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A Short Personal History Born in 1958 to Richard Arthur Lake and Frances Louise Felsberg, I have survived to find that I have only survived, not gained, save that I have grown an extra testicle...I should be having a ball. I was born in Springfield, Massachusetts; a state whose spelling I have never felt compelled to investigate, not even for religious purposes. This does not mean that I don't love that imaginarily boundered mass of square milage...I don't, it just doesn't mean that I don't. I mean, how could I have loved so fickle a mistress, she let me leave after only four and a half years, and on the advice of my parents too. Fuck Massachusetts! What did Massachusetts ever do for me, beyond improving my score in spelling, if an occasion ever arose to make use of such an ungainly looking name? Oh, sure I was born there, lots of people were born there, but did they stay there? How the hell should I know, I left when I was four and a half, aren't you listening? Massachusetts. What does Massachusetts mean anyway? A per capita income of $37,412.98? NO! Well, maybe it does. Actually I hope it does because that means somebody owes me four and a half years' back pay. Plus vacation time and coffee breaks. To be truthful, I do know what "Massachusetts" does mean : it means "Land of the Horrible Trees That Are Farting". I'm proud. I'm proud to be from a place that is known for rude, not to mention noxious and quite large plant life. No wonder Dukakis didn't make it.(Who's name by the way means what it sounds like it means.) Why don't they just pave the whole state under, leaving Boston standing of course, we'll need that impossible accent as part of our national heritage someday. Massachusetts doesn't even call itself a "state" either, oh no, It's a "Commonwealth". Who the fuck do they think they're kidding? There might be one or two people there that are uncommonly wealthy, but by and large it is far more common to be poor. Besides, they along with Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, and Rhode Island are just as much under siege by Puerto Rico as any state in the Union. I think by "Commonwealth" what they really mean is : "We are a bunch of snooty assholes, and we have Boston." Yeah, well, that also means you have The Boston Red Sox ,you bunch of snooty assholes. Massachusetts. Right. Well, maybe I was born in Massachusetts, but I don't like to talk about it. Cliff Lake 8/17/'92
The Facts Somebody's mother told somebody's cousin about something that they didn't see. Then somebody called my sister and told her, and somehow it got me. I'm not really certain what it's all about or if the info applies; But it's fun to hear and even more fun to tell,'though it seems to keep gaining in size. Tell me again about what's-her-name ,and what she did to whom. Tell me what you heard the brother say while you were in the other room. Make up some details if you haven't got any. or I'll never be able to relax. Does it get really gory, just tell me the story, I really don't need the facts. Now what's-his-face said that he heard it different ,that what I heard cannot be true. And that's why I'm asking what you know about It, because some of it is about you. So tell me what you know, and I'll tell you what I know, doesn't that sound like a plan? Cuz it's up to us find out the story, before this gets out of hand. Tell me again about what's-her-name, and what she did to whom. Tell me what you heard the brother say while you were in the other room. Make up some details if you haven't got any. or I'll never be able to relax. Does it get really gory, just tell me the story, I really don't need the facts. Cliff Lake
The Peanut Butter
The door slammed solidly behind her, shaking the glass in the
windows across the room.
"What the...", I said.
"Where's the peanut butter?", she cried.
"The peanut butter," I thought," That again."
I put down my pen and taking a deep breath, attempted to
confuse her once again.
"The peanut butter -", I began,
"Oh - ho!!" she cried.
"Do you want to know?" I asked.
She set her jaw at that, compressing her lips so tightly that
paper wouldn't have passed through, and I thought, "Oh, shit,
she won't buy it this time..."
In spite of that, I tried again: "The peanut butter..."
"Not this time!" she screamed.
I shifted gears, and stalled.
"The peanut butter, the peanut butter!?!"
I was screaming, I was frothing, I was spewing little droplets of
coffee infected spittle everywhere. "I'm losing my mind, "I
thought, "Good."
"With you it's always the peanut butter!" I hissed at her.
"What's up with you," I suspicioned, "and the peanut butter?"
Suddenly she was cagey:" Why I'm sure I don't know what
you mean," she said, looking at me with just a corner of an
eye and hoping I wouldn't catch her at it. "I've got her on
the run!" I thought triumphantly, and then,
"Why?"
"So it's just as I thought," sneered I. What the hell was I talking
about? Whatever it was, it seemed to be working.
"It's been the peanut butter all along, hasn't it?"
"No," she said, corner - looking again, "It's you, it's always
been you."
She was lying, I knew she was lying, but what the hell were
we talking about?
"Then," said I, my mind racing like some frightened demon
caught on the wrong side of the Pearly Gates, "Where is the
peanut butter?" I yelled gleefully.
"I've done it!" my mind crowed, "I've pulled the old change - up!"
my mind crowed. But it was too late; I should have wrenned,
or maybe even sparrowed, skipping and flitting, lighting and
landing, only to take off in an entirely new and unexpected
direction. But it was too late; she was an old hand at this game,
and horrified I watched as her eyes narrowed, and though no
smile lit her lips; it was there nonetheless, hovering up around
her cheekbones kind - of as she replied, retorted even, with the
oldest and most typically female gambit in the books: "I asked
you first." My mind, the crow, took one in the side!
She leaned forward like a vulture, and for all the world
the intimate confidante, asked: "You know, don't you ?"
"Somebody's gotta get all these birds outta the room," I
muttered. "What birds?", she asked, startled.
"No way...!", I thought, "Maybe...."
"The birds," I confidanted back at her, "All - the birds. Don't
you see them gathering, hovering , watching ? Watching
you, watching m...."
"Don't you Gaslight me!", she snapped with a curl to her lip.
I never should have given her that Marvy Marla Makeover Kit,
she was always curling something with it, her lips, her fingers,
her toes...
"You're stalling.", she said, "What have you got to hide?"
"My soft - porn collection?", I tried.
"I already found that crap.", she said, "How come you don't
have any of the real stuff?"
"Ah - ha!", my mind yelled, "She hasn't found it! I'm winning!"
Wasn't I? "Oh, I don't know", I said, "I guess I don't need -"
"Never mind.", she said, with one of those little dismissal
wave things that people do, "Where - is - the - peanut - butter?"
Damn! She just wasn't going to give this up.
I'd had her once, now what was that...oh yeah....
"Why are you so concerned", I asked, kindly at first, "is it
because you believe the peanut butter to be yours, and
yours alone?" I watched happily as she changed from
vulture to cornered shrew - one less bird anyway.
"Yes, no, well...no, I mean...", she was stammering, stumbling,
but then, "Why do you want to know?", she asked with more
than a hint of suspicion, "Is it because you use the peanut butter
more than any of us?" she asked
with more than a hint of suspicion, "Perhaps you've found other
uses for the peanut butter?" she asked with more than a hint of
suspicion. What?
"Maybe...maybe you have more to lose..."
WHAT?
"Maybe you have more to gain!" she cried.
We were at that point again, the one where I didn't know what
we were talking about. I opted to be confused.
"I'm confused." I said. It was a cheap trick, but it seemed to be working.
"What would I have to gain or lose by getting
rid of the peanut butter?"
"AH - HA!!" at the top of her voice, "Who said anything
about anyone getting rid of the peanut butter?"
"Oh, DAMN!" I thought, "She's getting too close! Confuse,
deny...RUN!!"
How could I tell her, how could I explain, how could she
understand, why - why I'd had to kill the peanut butter. It was
for her own good, the peanut butter was bad for her, and as
long as the peanut butter was there she would...
But that was too horrible to think about, and had been too
horrible to see, and we had all agreed, all of us that loved her,
that something had to be done. And that was why, yes, that
was why, I had gotten rid....of the peanut butter. I allowed my
mind to drift back to the last time I had seen the
peanut butter...back, back, back, my mind was drifting - and
then it damn near fell out of the hole she'd always claimed
was there in my head...but that's another story, full of danger
and denial, and a turtle named Comanche, who'd saved my
life once and had never apologized for it, the son of a bitch....
but I digest, he was, after all, very good with soup.
My mind was drifting, I hadn't thought of Comanche in hours,
but now I focused on the peanut butter and that last time - out
in the fields, me, the peanut butter, and a kitchen knife...well,
what did you expect? We had a pretty big spread, and
the peanut butter was a big part of it.
Yes, we needed the peanut butter, but apparently some
of us needed more than others...
I couldn't understand why she'd accused me of wanting
the peanut butter more than anyone else, she knew I was
straight. Sure, there were uses, but they were secular,
not - the other thing. Not like her, oh no, she was the one
that... For the longest time I hadn't understood her attraction,
but then, my sister, Goldrina, showed me something that
was shocking, maybe even depraved, but she raised
pythons for a living and was used to that sort of thing.
Goldrina even has a tattoo of a - well, I don't know what
it is exactly, but every time I see the thing, I have a wild urge
to chew my own arm off while listening to Wagner in a
darkened theater with full surround - sound and all the
while playing accompiament on an out of tune piano with
my left foot. I wasn't certain that this was a healthy impulse,
but I've been wrong before. However it does explain why I
don't spend much time with my sister. Anyway, it was one
of those golden October days that you always hear about
in those fluffy, cotton battened, syrupy poems that you have to
read in fifth grade, out loud, in front of the whole class, right
after you've ripped the seat completely out of your pants at
recess, and your teacher, Miss Spandexa, the one you've
had a crush on all year, starts to giggle as she stands behind
you, which only makes you want her more, now, right here in
front of everyone, and you imagine her in the heat of her
passion, ripping the ribbons from her.....where was I?
Oh, yeah....heh, heh....
It was one of those golden October days, a day made
for battering peanuts, yes I said battering, and there
was the peanut butter doing just that. Battering peanuts,
that's what the peanut butter was doing.
Goldrina had a hold on my arm, so I wasn't looking at
her tattoo, that's not why she'd brought me out there,
after all I had seen it before.
But there in front of us, at the crest of a hill,
was the peanut butter, doing what we paid him to do,
to batter peanuts. "You see him?" said Goldrina.
"Of course I see him," I said, "who could miss him,
big, brawny, covered in peanut oil, getting the best
looking tan I've ever seen, he's out there every day,
everyone knows that." "Yes, everyone does," said Goldrina knowingly,
"and that's the problem." "What are you getting at?" I asked.
"Look," said Goldrina, pointing slightly down the hill,
and a little to the right. And there climbing the hill
and nearing the crest was a familiar female figure
approaching the peanut butter. "Mommy?" I said.
"No, I'm your sister," said Goldrina. "I know that,"
I said to her, "You have a tattoo of a - but if that's true,
who is that?" "That's your mother, what's the matter with you?"
said Goldrina. "I don't know," I said, "I was just confused for
a second, that's all." "Well, that's what you get for putting
her on an Oedipal," my sister said. "No, you mean 'pedestal',"
I told her. Goldrina just looked at me for a long moment,
then finally, looking up at the crest of the hill once more,
said "watch." "You've got one of your own already," I said,
"and by the way, it's five minutes fast." "No," she said.
"Yes," I said, "it's right there on your arm-" Someone shook
me at that, it might have been Goldrina, we were the only
two there. I wanted to kill her for it, it was a nice watch,
but something stopped me, probably the .45 she always carried,
but there was something else as well, a hint, a glimmer,
an idea was forming in my mind, "but what does it mean?"
I thought and therefore I was. Something hit me then,
like a wet fish, and I realized that Goldrina was sweating.
"Will you pay attention?", she snarled at me, "I brought
you out here to see something!" "You have a new tattoo?
I don't want to see it." "No!" she said, pointing up the hill,
"watch, I mean, look!" I looked - and watched. I watched
as a person who looked, and acted, and even sounded exactly
like my mother walked up behind the peanut butter.
And tickled him. His entire body went rigid then,
and he slipped on something, peanut butter maybe, and he
fell to the ground with a soft splat, the same splat
I'd given him for his birthday, thinking to make his job easier.
Of course it had been a hard splat then, but it takes a
while to break one in. She laughed, oh God, she laughed,
and it was then that I knew: my mother was playing with the
peanut butter. I kept watching as the peanut butter's large,
strong, brown hand shot out and grasped one of mommy's ankles
and pulled and she went down, I mean she fell, the other part
came later. I still have the tapes. As Goldrina and I watched
further, it became more and more apparent that what we were
seeing was much more than a simple game of patty-cake, or
even Little Debbie's. I was disgusted, I was enraged;
I had always thought we were so close, mommy and I, but
not to have known, not to have seen…
"Seen enough?" asked Goldrina, still with a hold on my
arm and a tear in her eye - I'd told her to stop playing
with that cat. I remember mumbling about a camcorder
and blackmail, but then something struck me and I remembered
that Goldrina had never liked me very much. It was no
wonder that I never spent much time with my sister.
Goldrina and I left soon after that, we had to, I was
so shocked. I had never realized before how much a cattle
prod hurts. Later, locked in my room, anger coursed
through my veins like soap through an enema bag. Well,
not exactly like that, but it was coursing all right.
I was raging, I was ranting, I was nearing the end of my rope.
Goldrina wasn't very good at knots, funny, it seemed
so out of character for her, but it was so very convenient
for me. I had to get our, I had to save her, I had to save
my mommy. She didn't know what she was getting into, what
the consequences could be. Already my image of her was
getting spotty - it was unseemly, I wouldn't stand for it,
and if I could just untie myself from the headboard of my
bed, I wouldn't.
It took hours, but I finally freed myself, picked
the lock on my door, and snuck down to the kitchen.
I hadn't wanted things to go that far, but visions of
mommy alone with the peanut butter kept me off balance,
but it was late, and no one heard me bumping into the
furniture. In spite of the bruises, I kept picturing
mommy out there in the fields in the little orange hat
I'd bought for her at Marma Lade's in Little Italy,
she'd been glowing; those novelty items always come
with great batteries. At one point, I almost turned
back; "maybe," I thought, "maybe I shouldn't interfere.
After all, neither man, nor woman, can live by bread alone."
It was just that I didn't want to see her get into a jam with
the peanut butter, she was so well preserved. But her
involvement with the peanut butter had put a pox on my
view of her, and no amount of cleansing creams or healing
salves would remove that oily stain. No, only abstinence
could do that, and I was going to see that mommy got
plenty…or didn't get…well whether she did or she didn't
I was going to see that she wasn't - or was - or something.
"And whatever that is, I'm going to see to it, of that I
am sure," I thought.
When I got to the kitchen, I headed straight for the
utensils, causing me to fall flat on my face, after
flipping over the table that someone had rudely left
in the center of the room for the last twenty-two years,
a fact I had never gotten used to. Oddly the incident
reminded me of the nickname my father had called me,
one that he had unconsciously derived from some old
television show about a dolphin. But those days were over,
daddy was dead and mommy had found some new nuts to play
with…so to speak. I couldn't understand her attraction
for the peanut butter, that big strapping field hand
constantly battering peanuts, ramming the ram again and
again and again, ramming, ramming, ramming, stroke after
stroke after stroke, oiled and sweating, tan and tall,
muscled and magnificent, toiling in full view of all,
day after day, out there in the waving fields in all of
Nature's glory, with the sun beating on his moistened physique -
whatever did she see in the man? Whatever it was, it drew
her obsessively and with no sense of shame and it had to stop!
And I was just the man to do it, out of the simple love a
boy can have for his mother; I still remember what a fine
time we'd had at the prom, and how clever I had been to sign
her up as chaperone…those were the days. As my hand closed
around the knife, I felt the pain, so I turned the knife
around and grasped it by the handle. There was no turning
back now, I couldn't have found my way around that table
with a map, a dangerous proposition with a knife in hand,
to say the least. My timing couldn't have been more perfect;
mommy was spending the weekend at the Betty Ford clinic
for a little R & R; all of the field hands, with one
important exception, were celebrating the harvest in town,
though what there was to harvest in town I didn't know
exactly, but it had to have been something, that's where
they'd all gone to; and the peanut butter himself?
Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho. I'd asked him to stay behind. Calling him
from my room, I'd promised him double pay to remain at
the ram and finish the last of the battering; how easily
he'd agreed. It seemed that I'd be saving the family
some money tonight…
I crept out through the kitchen side door and into the
garage, from there through a door that led to a storage
shed in back, and then outside through a small window in
the side of the shed and into the back yard. It all
seemed so unnecessary; there was a door that led directly
there from the kitchen, but I didn't care anymore.
I crossed the yard and let myself into the empty bunkhouse.
Yes, I let myself into the empty bunkhouse.
The empty bunk house. The bunkhouse was empty!
The peanut butter was gone! There was no peanut butter!
I was amazed, I was shocked; I'd forgotten that the light
switch had a short in it. That such a thing could happen
twice in the same series of events was almost beyond
comprehension, but the circuit was closed, you might say,
and so there it was, an empty bunk house and I stood
there, electrified. Where was the peanut butter?
I couldn't think, my mind had turned into a boiling,
congealed mass, like oatmeal, and I thanked my lucky
stars that I'd thought to put a Band-Aid on the back
of my head. Dr. Lekey would have been proud.
Removing my hand from the light switch I moaned aloud;
my hand really hurt. Then, looking around at the
empty bunkhouse, I moaned again, everything was falling
apart and I simply didn't have the time to re-plaster.
I ran from the bunk house then, I ran and Iraq, but my
guitar and amp were back in my room, I just wasn't in the
mood for art just then; as I said, I'm straight. I ran.
Where I ran to didn't seem to matter, I had been so
charged to do the deed, and then re-charged of course,
when I had turned on the that light in the bunk house
and I had volumes of energy to expel and I didn't need
a dictionary to spell it right. I ran. Over bushes
and over rocks, over tree stumps and over stones,
over roots and over gravel, over hill and over dale,
I hit the dusty trail, and then I got up and I ran again.
Finally breaking from cover, I fell headlong into the
fields, dimly aware that I had an appointment to have my
head shortened later that week, and I wept. I wept and
I cursed, and worse, I crept, crept up the crest, but first,
I wept and then I crept to the crest, and I cursed.
I cursed my evil fortune, for there, there at the crest,
I found the peanut butter, and I cursed.
The peanut butter lay at my feet, ram in hand,
splat in the peanut butter. Dead, of course, he was a
corpse and who's ever heard of a talking corpse, no, he
was just dead. And I wept. Once he had been my friend,
but now he was dead and I was to blame. Now I looked
at the knife in my hand. No, maybe I hadn't done what
I had intended, but he was just as dead as if I had
stabbed him through the heart and indeed it was his
heart that had killed him. You see, the peanut butter
had been battering peanuts for us since I was a child,
and it was a cinch to deduce that he must have absorbed
quite the volume of cholesterol over the years. Add to
that his age and his over time assignment, and that spells
heart attack. Well, to be honest, there's way too many
letters in those last two sentences to actually come up
with coronary and have it come out even, but the result
is the same. I'd killed him. I'd killed him and I was glad!
I was glad because the peanut butter had blackened my
mother's image, not just for me, but for all who saw her,
because the peanut butter hadn't just been giving her a
good time, oh no, he had given her more, much more:
I had always thought of my mother as a regal woman and
at fifty-seven years of age it seemed so out of place
for her to have developed….acne. Well, that pretty much
brings us back to the beginning of my story, the peanut
butter is still out there lying in the field, with the
harvest over, it may be some time before he is discovered.
And the argument we were having about the peanut butter?
I was able to smooth that over. She'll forget him; with
the peanut butter gone, she should be able to forget him in a Jif.
Cliff Lake
1/25/95
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