magazine down on the box. The older one continued, saying, “Sit the rest of those magazines you got right here with this one and take a step back.” I did as he requested and was then advised by young cop to grab some wall. As I moved towards the wall to assume the position I watched over my shoulder as the old cop preceded to examine the magazines with the pen he had removed from his pocket moments before. He used the pen to slowly turn each page grimacing at the stuck together pages as he came to each of them. I could tell our plan was working precisely as we expected. He would never touch those magazines, let alone examine them thoroughly enough to find the hidden compartments.

“Now Young Cop had patted me down, checked my back and jacket pockets, and asked me to turn around. As he reached forward and patted my front pockets he asked, ‘Got anything in those pockets?’ The shit was now approaching the proverbial fan; whether it would hit at full speed was the question. Remember I’m high as hell, tripping my balls off, and right then I saw what was about to transpire as clear as if it was happening already. I could not get an answer to his question out for love or money; I could hardly keep for laughing hysterically in his face. If I’d have managed even a word, it might not have gone down like it did, but in hindsight I’m glad it did. His next words were, ‘Oh, cat got your tongue, Big Guy? We’ll just see what you are hiding in there!’

“Again, remember that I’m playing a perverted derelict. Earlier, while laughing with the girls, I cut the bottom off both front pockets saying that a pervert can play pocket pool better with the pockets cut out of his pants. We all laughed our asses of at that. I really wasn’t sure who was going to be laughing now because not only were my pockets cut off, I was after all a hippie playing a pervert, and not wearing any underwear.

“The look on that young cop’s face was something to see. When he went into my front pocket, expecting to find God knows what, he got a big handful of Dick. When his bare palm brushed my pig-in-a-blanket, minus the blanket, the look on his face was priceless. It would have made the most fucked up, sick and sadistic Master Card commercial of all time. I can see it now:

One pair of khaki cargo pants………………………………………………………..$35.00

One pair of scissors……………………………………………………...$ 8.00

The look on a young cop’s face when he goes
in your cut off pocket and grabs your swipe………………………………………….……PRICELESS!

“He freaked out! If the older one had not been so amused by what happened I surely would have went straight to jail. He knew exactly what happened by the depth the young cop’s hand went into my pocket and like myself had to conceal his laughter.

“LSD causes you to laugh uncontrollably at things that aren’t funny in the first place and I was having a hell of a time not visibly cracking up at the events that had transpired. Inside I was convulsing with laughter but outside I remained the derelict/pervert Walter.

“As the young cop handcuffed me, the older one shoved the magazines into the trash can and our question was answered. As for me, they walked me down the street to their car, loaded me up, and proceeded to take me straight to jail. Somewhere along the way the older cop convinced the young one that what happened was in fact pretty funny and to arrest me would be a real waste of time. Besides what would the charge be? Criminal possession of a cut-off pocket? Or maybe, attempt to conceal a swollen object? Anyway, somewhere over on Mission Street they pulled the car over and after making me promise to behave if I ever returned to the Haight, they let me go. I walked back to the house on Filmore, laughing the entire way.”

So my account of the legend of One-Eyed Walter came to an end and the lovely, composed, prim and proper Dr. Candice Rhodes was still attempting to get her self under control. Her defenses had fallen away at the point where Young Cop went into the cut off pocket. But when I did the Master Card bit, she laughed so hard that my little proper lady snorted twice as she cracked up hysterically.

She straightened her skirt, wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, and with a pair of rosy blushed cheeks began to speak, “Well Dick, that is quite a tale. You’ve definitely led a colorful life, to say the least. But, with all that said and done, seriously, you really don’t want to change anything about yourself?”

As I looked into her eyes I could see the genuine concern in them and made the decision to really open up, playtime was over, this time I spoke from the heart—“real talk”.

“The real change, the real character that comes out of a man when he gets everything stripped away by incarceration is the one that really counts.

“After all the California and Grateful Dead shit, I settled back in Louisville, met my ex-wife, got married, and had two beautiful daughters. Five-years into our marriage we both started using crack, a fight ensued one night, and she ended up with a broken jaw. She left me, taking both my daughters, and the Commonwealth of Kentucky gave me a one-year prison sentence.

“When I came out of prison the first time I had become a much better criminal. The time in there had groomed me into a more manipulative bastard. On the street, I ended up a transient crack addict who would lie, cheat, or steal to get high and although I spent time with my daughters, I never proved to be a good dad. I always let them down.

“Over all those years I ran so many games and so many scams, playing so many characters I lost myself. I did not know who Dick was anymore. When arrested in 2002 and given a ten-year prison sentence, my daughters cut all ties with me. They decided no dad was better than one that let them down time and time again. When your children stop wanting to have anything to do with you, your babies who looked up to you and always forgave you are finally through with your bullshit, you’ve hit a rock bottom like no other.

“When I first looked at myself in the mirror after coming through the ‘fish tank’ for orientation and processing into the Kentucky State Prison System, I looked at the old man in the mirror and could not even remember what I looked like before they cut my hair. Was it long? Was it short? How much gray was showing? I didn’t have any idea. I truly did not know the man I’d become.

“Prison stripped away all the facades of my past and started me off with a clean slate. I mean you’re fucked as a convicted felon, but you have a choice to go on like I did the first time in prison and become a better criminal, or to use the facility to your benefit and try to become a better person.

“The decision came for me my first month back. In the chow hall, one evening, I accidentally bumped this young cat. He turned to me and before I could say, ‘I’m sorry,’ he was off on some old tuff guy shit saying, ‘Bump into me again you old mother fucker and I’ll mop this floor with your ass.’ I took a deep breath and looked down at my tray. Back in the day, Dick would have cleaved a groove in the punk’s skull with that tray just for the old MF comment, let alone the threat. However, I decided right then to be a better person. I’d already been a good convict and look where it kept getting me. I figured it was time to try something new. I walked to the table, sat down and ate my dinner, then got up and left. Now, it wasn’t easy at all. Halfway back to the dorm I literally had a bad taste in my mouth from swallowing my pride, and I almost turned around, went back, and whipped his ass; for nothing more than my foolish pride.

“But I didn’t and each following incident became easier and easier. I took college courses, worked at the metal shop, and even completed the Substance Abuse Program. I worked whole-heartedly at being a better man. Eventually, as you know, I made parole and although my daughters and I have not had a complete reconciliation, I’m confident if I continue on my present course, we will.

“I am the sum of all the parts and characters I just described and many more omitted. The hair, the appearance, and my present personality I’m comfortable with and I haven’t been able to say that in a long time.

“So, would I change anything?” I asked. “No, I think I’ve gone through enough change. What do you think?”

She sat there a moment then smiled and said, “With all that said and done, I believe I’ll agree with you.” I rose to shake her hand and be on my way.

I told her that I was sorry for taking all afternoon and hoped she would not have too much trouble rescheduling her missed appointments. She smiled again, this time with an air of sheepish arrogance and said, “Dick, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I always schedule these final sessions on Friday after lunch. I had no other appointments today. It’s a trick to get you guys to open up and with you, it appears to have worked.”

The smile on my face now resembled the one from the car earlier and as I stood there grinning, I couldn’t help thinking how much more appealing she seemed now. Then in a somewhat playful manner she said, “What are you thinking when you smile like that Mr. Blaze?” I just continued to smile, reached up, took her chin in my hand, and gently rubbed my thumb back and forth on the smooth, soft skin of her cheek and said, “Wondering…Just wondering if under different circumstances you would have acted on what I saw in your eyes an hour ago”.

She blushed even more, let her eyes slowly fall towards the floor, and softly said, “Probably. No, most definitely.”

I then let her know how good it made an old convict like myself feel knowing a sweet, young lady like her could find me at least a little appealing. She let me down easy with that age old line, “In another place, at another time, and under different circumstances things could have been different.” Nonetheless, she had that same look in her eyes I’d seen earlier. I knew there was some truth to it and it left me with a feeling of pride that I’d have long after I left her office. She then completed her statement with, “If you truly meant everything you just said, then it is my professional opinion that you will be just fine.”

I gave her a proper shake of the hand but couldn’t resist pulling her in for a gentlemanly hug and a peck on the cheek. Then I said, “Good-bye,” and walked for the last time out of Dr. Candice Rhodes’ office.

My steps to the elevator were heavier now than when I traveled this same hallway in the opposite direction, yet I felt a burden had lifted for good. As I awaited the elevator a sadness over what could have been but would never be hit me. I recovered quickly knowing that someday I would meet the right woman. A good one like my ex-wife and maybe even one like Dr. Rhodes. This time I’ll treat her right.

Dr. Candice Rhodes was correct. I will be just fine.