Bee's last journey .
Descent into Hades, Part 2 Our first gig at the Erie House was a cold night in November. Leigh and I loaded our rusted yellow ’77 Volkswagon Rabbit with keyboards, guitars and sound equipment and followed Dale into Elmira , NY . We drove down Main St. past Elmira College , turned left at MacDonald’s and down a street that got darker with each block. I didn’t like it. My stomach was tight and everything said, “Turn around. Go back. Your house is warm and has lights and a TV. You’re driving into something cold, dark and very unknown. Three blocks later we hit the end. A huge, concrete viaduct stood in front of us with the cool, silent message that we must turn right or left. Following Dale, we turned left and drove past an empty lot littered with beer bottles, cigarette butts and used condoms. The next building was a leather and harness shop, followed by a shabby, forlorn looking, deserted two-story brick building. I pulled in behind Dale, parking in front of a decrepit with a little sign over the door: The Erie House. To get in you walked up one concrete step imbedded with brown shards of broken beer bottles. The door was large, heavy, covered with peeling green paint and scarred with a history of knives and bullets. The only thing missing was a sign saying: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” Even Dante had declined to accompany us. He was in his own circles saying, “You’re on your own. Good luck and have fun.” I felt sick to my stomach. The music business no longer held an allure. I pulled the door open and walked in to a small room with a bar on the left where tired, defiant men and worn, cynical women sat nursing drinks and pondering a life gone wrong. I looked at each one, perched on a stool, and hunched over a Bud or Jack Daniels. “He betrayed me. . . She really fucked me over. . .I should have killed the bastard. . .” They were victims of a bad partner, society or cops. Or all three. Life was out to get them and succeeded. My shoes stuck lightly to the floor from half dried spilled beer, and a little blood, although I was to learn later that John, the owner, really tried to mop up the blood as soon as it was spilled. But, he was always in a hurry because he was also the bartender and selling liquid was more important than mopping it up. The room was thick was cigarette smoke and the smell of beer and whiskey. At the end of the bar was a ragged pool table where two thick men with small eyes and a skinny woman with a cigarette dangling comfortably from the right side of her mouth studied the balls. It seemed pretty obvious that they were regulars. The men had had fights and the woman had had sex, with just about everyone in the Erie House. The Erie House was its own special place. It reminded me of the bar in the first Star Wars where all the riff raff from planets from various galaxies got together for a brief respite. Except here you could smell the stale beer and old piss. The Erie House was at the bottom of society. The place and its inhabitants were so far down that up wasn’t even an option. We carried our instruments into the small dance hall to the right. Tables lined two walls. The men’s and women’s rest rooms were at the south end. The six-by-ten stage was at the north end with a big picture glass window behind us. As we marched in with our instruments, the Erie House family looked up, sized us up in a glance and went back to their ruminations, pool and empty dreams. They were weary, patient and cynical. They would judge us when our music began. They didn’t have enough education to be subtle. They would just be honest. We set up the instruments on the tiny stage as tired people glanced at us during lulls in their conversations. I silently cursed Dale for letting him take us down into a dark world where light and joy is not even a dream. I’m a public relations director at a college, I thought. I don’t belong here. No. I grew up on a farm on a dirt road amongst poor farmers and unemployed mechanics. I recognized these people. There were superficial differences. They grew up surrounded by concrete, bars, drugs and exhaust fumes. My experience was grass, animals and clean air occasionally clouded with dirt road dust. I was a hillbilly who had worked my way into the higher education world. These folks had fought their way to their way to the bottom. A world of no jobs, quick sex, beatings and booze. Dale, damn you! What did you get us into? I was about to find out.
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