My goal here is to jump back into my travels of Russia. Not just from the perspective of a subculture, but from the perspective of someone who grew up in Gloucester. A special place in many ways with a culture unto itself, albeit a bit cut off from the world around it. I often feel torn between two worlds; the world I come from, and the world in which I’ve become. I am no longer that kid running through the back yards of Forest Street—that kid whose sole ambition was to get out of Gloucester alive. When I was 12 years old, I was given a gift that would later prove to be my commuter pass to the world. It was the best gift I was ever given. It was a cheap, opaque Mexican guitar. I started playing music at a young age. An age where I knew little about myself, besides my claustrophobic sense of restlessness. I was inspired by punk rock music. By its politics, rage, and loud distortion. Somehow, it felt like a mirror to me. Listening to punk rock may have been the first time I had actually seen myself in a light that I could identify with. With punk rock, I wasn’t the awkward kid trying to assimilate. I no longer felt that I had to deal with the malaise associated with the confining opinions of my little seaport city. I was no longer pledging allegiance to a flag, that in my mind, had destroyed my father like a jack-hammer would a pebble. It was a sense of lawless freedom that I sought, and through this raw sounding music, I was finding it—one chord at a time.

 

 

I have many stories to tell that are wrapped up cozily in the expanse of time that it took to get where I am today, which isn’t to say that I’ve achieved some perceived sense of fame or anything like that, it’s to say I’m still here—very much alive. I’ve been fortunate enough to scam my way all around Europe and beyond. I was knowingly using my songs as a conduit for adventure and exploration. The funny part; the real joke of it, is that most of my songs are about Gloucester. So it would seem, while my desire for travel had increased to far off lands, my songs stayed exactly where they started. I sometimes feel like I’m on a ledge, ready to jump into the cooling waters of the unknown, but I’m worried about losing the ballast that ties me to the land. That ballast has been there for so long that I’m afraid to lose it. And these are my songs; the ballast of Gloucester…

“My memory is the history of time” -Charles Olson

The following compilation of stories has been spliced together from two separate trips. Alissa and I have spent a combined six weeks touring through Russia in trains, planes, and hellish cabs. I kept a journal for one of those trips, the rest are memories of a time past, one that I hope to commit to word before it fades into Fantasy. These stories are not on a specific timeline, although some will be back to back, as they happened. I was more hoping to document our trials and tribulations in Russia. All the good, the bad, the awkward, and the scary. For us, that was exactly what they were.

The Russian Speedometer Chronicles

#1

 

It starts like it always does, with the anxiety of packing and potentially leaving something important behind, besides our lives. It’s always the little things that tend to worry me the most in the final hours before leaving for a tour like this. Did I forget my toothbrush? Did I pack enough underwear? Did I forget something that I’m going to really need or miss? Those little things that will eventually amount to big problems. Double check the luggage before leaving, check it again at the airport, though it certainly wouldn’t matter at that point. Alissa is so much better at this game than I am. She is nothing if not meticulous when it comes to being prepared for a long trip. After all, we’ve had a lot of practice. You would think at this point, with all these tours under my belt, that I would be virtually flawless when it comes to this scenario. You’d be wrong. I am forgetful, sloppy, and borderline childlike at the preparation game—hence the warranted anxiety. We’re leaving for several months of who the fuck knows what, and oddly enough, I feel pretty damn comfortable with that. It’s become second nature, really. Every day brings a new city, new people, and hopefully a good experience. Though, over the years, we’ve learned to trade in the term “good experience”, for just “an experience”. Fewer expectations make for a better time. It’s simple math. Set that bar low enough to come out with a smile. Plus, what’s the worst that could happen? Alissa and I have spent a good chunk of a two year span on tour, learning how to navigate this subculture that we’ve decided to immerse ourselves in. It’s been a great experience, but that’s not to say that we don’t wind up with our noses bloody from time to time. I’ve been touring in punk bands off and on since I was 18, or maybe younger. Truth be told—some of it has been a blur. In many ways, I’ve grown up doing this. It’s never been as constant a thing as it is now, but it’s always played a major role in my life—in my desires to reach far beyond my little island. Don’t get me wrong, Gloucester isn’t even close to being the sole reason for my escapist nature. But it would be a lie to say that my upbringing wasn’t somewhere at the center of my nature; creepy and ever-lurking. The damn place from whence I came is at the core of me, like a scar that you sometimes smile at, but most of the time it’s tucked under a shirt sleeve or a pair of pants. Like it or not, it won’t be going anywhere.

 

Airports have a sterile, doctor’s office-like feel. Maybe more like a doctor’s office combined with a shopping mall. The ceiling are high, and as is the case with most airports, the amalgamation of footsteps leaves a nervous clutter of sound that reverberates off the cold walls. I actually like airports. If you like people watching—you probably do too. Everyone is coming or going, from wherever to who knows where. I’ve grown to recognize the tentative looks that the commuters wear, brought on by the fleeting moments of being in between destinations. And the relieved looks of those who have clearly just arrived at theirs. It’s the same reason that I like places like Vegas and New Orleans. They give you so much to look at when you’re just a part of the scenery. All you need to do is stand in one place and watch the show unfold. Reality television be damned!

Everyone is looking for something. Whether they find it or not matters little. In the long run, I think it just matters that they were motivated enough to look in the first place. We’ve just spent one month touring throughout Europe and now we’re off to Russia. And when I say Russia, I’m not talking about Moscow and St.Petersburg, I’m talking the real Russia. We’ll certainly be going to the big cities, but we want to see the country for what it is. We’re excited, scared, and more than a little road weary from this last month of touring. Though it may seem luxurious to jump from city to city playing songs, there is very little sleep involved. And I’m not afraid to say that we’ve pretty much been drinking our way through each country. It’s the nature of the beast, really. I mean, we get food, beer, and a place to sleep each night. And personally, I’m not in the business of turning down such hospitality.

 

Last night we stayed in Freiburg, Delaware, in the US. It was a great end to that leg of tour. Our friend, Christoph, plied us with beer and friendship. Maybe too much beer. I woke up with my head still clinging to the night before. Upon waking, Alissa and I go through our routine of packing up our sleeping bags, taking showers, and eating a quick breakfast. But unlike the past month of mornings, there is a timidity to us. We are taking a flight to Moscow in a few hours and all I can think of is how little I actually know about Russian culture. Honestly, outside of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, I’m left with Rocky 4 and Red Dawn. You know, typical American knowledge. Our tour manager for the European leg, Christian, has become like a brother to us. He’s our friend, protector, and translator. I have no idea how his Russian counterpart, Dima, is going to be. That answer will come soon enough. It’s hard to say goodbye to Christian. Alissa and I really do love him. I call him the human chainsaw, due to his unrelenting snoring that would keep us up for at least half of the precious few hours that we had allotted to sleep. The noises that would come from this kind and gentle person stood in defiance of all things related to sleep. But that’s easy to overlook; considering the fact that he just guided us through country after country without major incident. So with a heavy heart and a few tears, we said goodbye to our trusted German companion and say hello to the unknown.

 

Just looking at the departures board, seeing Moscow in large letters and knowing that it was our destination was a wild notion. Alissa wore a look of wonderment. She really is an amazing person. The very fact that she would uproot her life to travel to these places with me is nothing short of astonishing. The look of adventure in her eyes makes me wonder if she has ever seen the same look in mine. At moments like this, I’m not really sure what my eyes would project. It leaves me thinking that if we could just for one minute see through the eyes of our loved ones… would that be too much? Too much to know, that is. Some things are better left to be rolled around the mind and filed away in the corridors of our memory; to be thought of when we need to feel the warmth of a smile upon our own face.

 

The flight to Moscow was, in a word, jarring. It started with hearing the pilot speaking to us passengers in his native tongue, which sounded so foreign to us. It was clear that we were the only ones who could not understand what the pilot was saying. And in the middle of the flight, when the frenzied turbulence started, he could have been saying anything on the loudspeaker and we wouldn’t have known a word. This only added to my budding panic. In my head, the pilot was relaying the following messages: “Prepare for emergency landing!”, “We’re going down!”, “Pray to whatever god you think will help you!”, or simply, “We’re fucked!”. In reality, he was probably telling us that we’ll be experiencing some routine turbulence that only scares you as a passenger because you have zero knowledge of what is actually going on. I just kept looking at the other passengers, trying to gauge what they were feeling. But they were stoic and unmoved by the turbulence. It was so bad that Alissa and I thought that it may very well be the end for us. We’ve been on hundreds of flights together and experienced turbulence, but nothing like this. I tried to stay calm, though inside, I was losing it. The last thing I wanted was for Alissa to see fear in my eyes. I felt it would push her over the edge, but in reality, she’s just as tough as I am, if not tougher. We clasped our sweaty hands tight, wet with fear, and tried not to show each other that panic had set in. When we landed, the passengers began to clap. Not just one passenger but all of them. I was feeling a overwhelming sense of relief that we were still among the living. Alissa and I looked at each other, bewildered by the clapping. We thought that we had just witnessed our first cultural difference, besides being seemingly unmoved in the face of potential death. They clap when they land! How different, yet simple. Of course you clap, the pilots have just flown you from one country to another in a glorified missile, defying gravity at a ridiculous speed. Well, in that case, maybe everyone everywhere should clap for their pilots. Hell, it just seems the right thing to do.

 

We later learned, from Dima of course, that the clapping was not a cultural experience at all. It was because our fellow passengers had also feared for their lives, but Russians are preset to show little to no emotion, even in the face of death. Upon debunking this cultural myth, Dima, who was apparently not too culturally stoic to display his emotions to us, broke out in a bellowing laughter that went on and on. Welcome to Russia, I thought. We were foreign, confused, and more than a little bit scared. As an American, you rarely get to feel this way. The world seems to buckle to the grand notion that the American is the center of the world. They speak our language, despite us putting zero effort into leaning theirs. They put up signs in English to help ease our senile sense of discomfort. They even levy cuisine towards our bland palates. But this was clearly not the case where we had found ourselves. Nope, not in Russia. This would be our first experience in a completely foreign place. A place that would not buckle to American romanticism, nor its entitlement. A place that rivals the unbridled impertinence of nationalism. A place where we would have to lean on each other for the comforts of home. We were—at that moment—all we had.

Jeff Rowe lives on Winter Hill, in Somerville. He grew up in Gloucester and has since traveled the world playing music and collecting memories. He is a brewer by trade and is now in the process of writing a memoir. 

 

 

 

The scorched sky is stretched out before me. It seems endless by nature—like it didn’t have a choice. Like a scar, or a birthmark. It is what it is. I can hear the gulls squawking in every direction. Bellowing out a life of their own among the clouds, stone, and wood. The Fitz Hugh Lane House is as quiet as ever. Free-standing in stoicism, against the dancing purple and red light given by the perishing sun. Below where I sit; some old docks, a coast guard station, green grass, and earth. I could easily sit on another bench, on the opposite side of the property and look at the city, but there’s something grotesque about all that concrete and commerce, especially when you could see what I’m looking at now.

 

In my backpack, lying beside me, are the things that I need; a CD walkman, a handful of CD’s, a six pack of beer, and a few books. I’m here at the Fitz because this is where my group of friends often gather at the end of a raging night. But tonight I’m flying solo. Taking some time to be alone and think a bit. It doesn’t hurt that I love the view. The fluttering fragrance of earth and salt complimenting the cadence of the gulls. Here, I am free to think about whatever it is that comes to mind. I’m also free to not think. The scenery can do that for you, if you let it.

 

I’m seventeen years old. I just moved into my first apartment, on Addison Street, just off Washington Street. I suppose I have the ability to go home and enjoy a book and this six pack without consequence, but damn it, I like it here. My job at the Cape Ann Food Co-op, where I assist in the produce department, affords me the privilege of having evenings to myself. I wake up early, take the produce out of the walk in, and arrange it in the most aesthetically pleasing way that my seventeen year old mind will allow. Truth be told, I’m not really the artist type. I’m just thankful to have work. The produce manager, Maggie, lets me run wild with the display, as long as we keep NPR or Frank Zappa on the radio. We always have a steady stream of conversation in which the radio just provides a soundtrack. Maggie has short, white hair. We make for an unlikely friendship. Me with my punk rock hair, lefty politics, and rootless nature. Her with her LL Bean attire, soft liberal views, and obsession with Frank Zappa. Maggie and I have spent many a  morning chattering on as if in contempt of silence. And as much as I can’t stand Frank Zappa, I really like Maggie.

 

The Co-op isn’t my first job, but it’s the only job that I have had that I actually like. I’m also vegetarian, which means that I work at the only spot in Gloucester where you can get good food if you have any type of diet preference that goes beyond meat and fish. Believe it or not, I don’t eat fish. I actually prefer tofu and tempeh. The few times that I’ve tried eating fish have left me feeling ill. Here I am, born in the very heart of where the best seafood on earth can be found, and I don’t partake. I’ve been in extensive conversations/arguments exhausting this subject. But at the end of the day, I am what I am—a contradiction of sorts.

 

My mother was disappointed that I wanted to move out on my own at such a young age. It was the same disappointment that she felt when I quit baseball to play in bands, or when I quit high school to be anywhere but there. I certainly can’t blame her. She’s the most caring person I’ve ever met. But I’m the restless sort. It’s in my blood. It is, after all, why I’m sitting at the Fitz—slow sipping beers by myself and writing this to a potential future version of myself. It’s a funny place to choose to drink beer when you’re under age. If you jump back to that opposite view that I had previously mentioned, you’re literally looking at the police station. I never much cared for police, it’s true. But I would have no qualms with getting arrested for this view. After all, it would seem as if I’m the only one with scenic aspirations tonight.

 

The first time we stumbled upon the Fitz Hugh Lane House, we were literally stumbling. We wanted to sleep outside under the stars. My group of friends are a baffling bunch. We like to play loud punk rock music, drink in the woods, look at the stars, read books, raise a moderate amount of hell, and of course—play more loud punk rock music. No harm no foul. We’re the conscious sort. Sure, we’ll bring our beer to a beautiful hangout spot, but we take those cans and bottles home. Never sullying the pulchritude of our surroundings. I like that about us.

 

Could you imagine taking a midnight stroll only to happen upon a bunch of teenagers with patches and spikes on their clothing, half drunk, lying on their backs to get a proper view of the stars? I’m literally laughing out loud at the premise. I hope when I’m older I get an experience exactly like that. It would certainly make me think of a past life. One in which I felt like a part of a large, very dysfunctional family. Fingers crossed for old Jeff to get a glimpse of his past, long after his soul has been devoured by the ravenous, un-quenched thirst of the world around it. Deep thoughts.

 

That brings me to what I’m pondering tonight, sitting alone at The Fitz Hugh Lane House: Where will I be when I’m thirty-five years old? Will I be at all? My friend, Melissa, died in a car accident a few months ago. She was the first friend that I have ever known that died. It kind of shattered the whole immortality angle that we’ve all been working for too long. Deep down we all knew that we were very mortal, but it takes someone you know to actually die before it really sets in. She was beautiful and full of life one day, and then, just like that—she was gone. It was like she vanished. It got me thinking about how far our bodies will take us? I’m seventeen and I’m having a hard time imagining being twenty-one, let alone thirty-five. And from what I’ve seen, getting old is no stroll on the boulevard. People lose their youth and it lingers around them like… well, like death.

 

So I’ve been compiling a list of things that I’d like to remind myself of. You know, my old self. Just in case a few things get lost or misplaced along the way. Old Jeff probably has grey hair and kids, or better yet, one of those jobs that makes you sit in a cubicle all day. I wonder just how boring old Jeff is. Does old Jeff believe in god? Does old Jeff still despise authority with the fury of a thousand burning suns? Does the old bastard have a wife? Does he think the glass is half full? All of these are too scary to contemplate.

 

I should be getting back to Addison Street. I have work in the morning and I know that my roommate is going to want to stay up, drink more beer, and talk about his most current failed attempt at a relationship with the opposite sex. Or maybe the apartment is packed with friends. We do call our apartment, “The den of iniquity”. Either way, It’s getting late and I’ve got a list to write.

 

Dear Old Jeff,

     By now, assuming you’re still around, you’ve probably figured out that you can’t spend all your nights at the Fitz drinking beer and reading books. Pretty unfortunate, huh? I wanted to write to you because I’m worried that there are some things that you may lose along the way. Yes, even at seventeen you were worried. The following is a list of reminders that I hope will serve as a map of sorts. Something to help you find what you may have lost.

 

   1.) You love the view from the Fitz, not only because it’s pleasant to look at, but because it represents the gentle side of the city you love. The calm water slapping against the rocks. The late nights spent making the memories of your youth. The way the sun woke you up with its gentle warmth in the mornings that followed the nights you decided to sleep there. If you haven’t been there in a while, you should go back.

 

2.) Remember that time you were arrested? Well, I’m not sure what the world has done to you, but you were in the right. Really buddy, you were.

 

3.) You once had a fire inside of you. One that no one could put out. It burned with anger, fear, excitement, empathy, kindness, and friendship (If that fire has since gone out… you should be able to find most of those ingredients locally, I would think).

 

4.) Remember when you almost fell off the big rock at Stage Fort Park? It was Chipper that saved you from the fall. It would have meant certain death. If you’ve lost touch with Chip, you should find him.

 

5.) When you were seventeen, you always carried a backpack full of things that you thought you would need. This is that backpack.

 

6.) If you ever get a chance to play music for a lot of people, be thankful. While working at the Co-Op I learned about a thing called shelf life. I’m pretty sure that even though this system was devised for food, it applies to everything.

 

7.) You really loved punk rock music. It was way more than the raw angst of the sound. When you felt like you had nowhere to go—it gave you shelter. So please, for the love of whatever bullshit you might have been led to believe, do not abandon it.

 

8.) Melissa was the first friend of yours that died. It hurt. I hope you haven’t lost any more friends. But if you have, don’t forget about her. It changed things.

 

9.) Remember that family is not about blood. It’s about belonging.

 

10.) If for some reason you’re still living in Gloucester, Leave! There is a whole world out there. Plus, I have a funny feeling that you won’t forget this place—no matter where you wind up. If you happen to be estranged from the beauty of Gloucester, remember that you once sat on a bench at the Fitz Hugh Lane House, where you found the view to be so comforting, that you found clarity.

 

Sincerely,

Young Jeff

 

 Jeff Rowe lives on Winter Hill, in Somerville. He grew up in 
Gloucester and has since traveled the world playing music and 
collecting memories. 
He is a brewer by trade and is now in the process of writing a memoir. 

 

 

 

Dan Rowe, in Vietnam

 

By Jeff Rowe

The drive to the hospital was rainy and anxiety laden. My wife, Alissa, was driving us up Route 128 at a hurried pace. It was grey, raining, and my father was lying in a bed at Addison Gilbert Hospital—dying. Dying in the same hospital that I’d been dragged to for all my ills and injuries. A very familiar place that brought upon me nothing but dread. It was fitting, really.

 

My  father and I had been estranged for the last three or four years leading up to this day. We used to be like good friends. Always joking and carrying on as if the world around us held little sway. Be it an afternoon beer, an old war movie, or arguing over politics—we were friends. But something fractured along the way. Something that neither of us could fix, or at least that’s what I tell myself. The delicate relationship between father and son walks on a thin wire, on a blustery day, with greying skies that only point to the storm ahead.

 

We were driving from Boston to Gloucester, which is usually a forty-five minute drive down the line. About thirty minutes into that drive, my sister called to say that my father had just passed away. I didn’t cry. I felt anger. Anger that his death would serve as a last act of defiance to me, that he wouldn’t let me sit next to him and say that I’m sorry for the time that we had lost, whether I truly felt that way or not. For in the moment of his death, a cliché was born. A story as old as time itself had once again been played out on the grand stage of life. The bitter artistry of bloodlines and the dissent therein. But somewhere in my own turbulent tidal wave of thoughts there was a crying sister, a concerned wife, and a lost boy who looked like a man, a man that had the same tattoo as the man that was lying in a bed at Addison Gilbert Hospital.

 

My first memories of my father are of him crawling on the floor. Sometimes, but rarely, he would have a knife in his mouth. If you’ve not yet seen the sincere fragility of life, I suggest you live with someone who has PTSD. Back then, that’s not what we called it. We called it depression, anxiety, night terrors etc… Honestly, you can call it whatever you want. But what it really is, at its very core, is the reality of someone who is coming undone. When someone ordinary is forced to do extraordinary things, extraordinary things become ordinary. And somewhere in between, like a boat steadily taking on water, all is lost. It’s a real life human being replicating the sound of a limb cracking off a tree in a violent storm. Just before it fully snaps off, you can hear the splitting. And when it finally does split, the only thing left is the white noise of silence and what was left in its wake.

 

I always wanted to take his place during those fitful nights of waking up screaming. I would wonder if I could take it. I would wonder how long he was going to be able to take it. At some point, he had a valve replaced in his heart and it would make a ticking sound, not unlike that of a watch. Standing in the doorway of his room, I would listen for the tick, waiting to hear the metronome that signified his beating heart. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I would stand there and listen for that tick. In fact, I still have dreams in which the ticking sound plays a walk on roll.

 

Daniel James Rowe, Sr. was once in the 101st Airborne. He served three tours in Vietnam and was so intent on enlisting that he lied about his age, joining up at the youthful age of seventeen. Danny was a scrapper who by all accounts needed a sense of order. People around him thought that going into the service would be a good thing for him. He would stay out of trouble, out of the fights that he constantly found himself in. My mom told me that when my father was about to get on the plane to go to war, his father gave no hug or warm words, he just said, “Do not embarrass us”, coldly. My mother obviously never forgot that. And thinking back to my relationship with my father, it makes sense that he could be one of the funniest people you’ll ever meet in one moment, and cold and callous in the next. Yeah, that was our relationship.

 

My father never talked much about his time in Vietnam. Sometimes, when he would talk in his sleep, I would listen to him reliving his days of war. He would often say that he was sorry, to whom I do not know, but sometimes he would yell out for us to get down, at the top of his lungs. Sleep was a volatile event in the Rowe household. I remember crying for him, then. I would never know what it was like to experience what he went through, but I felt his pain—his agony. I would sometimes wake up to the sound of him falling. I would rush down the stairs to see if he was ok, careful to keep my distance because if he was still at war… well, he was dangerous. It was a delicate relationship that we were forging. There would be times of laughter and memories made, but always deep down there was a weariness—a strain. A feeling of knowing that there is a limit, but wanting to see how far we can get before reaching it. Is that normal?

 

I guess my father never really left Vietnam. He had so many memories, good and bad, wrapped up in that war. I would have loved to meet my father before the war; or if we could alter history, I would have loved to know my father who never went to war. It’s hard to imagine because everything in his life, his politics, his belief, his pride, all centered around the war. I wonder what he would have become. I wonder if he and I would have become estranged at all. It makes little to no sense for my mind to go there, but it does.

 

When I was young, my father would teach me how to walk with my eyes forward, never looking down, balanced on the curb. We would do this for hours. He would also teach me how to restrain someone, how to use pressure points, and how to blend in should a dangerous situation arise. I wanted to be like him. The truth is, we actually shared very few similarities; an intense and off putting sense of sarcasm, a temper, and an ease for which we could become cold. That was really what we shared. I actually liked knowing that we shared that. I would, after all, take what I could get.

 

 

Dead Trees, Gloucester, 1923. Edward Hopper (1882-1967)

 

When we arrived at the hospital, I saw his bed surrounded by my weeping siblings, all of whom had even rockier relationships with our father than I. And there he was; he looked so frail and haggard. I remember thinking that maybe beyond the fear of dying, of knowing that your life is about to be over, that maybe there was also a sense of relief. I truly hope there was. His eyes were filled brightly with blood, so much so that I could barely make out the vibrant blue that his eyes usually project. He looked bloated and when I touched his arm for the last time, touched the tattoo that we both share, it was cold to the touch. A definitive cold. I think about that moment on a daily basis. That was when I began to weep, not just because my father was dead, but also for the absence of life in a body, which is so profound that to not be shaken by it—is to feel nothing at all.

 

The doctors told us that he bled out, hence the reason for the blood in his eyes. He had overdosed on a combination of blood thinners and other medications. My whole life he had always taken so many medications. So much so, that it was nearly impossible to keep track of what does what. Lying there, his body looked like one big scar. He had many surgeries in his time, including open heart surgery, which left one raised scar running crudely from his chest to his stomach, which may have been when he was given the tick. Life was not easy for hard luck Danny, and I guess death wasn’t much different. I could wish all day for things to a have turned out differently, but in the end, all we have is the reality that is in front of us. And in that moment, my reality was telling me that my father had bled out and his life had come to an end.

 

While we were at the hospital, I felt a deep sense of resentment toward my siblings. There were five of us: Kristen was the oldest, Daniel James, Jr. came after her, followed by my half-sisters, Ruthie and Rian. I am, of course, the baby of the brood. My resentment stemmed from the years of hearing from them just how much of an asshole my father was. They would go years without talking to him, and whenever they would rekindle their respective relationships, it always ended in an epic fight. It’s funny, now that my father has been gone for some years, I’m realizing that what I just described is exactly how my relationship ended with my father.

 

We stood around his bed and made small talk. I had never seen my brother cry before. It looked awkward, like someone trying on a shirt that’s too tight. Also, I couldn’t recall ever seeing all my sisters in one room. Our family always had a distance about it. It made sense. But I think what was most striking to me in that moment was the fact that we were a family of strangers. That was the truth of it. We were a family of strangers, who were gathered around their dead father, who was also a stranger.

 

     We decided to head back to our father’s apartment as a group to discuss arrangements for a funeral. When we arrived at his place it looked so familiar. I had been visiting there for years, but it had been long enough since my last visit that it was hard for me to recollect the layout. I remembered that he had his walls full of pictures. That was another thing I found odd; he had surrounded himself with pictures of his life’s failed relationships. Was it a reminder? A comfort? I don’t have the answer, but I like to think the walls represented the way he wanted things to be. The smiles and the good memories that were caught in a fleeting moment—how if you could just capture the memory of a certain photograph and clutch it to your heart, you would have captured happiness. That’s what I like to think. Our pictures were a reminder of something that he couldn’t hold onto, but he would have if he had the strength to hold us in a moment, forever.

 

Gloucester carries a weight with it. Not all get to experience it, but most do. We weren’t at my father’s apartment for more than ten minutes before one of my siblings had the idea to rummage around for his pain medication. I’m not sure who had the initial idea to do this, but it seemed that they wanted to ease the pain of his death with the very pills that took his life. Honestly, I couldn’t blame them,  but the irony was not lost on me. Don’t get me wrong, I have my vices and to call me an angel would put you in the realm of science fiction, but this moment ate away at the pit of my stomach. It’s the very reason that I left Gloucester at such a young age. This city would always haunt me with its beauty, but once you peel back the layers, down to the seedy underbelly, she ain’t so pretty.

 

My city has two very distinct faces. One face shows a warming smile that gives the very salt that lingers in the air, like a gift. There is no air like it. This face is the view of the ocean from the Boulevard, Stage Fort Park standing toothed and strong to its right. This face is the ocean, sparkling like millions of pieces of shattered glass, on a spring afternoon. But there is another face. And this face tells a very different tale. One of inherent class division, drugs, and rampant alcohol abuse. A tale of frustration brought about by stagnation. This face has a view that rarely changes for those who see it.

 

I’ve lived with the memory of both faces. I guess in a lot of ways, Gloucester and my father are similar. They both have two distinctly different sides. And in my own way, I loved them both very much. Gloucester is much like the ocean that surrounds it. A thing of staggering beauty, but very dangerous at the same time. I’ve never seen anything like Gloucester, not in all my seemingly endless travels. But then again, I’ve never crossed paths with someone like my father. They have both proved themselves to be two very unique, double-sided, islands.

 

I don’t remember driving home from Gloucester that night. I remember drinking a beer, in the comfort of my apartment. I remember thinking that even though it seemed like we hardly knew each other—I felt his absence. The loss of a parent gave me a different feeling than that of the loss of a friend. It has something to do with shelter, something to do with the expectations of our individual roles as father and son. I fell asleep that night thinking about his sense of humor and his wild streak that brought out a laugh of unbridled freedom. The kind of laugh that you could liken to a dog with its head out the window of a passing car. For that night, I fell asleep with no anger in my heart. I thought of his blue eyes, not clouded by blood. I thought of the way that he would call me “my guy,” as opposed to using my actual name. I thought of the tattoo that we shared and the blood that runs through us all. And somewhere, hidden deep in my heart and imagination, I heard a tick.

 

 Jeff Rowe lives on Winter Hill, in Somerville. He grew up in 
Gloucester and has since traveled the world playing music and 
collecting memories. 
He is a brewer by trade and is now in the process of writing a 
collection of short stories/memoirs of his childhood in Gloucester.