The Rest of the Story: William Todd

THE REST OF THE STORY: William Todd

"That picture... it haunts me. The violent eyes, the dark, sweaty skin, that rough, tangly beard. You think to yourself: that man right there's got some troubles. That's not what I ever wanted to put forward."

At 62, William Todd has led a tough life. He is one of the hundreds of thousands displaced in Biloxi, Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina. Todd lives in FEMA trailer lot 117C, three miles from where his family's home once stood. A day before the storm approached, on August 28th, 2005, Todd loaded his three children and his wife Gladys into a neighbor's minivan and drove north, to Memphis. When he returned to his home two weeks later, everything was gone.

"My employer... he'd come back to town before I did and tried to warn me and my wife, but there's no preparing for it. Everything we had, everything I'd worked on in the last ten years, it was gone."

Todd says he's back to square one, but it's not the first time. Twelve years ago, he was homeless, a recovering crack cocaine addict trying to survive on the streets of Biloxi while staying off the pipe. He doesn't like to talk much about what led him to drugs, except that chronic unemployment created a vicious cycle that was hard to break. A great deal of William's time was spent at the Gaston Hewes Recreation Center (also since destroyed by Katrina). The Hewes center housed the Feed My Sheep soup kitchen, and it's where he came to eat, take a nap, and play some checkers.

"When you're homeless, it's the only place you can go to find people who'll talk to you."

That's where Todd met Matt Kenlon, a freelance photographer living in Biloxi. Matt had recently come back from Hannibal, Missouri, where he worked for the Quincy Herald-Whig in covering the Mississippi River flooding of 1993. There he says he saw utter and complete devastation.

"It put me in touch with people whose lives were forever altered and ruined," Kenlon says, "and there, was, I guess, a connection with those people. I felt like I had to tell the stories of those less fortunate."

When he returned to Biloxi, Kenlon began spending his time on the streets. "It's not especially the safest thing to do, and not really the most profitable, but it was something I wanted to devote some time to." Matt met William Todd in November of 1994 at Feed My Sheep.

"Matt asked me if he could take my picture," William recalls. "I said 'sure, but let's go to Winn-Dixie first.' He took me over and I got some fruit and vegetables."

Kenlon shot William's pictures behind the Hewes center, against a plain slate wall. "Most of them were unremarkable. One shot, though, stood out. The anger and hurt in his eyes. I sold that picture a month later."

The photo was published in a coffee table book produced by McLaren Press in 1996 called "America's Refuse: Homeless in the Heartland." Matt was able to bring William a copy at his very own apartment. Todd had been clean and sober for more than two years, and had managed to hold down a job delivering newspapers for over a year. He'd restarted his life at 52.

That should have been the end of William Todd's story. Five years later, everything changed.

"When I went to the market, people started looking at me funny." By then he'd married Gladys Parker and adopted her three sons, Julius, Tyrone and Bo. Julius was sixteen in 2001 and when the family bought a computer, he began spending most of his time online.

"I was hanging out in chatrooms, message boards, things like SomethingAwful.com or Fark.com, and then, all of a sudden, I see my stepdad's face." Julius took it rough. "Someone was using it as a joke, I guess. I was afraid to say something, I didn't know what it meant or why it was."

Someone had scanned the picture of Todd from America's Refuse and placed it online as a sort of punchline. Julius wasn't the first Biloxi native to notice. The picture was forwarded to inboxes across town. Todd was, by then, a supervisor at the local newspaper. At his next employee review, the picture surfaced. He didn't know what to say. He was let go. William was jobless for six months after that.

Things are different now. William works for a contractor that's rebuilding several buildings in Biloxi-- including the Hewes Center. Todd still doesn't know what to say about the picture.

"It makes me sick... when I see it. I see someone who might be capable of such things, I see someone I don't recognize. Who's not redeemable. You know, I see a rapist, I really do. And that scares me."

William's identity? You know him better as the YOU GONNA GET RAPED guy.

And that's... the REST of the STORY!

Cover band confidential.

His toilet has grown fungal hairs; they are brown seaweed tips swaying in the brine. Her piss dislodges and devastates a clump or two. They expand, then evaporate, and they are gone.

"Hey!" he calls. "I've got enough for, like, two bowls. I just needa sleep, eventually, is all."

She doesn't answer. Shanna flips through the numbers on her phone. The cartoon lights and colors are blurry, pinks fading into purples off into white...static. The words are all gone but she knows the shapes, the sizes, the patterns. Sarah's entry appears and glows with a promise of salvation. She closes her eyes.

Am I really up for this? I don't know him. I don't know where I am.

"Hey! " Tony says. "You want some pizza or something?! I got one in the freezer."

I don't even think I like him.

"Okay, that's fine."

She stands, wipes and fastens her studded belt. The soap in the sink is a dessicated remnant of fouled hands past, mostly melded onto the dish. She rubs her fingers across it to pull up some lubrication, then washes her hands.

He's set up a tv tray in his living room¹. It's yellow with a faux-Indian design across it in an orange threading. Lavender wax droppings dot the surface, along with the ashy incense remnants. There's a few pinches of marijuana clumped on a paper plate he's placed in the middle of the table. He shuffles out of his bedroom as she sits on the couch; he changed out of his concert clothes, out of the metal heavy pants and the bright, bold CBGBs shirt, and into a radio station t-shirt² and a striped bathing suit. In his kitchen cabinets, behind a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, is an ornate bong-- he places it in the sink and runs a half second of water down the pipe.

Bong is a stupid name for something... anything. Erica and her boyfriend like to pretend that smoking a lot of pot makes them more in tune with nature and shit, that she's such an earth mother, but how can they take themselves so seriously when they're constantly sucking on something that's named after a sound effect?

The first hit digs in deep, really scratches her insides. Her eyes warm, swell, and tear. Shanna's brain floods.

I just wish I was at home, I wish I had fifteen years ago one more time, when there was a mock trial in her fourth grade class and Bill was the judge and I was the prosecutor where did that robe come from perhaps it was just a black sheet Miss Kimball brought oh god.

"You still got more in there, you know." There's a clot of smoke still in the tube, "Hit that shit before it goes stale."

"No thanks."³

"So, did you like the show?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I do good with those guys." He pulls a chestful of smoke, then lets it out slowly, in bursts, like automatic gunfire. "You like the guitar solo on 'Pour Some Sugar On Me?'"

"Definitely, pretty hot." Shanna picks at a loose fingernail, she does not remember the performance. She remembers the sweating, the slap of her skin against someone, anyone else.

"My old band, Krazy Kandle, we used to tour with them before they hit big."

Sarah and that drummer might not be at his place yet. There might be time, there might be hope. Do I want a savior?

Tony continues. "Are you a Def Leppard fan?"

"They were a bit before my time."

"Shit, then I'm before your time. I remember we were playing a regular gig at this hotel in Morgantown, West Virginia. This was something like, I dunno, nineteen ninety three? Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday we were at this Holiday Inn, real dump of a place, but they paid us a hundred apiece, which is great money in West Virginia. So one night Def Leppard plays the convention center."

He holds his hands far apart to describe the immensity of the building. "Morgantown's a pretty big city in West Virginia. Plus, it's where WVU is, and WVU was, like, three years later named the biggest party school in town. So Def Leppard plays, and we didn't see it because we had to play. But we were starting later than they were, and it turned out that, guess what, they're staying in the Holiday Inn. No surprise, really. So I remember it now, I'm in the middle of fuckin' 'Love Bites', really fucking nailing it, and in walks Steve Clark and Rick Allen. Rick's the one armed drummer, you know."

"Yeah." Her underwear itches her, as it always does when she's high.

God, what about construction workers and plumbers and how you think of them adjusting themselves all the time. I have nothing to adjust. The one armed drummer, when he gets high, it must be difficult to scratch. Or at anytime, really. The video...on VH1 once.... he was flailing... I remember looking for him, the drummer, and that was the only interest I had, to see the one armed drummer.

Tony scratches his head and his blonde highlighted hair falls in his face. His eyes are black and cold, removed from themselves.

"Alright, so there they were, totally ripped on who knows what the fuck. They come in and sit down while we're playing. No wave or response or anything from them-- I mean, fucks, I knew those guys back before they were anything, when that band wasn't the joke it became."

"They weren't your friends?" Shanna finds comfort, finally, in the bong. The marijuana shakes her brain loose, all fractal worlds and continuities become clear. She overstands and is ignorant of everything. Still, she finds she's limber enough to blow her smoke in long, specifically timed pulses, to the beat of, she thinks, the room's heartbeat.

"Not then. They'd become assholes. So we take a break and I go over to have a drink with them, and they're just such dicks. Rick, I mean, Rick was okay. Plus, you know, he had one arm and that's gotta suck if you're a drummer. Steve though, oh shit, Steve Clark was such a fucking alcoholic, man. And a mean, bitchass fuck alcoholic. He looks over at me and says 'Hey Tony Basil, our guitar tech needs an assistant dick-suck, you oughta try out.' I told 'em to go fuck himself, but he didn't care. He was an ass. So he starts yelling at the bartender for some Grand Marnier, and she's pouring him shot after shot and he's just being a bigger and bigger jackass, dropping the c-bomb and trying to look in this lady's shirt, and it was getting really out of hand. So I go over to Tommy, the night manager, and point out what's going on. Now Tommy, he isn't a music fan at all-- kinda weird since he does all the booking. He doesn't give a fuck who they are, he doesn't want people fucking with his employees and clientele. So he tells Steve that he's cut off. Steve doesn't like this, he tosses Rick's Guinness in Tommy's face. That set it off, half the fuckin' bar is pulling them offa one another."

Tony smiles and lights a cigarette with a silver Zippo. During the pause in his monologue, Shanna's eyes scan over to the wall, and a small framed gold record with a certificate made out to Tony Basil of the group Sylverfysh. The gold is a glare, a come on, an invitation to note and significance.

"Tommy tells 'em to get the fuck out of the hotel, the entire band. So they all pack up real quick and get loaded on their bus-- and this thing, I'm telling you, was a monster. They flip us off, load up and drive off and we're just happy to see them go. Then everyone starts looking around, cuz they smell shit. And, seriously, there's like a lake of shit in the middle of the parking lot. And the lot was on an incline, so it all flowed down to where the front lobby was. It was a real mess. After that, Def Leppard never came back to Morgantown, West Virginia."

He leans down and finishes the bowl.

What song did Sylverfysh do... what the hell was it.... or what didn't they do? Everyone can do anything at any time, right? Sylverfysh was a great band, wasn't it? What is a silver fish anyway? A symbol? Does it relate to the New Testament?

"Hey Tony." She says his name for the first time all evening, like an affirmation that, indeed, she was in this man's apartment, on his couch, where soon, probably very soon, he'd have both her breasts free and in the open, covered by his nicked, thick hands. "I didn't know you were in that band."

"I was in lots of bands."

"Sylverfysh. My big sister liked you guys."

"Ah, oh." His voice drops an octave. The skin around his temple draws back. "Well, yeah, you saw that record? That was for 'Sorry, Pass the Check.' Broke the top ten in 1989."

"What did you play when you were with them?"

"Guitar. And I sang, a little bit."

"What ever happened?"

Tony rubs his jaw, with a shamed pain like it'd been slapped. "I started working for them as a guitar tech in 1986. Followed them on the road for a couple of years, they make a hit album or two, and we all do pretty well. Then their guitarist and lead singer Richie hits a little kid with his car, gets a DUI, has to go into rehab. They've still got dates booked, they need someone who can play guitar and sing, and who knows all their songs... and they need him fast."

"You did well?"

"Oh yeah, it was great. Really kicked ass, actually played Dodgers Stadium at once point. People told me I had a better voice than Richie. The gold record for 'Check' comes out, I get one too since I was in the band, even if I didn't play on the album. Life's pretty good. It was great for about four months. "

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. Richie got better. Came out of rehab. I was fired. They didn't even give me my old job back."

I almost feel like I should fuck him. Like it would be a good thing to do, a positive thing. How would I feel afterwards? Renewed? Angry? Alone? Is it too cold in this room to fuck?

"That's really shitty," she forces out.

"Yeah. But I still play my own stuff, you know. Whenever I'm able to. I've got originals, stuff I wrote." He pulls his fading yellow hair back into a ponytail. He wraps it in a pink rubber band and she can see the fullness of his tight, tired face, and that it is not handsome but mournful. "I tell people, you know, I had a good time with that band. VH1 even tried to put me on a show, one of those Behind the Musics. I told em, you know, I've got my standards. I'm more than someone else's gold record."

Shanna looks at the gold record but doesn't stare. He eyes the marijuana, poking it with a pen to separate the leaves from the stem and seeds. Shanna closes her eyes and sees a kaleidoscope of yellow green energy. She opens them and it's still there, twisting and pulsing and glowing. Has it always been there? Will it always be there?

The gold record remains.

In a home full of grime and remorse and age, the gold record he'd been given for someone else's song was the cleanest, clearest, most beautiful thing in the world.

--30--

<sub>1. He called it a "parlor" when they first walked in. The only time Shanna could remember hearing the word "parlor" used for a room like that was on an episode of Mr. Belvedere from 1987.
2. The station was Q105.7, WFOX, Home of "Fox Roxx." The shirt was a conciliatory giveaway during a game called "The Fugitive '95", where listeners were given a number of clues to track down a "fugitive" in the listening area who would then give them $50,000.

3. Three years ago Shanna inhaled stale smoke and vomited all over her friend Sarah's coffee table.</sub>

The Day in Pimp 8/21: True excuses for being late with The Day in Pimp

PIMP: "Dude, I was putting it to my lady."

LESS PIMP: "C'mon, dawg, I was eating hamburgers."

NOT PIMP AT ALL: "Jesus Christ, man, I was at work!"

PIMPABLE MENTION: "Listen, seriously, I've been getting the pus out of this infected ingrown toenail."

Canadian Grade School Writing Prompts: Part One

When I can't think of something to write about, I go straight to my favorite source of inspiration: a Canadian teaching website, and the dozens of excellent elementary school writing prompts. Visit them at http://www.canteach.ca/elementary/prompts.html. Part one in a series.



What if cows gave root beer instead of milk?
Many, if not most calves would die of malnutrition, decimating the beef industry and bankrupting hundreds of thousands of people. Production of soybeans and corn might offset it for some people, but the devaluation of those cash crops would create a blight upon the industry, surely resulting in famine in many countries (especially India) and extreme economic hardship on the west. Vegetarianism would skyrocket-- many extremists would take it as a sign from above. It would likely take several decades before the world economy would recover, and only after the redirection of focus of our dinners on non-root beer producing mammals like pigs, goats and chickens. Many people would probably have killed themselves by now, myself included.



What would happen if you grew taller than trees? How would this change your life?
Well, it depends on whether you're being literal-- are we starting this growing process upon my birth, or is this something that's happening now, as I'm soon to be 24? It's one thing if I grow gradually into it, but if I wake up tomorrow and find myself thirty feet tall, I'm surely going to find myself in enormous agony. Chances are I'd have to be flown via helicopter to Peninsula Regional Medical Center in Salisbury, or even Johns Hopkins in Baltimore to be given a half mile's square yardage of skin grafts. After recovering (and I honestly can't imagine I'd recover), I'd assume that the media would descend upon my operating room. My family would be harassed, my father would never be able to find another TV job (he'd constantly be known as the TV Anchor with the Thirty Foot-Tall Son), and I'd never be able to return to my home ever again. Oh, and chances are the "operating room" would be a dirty parking garage-- I'd anticipate an infection. Furthermore, imagine it-- I'm thirty foot tall. The military would never let me into the public ever again. I'd be locked up in an underground bunker and they'd do nothing but run tests. And let's not forget, I'd never again get to be with a woman, unless the mysterious affliction happens to strike a similar sized female. But then, what if she's not attractive? Or attracted to me?

I would probably kill myself if I was taller than the trees.


What would you do if You were the teacher and everyone forgot his homework?
I'd fail every single one of them, and not just for the assignment-- for the entire grading period. I wish someone had done that to me, rather than allow me to talk my way out of doing the pedantic, easy tripe that they called "homework." Perhaps some self-discipline would have done me well. They've got to learn from someone that life's not Lisa Frank and apple juice, that there's some goddamned accountability in the real workd. Then, when I think about it, what does it say about me that everyone in my class simultaneously blew off my assignment, decided that I'm not worth the time and that, furthermore, I'm not worth their respect?

I would probably kill myself.

The Weekend in Pimp 8/19-8/20: Apple co-founder Steve Jobs in pictures

The Weekend in Pimp 8/19-8/20: Apple co-founder Steve Jobs in pictures

PIMP: Young, possibly disturbed, definitely hateful Steve Jobs.


LESS PIMP: Coke-tooting Silicon Valley pirate Steve Jobs


NOT PIMP AT ALL: "I'm hipper than Bill Gates?" Steve Jobs


PIMPABLE MENTION:

Old, possibly disturbed, definitely hateful Steve Jobs