The Rubber Biskit Road Show Presents, “Never Say Never: An Epic Journey – Volume One, Part Six: What We’ve Got Here Is Failure To Communicate

The Rubber Biskit Road Show Presents, “Never Say Never: An Epic Journey – Volume One, Part Six: What We’ve Got Here Is Failure To Communicate

In the poignant sixth part of "Never Say Never: An Epic Journey – Volume One," The GYPSY embarks on a chilling, lengthy motorcycle journey from Saint Joseph, Missouri, to Topeka, Kansas, to attend the funeral of a Father he never knew. The narrative unfolds the intricate tale of how Shirley met and fell in love with this mysterious man.

Accompany The GYPSY as he guides you through this intense chapter, offering insights into his life, his family dynamics, and the intricacies of his mother's existence—Shirley Elizabeth Hummel, who grappled with mental illness throughout her life.

Shirley's story, though challenging, is a tapestry of emotions that will take you through moments of discomfort, laughter, and fleeting warmth that often eluded her. You might find yourself oscillating between anger and horror as the narrative unravels the tragic events that plunged Shirley deeper into her mental health struggles. This storytelling journey serves as an educational and enlightening exploration of the emotional highs and lows experienced by both individuals and their support networks in the face of mental illness.

PLEASE NOTE: This is a rebroadcast of a podcast episode from 11/9/2021. I stopped podcasting to help my wife through her battle with stage 4 breast cancer. My wife recovered and I am now ready to start podcasting once more. Over the next couple of months, I will be reposting my past podcasts and will start new episodes in January 2024. 

“Like a Rubber Biskit, I have spent my life bouncing from here to there and back to here again.”  -The GYPSY-

"NEVER SAY NEVER: AN EPIC JOURNEY - VOLUME ONE" is now available on Amazon in Kindle, Paperback and Hardcover Book form. CLICK HERE!

I'm The GYPSY and You're Not and This Is The Rubber Biskit Road Show Presented By Artist Alley Studio Featuring The Artisan, Handcrafted and Branded Creations of The GYPSY and Mad Hatter. Visit Us At www.ArtistAlleyStudio.com

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Visit The Rubber Biskit Road Show On The Web At  www.RubberBiskit.com
Tatman Productions LLC. Copyright 2021 - All Rights Reserved. No Parts of The Podcast May Be Copied, Reproduced or Used Without The Express Written Permission Of The Artist.

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Transcript

CHAPTER SIX: WHAT WE’VE GOT HERE IS FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE

March 25th, 1956 was a red letter day in the history of the world to hear my Mother tell it. I knew the story as well as I knew my own name and at least once a year, as I grew up, I would wish that amnesia would overtake my mind. I truly believe that my Mother would mark off the days on the calendar year after year waiting for March 25th to arrive so that she could once again relate her favorite story to me. 

March 25th was the day of my conception, and it was also the day 23 years later that the man who had given me life had left this world and passed into the next. Now five days after his solving of the great mystery I was heading to the funeral of a man who was as much a stranger to me as he was a familiar part of my life. 

Mother Nature had given me a day to reflect my mood. After a few weeks of unseasonably mild temperatures this early spring day had taken a leap backwards to revisit the coldest and most miserable day of mid-winter. 

I headed my 1970 BSA Thunderbolt along Lower Lake Road and out of St. Joseph, Missouri into the frigid air southwest along US 59 highway towards Atchison, Kansas. At Atchison I crossed the high and narrow steel girded Missouri River Bridge. The motorcycle’s tires hummed as they skimmed over the bridge's steel deck. 

Far below the waterway of the muddy Missouri carried ice flow commuters of varying sizes south to their eventual dissipation in warmer waters. Passing under the “Welcome to Kansas” sign I noticed the rust that was pushing past the peeling green painted girders of the bridge and onto the attached sign that announced, “Home of Miss America 1974.” 

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust Miss Americas a virgin and if she doesn't get laid soon, she’s gonna rust”, I chanted to myself as I left the bridge and headed through the old railroad town. 

On the far side of Atchison US 59 south joined up with K4 highway and continued west towards Topeka. As I maneuvered the hills and curves of “Nightmare Alley”, the nickname given by locals to the stretch of K4 from Atchison to Topeka, the air fought to push its icy fingers through my layers of clothing and leather. As the road disappeared behind me my mind drifted into that period where my mother would gleefully tell me of my conception. 

“Your Dad was in the Merchant Marines at the time,” she would begin, “and would be gone for 3 months at a time. This particular time he was only home for one day and well,” she would grin and continue, “While Jack Benny mugged for the camera you were conceived.” 

My mom would sigh, get a faraway look in her eyes and state, “To this day I find the glow of a TV screen in a darkened room the most romantic of lighting. Anyway,” she would come back to the present, “I can tell you the exact day you were conceived because your dad was gone for three months after that. I didn’t have sex with anyone else so Walla,” My Mother would clap her hands together then open them up in a sweeping and generous gesture, “March 25th, the date of your conception.” She would look at me for my reaction. 

“That’s pretty cool,” I would always say. 

“Yes, yes, it is! Of course, you would have been born on Christmas if you hadn't been born exactly 2 months to the day early.” 

My Mother would conclude without waiting for a reaction from me before she would start a new discourse on a completely different subject. 

***

I geared down as I left the asphalt of the highway and felt the bikes tires bite into the gravel driveway that skirted the highway. I listened to the crunching sound of the stones as I pulled the BSA up to the pump at the old Sinclair station in Valley Falls. Kicking down the kickstand I stiffly extracted myself from the bike and released the chrome gas cap. I grabbed the bikes handlebars and gave it a shake as I strained to look into the oily depths of the tank. The sloshing of the gas greeted my ears as if to say, “I’m hungry,” slosh, slosh, “feed me.” To remind me of what she ate the bike released a whiff of gasoline fumes from the tank opening. 

Dislodging the pump handle I slipped the nozzle into the caps opening and briefly wondered how Freud would analyse a man’s love for his machine and the symbolism's associated with the refuelling process. 

Insert phallic symbol A into opening B on machine C that is referred to as “she.”  

The pump noisily and slowly dispensed its fuming liquid as I silently gave thanks to the long dead dinosaur that had given his life to fuel my bike. Finishing the process, I gave a salute to the profile on the pump of the green monster that now resided in my tank and headed for the station to pay my bill. 

“How much?” The greasy station attendant demanded. 

Tossing two crumpled dollar bills on the counter I said, “A buck and a quarter.” 

The station attendant barely took his eyes from the Playboy magazine he was scrutinizing to take my money and throw back three quarters. Wonder if I would have said a dime if he would have even noticed.  

Walking back into the cold I pushed my bike away from the pumps and set it to rest by a small hill at the top of which sat the town’s best and only café. Entering the building my nose was assailed with the smells of stale tobacco smoke, burnt coffee, old grease and assorted lost food forever hidden between the stove and the wall. The sound of bacon in its death throes issued forth from the flat brown grill. 

“Coffee please,” I said as the waitress approached. 

She moved the crumbs around on the counter in front of me with a wet bar towel that smelled of too much bleach and laid the menu in the damp remains. Without a word she produced a cup out of nowhere and poured the black tar from the stained pot into it. I like strong coffee as much as the next guy, but this had a life of its own. I beat it back into the cup with my spoon and added some sugar and cream to tame it. The waitress stood chewing her cud as I perused the faded and stained menu. 

“Got a wine list?” I inquired. 

“A what?” she asked. 

“Two eggs over easy, sausage, biscuits and gravy and keep your fingers out of the bowl,” I answered. 

Without a word she snatched the menu and walked away scribbling the order on her pad. Years of eating in dives like this had taught me that this was the safest breakfast to order. It was damn near impossible to screw it up. The gravy was prepackaged and mixed with water, just heat and serve. The biscuits came pre-baked and loaded with so many preservatives that not even the roaches would touch them, but they were safe for human consumption. The sausage would be overcooked and so would the eggs so no worry there. The safe breakfast, now you know where McDonalds got ideas for their breakfast menu. 

As I sipped the tarry coffee, I could feel the eyes of every farmer in the place on me. This was a farming community and the ten or, so customers were definitely fresh from the farm. The circus was in town, and I was the center ring attraction. Chances were that if I made it out of this café without incident that I would still be the talk of the town for weeks. The waitress sat the greasy plate down in front of me and I began to choke down the slimy mess. While I ate, I could hear the whispers coming from the other tables and I knew what they were saying, it was always the same old shit from goat fuckers. It usually was about the length of my hair, my tattoos or my club colours which I wore everywhere especially when I was on my bike as I was today. 

My colours were a white skull shaped patch which portrayed the visage of a grim reaper standing in front of a flaming coffin. There were top and bottom rockers that framed the center patch and stated in large red block letters “Missouri Reapers M/C.” Below this assemblage was another patch that proclaimed, “Original Member.”

I was one of the five Missouri originals in a club that now numbered almost 100 riders between the Kansas and Missouri Chapters. The patches were sewed to the back of my cut, an old blue jean jacket that the arms had been cut out of. The cut held patches and pins that were the road map of my life and travels. On the front were two special patches sewed over the pockets. Over the right pocket the red lettered patch told you that I was “The GYPSY” and over the left pocket a slightly smaller patch announced my position with the club i.e.; Business Manager. 

Grabbing the last piece of sausage from the plate I popped it into my mouth as I stood to leave. "What'll ya ‘spose that is on his back.” I heard one of the goat fuckers drawl as I reached into my pocket for cash to pay my bill. 

“Don’t know, could be a monkey” another offered. 

Christ, I don’t need this not today of all days. 

“More like a flaming faggot.” someone else said and the group broke out in laughter. 

Déjà Vu didn’t I see this in a movie? 

I decided to put a stop to this as quickly as possible. Picking up my half full cup of coffee I headed for the large round table where the majority of the goat fuckers sat and where most of the laughter came from. I stood in front of the table laughing with them as if I was one of their group and in on the joke instead of being the joke. They continued to laugh, eyeing me when suddenly the realization came into their small brains that the brunt of their joke was standing in front of them and laughing with them. 

As the laughter started to subside my demeanour changed, I slammed the cup down hard on the table spilling its contents. Holding the cup hard against the table I leaned forward and through clenched teeth hissed, “Listen to me assholes, I am on my way to bury my father. I am short on time, but I am sure I could find enough time to bury a couple of you mother fuckers today if you don’t shut your mouth and leave me the fuck alone.” 

I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and without taking my eyes off the leader of the group I said, “Don’t even think it old man I’m younger, faster, stronger and a lot more pissed off than you. I straightened and fixed the lead goat fucker with a look asked, “Do we have any further problems?” 

He grinned a toothless grin, “Nah, we were just fun’n.” 

Without another word I carried the cup back to the counter, dropped four bucks into the remains of its contents and set it down on the counter. The waitress just stared at a spot on the wall on the other side of the room and said nothing. 

“Nice talking to you,” I said as I grabbed the door handle to leave.  

“Sorry ’bout your Pa.” The lead goat fucker called out as I exited the café and made my way back down the hill to my bike.  

The wind was a cold knife slicing into my face as the miles disappeared behind me and my destination loomed closer. I had said it, I had given a voice to the thing I had not wanted to say, I was going to bury my father. I had suppressed thoughts of my Father and the duty I had to perform this day as long as I could. Now those things about him that I knew piled in upon me and flooded my thoughts. 

***

Lee Roy Everett George was born in 1925 into a farm family in the northeast Kansas village of Nortonville, Kansas. Ironically the same community that my Great Grandfather and his brother on my mother’s side had once called home. 

He met my mother Shirley Elizabeth Hummel, a Topeka girl, when Lee Roy was a logger in the Northwest US and Shirley was a waitress in a logging camp café. 

Florida had been a dismal disappointment for Shirley, so she had decided to explore her Gypsy heritage and travel around for a while. 

Lee Roy had entered the café just as the sun was setting behind the tall pines. The chill wind followed him into the warm interior of the café. He had been topping trees since sunrise and he was stiff, cold and bone weary tired. He found a seat on the slick green vinyl top of one of the chrome bar stools that lined the counter. Turning up the white glazed clay mug that rested on the counter in front of him he turned on the stool looking for the waitress. 

This was Shirley’s first day of work as a waitress in this logging camp café where everyone seemed to know everyone else. 

She was scared because she was by herself in a strange new place, but she needed to earn some money before she moved on. 

She moved in behind the counter and standing in front of Lee Roy asked, “What will it be?”

Looking from the upturned cup to the pot in her hand he raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. Flustered she poured his coffee then asked him as she reached for the creamer, “How do you like your coffee?” 

Grinning ear to ear Lee Roy replied, “The same way I like my women…”  

Before Lee Roy could continue Shirley poured cream and sugar into his cup and shot back, “…. white and sweet?” 

Lee Roy spent the evening drinking coffee and visiting with the young attractive waitress. When she would leave the counter to take a customer’s order his eyes would follow her around the café. She reminded him of someone familiar, but he could not recall who it was. 

The café closed at 10:00 pm and together they silently climbed the outside stairs to Shirley’s loft apartment above the café. Her face was illuminated by the bare bulb outside her door and as Lee Roy stared at her profile, he suddenly knew who she reminded him of. Taking her by the shoulders as she inserted her key in the lock, he turned her around. Looking into her large brown eyes he knew he was right. Except for the fact that she did not have violet eyes this waitress looked like the movie actress Elizabeth Taylor. He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to the lips of the girl with movie star looks. 

From that moment on Lee Roy and Shirley spent as much time as they could together. When he wasn’t chopping timber, and she wasn’t waiting tables they shared Shirley’s bed. Shirley had never been to Lee Roy’s place, and she did not want to go. The idea of the two of them in the heat of passion surrounded by the 50 or so men Lee Roy shared a bunk house with made her laugh. 

She had fallen hopelessly head over heels in love with him, but she did not know for certain how he felt. He was not very vocal about his emotions, so Shirley had not told him how she felt. She was terrified of scaring him off, but she had to know. One night, while lying wrapped in his arms, after a more than vigorous love making session, she broached the subject. 

“Lee,” she breathed across his chest, “I love you.” Shirley held her breath, her heart beating hard within her breast. 

“Me too,” came the reply. 

OK, Shirley thought, not quite what I was expecting but I’ll take it. She nestled deeper into his strong protective arms and drifted off into a contented sleep. 

Fall had approached quickly and quietly, and the lumber camp was becoming more deserted daily. Shirley had asked Lee Roy what was going on and he had jokingly remarked, “The geese are flying south for the winter.” 

When she pressed him about it, he would avoid the subject and start conversations about anything except the desertion of the camp. Shirley knew that if this kept up before long there would be no loggers left. 

With just the small local population left she could not make enough in tips with the loggers gone to sustain her through the winter. If Lee Roy wasn’t going to give her a straight answer, then she would ask the café owner what was going on. Big Frank had lived here all his life and there was nothing that escaped his attention. 

“Frank, where is everyone going?” Shirley asked. 

“It’s the annual migration,” he began. “Every year at this time the logging camps all but closes down and the loggers head for warmer climes,” he told her in his one cigarette too many raspy voice. “I was going to tell ya here in a day or so that I wouldn’t need ya again until next spring.” 

Shirley’s mind reeled; why hadn’t Lee told me this? 

Big Frank eyed his young waitress and could see the concern on her face, “Don’t worry about it,” he rasped, “go home to your family for the winter and let Lee have his few months playing husband to his wife. Next spring y’all can pick up where ya left off and play house some more.” 

The shock of what Big Frank had just said hit Shirley like a ton of bricks and Frank saw it in her now tearing eyes. 

“Oh, my Gawd ya didn’t know, “Frank said. 

***

Lee Roy was in heaven. Shirley had fixed his favorite meal, pork chops, corn on the cob, potatoes with gravy and a big piece of hot apple pie with a piece of cheese melted on top. After dinner she had almost ripped his clothes from his body with her eagerness to start pleasing him and please him she did. Shirley had become his willing slave doing anything and everything he wanted to please him. Just when he thought he had done all he could she would go to work on him until he exploded in sheer ecstasy. Lee Roy now lay back against the headboard satisfied and exhausted. 

Sleep was threatening to overtake him as Shirley sat down on the edge of the bed and an open bottle of Schlitz in her hand. She handed the bottle to Lee Roy and ran her other hand up the middle of his chest then drew her finger down towards his stomach. Tracing the contours of his well-defined abs with her index finger, she smiled and seductively looked into his eyes. 

He was taking a long draw from his beer when Shirley cooed, “Lee…. I was just wondering…. Who do you think is better in bed, me or your wife?” 

Spewing beer across the bed and giving Shirley’s nude body a baptism of fermented hops and barley Lee Roy started choking. 

“What’s the matter you son of a bitch,” she said jumping up off the bed, “hasn’t any of your other girlfriends ever asked you that?” 

Grabbing a pillow off of the bed she lunged for Lee Roy’s head trying to press the pillow over his still gagging face. He pushed and heaved her off of him where she landed with a thud on the floor. 

“Are you fucking crazy? Lee Roy asked with a gasp. 

“I’ll kill you, you mother fucker, I’ll kill you.” she sobbed from where she had landed on the floor. 

He knelt down beside her and tried to brush the hair from Shirley’s face. She resisted his efforts pulling away and scrambling up and into her bed where she pulled the sheets around her naked body. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed Lee Roy said, “I reckon I have some explaining to do, I guess we better talk.” 

However, for the first 20 minutes or so the only talking that was done was by Lee Roy with Shirley resisting all until he said, “So I guess what I am trying to say is that I love you.” 

Looking up at him Shirley said, “Now we can talk.” 

They talked through the night. Lee Roy told Shirley how even though he loved her he loved his wife Wilma also. He explained that it was hard for him because he could not decide between the two of them and he had not known how to tell Shirley about Wilma. 

“Is this something that you do all the time?” Shirley had wanted to know. 

Lee Roy assured her that it was not. 

They continued to talk until the rising sun was just creeping over the tree tops and forcing its way through the blinds and into the room. They finally decided, in the early hours of that morning, that they would remain lovers. Shirley told Lee Roy that she understood his dilemma and if the only way that she could have him was as his lover then she would be happy to have that. They made plans for Shirley to follow him down to Houston where his home and family were when he left in three weeks. They declared their love for each other, and he reassured her that all would be well before snuggling into each other and falling asleep.