The Kinks

When Harry discovered hell, he didn't get lost in any woods and he certainly wasn't approaching the half-way point of his life. He was about 12 years old, maybe older. He was just returning to the home of a friend after an excursion to Montreal. Her family was very religious, but they never discussed the details of god and friends. Yet, this evening in the dark, quiet corners of the family's basement, the girl decided it was time to tell Harry of the realities of hell; A fiery place with whips, heat, and eternal punishment. Harry was scared shitless. And that was the whole idea of hell.

Not long after, while living at a half way home for juvenile delinquents, Harry watched The Exorcist on TV with a few of the house's occupants. He was stunned. Later that night as he climbed to his attic bedroom, Harry was convinced that the devil would come to remove his soul. So to ward off any possibility of possession he slept with a baseball bat. He wasn't sure what good a bat would do, but he'd at least get a few swings in before losing his soul. No matter, the Devil never arrived; Least not that night.

Of course, Harry has outgrown this nonsense. "If there's a hell, we are, as Curtis said, 'all gonna go'. Harry also knew that he need only look around to find a wealth of hells. Harry's journey down the road of a more personal, earthly hell began when we he was about 14. This time, there was no bats, no demons, and certainly no Virgil. There really can never be one. Sure he has friends, but they can never know, he can never ask. He stumbles the dark roads alone.

You'd think that Beatrice would come first, but that feeling doesn't come till later and even then it's brief. Sometimes you're not aware of it. There's a warm fuzzy, 'take on the world' aura that grips your system. But before that comes nervous energy, fatigue, a variety of expressions, and several deep breaths. The pit of his stomach aches with tension and need. Harry fights, but tosses wimp punches at the wind. It's a fight he always want to lose. The trip begins. A voice emerges. He says, "just this much," but he gets more 'just in case' (hint hint). Once that decision is made, Harry know he will step beyond the paper-thin boundary. Start. Slow intakes. Then Harry loses himself in each sip. Soon Beatrice emerges. Head is light. Thoughts are high. The wine splashes against the glass. The sips become gulps. Clarity has never appeared so close. Beatrice becomes Buddy Love. He's a swingin' cool cat. Can do no wrong. The ladies love him. The men love him. In this drunken paradise, time stops; the hate of the outside and inside fade with each shot. Cravings, perversions and longings nestled restlessly within daydreams come gusting along with the sweet sounds of the swaggering winds.

Then it all changes. It was supposed to cure the demons and deliver the sunken soaked soul from the miseries of abandonment into a wonderful nightmare of loquacious delusions.

After the storm, the winds calm, memories unrecalled. Bruises. Pain. Headaches. Whispers. Shits. Pukes. Misery. The voices. From where? This is gone now. There are no more deliveries. A timeless underwater oblivion as miserable as the dry one above. Life becomes a drifting blur of insomniac inspired fragments.

Buddy Love wakes as Hades. Unaware of the world, the head swims in vagueness. Hands shake. A soul nailed with guilt. "Never again." "Never again." You say it to yourself while you sit on the toilet shitting out the blackness. It lasts a day, maybe two. Then it starts coming again. The day after is worse when he's travelling. Fears of dying away from home. But where was home? Where is home? Whenever Harry was home, he hid deep within himself, waiting quietly until the next journey abroad. The nights are long. A sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach. Half awake. Full of fatigue, but unable to sleep. The mind whirls around in a hurricane of static. Panic sets in. Pain in the arms. Aching eyes. The heart bashing the ribs. Is this it? Are all these failed promises finally grabbing him by the heart? To sooth his anguished mind, Harry takes a sleeping pill. Finally, he slips into a sleepless sleep. He awakes more tired than before and yet he is glad to see the light. He does not die this time. The day passes. Too tired to embrace the day. Too tired to care about living or dying.

From his car, Harry glances out at the kids gliding down the sidewalk towards the hockey rink. There was a day not far back, when he would glow with anticipation of lacing his skates, throwing an old Canadiens jersey over a winter sweater, and running through the bitter cold to the barely lit rink. There is nothing like the gentle breeze of skating. Everything becomes one. Long, smooth strides as the wind combs your hair and the crisp air burns your ears. The lively fatigue after the game. Worn out but refreshed. An overwhelming happiness and serenity envelopes him. Harry sleeps momentarily with angels.

Tonight Harry again drives by the kids. The sun sinks and the brisk white winter cold greets the evening. Before the day draws a final frozen breath, he would succumb to the warm clutch of the demons

Thanks to Nick Tosches (for the title), Richard Meltzer (for asking) and Joan Kim (for editing).