The Lunatic Fringe in the Middle

i.:   The Story of ‘b’

‘Cousin B’ (which is long for ‘B’) was born on St. Swithins Day in 1957 to loving mom, ‘M’, and dad, ‘R’. A normal kid growing up on Detroit’s East side, ‘B’ attended elementary school at “Our Lady of the Holy Paddle” and went on to graduate from the prestigious “East-by-Northeast Catholic” High in ‘75 (where he had been awarded a Curling Scholarship).

Later, he went on to midnight studies at Harvard and Yale, ostensibly by breaking into classrooms, libraries and professor’s offices. (Although he holds no degree from these fine schools, the photos and copied record books have proven quite profitable.)

Then, one momentous weekend in 1977, a bizarre turn of events unfolded.

Cousin ‘B’, already on the fourth day of a macrobiotic diet, had waited a long time for tickets to this matinee Red Wings hockey game, and he wasn’t about to miss it.

So it’s midway through the first period when the guy behind him decides to light up a smoke. As the man innocently reaches for his beer, his cigarette brushes Cousin ‘B’s hair, startling him to his feet.

Just as Nick Libett’s slap shot from the point was being deflected.

Did you know that if a puck hits you just right, you won’t need stitches?

Well, they gave him a free beer and a program, and Eddie Giacomin gave him an autograph. The team doctor said he would be OK, and just take him home to rest, which his friends eventually did.

After the “Kiss/Mahogany Rush” concert in Toledo. (On reflection, many later say, the day-old Orange Julius and Lime vodka was, maybe not a good idea after all.) The zombified Cousin ‘B’ appeared to come back to life momentarily, but a broken guitar thrown from the stage soon put a stop to all that.

They gave him a free beer and a program and the box office manager gave him her phone number. The Tour Manager said he would be OK if his friends just took him home to get some rest, which they eventually did.

When the after-hours Hamtramck coffee house open-mic was over.

In later years, friends who were there have claimed that he caught a falling pitcher of beer in mid-air while sound asleep, without spilling a drop, and then, waking briefly, he took the stage. After reciting two original poems, he proceeded to play Mozart’s Magic Flute Variations on a borrowed guitar, oblivious of the fact that he neither played guitar or had ever heard the song.

Afterwards, as he lay sleeping peacefully in the back seat, they finished breakfast and took him home. He went immediately to bed.

For three days.

When he awoke, like an epiphany, Cousin ‘B’ knew his true calling.

He would play lead guitar for the Detroit Red Wings.

Or he would be the #1 goalie for Motown.

The details were still a bit sketchy, but he was on to something.

Actually, the team, and the NHL, for that matter, were very kind about the whole thing and even recommended some competent psychiatrists.

Sadly, even greater disappointment lay in store at Hitsville, USA.

After settling out of court and paying for the skate marks in the studio floor, Cousin ‘B’ embarked on a nationwide search for enlightenment, playing guitar in various ice rinks and being arrested at various music stores.

Finally, after years of searching, Cousin ‘B’ found himself at the most difficult point in his journey, and he ended up where all those lost souls go when they can’t decide whether to hold a guitar or a hockey stick.

Kalamazoo.

There, by the Ball Family Marker in the old Cemetery, bathed in the same moonlight as Orville Gibson’s original guitar factory, Cousin ‘B’ became entranced, and soon visited by two spirits.

No less than the allstar goalie, Terry Sawchuk, and the French master of jazz guitar, Django Rheinhardt, sat before him. As he stood, dumbfounded, Django rose to his feet and walked across, gently rounding the graves between them. As he reached a few yards distance, he began to raise his hand.

“You idiot!”, the gypsy guitarist sputtered in his thick French accent. “Sacre bleu, any one knows you don’t play guitar for a hockey team! What are you, stupid or something?”

Cousin ‘B’ just stared blankly.

“Just a second there, pal.” Terry follows the path over to them.

“I think I know what’s wrong.”

Suddenly the ex-Red Wing goaltender produced a glowing goalie stick from thin air and gave Cousin ‘B’ a good whack to the noggin.

“There. He was just one head shot short!”

Metaphysically, that is. In reality, the pure shock of it startled Cousin ‘B’ so much that he simply fell back and lightly conked his head on the unmistakable gravestone of the inventor of the ball bearing. After a short woozy spell, his head cleared and he stood before the two greats he admired.

“I knew you just needed one more good whack to set you right”, Terry added. “You’ll be OK.”

“I’m so embarrassed”, ‘B’ muttered back. “I’ve been a stark raving lunatic for three years.”

Terry drops the stick. “You’ll be fine. You just got a little mixed up. Shake it off. You can’t be afraid to laugh at yourself.”

“And remember, treat everyone like family, like a cousin”, Django adds as they begin to float away. “We’re all cousins. You’re just like everybody else. We’re all the same. We all need to learn, to think, to laugh and cry.”

So they faded back into eternity, and the ticket for sleeping in the cemetery was only $50.

And to this day, Cousin ‘B’ remains at large, wandering in pursuit of those lofty ideals. You may see him in your town, playing goalie for some pick-up game that’s short a netminder at the last minute, or singing “Twisted” at a jam session in some little honky-tonk. Or maybe, in the wee hours, you’ll see his blanket-clad form escorted from a local cemetery.

To this day, he works tirelessly to defend the middle ground. Occasionally, he shares his music and insights with the public. As long as you learn, think, laugh or cry, the first joke’s on him.

 
©2000 Pegwood Arts. All Rights Reserved.
 

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