Bernie didn't really exist, legally. He wasn't the guy who drove the Datsun 280 Z he didn't own. He wasn't the guy who wrote the checks to pay the utilities that weren't in his name. He didn't sign the lease to the apartment at the address where he didn't live. And he definitely wasn't born on the date listed on the license he didn't have. But he was terribly charming for a guy who didn't exist. He was funny and told incredible stories that might even have been true - - partially true anyway. And he always, always wore a baseball cap.
I first met Bernie in passing at some road racing events. There was always beer afterwards and great camaraderie. Bernie was a bruiser, exceptionally talented, and gutsy. He had a wrestler's physique and a weight lifter's strength. Neither of these traits made him particularly well-suited for long distance running. But strength and guts count for a lot, and he had both in abundance. He was actually pretty good. He didn't know quitting and he definitely didn't know tempo. He knew how to give more than he had, and that was the thing you noticed - - after his smile and the cap.
Apparently Bernie had lived in California for some time. I heard some people who knew him say "Bernie's back." It wasn't clear if he was staying or if he planned to return to California. His car still had the classic blue California plates. We probably chatted a few times because we had a lot of mutual friends. He was very likable, but somewhat mysterious. He clearly didn't know if it was safe for him to be back in Baton Rouge. It took a pretty long while before I learned enough about his past to understand why.
He was a tough guy when he was younger. He would fight and he knew how. He believed that gaining an early advantage was everything. He wasn't so much fearless - - although maybe he was that, too - - as simply a massively adrenaline powered aggression machine. You definitely wanted this guy on your side in the event of trouble, although as I learned, having this guy on your side was probably going to lead to trouble.
He was still a very tough guy when I met him, but he had mellowed a great deal - - apparently. He had had an addiction to cocaine before he left for California, although I don't know the exact time frame or timing of the events. He may have dealt as well. He told me a lot of stories that always reminded me of the adage "just because you are paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you." I don't know if anyone was out to get him, but he very clearly believed "they" were. I suspect it was a case of self-fulfilling prophesy. Eventually, a lot of people were interested in him.
He used the word "they" very frequently, usually with the verb "got". "They got this machine." "They got this speed trap." "They were waiting for me." To him, "they" were real. I asked him a hundred times who "they" were. Sometimes he would know. More often he wouldn't and it didn't matter. I was a graduate student, so "knowing" was important to me. I thought I could know everything. Bernie had moved beyond that. There were things worth knowing, and things that didn't matter. If "they" were after you, what difference did it make who the hell "they" were?
He had been involved with cocaine for some time. That had a number of effects, none of them positive. He strongly believed he was being watched by the police. He believed "narcs" had infiltrated his circle of associates. He believed "they" were closing in on him. They were planning to bust him. And his paranoia was accelerating, probably due to high volume cocaine use among other things.
Once, at a party, he heard some rustling in the bushes near the front steps. He believed the police were staking him out and trying to make him crack. I don't know about the stake out, but he was well on his way to cracking. He screamed at the rustling bushes, and threw his keys at them. Then he ran home, a couple of miles anyway, as fast as he could. He left his car at the party. Of course he couldn't get into his house either. He somehow called his friend Kurt to come help him. Kurt came and helped him. He could never explain why he threw his keys and ran home, but he always believed there was someone in those bushes.
Kurt was always loyal to Bernie, but he always told Bernie the truth as he saw it, at least when I was around them. Kurt retold the story of those rustling bushes many times in my presence (and probably many more besides) in an effort, I believe, to help Bernie see the difference between the reality and fantasy. It didn't particularly bother Bernie to have others make fun of him, especially Kurt. Having Kurt (and others) help define reality probably saved Bernie a lot of trouble.
Sometime after this episode, he was driving outside of Baton Rouge - - maybe doing a deal, I don't know. Louisiana, like a lot of states, uses convict labor to periodically pick up litter and keep the highways clean. Each inmate gets a bag or two to fill up. They leave these large garbage bags on the road side when they are finished. Sometimes the bags sit there for a few days before the next crew comes along and picks them up. Bernie believed that the police, in their attempt to break him (whatever that might mean) were hiding behind those bags. Not every bag, mind you. Some of the bags were put there "just to f--- with my mind." This was a critical turning point in Bernie's mind, at least retrospectively. He realized he was in trouble. He didn't know how it would turn out. He cleaned out his stash and his apartment of all evidence. The end was near.
His ex-wife's second husband must have seen at first hand Bernie's descent. He was the step-father to Bernie's children, two girls, and a detective for the City of Baton Rouge. His role in Bernie's real life was never clear, but his role in Bernie's mind was to create the conditions for a search of Bernie's apartment. When the police finally came with a search warrant, almost everything that could get Bernie arrested had been removed. They came; they searched; they found very little of note. But that was enough! They found some paraphernalia with some residue on it. Bernie's "husband-in-law" wanted him in jail and paraphernalia with residue was enough to accomplish that. (It is my opinion that, if it is true that this guy wanted him jail and had him put there, he probably saved Bernie's life.) So off Bernie went to jail.
"They" let him sit in jail for a few days. He was "freaking out." The sudden absence of cocaine together with all of the other things happening must have caused a near breakdown. (Again, this was probably a good thing.) There was, in addition, a sort of gang in the jail, led by a very cocky thin black guy. They harassed Bernie constantly. They asked him for his food. They asked him for his shoes. They basically tried to shake him down continuously. They didn't know Bernie. It was a big mistake.
After a few days of constant harassment, the leader finally physically accosted Bernie. If he would have asked me beforehand, I'd have said if Bernie's not dead, you better not hit him. But he didn't have anybody to ask, so he hit Bernie in the mouth with a soft drink can tab, the ring that came on pull-tab cans back then, on one of his fingers. It split Bernie's lip and blood started to spew. Bernie's reaction was similar to a shark's reaction in the presence of a lot of blood. His already overcharged adrenal gland also began to spew in over time. He screamed, he cried, and he chased that guy from one end of the cell to the other, through bunk beds around and through the crowd of inmates, (all of whom correctly surmised that it might not be healthy to try to help the guy being chased). Eventually, Bernie caught him, wrestled him to the ground, and pounded his face over and over and over. I'm sure Bernie lost less blood than this guy. If the deputies hadn't arrived to stop Bernie, this guy would have been in very severe trouble.
Bernie was crying and shaking and pumped almost even beyond his own recognition when the jailers broke up the scuffle and carried him away. I think his connection on the police force was probably waiting for him to break and they treated him with kid gloves after this episode. They didn't put him back in the cell, but got him released shortly thereafter. I don't know whether he still had to face charges, but I don't believe it was serious. He understood later that his children's step-father was doing the right thing. He really did begin to control some of those aspects of his life where he could exercise control. He gave up cocaine and dealing and straightened up quite a bit.
After that he started to get back into athletics. (He had been a runner and wrestler in high school.) He got a cute girlfriend who taught aerobics, and he spent a lot of time doing fitness-related stuff. Among other things, the health club was a great place to meet women. Bernie eventually moved with his girlfriend to California for a few years. When they broke up, he moved back to Baton Rouge. I don't know all of the circumstances. I'm sure there are some great stories there. Anyway, I didn't know him then. I don't think I would have found him safe to be around. I met him a number of years later, just after he returned.
I got to know him better after a mutual friend of ours moved out west. We both helped Joe move. We packed his boxes, loaded up Joe's U-Haul truck. We stood both terribly sad and forlorn as Joe waved goodbye from the cab of the large moving van. It jounced across the yard and over the ditch, and then drove with all the finesse of a great steel box kite on wheels down the street. Goodbye Joe. I didn't have a car, only a bicycle. Bernie asked if I wanted to get something to eat or play pool or I don't know what. He drove, with strength and guts - - the way he did everything. We went somewhere, maybe to Souper Salads. It doesn't matter where. We began to hang out.
Bernie was a person who attracts other people and for a lot of different reasons. He attracted women. I'd like to say I know why. But I've never been able to attract women myself and, therefore, don't consider myself expert enough to explain why or how others attract them. But women were attracted to him and he slept with a lot of them. Scary, really, how many. But they kept coming and he liked it. Sometimes he dated for very short periods of time, but never for long.
Tough guys were attracted to him because they correctly sensed he would fight, which he did with varying degrees of success. Joe had tamed him to a degree. But a fight almost always ensued whenever Bernie went out one night by himself.
Athletes were attracted to him because he was a great training partner. He was full of piss and vinegar, very gutsy and positive. Even when he hurt badly, he smiled and kept going. He might yell for the last mile or two, loud and clear, about how badly it hurt. But short of a real injury, he helped keep everyone going.
The police were definitely attracted to him. He could barely turn around without being engaged by one of the various law enforcement agencies for some infraction: sometimes purely of his own making; sometimes he was just unlucky; sometimes due to the trouble imposed by others.
Even lesbians were attracted to him. He dated one for a couple of months. She said if she went straight, he'd be her guy. But she didn't and he wasn't.
Anyway, almost everyone liked Bernie for one reason or another. (Maybe except bar owners. Sometimes stuff gets broken. They don't tend to like that.) Including me. I thought he was great. He was a groomsman in my wedding. He bought my girlfriend birthday presents. He taught me things I couldn't otherwise learn about a world to which I had no entry. I never picked up women like he did. I never won at pool like he did. I never drove fast cars like he did. But we liked a lot of the same things, even if they were more available to him than to me.
Stability wasn't something he generally endured very well. He spoke of a lot of friends he had during different periods in his life. But I met almost none of them during the couple of years when we were close. His one long-time friend, Kurt, was another interesting guy, and he was always there for Bernie. But they didn't spend any time together, at least not any more.
The same is true of women. Lots of women came and went - - quite literally. Sometimes they came a few times; rarely, they even came back a few times. But they always went. And when one tried to stay, which wasn't the norm, he blocked. We usually spent more time together during the times when he needed to get rid of a woman.
Bars and pool halls, mostly both, were favorite hang-outs. These places had all of the types of people who were attracted to Bernie: Women, red-necks, and a few athletes, both runners and cyclists. He also went to strip clubs, not regularly but periodically. He dated strippers for a while. One of the longest relationships he had was with a stripper. It probably lasted two or three months. He told a story of having two guys in a pickup truck pull up beside his 280Z at a traffic light while one of these girls had her face buried in his lap. The girl looked up at the guys in the pickup, and she and Bernie smiled and waved - ever the charmer.
But it wasn't all good. Sometimes it was absurd. But sometimes it was bad. Bernie's real scrapes with the law were periodic. But they were real enough. Some of stories of the past would have been especially worrisome had I known him then, or them when I met him. But the recurring antics showed an instability that led me to believe that danger lie just below the surface.
There were many incidents. He went to a pool hall, got into a fight - - probably over a stupid glare - - and whacked a guy with a pool stick. He must have hit the guy hard, because the pool stick broke. Another time a guy cracked a beer bottle on the edge of the pool table and sliced his neck with jagged end. I don't know how many times Joe or I or other friends shuttled him out of harm's way. He had a lawyer who was constantly working on his cases, either suing on his behalf or defending him and against a suit, or working on a DUI. He paid them by working around their office. (He could work on anything mechanical, electrical or other construction - -anything that wasn't purely electronic, like so many guys of that generation.)
Three of us closed a pool hall one night. We we're a block from my home when we crashed a car. We were driving on the street where I had a garage apartment. My neighbor was one of my best friends, and was with us. We had already driven past our apartments, and were doing about 85 MPH in a very residential neighborhood. There was a sinkhole in the road, and the city had put a flashing marker on it. Bernie swerved to avoid it, and we went into a spin. We bounced off of a tree and stopped a few feet from a house. We were very lucky, indeed, to be alive.
I got out of the car, I think, by rolling down the window and climbing out. I can't be sure. I do remember that John was laying between the car and the house on the walkway by the front door. I don't know if he was thrown from the car, or he climbed out. Bernie says John kicked out the back glass and climbed out, but I don't know if this is true or not. John didn't seem to be in much shape for climbing out when I got to him.
A lady opened the front door to the house and said I shouldn't move John. I asked him if he could get up. I told him the police were coming. I could already hear the sirens. He said he could get up and we walked home - - about 150 yards. I'm pretty sure Bernie was with us, but my recollection is vague. I only really remember the lady at the door of the house saying I shouldn't move John - - so I asked him to get up, which he did in his severely concussed way.
Bernie was driving a borrowed car. The car belonged to a friend for whom Bernie had been working, David. They were going to be partners in some big real estate development deal. It was going to be great and all that. We crashed that borrowed car all to hell and back. It was a Datsun 280ZX: Bernie's favorite car.
I walked John back to his apartment, which was next to mine. I remember calling several people, which I always did in a crisis. I called my mom and told her I might end up in jail. I called a John's brother who was an attorney and told him what had happened. Then the police arrived. I was washing the blood off of John. He was sitting on the bathroom floor looking very lost. I don't know where Bernie was when the knock at the door came. But he was gone. I'm glad I didn't know because I was pretty well lost myself.
Anyway, the police finally came and they had the guy who owned the car, David, with them. I don't know how much time had gone by before they found us. They knew Bernie was driving it, and didn't seem bothered by or interested in John or me. One of the policemen told me I needed to get John to the hospital. David whispered to me and asked if I knew where Bernie was, which the police had already asked. I said I didn't - - which was true. I couldn't remember. I was busy trying to help John and although the trauma of it all had not yet set in I was still pretty confused. I told the police that they should look outside and in the ditches because I wasn't sure where Bernie was, whether he was hurt, or what. And that was the truth. I remember David whispering that he hoped they didn't find Bernie because his insurance would probably cover the car if Bernie wasn't found to be drunk. Interesting point, I thought. I hope he's not dead.
I called John's brother and told him that we had been in a crash and needed to go to the hospital. He arrived shortly thereafter and took us. I called a runner we knew who was also a physician, Greg. He thought we were drunk and screwing around - - half correctly - - and called the hospital and told them to call him back if we arrived. He found out we were ok and never made an appearance. John was in the hospital for a couple of days. His face was a mess. He was concussed. It was not good. They released me, still pretty drunk, and John's brother got me home by 7:00 AM. I woke up the next morning about nine, but I could barely get out of bed. I decided I didn't want to die alone, so I called my ex-girlfriend to get back together. (Yeah, that was a good idea! Right.)
I found out later that day that Bernie had heard the police coming. He got in the closet. There was an entryway to the attic in the ceiling over the closet so he climbed into the attic. He fell asleep there, and awoke around 10:00 AM. It must have been very hot in mid-October in an attic in Baton Rouge - - or so he said. He was drenched in sweat when he awoke, having slept 6 hours in the attic on the ceiling joists.
Bernie climbed down out of the attic and called David, the guy who owned the car. David came and got him and took him home. I don't think he had to do a police report until after he was sober. He had a nasty scar on his beautiful baby face, which should have been immediately stitched. But he couldn't go to the hospital until there was no more alcohol in his blood - - which he decided was late the next day. The scar lasted a long time. As it turned out, Bernie made David's insurance company pay for his hospital bill.
I quit drinking alcohol on that day. I haven't had more than a few sips, including wedding toasts, since 2:00 AM, October 17, 1987. I'm not a hero or even very smart as it turns out. But I'm lucky. Within two years John and Bernie racked up 4 DUIs between them. Who'd have figured it?
I still went out and I still danced (not very well) and played pool (less well yet). I liked to hang out in bars and pool halls. I had started to drink water and diet coke now and again, instead of alcohol, although I might admit to having periodically taken a quick puff now and again when one was offered. One of the things I learned was how addicted my hands were to holding a beer. When you quit drinking, you feel naked. I almost started smoking cigarettes it was so bad. I realized that I could never drink as many soft drinks as I did beers without feeling terrible immediately - - whereas alcohol masked that terrible feeling until later. I had more money (which was almost none) and I lost 10 pounds. Ergo, I drank lots of water.
And so it was that I was trying to finish a Master's thesis later that year. I spent very little time away from my books and PC. Since I had already quit drinking, my time in bars was social time. I think it was Friday, but it could have been Saturday. I called up Bernie and John and Chris and suggested we meet at the Bayou for a few games of pool. I can't remember if John came, but if he did, he didn't stay late. I stayed until 9 or 9:30. I made my way back to my home - - back to living with my "previously ex-girlfriend" in West Baton Rouge Parish. I drove over the Mississippi River Bridge to my apartment and worked through the night. It was a normal weekend night. I think Bernie and Chris closed the place down - - 2:00 AM.
The next day Bernie showed up at my apartment in West Baton Rouge Parish late in the afternoon. He told me he had had some trouble after he left the Bayou. He was driving home on Nicholson Drive south of town on a relatively open stretch of the road. He was speeding, probably driving 80 MPH or so. He drove through a speed trap and the sirens and flashing lights came to life. His prior troubles flitted quickly through his head. He knew a DUI would be really bad news for him at this point. It would have been enough to cause Bernie to spend some time in jail. He figured he was already doing over 80 MPH, and the cop was starting from a dead stop. No way could they could catch him! So he jammed his foot into the accelerator, and made a run for it.
There's an old saying that it's hard to outrun a radio. It's true. Less than a mile later, he made a turn onto a set of roads built for developments that were never finished, open spaces evenly divided by concrete roads. But as quickly as he got into the sub-division, several police cars arrived as well. He sped across a field, and came to a deep ditch, a creek really, probably 10 feet across, with the bank built up on both sides. He gunned it and his car flew over the ditch and landed on the other side. The closest patrol car tried the same route. He ended up with the front end of his car in the creek and his tail lights blinking at the stars.
But more police cars were already on the scene, and they took the bridge around the creek. Bernie's car wasn't doing so well after the jump, and as he got out, he was met by one of Baton Rouge Parish's finest. Bernie is about 5 foot 8 inches tall but built like a lineman. An officer came running at Bernie like he was going to grab him. This guy was big, but Bernie could produce more adrenaline than anyone I ever met. Bernie bent down and in a wrestler stance and sent this guy flying over his head.
As more cars arrived, Bernie headed for the woods on foot. But there were too many cars and too many lights to keep running, even though he was only a few blocks from home. Bernie lay down in the darkness of a deep puddle or ravine, like something created by a tractor tire. He was cold and wet, wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It was very dark. Fortunately for Bernie, they searched the car more than the surrounding area. They must have thought, hey, we have his car. We'll find him. The car, a borrowed Datsun 260Z, belonged to his attorney's girlfriend. Bernie was supposed to be working on it.
In the darkest dark just before first light, the police presence thinned to near nothingness. Bernie realized that his moment of truth had come. He had to move, get caught or not. He leaped to his feet, and ran home in what was probably the race of his life. He made it in the door of his apartment to the flashing light of the answering machine. The attorney had called, having gotten the news that his girlfriend's car had just led a high speed chase across southern Baton Rouge. Bernie could deal with that later. He had to get a shower and get cleaned up first.
After a shower, he called the attorney. The attorney had not told the police anything about Bernie or their attorney-client relationship. His girlfriend advised the police that the car had been given to someone named Bernie at B&B Services, a business name Bernie used at that time. And they gave the police Bernie's address.
Not very much later, a policeman arrived. It was, in fact, the same good officer who had taken flight over Bernie just a few hours earlier. Bernie could but say the car was stolen, and that he hadn't reported it stolen because he hadn't known it until the attorney called. He'd just listened to the message. There was no argument, apart from an eyewitness, that this wasn't true. This officer was, however, an eyewitness. He couldn't, it seemed, be sure he recognized Bernie, although he was extremely suspicious. Probably the convincing factor was that this sizable officer might not have been convinced that a guy Bernie's size could throw him so far. At least, that was Bernie's opinion.
The fact was that there just was no evidence to contradict Bernie's story of a stolen car. If the hurled officer couldn't identify Bernie, there was no way - - short of a confession - - to prove he was driving the car. Bernie's ex-wife was married to a Baton Rouge city detective of some renown (but I don't know exactly what renown). This incident involved only parish (county) officers from the Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff's office. After a day or two of sort of lightly harassing Bernie, Bernie's "husband-in-law", as I called him much to Bernie's annoyance - - called someone at the Sheriff's office. He basically suggested that, if they had no concrete evidence, they needed to leave Bernie alone.
Bernie understood how close he was to real trouble. He said he was going to do some work that enabled him to get out of town for a while. Someone he knew managed large aquariums for fishing shows, mall festivals, etc. He would drive a semi tractor trailer and set up the aquarium on site. He did that job for the next few months. It was a close escape. He wasn't always so lucky. Sometimes he was.
A few years later Bernie learned to manufacture gel packs - - reusable ice packs for cooling injuries or sea food. These are used extensively in Louisiana for shipping seafood. I believe that the same guy who rented out portable aquariums also taught him to make gel packs. At first, he did it with someone else's equipment. Then he did it sort of manually. Later he figured out how to build a machine to create gel packs and hired a laborer to work for him. He sold palate after palate of them. Then he tried to sell the machines. He might have sold one. I can't remember for certain. In the interim, however, he had rented a warehouse space and ordered all sorts of material for construction and gel and bags. There was a lot of debt involved when he disengaged and disappeared. Just another business opportunity where the invoices caught up with already spent gross profit.
Most of Bernie's money, which seemed to come in big lump sums and go in about the same manner, came from his roofing business. He got jobs in clusters when he wanted to work, which was when he didn't have money. He definitely was not lazy. He was smart and willing to work hard. He could lead a team and finish a job. He knew how to estimate costs and profits. I helped him periodically, and he paid me well for hard work, even though I wasn't really very good. He could nail shingles down faster than two guys could give them to him. No one could keep up with him. And he almost always paid the invoices for his roofing materials. This business was his bread and butter over years and years.
He lived in apartment buildings owned by his attorney for most of the time I knew him. His landlord-attorney had a problem keeping the water bill paid in the first building I remember him living in. The water was always being turned off. So Bernie would take a long garden hose, and attach one end to the spigot of his building, and attach the other end to a spigot on a neighboring building, and then turn on both ends. This caused the water pressure in other building to go down enormously, but his building got water. (The owner of that building always disconnected the hose, and eventually destroyed several of them.)
He moved from apartment to apartment in the south Baton Rouge area that primarily constituted student and lower working class digs. They were, nonetheless, pretty nice apartments due to an overzealous construction industry. Several of Bernie's apartments were owned by his attorney. Along the way, Bernie got into the business of helping his landlord rent apartments. He would clean them, paint them, caulk windows, make repairs, whatever was needed. Eventually, he began really "managing" them; renting them out, collecting rents and turning in the rent to the attorney.
One might have known that this arrangement couldn't turn out well. There were too many cracks in this most informal of systems and too few checks and balances. And it didn't turn out well. In fact, it turned out quite badly. Need and opportunity asserted themselves - - Bernie's need and the opportunity for easy cash. It started slowly, sort of like borrowing a few dollars from the till, and grew into something really ugly.
He would move people into apartments and just skim a bit off the top. Call it a finder's fee. Then, he'd keep the first two weeks rent. He could tweak the date on the lease or say he had to give two weeks free rent to get the tenant to sign. It wasn't likely to be noticed. Then it grew to the first month's rent, and then rent for "a month or two". Eventually he had all of the apartments full, but wasn't turning in the money. It went on for months, but probably less than a year.
I guess the attorney eventually figured it out from watching the books. It couldn't have been difficult to spot for anyone auditing or even spot checking the accounts, even with minimal accounting skills. The attorney showed up one day and checked all the apartments. He asked the tenants how long they had lived there. Then he confronted Bernie. He was pretty well enraged.
Bernie was busted, straight up. He was traumatized. The attorney had done his homework. There was no way to deny any of it. Now he'd screwed his attorney, and he knew this guy knew it. And this was the attorney who was protecting him from suits, keeping him out of jail for DUIs, and, yes, even managing his claims against others - - like the guy who cut his throat with the broken beer bottle. I don't think he ever quite recovered from this event for the rest of the time I knew him. And that time was almost over.
He bought a dump truck. It was a piece of junk. He had a guy he hired from the ‘hood drive it. It was never legal. I helped him do a roofing job or two while he owned it. The pay was good, and I always needed the money. He worked us hard, but he was fair. He always bought lunch for the crew. Late in the day, he'd get cranky as hell. Then we'd get done. He would be as buoyant as ever. I don't think he ever drove that truck himself. After we finished, this other guy and I dumped the roofing material we'd torn off in an undeveloped subdivision a few blocks from Bernie's house. We would have gone to jail if we'd gotten caught. When the dump truck finally broke down on the highway, Bernie left it where it sat. It wasn't in his name. It didn't matter.
More often Bernie rented a truck or a dumpster to handle the old shingles we tore off the roof. Or sometimes we just used his pickup. Then we would have to move them a second time - - one shingle at a time - from the pickup truck to a clandestine dumpster somewhere, or even just on the roadside. Once we roofed a 3 story apartment building. I was terrified. The ladder wasn't safe for a 10 foot building, and we were hauling 90 lb. bundles of shingles up 45 or 50 feet. There was another guy there that day, much younger, larger and stronger than I was. He was an undergraduate college student. He would haul two bundles of shingles up that ladder. The ladder probably swayed two feet under the strain. My god, it's a wonder no was killed. But when you think about it, that was by no means one of the most dangerous times in Bernie's life.
Bernie always left his keys in his car, a blue 280 Z. One day a lady he'd "cut off" in traffic followed him to the convenience market where he stopped to buy something or other. He always left his keys in the ignition for some unknown reason. She took his keys and wouldn't give them back. Eventually someone called the police. When the policeman found out that Bernie hadn't even bumped her, and understood the intersection where it happened, he made the lady give Bernie his keys, and just let Bernie leave. Bernie was never legal - - no legal driver's license, no legal plates. He was very often very lucky. This time he was lucky.
A group of us once met at a friend's house because we all planned to go shoot pool together. We sat around laughing, telling stories, and listening to music before we left. Someone toked on a pipe while Bernie was in the room. I'm sure he never touched it, and I doubt any of the smoke ever got near him. Suddenly, however, he bolted upright and began to shout about someone giving him a contact high that he didn't want. He was hypersensitive to some things, or so he said. Some of these effects were noticeable to others. A strong cup of coffee would send him into outer space. He also complained, for example, that his muscles would swell after salty food. He took some vitamin supplements for which he could describe the minutest effects. He was often pretty in tune with himself physiologically. But this "contact high" business made him angry. He was correct when he stated that he didn't need any more trouble with law enforcement. But I found it hard to believe that any exposure he'd had, which I believed was none, could have had any affect on him. Volatile though he was; he stormed out alone warning of grave repercussions should there be any grave repercussions, and so on and so forth. We all laughed it off, finished our beers and headed for the pool hall.
When we got to the pool hall about a half-an-hour later, the charming, smiling Bernie had retaken control, and you'd never have believed the same person could have been yelling about some absurd "contact high" just a short while before. He greeted us with his winning smile and we had beers and laughed and played pool; and we made fun of him for storming off so. He always took that sort of fun very well. Volatility was the common theme.
He was in love with a girl named Lanie. She worked in the shoe store where I'd worked for a long time. She was cute - - tall and thin but with a rough and ruddy complexion. She was an undergraduate student at LSU, and may have been on the track team. Her background was decided upper middle class. She came from a different world. I think she liked Bernie, but he probably frightened her. She had good instincts. Plus, she probably heard a lot of stories from within the running community - - everybody knew Bernie, and most everybody could tell one or two good scary stories about him. She led him on for a long time; they may have had a semi-date once or twice. But try as he did, he could never woo her. He was really down about it. I was very surprised to see him pine for someone. It was probably just as well. I'm comfortable suggesting that it probably would have ended like the other relationships I witnessed. Not well.
He called a "dating service" to get an escort from his living room to his bedroom.
He borrowed an inversion machine. He had a stimulation machine like physical therapists use. He even got a PC once.
He was a pretty good cyclist. He kept his legs shaved.
He left a girl named Sunny standing at a phone booth in front of the 7-11 convenience store when they were supposed to have a date. I was in his apartment when she called, over and over and over again. Then we drove past the 7-11 - - but we didn't stop. We didn't wave and she didn't see us.
Bernie met Sunny in Uncle Earl's pool hall on a Saturday night after she had attended an LSU football game in Baton Rouge. She lived in New Orleans, but was "a big LSU Tigers fan" as were so many people in Louisiana. They became interested in one another almost immediately. I know what he was interested in. I'm less sure what she wanted. Maybe the same thing as he wanted. Who knows?
Sunny was a beautiful woman with short blond hair and a very athletic build. She was a sales representative, perhaps for a pharmaceutical company, or something like that - - a "professional" with a real career. Bernie went to New Orleans for dates and to visit her several times. I remember he was very uncomfortable when she immediately introduced him to her friends. He had been to New Orleans several times on dates with her, but she had never been to his apartment because they'd never had a date in Baton Rouge. She knew the approximate neighborhood, and the closest "major intersection," but she only had a phone number. (Bernie wasn't listed in the phone book; his phone was in some random lady's name.)
After several dates in New Orleans, they made plans to attend an LSU football game on one sunny Saturday afternoon (no pun intended). Bernie asked me if he could borrow some money - - which was pretty unusual to say the least. I guess he hadn't roofed in a few weeks. He was very anxious about this date. Her friends were coming again. It wasn't clear what the underlying issue was but he was clearly bothered, very agitated, about this date. While we were hanging around his apartment during the afternoon before they were supposed to go out, Bernie suddenly decided - - or at least suddenly announced - - that he wasn't going to the game or on the date. This decision might have resulted in a range of outcomes. He might have told her he'd gotten very sick, or that his mother had. He might have told her he'd been in an accident of some sort. Or he might have just said he didn't want to go. But he didn't. Instead, he didn't tell her anything. When she called from the 7-11, he didn't answer the phone. Beeeeep! "Hi, Bernie. It's Sunny. I'm at the 7-11, and I need directions to your house." Beeeeep! "Hi, Bernie. I'm at the corner of Nicholson and …" Beeeeep! "Hi, Bernie. It's me…" I don't know how many times she called before we left, but she was still standing at the phone booth at the 7-11 as we drove by. I felt pretty bad. Bernie seemed bothered, too.
The closest I could get to an actual reason for the last minute abort on the date was money and status. He didn't have money for the date, or even in general, and she had some professional status he didn't understand -- and a very regular paycheck. I don't think they ever spoke again. But that's the way it was with Bernie. That's the way it always ended.
Bernie got a new girlfriend not too much later. I don't remember her name. I think she worked somewhere in the field of mental health, or was at least degreed as such. I remember thinking how interesting that was; Bernie was anything but mentally stable. Where could this go? What would they talk about? Anyway, I invited Bernie and his new girlfriend over for dinner. I don't know what we cooked, but it didn't matter. Bernie cancelled. I was, of course, furious and indignant. It wasn't so much just that he cancelled that annoyed me. It was that he cancelled a half-an-hour after he was supposed to arrive. That was classic Bernie.
Indignant carried little weight with Bernie, however, and I knew it. I accepted it as just being Bernie. But I sensed something was different; that something was permanently wrong. And it was. My friendship with Bernie was racing toward a painful closure. Not of my choosing, but of his. I saw him one more time after that day.
Then the end came -- the last roofing job. I was late and Bernie left me, which was very unusual. I was able just by luck and intuition - - neither of which I have in any quantity -- to find the house on my own. I didn't have an address or a map, but I knew the approximate neighborhood. Bernie was irritable throughout the job. Kurt worked on that job. He told me Bernie sold my motorcycle while I was in Germany. Bernie heard him tell me - - because Kurt intended for him to. Kurt didn't keep secrets from Bernie. Bernie's mood continued to worsen. It never did get any better. I was devastated to find out that Bernie stole from me, and then lied about it. I wasn't surprised, but I was devastated.
He'd been pissed at me before, I guess. (And perhaps I at him.) But this time was different. He tried not to pay me for the work. Finally he way underpaid me. He refused to meet with me, but left the money stuffed behind the number plate on his apartment door. I called but he didn't answer. We never spoke again.
I've heard that break-ups with best friends are worse than those with girl-friends (or boy-friend as the case may be). I guess it's true. It was a great friendship, and I missed it for a very long time. I guess I still do.
A short while later, perhaps a few months, the rumor spread that Bernie was again on the lam. He had disappeared from Baton Rouge as abruptly as he had returned. There were rumors that he'd had to dodge the law, and maybe went to stay with Joe in New Mexico. Those who would say didn't know, and those who knew - - if anyone really knew - - wouldn't say. Anyway he was gone without even waving goodbye.
I haven't found anyone to date who admits to having seen or heard from him since then. John has bumped into his daughter a few times, but she wouldn't say. Maybe one day I'll bump into him. I think it would be good day if I did - - the beginning of another end.