Chapter 22 – My Back Pages

 

Dearest Jenny,

Last week, I decided to visit the library down the street from me. For about two hours, I sat and read through their music and entertainment section. It's amazing how many books have been written on musicians from our time. I know you'd love to have read a lot of them. Danny Sugarman's book "Wonderland Avenue" is pretty good. I remember you told me you met him once when you were still waitressing tables. Unfortunately, he's gone now, too.

Hunger then kicked in after removing my brain from books. Not too far from the library is a small pizzeria, so I walked down there to pick up a slice. At first, no one was at the counter and just as I grew a little impatient, out came an amazing brunette…and I say that because she looked just like you. She was about 5’4”, maybe 110, eighteen or nineteen years old, long silken brown hair, and had such a radiant smile on her. After she took my order, she took the turn back into the kitchen and gave me the exact same smile you used to. My knees just buckled. Her voice was similar to yours, but not the same, and she had brown eyes, not green. But for the entire time I was there, I stared at her in sheer awe. There was little to convince myself that this girl wasn’t you and I wasn’t seeing a ghost. She could have been your daughter or little sister. Bewildered, I walked back to my car, got inside, and cried as the slice of pizza got too cold to eat.

Instead of cherishing such a coincidence, instead it hurt me so deeply. If only I had you beside me. What a relief it would be to hold you again, taste your kiss, touch your body, look into your eyes, or make love together. After all this time, all these years, I’m still wandering in a maze, lost by how much I miss you. So much in me disappeared in your absence. The one thing that truly made me happy has gone. I’ll never know the joys of our future or being reassured that the Christmas dream was to come true. Fate has steered me on an odd course and I’m reminded of the finality of death. My sorrows are not a dream which I know I can wake from.

In your short life, it was I who knew you best. It's bizarre that you have been gone longer than you lived in years. Since then, so much time has slowly inched forward. There is not a day that I don't reminisce over a memory of you, which causes me to miss you a little more than yesterday. All that which you didn’t get to experience, I spent it alone. Be thankful you didn't get old like me. It's really a mixed blessing. Back when we were young, I felt like I had an identity and there were endless roads to take in life. However when you get more than halfway through your drive, your first thought is of how long will it take to get to the final destination. As it is, I haven't got anything better to do than count mile markers and throttle it.

During the years we lived in L.A., you and I sought serenity and nirvana in the infested lands of the West. During those magical experiences we enjoyed love, freedom, and harmony just as the youth we idolized of the 60s had before us. But we did it in our own way in a new and rugged landscape. The world we created was the reality and the boundaries we set for four years. It shaped who I am now and who you became in the last years of your life.  You were a hippie girl who came too late to be with those you adored. Maybe on the other side they’ve dropped you a line.

Over thirty years have flown past me and forgot its kindness. Desperation, anxiety, and loneliness have yanked at my soul the entire time. Most people would have moved on and taken their losses. Perhaps I’ve been missing that emotional tool called acceptance because I’ve never let go nor forgot.

To take a phrase from one of your notebook…there is an effect from amputation called “phantom limb,” meaning the mind cannot possibly comprehend the limb is no longer there, and continues to falsely produce sensations to that body part. Nerves are severed, tendons and muscles lost at a nub – the brain doesn’t rewire itself to understand the loss. Perhaps it knows it needs it to survive. When I lost you, I lost a huge part of my life that my emotions couldn’t forgive. Life simply shattered, lost, and left for buzzards.

The mystery and uniqueness of our love is gone. Being without, after knowing what life is with that particular element, it’s not like going back to life before. Even for Mom and Dad and essentially Diane, who lost a son, they live a life which is no more than second best. Happiness will never again be 100% achieved. That is where I am as well: the point of no return.

“…there are no more nights I sleep alone. My tragedies have concluded. The play itself did seem like it took too many acts to reach its end. You know, it’s funny I use that reference and I never liked English class. But really, having Eric does so much for me. My words are not enough so that I can detail my true feelings.

…today, I feel pretty and like a woman! Eric bought me a green, flowered dress to accompany my ring.

…I know that Eric will hug me, kiss me, make love, and we’ll spend the day down by the beach. Those are our special rituals. Each moment bonds us closer together.”

In the weeks before we made our first outing to California, I imagined what my time with you would be like. The opportunity to remain alone, together, and away from the world seemed so grand. And yes, my carnal male nature had some insight in to the intimate goings-on, but my genuine yearn to be close overpowered me throughout the end of school. So, I drowned in the surf and I asked myself, “Wouldn’t it be nice?”

Years of motioning the same routine, living out fantasy-like scenarios in an internal world, and bottling up immense anxiety…that was me before having you to myself in our own little world. And it was a tiny solar system we made, surrounded by an endless galaxy called L.A. Somewhere in its core, like our own Milky Way, was a black hole. For those helpless souls who did succumb to its might and mass, they were absorbed into the void. It’s a concept where Stephen Hawking meets Nietzsche.

Too many people have shared their opinion on why California is such a strange yet magical place. Probably the logic differs among geologists, religious freaks, spiritualists, hobos, and hippies. With that said, I won’t detail my reasoning except to say it truly is a land of intrigue. I think it would be more appealing if San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Hollywood had never known fame or the face of the White Man. I’d like to see the state quiet and unknown, like Wyoming or North Dakota. That way I could have had more of it for ourselves. How amazing it would be to take an early walk along the cool beach of Redondo, then look down on Los Angeles from the southern hills and see nothing but earth – no homes, no people, no smog – only land and ocean. But once again, I’m saddened by only what is imagination and not actuality.

When I can wipe those watery beads from my red eyes, I close your notebook and pack it neatly away with my keepsakes. Even today when I am absolutely alone and emotionally spent, I flip through it again or hold your crucifix or open your music box I got you for Christmas. This is a self-torture and healing all in one. During those quiet moments, staring out my window looking west, I can almost sense you standing there behind me with your arms wrapped around my body. It would be kind knowing you’re checking up on me or even waiting for me to join you.

I regret nothing except that maybe I wasn’t tougher on you, but you were destined to live your life in the way you saw fit. Like Rick Nelson, you got tired of pleasing everyone, so you pleased yourself. Jenny, I am no cowboy and do not know how to tame a wild horse.

Wherever you are, I hope it's pleasant and pain free. I hope you have music, sunshine, and beaches. Though we are more than a horizon apart, please continue to think of me as I do of you. God willing, one day we'll meet again. I prefer not to delay the engagement any more than I have to. I shall be released.

For whoever finds this, I ask that my last wish be carried out: that I, Eric Daniel Baker, be buried next to my eternal love, Jennifer Dawn Montgomery.

Jenny, I miss you. I love you, baby. May God ease your tired soul. Peace be with you, stay young, and now it's your turn to drive. I’ll see you soon…and the Holiday People. Amen.

“No matter how hard I try to form you in my mind

Recalling the sound of your voice or the feel of your skin

Nothing compares to having you actually beside me

Reflecting back to times spent with you, knowing that when they happen I will only miss them afterward

So I try to enjoy you as much as I can when we’re together

Clinging on to each second

Losing the fragile progression of time

Almost allows me the opportunity to have you forever

An eternity to spend with you

I’ll make us a heaven

And we’ll always have each other

Somewhere deep in the midst of tranquility."

Chapter 21 – All Is Loneliness

Without Jenny, I felt like lived through the Hiroshima blast. I questioned my own survival and reminded myself that it was instantly difficult for me to coexist not only with my life, but also with L.A. I felt like a solider still lingering on the battlefield after the conflict had ended. So many dead in Vietnam, one of which was my brother, my only sibling. And now Jenny, another gone from my life. The music was over. They all went away. Forever.

The following months after Jenny’s death are extremely hazy. I don’t recall phoning my boss or going back to work or really doing much. Perhaps my boss called me at Diane’s, hoping I’d come back. I don’t know except their sale went on without me. Perhaps I went to the bar every night and drank myself stupid. I really don’t know.

With both of her parents dead, I didn’t know who the next of kin was. The authorities tracked Jenny’s family down and her aunt made arrangements for Jenny’s body to be flown back home for burial. Once I got the date of Jenny’s funeral, I let Diane know and booked a flight. She did not attend, neither did Marion. I tried to call Jerry’s but no one ever answered. I am not certain if he even went to Jerry and Sissy’s funeral, which I didn’t either, but paid my respects to on a later date.

A somber, melancholy occasion took place on that Saturday the tenth. Jenny’s aunt didn’t say much to me. She had lost her sister, a brother-in-law, and now her niece. Regardless of how close or unclose they were, she rightfully seemed to be very troubled by all of it. In attendance were a few more of her family members, a few school friends who I sort of knew, and a long time buddy of mine Reg. I asked him to go with me because I couldn’t handle being there alone.

Surprisingly in attendance were my parents. Except for a canned “sorry,” they had nothing to say to me about Jenny’s death. Unlike the past few years, my mom had no vicious remarks, nor did my dad lecture me about chasing dreams. There was just awkward silence from the peanut gallery. I’m sure there was some genuine grief for Jenny, added to the relief that all their worries were ceased.

Reflective of the mood, a hot rain that fell the day Jenny was buried. All of the tears disappear on your face when coated with drops from heaven. Despite how I thought I was going to hold my composure in front of everyone, my face welled and turned red as they lowered my beautiful girl into the ground. What a ghastly symbol of finality. This was it. It was over and right there is when her death had sunk in. Such a sick loss in a sick fucking world. The failings of the young and eager and adventurous. No more will I be able to look into her sweet, lively eyes or hear her cute laughter as I tell another ridiculous joke. I cannot hold her hand or feel her next to me as I sleep. There is no passenger in my car. No one to talk about music or life with or head to the beach and dance in the sand. No one to share my intimate thoughts or say “I love you” to.

Reg led me away from the funeral, out of the rain, and took me to his place. He gave me a couch, some food, and my first of many drinks which was my broken road to whatever recovery there was to be obtained.

In the morning, without sleep, loaded with coffee to mask my hangover, I went to Jenny’s old home, which I assumed was either vacant or already sold. Instead, her aunt’s car was in the driveway. I wasn’t sure if stopping was a good idea, but after some hesitation, I parked behind her. Before I could knock, she opened the door to greet me.

“I was expecting you. Come on in.” It was an odd horror movie line I was not expecting, especially since she didn’t speak to me at the funeral. Extending her right hand, “Eric, my name is Janice.” The taller, thinner version of Mae asked me to sit and continued, “I’m truly sorry for not introducing myself to you yesterday. All of this has been very hard and in my weakness, coping has been a major problem.”

“I really thought the house would have been sold. Seeing you here is a little bit of a shock.”

“Yes. I’ve been living here since Mae passed away.” Looking around, it hit me that I hadn’t been in the home for quite a while. Strangely, nothing really had changed much other than Janice had done little redecorating. Once we talked for a few more moments, she invited me back to Jenny’s room. “I’ll leave you be. Please, I want you to take whatever of Jenny’s you'd like. Neither my sister nor myself has disturbed this room since Jenny moved.”

Her footsteps echoed away from me as I stood before all of her idols, drawings, and poems. The faces that seemed to look at me all had the saddest expression. There was an eerie coldness about, dust had settled on the flat surfaces, and Jenny’s bed was made, which she never did herself. The whole surround was hideously empty and void. Sitting on the comforter, I thought of all the rare times I had been in there with her. Lying back, I fought so gallantly not to cry. Getting a night bag from her closet, I meticulously took down all her posters, sketches, and poems from the walls. Faint traces of smoke stains stenciled the sky blue paint she hadn’t covered.

When I got to a drawer of knickknacks, I guess I got lost in sorting. Janice snuck up on me, making sure I was alright. She got another bag and helped me gather up any of the little things I wanted. Then I said goodbye to Jenny’s room, goodbye to the house, and to Janice.

“Everyone tells me how much you loved my niece.”

My tortured eyes welled up, “Deeply.”

“Jennifer phoned me once after my sister passed away. She told me of her love for you and what a wonderful person you are.” Janice, too, got emotional. “Thank you for showing her the love I know she deserved.”

I smiled and paused, “Are you going to sell the house?”

“No.”

Two days later I flew back to L.A. to get my and Jenny’s belongings and come home for good. My car was getting loaded down and I had to throw some things away. I tried to keep anything of Jenny’s that I could. Out of character but out of sympathy, Diane made me dinner on my last night. She asked how the funeral was and what my plans for the future were. Up until this point, I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Right now, I don’t know. Going back and facing my folks is almost as hard as losing Jenny.”

Holding my hand, “Eric, are you sure you don’t want to stay here?”

“I can’t do it without her. I just couldn’t take it.”

“I’m sorry it’s like that.” Diane turned away, looking out the kitchen window. Her voice broke ever so slightly, “I’m going to miss you, Eric. I’m going to miss Jenny, too.”

Putting my arms around her waist, “Thank you for all that you did for us.”

My heart went out to Diane, without her boy and now minus her friends. The last time I saw Diane, she gave me a hug and a long kiss and told me what a great guy I was. I penciled down my parents’ address and phone number and agreed to write as often as possible. I started with a letter I left on the longer sofa that Jenny and I used to make our second bed.

“Sweet Diane,

            I want to thank you for your hospitality and kindness. You welcomed us into your home and shared a friendship that meant so much to both of us. I want you to know that Jenny and I loved you like a sister. Like any siblings, I think we were all bonded by our youth, love, happiness, and pain.

            Sadly, and a bit too late, I’m taking your advice and going home. I know you’d like me to stay. Trust me, I wish I could but I can’t bring myself to do it. No matter where I am, I will always keep you in my thoughts. I’ll always remember waking up and hearing your feet across the hardwood, hearing you move around in the kitchen, smelling the greatest of all coffees, and joining you at the breakfast table. Those morning conversations were the core of our friendship and what I’ll cherish the most about us.

            Much love to you and your little Andy. May he one day know the same joys and memories with you as I’ve come to discover. You are wonderful and kind. I love you.

Your Dearest Friend,

Eric

As a reminder of our stay, I placed the porcelain statues of me and Jenny on top of the note. Like prior routines, I snuck out early and took a long car ride across the United States. In the passenger seat, Jenny’s seat, sat her record boxes, but it didn’t stop me from talking as though she were really there. I rode alone in painful silence except the sound of the V6. Eventually, after several days travel, I got to the first Holiday Inn we ever spent the night at. Maybe it was just as run down the first time we were there, and maybe at the time, we didn’t care. I’m sure the Holiday People were saddened by the news I broke to them. But just maybe they already knew.

Once I was home, I did minimal talking to Mom and Dad who asked just as little questions. Mainly, I stayed solemnly in my room unpacking my stuff first, then Jenny’s. For a bit, all of her clothes smelled like her. Like a weird mental case, I picked out an outfit of hers each night so I could lay down with it and pretend it was her. It strangely comforted me and helped me sleep. So did the alcohol I was constantly downing. But before I conked out, I read excerpts from her notebooks. One’s entries were from when she lived alone, as they were dark, extreme expressions of her struggling emotions with life.

As I made it further through the second book’s entries, I realized how happy I made her. During both the times I lived in California with her, her writing came to life in such amazing ways, I was taken aback. Probably too embarrassed to say in person, she retreated to her notebook to unfold a kinder reality onto paper. Though I was always aware of how much she loved me, this written account was a sensitive peek inside her mind. The most beautiful entry was written a few weeks before her death and is one I read the most:

“I can easily be a soul who is mistaken for a meaningless existence. To some, I am a beauty only at face value. They see nothing more than physical attributes for which generates an extra dollar to my tip money. But to Eric, I am so much more. He draws from me my strengths, my weaknesses, and my path for life. For without him, I’d have no direction, no kind words, no faith in my decisions, and would be a shell of who he’s allowed me to be.

When I grow in age and become an old lady, I hope that as I sit in our living room drinking a cup of coffee, he’s sitting there with me. I don’t care if he’s complaining about the Packers’ score or how bad my cooking is, I just want him there with me. He is the only one whoever cared and gave me a chance. He has sacrificed so much and asked so little in return. And if everything was to change, and somehow I was gone, I would hope he knows how much he means to me and how much I love him.”

Years later my wife found that entry bookmarked and chose to let those sections infiltrate her mind. How she even found the notebook, I don’t know. Her thoughts waned and failed to understand why it was so important to me. Like my parents, she couldn’t see how deep it all was. My failure was honestly expecting them to do so. Within a year of her validating discovery, she divorced me.

Beginning in fall of 1976, I spent enough time at home to work towards finishing my Bachelor’s. Just before Christmas that year, Brian Wilson did a bizarre interview on the Mike Douglas Show. Through the thick beard and bloated face, he spoke heavily out of the left side of his mouth (like a stroke victim) about his battle with drug abuse. It floored me to see him in such a state compared to his conservative, clean-cut image from the days of surf music. I suppose anyone is vulnerable, even more so with a $100 a day cocaine habit. If Jenny and I even had a $100 left between us, it had to last us between paychecks. I just can’t even imagine that much money going up your nose.

While I worked on my degree, there was a distance between me and my folks. Only once did my dad, who saw me up late drinking, come down to share a heart-felt talk with me. He shared with me what he and Mom went through when Sam died and that he was happy I didn’t get drafted to Vietnam or die in the car crash with Jenny. When I moved out in 1978, he shook my hand and wished me the best. From then on, I never really looked back to family for love. The best had already happened and couldn’t be repeated. Like Manson and Altamont killed the ‘60s, John Lennon’s murder killed the ‘70s and any and all existing hopes created in the past two decades were pierced and slain by Chapman’s bullet.

Now in their later years, my parents probably have as many regrets as me. When my brother and I were little kids, I’m sure my parents didn’t plan this train wreck. Just as in 1912, the British and Irish passengers of the Titanic didn’t think the unsinkable would become a legend due to tragedy.  My folks had high hopes for their boys. And who knows, maybe Mom wanted a girl? She was left with an only child who made her just another woman in his life.

“His damn mother hates me. I know she does. All I was doing was sitting in Eric’s room, studying for some stupid math test and she thought we were up there screwing. Maybe we were! Ha! She gave me some evil eye at dinner. She made sure that all the serving dishes she passed to me, she clinched for a moment before letting go. Just to aggravate me. I almost spilled the carrots because of her. And her cooking is terrible. Where did that woman learn to cook?”