The Voyage of Nate Berg - Part Three - By Nate Berg
Yes, this story is direct from Nate Berg himself. You've already seen The Voyage of Nate Berg Part One as he entered hurricane winds. In Part Two you were fascinated at his tale of debauchery as the villain entered New Orleans driven by thoughts of an old love, just before he headed West, back to the land of Buck City. And now in Part Three, in Slidell and Covington, Louisiana you will read as he gets caught by cops as he tries to get away after breaking into a car. Is this the 'Baseball bat of poor consciousness' in full swing? This DeNiro in the black hat, hovering near sin city of the South just weeks before Katrina unleashed... forget about music and the Bakersfield Pizza-a-go-go for just a moment as you read the dark moments of a criminal mind... will there be a part four?
III. The Golden Collar Descends from the Sky
Slidell, Louisiana. Slidell is about 40 miles north of New Orleans. Being low in finances already early in the trip, this is where we got a room after the night I made peace with Orleans. Under a heavy cloud of hangover, I decided to go and "work it". This is my affectionate term for breaking and entering, yadda, yadda, crime and its payoff, lying, conning, and asking people for money in convincing manners, Scottish accents, charm, drama, bullshit. It usually works.
My luck ran out in Slidell.
"Dude, why are you nosing around in my car!!!!" A big man, some six-feet tall and wrestler fat—yes this guy was wrestler fat. Let’s call him Redbeard because of the color of his swamp beard. Bayou toughguy; the snake is wriggling now in your hands, Redbeard.
Five of his coworkers came running out. "Someone call the cops!!!" This is deep shit. One of his coworkers takes his top off—he is nearly six-feet tall as well—and pumping his muscles in arcs like Stone Cold. His face is a twisted grimace. Ten other witnesses gather at the scene. These are big boys. I can’t get the shit beaten out of me by these swamp Okies, not today. I look great, hot, fine. A beating would set me back. I sense an opportunity to get away.
I had left Roger’s car idling with the door open; black metal blasting away. Roger was showering at the Motel 6.
A female voice inside the din of struck witnesses, yet inside my head only, soothing.
Run, babe, my love, get away. You are unstoppable, vital. You are so cool."
Then I say to them, these locals "Alright, lemme go shut down my engine, real quick," and walk towards the car, one step, two step, three...
The locals. Elmer Fudds say, "Okay...hey wait a minute."
I'm in. Close the door. But the window was rolled down.
Arms around my neck, nails digging into my throat, trying to pull me out. Her voice again as in my dreams, "Hit the gas and cruise, love, speed to me. Don't let anything get in your way." I put the car in reverse and find the manic beat in the music; there are people in the road. Blackout.
Six miles later, an approaching police cruiser is wailing its siren to ward people out of his way. I had gotten clean away. Well down the road I call Roger at Motel 6, for him to get a cab to meet me in Orleans despite the cost. No answer, he is in the shower. I have to go back for him. He is my friend and this is his car after all.
Motel 6. "We'll leave a light on for you is right" I counted 12 cruisers and their sirens wailing away in the parking lot, talking to the trashy residents of this parish, trying to get this straight: My description.
heartbeat
heartbeat
guns pointed in my face
The detective in the police department tries to make it seem like I executed a perfect 3 point turn, knocked them down like bowling pins, then drove forward and then reversed over them again to pick up the spare. Laughing. Bullshit. I did none of it, coppa.
"You put 3 people in the hospital, one has some internal bleeding going on."
Covington, Lousiana. I met a peculiar little man, he was the second person to greet me when they finally sent me "to the back"—the expression for the 2000+ inmate population of the penitentiary part of St. Tammy Parish Jail. The first man to greet me was The Reverend.
A six-foot Rastafarian who insisted on giving afternoon Bible Study, getting 50% of the words wrong, but whose chief purpose was loansharking commissary food. Two for One. I got nothing, maintained nothing, owed nothing, the best way to do it. The second man was Sean Patrick Trapp, 44 years of age, intellectual enough to command a lot of my attention during the 2 plus weeks I spent in this medieval dump.
The Prison looked like the original Bauhaus French Prison, black and white stripes, thermal underwear, shaved heads. It took on the appearance of the inside of Morpheus' ship from the Matrix. We made food out of scraps of noodles and spicy Fritos for snacks.
"This burrito, although I know it isn't real, I know that it tastes good, when you put me back in the Matrix, make me something important, like a rockstar or politician, and erase my memory."
Trapp grew up in a London suburb, his American parents thrust him deep into a snobbish
autocratic parochial school where he would become alienated. Eerie coincidences with my reverse story: English Kid, American school, alienation. Trapp was a fun guy; we played Uno, but his face a powerless mask of pain and resent, beaten up and destroyed on the inside. I was touched by a gentle gesture on his part, He gave me some of his sparse commissary food when he knew that I would have none. Late at night we would stay up late on a little coffee and engage in 'josing': vernacular for Prison Talk. He told me of this story which left me with my jaw hitting the floor:
His parents had paid for him at the age of 12 to take a school trip to Kenya. He had visited the expansive Zoo. As he passed by the cage of an orangutan, the ape reached through the bars and ripped and tore his bright blue cashmere sweater. It traumatized him.
Now look at my similar story:
My parents had taken me with them, at the age of 4, for my Dad's job included travel to the African nation of Nigeria. We had visited the expansive Zoo, as I watched the red-ass baboon in the cage, he reached through the bars and stole my hot pink sunglasses. It had traumatized me.
Besides the fact that perhaps primates like bright colored objects, the realization that I was looking at the face of Christmas future, from the seat of Christmas present. This is powerful stuff.
Trapp, a loser in life, drugs and graft had lost his Real Estate job, wife, kids, respect, freedom. His life in broken chunks and splinters. Spending his years in the company of corrupt riverboat gamblers, thieves, animals from the Orleans ghettos, spread out now that the authorities had demolished the Orlean projects. Children. Every single one in my dorm, a child. Except the man, who admitted what he was, and that he needed help.
I needed help. I turned down the offers that I had received. To steal 18-wheeler trucks from Dallas at $5000 a pop, to rob Harrah's casino in a tide of gunfire. I needed to get out. Arraignment in three months, Trial is six months; no hope of release. How would I coordinate my defense from this barbaric void? I arranged bail. then I sat and waited for them to call my number for release. I would return to the home of my parents and start again.
622. it never came
622 roll up, it never came.
For the days 11 thru 15 I lay in my bunk, contemplating my sins, then out of the clamor of trays being stacked and the clank-clank of dominoes, her voice came to me again.
"Darling, don't kid yourself. You are under my spell, always a bastard, and you will never forgive the past." Marilyn's voice came to me as she melted through the bars. She lifted my harsh blanket to join my embrace, skin on skin. None of the other prisoners could see her. They were all asleep and dreaming of when their own time was up.
"I can't do this anymore. It is time to say goodbye," I said. "I have a life, a son."
"You'll have to kill me and yourself. I die with your innocence 622" the succubus hiss.
No matter where I turned, her face was there.
“Never leave this bunk with me, stay here forever in 622 and I’ll never leave the world in which you reside, crime, darkness, I’ll stay with you forever, Marilyn," I offered. She liked the sound of my deal.
Next day there was someone else in my bunk, 622. A smartass Cuban kid. He liked my bunk better then his, so I moved my meager hygiene supplies down the row.
"Whatever," I retreated, wanting to avoid a confrontation that would gift me more time in jail, I moved to a worse bunk.
I took the domino set when the dorm toughguy Lucian wasn't looking, stashed it under the mattress of 622 when he was at yard, this was dangerous stuff. I had to exorcise a demon.
I suggested to the Creoles that the Cuban Kid stole their dominoes and that ..." I bloody well saw the whole thing." The next day 3 on 1, the Creoles ran the showers hot, to fog up the glass windows of the CO command post, then they cornered this Cuban kid and had their way with him. He screamed denial, over and over again. Children. This is ritual, or should I say, this was ritual. There was no longer any commanding voices in my head from the Ghost of Marilyn, my own voice. I take full responsibility for the things that I have done. Everything, even the treacherous sacrifice that I had ordained. I thought it would be the last. The only treachery that I am capable of now is that which is required by my brothers for a mutually assured goal. She had rose and died with the innocence, and was gone, all I had to do was wait for liberation.
Wrong.
"No my love, I will always be with you." Sickly sweet came the voice like too much candy, or zinfandel on a young woman's breath.
I will always hear her voice, telling me to take things, to laugh at other people's misfortune.
But there is a new voice, my brother's voice. Inside the lazerium of my mind, humming away like "Easy Money" King Crimson or Pink Floyd's "Meddle".
"Listen to Marilyn all day if you wish, never forget, just don't do the things that she tells you to do, gradually the pain will go away, as you see your life grow. As your son matures himself into a man."
I see myself trapped, full circle, ready to wear the suit, the collar, or else I return to failure and prison, I must not relent. When I hear them announce my number for release, my new life starts then. I promise to be good; just call the number. I am here not because I am a sloppy criminal. I was an exceptional gangster better then the pretenders, always will be. There is a conspiracy of good out there that is more powerful, however and they desperately want me to join forces with them.
The conspiracy of good people will always defeat the tyranny of evil men, when they get together. You are not entitled to anything, you must work for it. Timberlake knows this. Snoop Dogg too, little tiny recordstore owners may or may not.
There is a higher power, called Karma.
622. Berg Roll Up
I'm waiting for them to call my number
III. The Golden Collar Descends from the Sky
Slidell, Louisiana. Slidell is about 40 miles north of New Orleans. Being low in finances already early in the trip, this is where we got a room after the night I made peace with Orleans. Under a heavy cloud of hangover, I decided to go and "work it". This is my affectionate term for breaking and entering, yadda, yadda, crime and its payoff, lying, conning, and asking people for money in convincing manners, Scottish accents, charm, drama, bullshit. It usually works.
My luck ran out in Slidell.
"Dude, why are you nosing around in my car!!!!" A big man, some six-feet tall and wrestler fat—yes this guy was wrestler fat. Let’s call him Redbeard because of the color of his swamp beard. Bayou toughguy; the snake is wriggling now in your hands, Redbeard.
Five of his coworkers came running out. "Someone call the cops!!!" This is deep shit. One of his coworkers takes his top off—he is nearly six-feet tall as well—and pumping his muscles in arcs like Stone Cold. His face is a twisted grimace. Ten other witnesses gather at the scene. These are big boys. I can’t get the shit beaten out of me by these swamp Okies, not today. I look great, hot, fine. A beating would set me back. I sense an opportunity to get away.
I had left Roger’s car idling with the door open; black metal blasting away. Roger was showering at the Motel 6.
A female voice inside the din of struck witnesses, yet inside my head only, soothing.
Run, babe, my love, get away. You are unstoppable, vital. You are so cool."
Then I say to them, these locals "Alright, lemme go shut down my engine, real quick," and walk towards the car, one step, two step, three...
The locals. Elmer Fudds say, "Okay...hey wait a minute."
I'm in. Close the door. But the window was rolled down.
Arms around my neck, nails digging into my throat, trying to pull me out. Her voice again as in my dreams, "Hit the gas and cruise, love, speed to me. Don't let anything get in your way." I put the car in reverse and find the manic beat in the music; there are people in the road. Blackout.
Six miles later, an approaching police cruiser is wailing its siren to ward people out of his way. I had gotten clean away. Well down the road I call Roger at Motel 6, for him to get a cab to meet me in Orleans despite the cost. No answer, he is in the shower. I have to go back for him. He is my friend and this is his car after all.
Motel 6. "We'll leave a light on for you is right" I counted 12 cruisers and their sirens wailing away in the parking lot, talking to the trashy residents of this parish, trying to get this straight: My description.
heartbeat
heartbeat
guns pointed in my face
The detective in the police department tries to make it seem like I executed a perfect 3 point turn, knocked them down like bowling pins, then drove forward and then reversed over them again to pick up the spare. Laughing. Bullshit. I did none of it, coppa.
"You put 3 people in the hospital, one has some internal bleeding going on."
Covington, Lousiana. I met a peculiar little man, he was the second person to greet me when they finally sent me "to the back"—the expression for the 2000+ inmate population of the penitentiary part of St. Tammy Parish Jail. The first man to greet me was The Reverend.
A six-foot Rastafarian who insisted on giving afternoon Bible Study, getting 50% of the words wrong, but whose chief purpose was loansharking commissary food. Two for One. I got nothing, maintained nothing, owed nothing, the best way to do it. The second man was Sean Patrick Trapp, 44 years of age, intellectual enough to command a lot of my attention during the 2 plus weeks I spent in this medieval dump.
The Prison looked like the original Bauhaus French Prison, black and white stripes, thermal underwear, shaved heads. It took on the appearance of the inside of Morpheus' ship from the Matrix. We made food out of scraps of noodles and spicy Fritos for snacks.
"This burrito, although I know it isn't real, I know that it tastes good, when you put me back in the Matrix, make me something important, like a rockstar or politician, and erase my memory."
Trapp grew up in a London suburb, his American parents thrust him deep into a snobbish
autocratic parochial school where he would become alienated. Eerie coincidences with my reverse story: English Kid, American school, alienation. Trapp was a fun guy; we played Uno, but his face a powerless mask of pain and resent, beaten up and destroyed on the inside. I was touched by a gentle gesture on his part, He gave me some of his sparse commissary food when he knew that I would have none. Late at night we would stay up late on a little coffee and engage in 'josing': vernacular for Prison Talk. He told me of this story which left me with my jaw hitting the floor:
His parents had paid for him at the age of 12 to take a school trip to Kenya. He had visited the expansive Zoo. As he passed by the cage of an orangutan, the ape reached through the bars and ripped and tore his bright blue cashmere sweater. It traumatized him.
Now look at my similar story:
My parents had taken me with them, at the age of 4, for my Dad's job included travel to the African nation of Nigeria. We had visited the expansive Zoo, as I watched the red-ass baboon in the cage, he reached through the bars and stole my hot pink sunglasses. It had traumatized me.
Besides the fact that perhaps primates like bright colored objects, the realization that I was looking at the face of Christmas future, from the seat of Christmas present. This is powerful stuff.
Trapp, a loser in life, drugs and graft had lost his Real Estate job, wife, kids, respect, freedom. His life in broken chunks and splinters. Spending his years in the company of corrupt riverboat gamblers, thieves, animals from the Orleans ghettos, spread out now that the authorities had demolished the Orlean projects. Children. Every single one in my dorm, a child. Except the man, who admitted what he was, and that he needed help.
I needed help. I turned down the offers that I had received. To steal 18-wheeler trucks from Dallas at $5000 a pop, to rob Harrah's casino in a tide of gunfire. I needed to get out. Arraignment in three months, Trial is six months; no hope of release. How would I coordinate my defense from this barbaric void? I arranged bail. then I sat and waited for them to call my number for release. I would return to the home of my parents and start again.
622. it never came
622 roll up, it never came.
For the days 11 thru 15 I lay in my bunk, contemplating my sins, then out of the clamor of trays being stacked and the clank-clank of dominoes, her voice came to me again.
"Darling, don't kid yourself. You are under my spell, always a bastard, and you will never forgive the past." Marilyn's voice came to me as she melted through the bars. She lifted my harsh blanket to join my embrace, skin on skin. None of the other prisoners could see her. They were all asleep and dreaming of when their own time was up.
"I can't do this anymore. It is time to say goodbye," I said. "I have a life, a son."
"You'll have to kill me and yourself. I die with your innocence 622" the succubus hiss.
No matter where I turned, her face was there.
“Never leave this bunk with me, stay here forever in 622 and I’ll never leave the world in which you reside, crime, darkness, I’ll stay with you forever, Marilyn," I offered. She liked the sound of my deal.
Next day there was someone else in my bunk, 622. A smartass Cuban kid. He liked my bunk better then his, so I moved my meager hygiene supplies down the row.
"Whatever," I retreated, wanting to avoid a confrontation that would gift me more time in jail, I moved to a worse bunk.
I took the domino set when the dorm toughguy Lucian wasn't looking, stashed it under the mattress of 622 when he was at yard, this was dangerous stuff. I had to exorcise a demon.
I suggested to the Creoles that the Cuban Kid stole their dominoes and that ..." I bloody well saw the whole thing." The next day 3 on 1, the Creoles ran the showers hot, to fog up the glass windows of the CO command post, then they cornered this Cuban kid and had their way with him. He screamed denial, over and over again. Children. This is ritual, or should I say, this was ritual. There was no longer any commanding voices in my head from the Ghost of Marilyn, my own voice. I take full responsibility for the things that I have done. Everything, even the treacherous sacrifice that I had ordained. I thought it would be the last. The only treachery that I am capable of now is that which is required by my brothers for a mutually assured goal. She had rose and died with the innocence, and was gone, all I had to do was wait for liberation.
Wrong.
"No my love, I will always be with you." Sickly sweet came the voice like too much candy, or zinfandel on a young woman's breath.
I will always hear her voice, telling me to take things, to laugh at other people's misfortune.
But there is a new voice, my brother's voice. Inside the lazerium of my mind, humming away like "Easy Money" King Crimson or Pink Floyd's "Meddle".
"Listen to Marilyn all day if you wish, never forget, just don't do the things that she tells you to do, gradually the pain will go away, as you see your life grow. As your son matures himself into a man."
I see myself trapped, full circle, ready to wear the suit, the collar, or else I return to failure and prison, I must not relent. When I hear them announce my number for release, my new life starts then. I promise to be good; just call the number. I am here not because I am a sloppy criminal. I was an exceptional gangster better then the pretenders, always will be. There is a conspiracy of good out there that is more powerful, however and they desperately want me to join forces with them.
The conspiracy of good people will always defeat the tyranny of evil men, when they get together. You are not entitled to anything, you must work for it. Timberlake knows this. Snoop Dogg too, little tiny recordstore owners may or may not.
There is a higher power, called Karma.
622. Berg Roll Up
I'm waiting for them to call my number
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Monday, October 10, 2005.
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