East Division Street

It’s a pock marked town now, kicked square in the teeth by a bunch of dirty work boots when all those industries moved out. Just another sorry personality up there in the Rust Belt. But back then, it was a bit of a city, with lights and highways and people doing things. And on the lower North Side, where we lived, it was mostly Italian-American families making the gravy on Sundays, grandmothers in mourning, worrying the rosary beads.

And that’s where the six of us landed: in a big Victorian rental with a bum front porch. On East Division Street. Right off Park.

I claimed the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. I had a double bed, a radio, a handful of records, and my Bob Seger poster. Later I would acquire an old Kent drum set, which I set up in the corner, practicing my double-stroke roll under the watchful, energetic eye of that Midwest man. My room had 3 east-facing windows, and mornings announced themselves boldly, like a parade marching through. Which was great for me, as I have always liked mornings; but my lover at the time—a dark haired, late-night musician—would groan, would pull the pale pink coverlet up over his face to block out the sunlight drumming on his eyelids. Still, it never prevented him from stepping up the creaky wooden stairs after his late night gig, and crawling in beside me, the smell of bar smoke and beer on his clothes, his skin. I’d hear the quiet thud of his Les Paul case set upon the floor, his Chuck Taylors kicked off; the sound of jeans and heavy belt landing. And then him beside me, reaching, ready. I loved being awakened like that, loved the ache I felt as he pulled me toward him…

But not every night unfolded like that. In fact, many did not. That old white house, with its slanted stairway, its stained glass window, came alive at night. Shook the cobwebs from its windows, forgot about its age, and remembered instead how it once stood--young and cocky--on that plain and muted street. Around midnight is when the music really started: always Andy at the upright piano in the living room, and then guitars, bass, violin; even cow bell once that I remember. We inhaled music in that house, and lived our lives as if nothing else mattered. The six of us, bringing our wounded souls together: me, Helen, Rick, Nancy, MaryAlice, and Jeff. We talked of music, painting, sculpture, acting, dance. Left our haggard pasts behind. We painted, we wrote, we read--made and played music. Lots and lots of music. And when the dawn started to whisper, people crept off to bed, sometimes alone, but not very often.

And that’s where I fell in love. In that house, on that street, in that neighborhood. In love with many things. The dark-haired man with the pursed lip smile, who giggled when he laughed, who unveiled the shadowed streets of his neighborhood as we rode our bikes at 3am. The only ones awake, the two of us with the wind in our hair as we rounded Butternut Circle and coasted down that vigorous hill. The world is ours, Rachel, he said one night, with a sweep of his muscular hand. The strumming one. The one that made its way over my body hungrily each time… We lifted our faces to the night sky and laughed. He told me once about his father coming at him, and he not wanting to lift his guitar-playing hands to protect himself—of just letting the blows land… I love you, he said huskily later that same night, in my bed, the streetlight peeking in through closed blinds. Both of us falling… Better than Keats’ urn and his nubile lovers, captured in their forever youth. We didn’t want that. We wanted the sweat, the pulse of heartbeat, a cry escaping from parted lips...

Upstairs, in the attic, is where Jeff lived. One of those gentle beings the world sometimes delivers—too fragile on the inside to make it. A Darwinian experiment... Jeff had his grandfather's fishing pole, a bed, his well thumbed Bible. And a pair of Klipsch la scala speakers that could bring that old house to its knees—and, along with it, the quiet rush of police cars pulling up to the curb whenever he cranked Southside Johnny, or the Clash’s London Calling.

That dark-haired musician made me tremble with love, with want—with exhilaration those nights that we listened to music, and tumbled into bed. And Jeff. He taught me about the dignity of all living things... He in his illiteracy, his drunk. The entire natural world was a marvel to him, was something sacred. He believed in the goodness of everyone and everything. Even after his mother traded him in for drafts at the Elks; even after he never learned to read--still he believed that we lived in a holy place. On the nights that my lover didn’t come, we’d sit and talk about all manner of things... Walked out onto the street to study the stars, listen to the crickets, watch how the wind moved through the sunflower stems dancing proudly along the fence. A gift, Jeff told me one night, smiling his gap toothed smile. A set of drum sticks in his wiry hands. He’d beat out the rhythm to the song that was playing—on the Klipsch la scala speakers, or a song playing brashly in his head, that only he could hear. Listen, Rachel, he’d say. Listen.

And I did listen. And I still do, Jeff. Even though you are gone, dead at 36. But my old dark-haired lover is still up there in that beaten town, still protecting his hands, still strumming. And it’s me—Rachel—down here saying thanks. Saying thanks for the joy, saying thanks for making me think of you both today.
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