Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Peekaboo Us
    Peekaboo Us
    Peekaboo Us
    Ebook230 pages3 hours

    Peekaboo Us

    By John Marshall and paul raynor

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    This is a book about sex and drugs and Elvis and beauty and love
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateOct 5, 2014
    ISBN9781483539300
    Peekaboo Us
    Author

    John Marshall

    Having moved to Switzerland, and qualified as a historian (Masters, Northumbria University, 2016), the author came across the story of the Savoyards in England and engaged in this important history research project. He founded an association to develop Anglo Swiss relations regarding this story, in liaison with Cadw, Château de Grandson, Yverdon and others.

    Read more from John Marshall

    Related to Peekaboo Us

    Related ebooks

    Fantasy For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Man With No Name

      Oct 1, 2021

      The Man With No Name
      4 min read

    • Article

      Nick Barrett

      Mar 5, 2020

      Nick Barrett
      11 min read

    • Article

      Watch Your Step

      Nov 19, 2020

      Watch Your Step
      5 min read

    • Article

      Swisher Sweets

      May 1, 2022

      Swisher Sweets
      17 min read

    • Article

      Dear God…

      Jul 13, 2023

      Dear God…
      12 min read

    • Article

      Rez Life

      Aug 1, 2022

      Rez Life
      19 min read

    • Article

      It Takes All Sorts

      Nov 26, 2020

      FOUR SOGGY BUMS, we sat in the lodge, squeezed together on a two-person sofa. Our waterproofs were soaked with rain on the outside and dripped with sweat within. By September, it was our routine. After a long day on the hill, we’d slump in front of t

      3 min read

    • Article

      A holiday INDOORS

      Apr 7, 2021

      “You’ll have probably noticed that there’s been very little mention on this page during the past year of lockdowns and respiratory disease and bubbles and masks and toilet roll shortages and quarantine, and illicit Darby and Joan club meetings being

      3 min read

    • Article

      Captain Sensible

      Mar 9, 2023

      Captain Sensible
      6 min read

    • Article

      Adrian Smith

      Sep 17, 2020

      IRON MAIDEN AXEMAN and songwriter since 1980 – aside from that brief break in the 90s – Adrian Smith has contributed more than a few chapters (and hits) to the band’s four–decade-plus career. With their 2020 tour plans scuppered, he has found time to

      5 min read

    • Article

      The Gospel According To Justin Hawkins

      Nov 9, 2021

      Justin Hawkins has experienced all the highs and lows that rock’n’roll has to offer. His band, The Darkness, were a Brit Award-winning early 00s phenomenon, unexpectedly selling more than three million copies of their debut album Permission To Land b

      6 min read

    • Article

      Our Deliverance

      Mar 28, 2023

      Our Deliverance
      3 min read

    • Article

      Men I Hate: The Stasi Men

      Mar 2, 2021

      Men I Hate: The Stasi Men
      12 min read

    • Article

      Robert Plant

      Nov 12, 2019

      Robert Plant
      16 min read

    • Article

      Urban Roots

      Aug 18, 2020

      Urban Roots
      11 min read

    • Article

      Gringo Honeymoon

      May 17, 2021

      Gringo Honeymoon
      5 min read

    • Article

      Terry Reid

      Aug 10, 2023

      Terry Reid
      6 min read

    • Article

      A Different River

      Jan 16, 2019

      A Different River
      9 min read

    • Article

      Phil White All That Jazz…

      Sep 29, 2023

      Every so often, the random elements of time and space collide to form marvels. One night, early in 2020, I was walking home after an hour or two spent alone in my local pub, reading a book, minding my own business and trying to get over the recent de

      3 min read

    • Article

      Tc Boyle Profile

      May 15, 2019

      BECAUSE WE’RE ANIMALS: Seven conversations from an afternoon with T. C. Boyle By Peter Nowogrodzki T.C. Boyle is standing at the front gate entrance to his Montecito home—an imposing Frank Lloyd Wright structure clad in long horizontal slats of redwo

      26 min read

    • Article

      Body Language

      Aug 14, 2019

      Body Language
      5 min read

    • Article

      Ladies’ Night

      Aug 15, 2023

      Ladies’ Night
      5 min read

    • Article

      Ghost Girl, Banana

      Aug 21, 2023

      By the time I was 25, there were only two things I remembered about Mumma. The first was that she smelled of watermelons, the second was that we were happy. We’d taken our father’s name of course, but a name is only half a story. The other half exist

      6 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Peekaboo Us

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Peekaboo Us - John Marshall

      Peekaboo Us

      by

      John Marshall and Paul Raynor

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way

      whatsoever without written permission except in the case of the brief quotations

      embedded in critical articles or reviews.

      The cover: Stone Man, painting by Andrew Forrest

      www.andrewforrest.co.nz

      Cover Design: Reed LeFevre

      This book was first printed in 1989

      Six copies were printed then and nothing has been changed

      Copyright ©1989, 2014 by John Marshall

      This book is also available as an eBook

      eBook creator and web designer – Reed LeFevre

      johnmarshallstudio.com

      peekaboo-us.com

      Big Blue Research Associates

      Winthrop, Washington

      ISBN988-0-692-23139-5 (paperback)

      ISBN978-1-48353-930-0 (eBook)

      God, grant me the serenity to accept the things

      I cannot change, the courage to change the things

      I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

      The wind swirled across the barren land, making a low soft moaning in the overhead wires. Buddy was safely sheltered in his black corvette, the rain gathering in little puddles on the newly waxed hood. Inside, the air was warm, and an old Pink Floyd tape fired machine guns from blazing helicopters across Buddy’s troubled mind. He leaned back, letting his tall angular frame stretch out against the leather driver’s seat. Outside, the wind pushed the dry dead beach grasses into tangled dancing confusion. He reached forward and from under the floor carpet where it was loose at the edge he pulled out a little amber bottle. Shaking it carefully, he could see there was enough for a few more bumps.

      White powder, one gram. Cocaine. God, some kind of funny looking hundred dollar bill! There was a pen in the visor and he pulled it down, taking the cap off of the cheap plastic import. The inside back of the clip made a great spoon and he scooped himself out enough for one side of his nose. His right side. It was his favorite side. Ahh. Man, that was some good shit! None of that local crap for him. Pink Floyd left some final guitar and drum notes rolling in his head as they went to find the other side of the cassette and Buddy shoved the door open, feeling good now, maybe ready to confront his life.

      The rumble of the car died and the cold autumn wind slapped him hard, salty from its travel across the water. The headland to his left was obscured in fog and cloud, and wind blown tatters of sky hung down in shreds across what had once been mysterious old growth forests. The beach was flat and devoid of life. Sand blown by the wind, hit his face and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, granting him a little warmth from the penetrating cold. An ugly flat gray ocean showed tiny ribbons of spume torn from the tops of the ragged waves.

      God, what a place. He almost got back into the comforting confines of his warm waiting car. Eastport, Maine. His home. His place of birth. His Penobscot indian origin. His fathers. His fathers before that. And so on. The pilgrims discovered America. What a crock of shit! His people had been sitting there, waiting, watching for them. The dumb bastards. They probably even helped them. And for what? Places like this? You gotta be shitting me. He sighed and turned around. How many fucking times had he been through this before?

      The two quonset huts stood before him on the other side of the street. Shelters, boy. You lucky guys! We treat you good, man. This government gonna just give ‘em to you. That was years ago. Now the government had given them something useful. Money. Buddy could sense it in the new black car behind him, in the thickness of his wallet, in the running of his nose. He laughed, the old men liked those shelters still. Jesus. He could never figure that out. Yeah, they kept the rain out and everything else in. The flies, the cold, the damp, the smell of rotten beer farts and unwashed, urine-soaked pants.

      He turned back as if to not cross the street, to hide in the safety of his aloneness in his car. The sea stared back at him. Eastport, the farthest east spot on this great continent of this united states of america. The old ones called it Passamaquoddy and the ancient ones had called it Peskutam-akadi, the pollock plenty place. That stupid fish, the pollock, would try and escape his element, but as soon as he cleared the water he would completely reverse himself and together he and his brothers would make the bay look like a place where all the fish were super busy standing on their heads at once. Buddy liked watching that, sad that they couldn’t escape, and on a clear day he sometimes thought he could see all the way to France to that beach where the girls ran almost naked, their full breasts sensually exposed to the sun and to his eyes, their nipples growing long and hard with the soft beach breeze and his direct stare, like the bulge that grew in his white bikini swim suit as he watched. Oh shit, man, c’mon, get your ass across the street!

      He turned back. There were a couple of old men going into the quonset hut on the left side of the building. Somebody years ago had tried to paint it blue but time and the coastal weather had seen fit to remove most of it. The inevitable rust had filled in much of the empty spots. The corner was dented where one of Buddy’s friends had smashed into it after an all day party and he thought he was going straight down the highway. Straight down the road to hell, Buddy thought. A few weeks later a county plow had squashed him late at night and the driver hadn’t bothered to stop. Drunken Indian, everybody said. Buddy reached the door of the quonset hut.

      That worn out, rusted out car lay folded against the building, the tires long gone, weeds growing up through the propped open hood where the engine had sat. He’d spent a few nights in the back seat of that car. Usually alone. But once with Rita, that fucking summer tourist chick. Man, she’d had a thing for Indians and he had loved eating that hairy blond snatch as they rolled around in the back seat of the now rusted out beater. He went ahead and opened the door of the hut and a blast of too hot air rushed against his handsome Indian face. A new fucking stove, he thought. These old guys were too much. He didn’t bother looking around. The forty metal chairs were arranged in a circle and soon enough he’d have to look at the motherfuckers anyway. They were all standing together in a cloud of cigarette smoke floating on a sea of coffee, telling each other the same old stories.

      Man, he wished his nose would quit running. He hoped nobody else would notice. He sat down staring at the dirty cracked cement floor, wanting only to get the meeting over with. Shit. He had places to go, man, things to do. Without any seemingly prearranged signal, people started shuffling into their seats and soon the circle was complete. It was an odd collection of old and young, male and female, healthy and deeply troubled people.

      Well, welcome to the Monday night Eastport AA meeting. My name is Richard and I am an alcoholic. Let us open with the Serenity Prayer. Together the voices in unison began, God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

      Now Richard said, let’s go around and introduce ourselves.

      My name is Judy and I am an alcoholic.

      Hi Judy chorused the group.

      My name is Randy and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict.

      Hi Randy chorused the group and on around the circle the confession traveled. There was some more coughing and soft noises of bodies rearranging their position as the initial introductions died.

      Does someone wish to speak? asked Richard.

      My name is Leon. I’m an alcoholic.

      Hi Leon chorused the group. He was fat and his hair was thicker in some places than other. He looked like Sluggo after Nancy had split. In a high squeaky voice he began, You know before we all had TV, there was a lot I didn’t know about. I didn’t know about baseball, for instance. We indians never played that. I didn’t know that you had to drink beer to play that and I didn’t know if you didn’t drink the stuff you weren’t having fun. I didn’t even smoke then. But I saw this stuff all the time. I learned. I learned the white man’s ways. Real good. Too good. Then I wanted a new car. And my house, my father’s house never looked good enough, I mean, no washing machine. Things like that. So I got those things. On credit. They were happy. I even made a few payments. Then they came and took the car back. The washing machine broke. I couldn’t afford to fix it. It’s outside now. I drank, drank a lot. I wanted to have fun, I wanted these things they told me I needed. I tried. But today, through you, I have a higher power that gives me shelter. I have food. And I have today. I will take care of today. I am grateful... he stopped.

      Does some one else want to speak? Benny?

      My name is Benny. I’m an alcoholic and drug addict.

      Hi Benny chorused the group.

      Well, I don’t know man, but I wanted to say I come here a lot, been coming here a lot. The dark face of the slender thin man was bent forward, his eyes hidden behind thick owlish glasses, his legs crossed tightly around each other. Without you guys, man, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be back living on the ground, man. I din need no place, hell, I din want no place. If I woke up and it was daytime, all I wanted was a drink, din matter what, you know? Same thing if it was night, man. But now, I got a place to live, man. I got a life. I ain’t living on the ground no more. And you know, man? Sometimes I don’t feel like we do enough, man, cause I go out an I see my ol’ buddies, I mean we weren’t really friends man, some of us maybe, but mostly just others that were out there, on the ground, man. They’re still there an’ man, sometimes I feel like we don’t do enough, you know, jus comin’ in here an b’ssin, I don’t know... The fire seemed to go out of him and he slid a little lower in his chair. His legs uncrossed. His eyes remained on the floor. A few people coughed. Buddy shifted uneasily in his seat, all too aware of his own feelings on what the man had said.

      Does any one want to say something?...Yes?

      My name is Mary, I’m an alcoholic.

      Hi Mary, chorused the group.

      She started in. Oh shit, thought Buddy. He really was going to say something. He hadn’t said a word in a long time. God, was it the coke? Yeah, that must be it. He wanted to talk. He had to talk. Okay, right after this lame bitch quit whining. It would feel good. Then he wouldn’t say any thing again. Maybe he’d quit comin’. Shit maybe he’d start drinking again. Jesus. Maybe so. Why not? He’d been a dry drunk long enough. He’d drink just tonight. Then he’d stop again. For good. He shifted his feet. His hand hesitantly waved through the air.

      Yes Bud.

      My name is Bud. I’m a drug addict and an alcoholic.

      Hi Bud, chorused the group.

      He cleared this throat and glanced around the circle. Some eyes, dark and almond shaped were looking back. Other faces pushed toward the floor. One old indian looked like he was asleep. Smart bastard, thought Buddy. I can remember growing up, trying to grow up. His voice was warm and comfortable like an old blanket you would wrap around you to keep warm on a chilly foggy day. I wasn’t on the ground. I had a house, a mother. Sometimes, this guy would drop in. Say he was my father. Sometimes, other guys would drop in. They never said that, though. My mother, Gladys, she was a good looking woman. God, I really loved her. I would do anything for her. She had other people who wanted to be with her. Men. Nice guys. But then, this guy, my father, would show up. He was big. And mean. And these other guys, they wouldn’t show up again.

      What the fuck, Bud thought. Why the hell am I telling them this shit? You think any of them would give a good fuck? He shifted uneasily in his seat. He could feel his nose tingling from the fucking cocaine. These guys thought they knew his story. Ol’ Bud, always going a mile a minute, always fucking up, running around, in and out of trouble, coming and going. Never would do what his poor father told him. His father, always off somewhere busting his ass, trying to make ends meet for his family. And what happens? Bud’s sister splits, mother’s gone and it’s him, Buddy, still here, still fucking up. Well, shit. He looked around the room. Weren’t these people his friends? His real family? Weren’t we all in this together, to help each other? Fucking A. (People in Maine still talked like that.)

      Man, I don’t know. The reason I’m telling you guys this crap is, I want you to understand. For some crazy reason, I think that maybe if you understand, then I can understand. He shook his head, looking down at the dirty floor. Maybe it was the coke talking. He didn’t care. You guys probably don’t know this shit. Yeah, my sister left town. I wish I knew where she was, but I don’t. Why’d she go? That was easy. Buddy laughed a sad, lonely laugh. She split ‘cause one night the old man comes in mean drunk. Mom’s not home, and so he starts in on her. Next thing I know, he’s hitting her and then he starts tearing her clothes off. She’s only fifteen and shit, I’m even younger. I grab a knife off the table and come after him, screaming, get the fuck out of here, but, shit, he just picks me up, slaps me around, laughing, telling me what an asshole I am. Then he nails me with a fist. I could remember hitting the wall and that was it. Bud’s voice was husky. He wasn’t looking around. When I came to, my sister was on the floor crying, naked. That son of a bitch was gone. I got up and grabbed some of her clothes and tried to cover her up. She was bleeding from where he had hit her and where he had forced her. I sat next to her on the floor. I was bleeding pretty good too. We just sat there holding hands until the sun came splashing through the kitchen windows. Buddy could feel his eyes starting to water. Shit! What the fuck. He’d gone this far. Might as well get it all out. So a couple of years ago my mother leaves. Not just ‘cause she couldn’t deal with the bullshit anymore. Nah, fuck. She had cancer. She didn’t want her friends to see her rot away. Moved down to Jersey. I loved her so much. I’d go down and see her whenever I could. I was watching her die, real slow. He was having a hard time talking. And the medical bills! The fucking expenses! I would have done anything to see that she suffered as little as possible. So that’s when I started--

      Hold it asshole! Stop! Enough. Man, you can’t tell these guys every thing. One of them may be a narc. It’s not like you’ve stopped dealing. What about Frankie? Your partner. You’d never fuck him over, man. You guys are brothers. Shut up. Get the fuck out of here.

      Buddy kept staring at the floor, his eyes blinked a few times. The guy next to him pushed the coffee can at him. Bud didn’t even notice that the bill he fished out of his pocket was a Ben Franklin. He just stuffed it in there. He had to get the fuck out of there.

      Does anybody else wish to speak?

      Nobody moved. Except Bud. Without warning, he stood up and headed for the door. He could hear the rest of them standing up as he walked out. He knew they would join hands in a circle. The quonset hut door closed behind him. He didn’t see some of them shaking their heads. He only heard their words coming out through the rainy night as he headed for his car. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.

      Neil Young’s voice softly filled the air, Every junkie’s like a settin’ sun. Sal reached across and affectionately squeezed his young companion’s knee. Fuck, yeh, you like to see ‘em go, he laughed. His friend continued to stare into space, lost in thought.

      Buddy aimed the Corvette down 189 through West Lubec and hit U.S. One at Whiting. He headed south down toward East Machias. He wanted to run and that 454 was right there with him. 100 m.p.h. came easy and he was starting to feel better. What the--Shit! Blue lights in the rear view mirror. Fuck, just what he needed. He started to back it down. Too bad Bud couldn’t have seen the state cop flip him off as he shot by on the way to check out a possible shooting at the new topless club just outside Jacksonville.

      Hey, he went right by! said Bud to no one. All right!

      He turned down to Cutler and headed back to Eastport. Just outside of Cutler, he pulled over and reached under the seat. His hand found a few vials. He pulled them up to the dome light. Good. They were all full. He saw the straw on the floor. Sure, why not? He stuck a couple of vials into his pocket, and opened up the remaining one. He leaned over, picked up the straw and held it up to the light. Clean enough. He stuck it in the vial. The old shotgun. He held the straw up to the light again, a finger over each end. Body and Brain. You ready? You better be. He placed the straw in his nose, covered his other nostril, and tipped his head back. BANG! It felt like tiny crystals of glass being shot into the very center of his brain. And his heart? Man! He shook his head. This was it! This was living! He turned the dome light off. The car was aimed at Eastport. Like it had a mind of its own. Main street. The Town Tavern. Yeah, fuck it. A little booze would even this cocaine right out.

      All right! That’s her car. She’s out on the town! Man! I’d sure like to see her. That was some good pussy. The neon beat brightly against the wet street, reflecting from the rain that was beginning to fall in earnest now. Shit, I’ll just go in and find her, have a couple of shots, and we can split over to the house. It’ll be like old times. He slid out of the car and headed inside.

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1