In the Midst Of

"I’ll just be a minute.” She held up her index finger to ward off doubt. “…Wanta get outa these grubby clothes.” She reappeared jogging toward us in a hot-pink tube top. Half-skating across the icy driveway, she struggled into the sleeves of a purple suede coat trimmed with white fur. Encased in skintight Sergio Valente jeans, her rump glided across my front seat. Silver platform shoes pivoted under the dash ahead of the slamming door. “Hit the road, Jack!” Having indicated readiness to leave, she inflated a bubble of chewing gum, popped it with her teeth and gobbled-up the remains.

Cheri may have been twenty.  Her hair was razor-cut and frosted, blond on auburn.  The

jeans and tube top picked out curves otherwise undetectable.  She epitomized a Doors song.

‘Well, she’s fashionably lean and she’s fashionably late she’ll never rank a scene she’ll

never break a date but she’s no drag just watch the way she walks.’  “What kind of music

you guys like?”  she wanted to know, “I had Wings on in the car; their new one, Venus

and Mars.  ‘Listen to what the man said’ is pretty cool.  Band on the Run was better

though…” Her review was truncated by an abrupt left turn.

Sticker price on a 1975 Corvette was $6,550. A bag of Columbian: $30. In the Midst Of features a barefaced ensemble of true-to-age characters. Brian connects with an offbeat mentor cum older brother named Hollis in a lopsided relationship. Hollis moves on, but Brian will not let go. He clings to a myth perpetuated by dependency and self-denial.

The 1970s was an era of global hang-time; the 60s pendulum had swung as far as the silent majority would allow. Poised to back swing, the repercussions were unclear. The shock value of the previous decade had been commercialized. Like pre-faded jeans: off-the-rack and ready-to-wear. “How's your love life?” “Try it... You’ll like it!” ...Couldn’t raise the eyebrows of the Tidy-Bowl man. The nation was in transition, post Watergate-pre AIDS. The war was over, and Disco was an urban anomaly. Americans shimmied into hip-huggers, submitted to analysis and shucked inhibitions. Suburban cool: Naugahyde living room set, Tiki-lit backyard and coveting the neighbor's spouse. ...Cocaine for your groove and a doobie to unwind.

What distinguishes In the Midst Of? Barons’ characters are not trite icons typically enlisted to resemble the 70s. Brian, et al, leap beyond stereotypes; video verite, spurred by downright, gut-metered dialogue. The backdrop is unaffected, a Kodacolor © snapshot- definitive 70s. The era pretends to be a character, à la Grand Central Terminal, too epic for the label: train station.

Brian and his friends’ lives play out, guided by elements more onerous than the clockworks of society and politics. They are ensconced on a college campus. Coed dorms, unisex fashion; lines obscured by casual, experimental encounters. Edge-lurking has always been fashionable. Hollis dangles by his fingertips. Beneath his public facade lies a disturbing void. His multiple secrets are protected by an ambiguity that passes for cool. His inner sanctum is Brian's obsession; a fixation that yields a mirror with a chilling reflection. Hollis is the aim- as sure as the bull's eye emblazoned on any Zen-archer's target.

“Like the fight across the street, you probably think it just happened. It’s always some freak thing, but when the storm is over, that’s when the bodies wash up. They’re your friends, people who trust you. Frankly I’m not so concerned about the Cheri’s of the world; my beef is Brian. He’s my boyfriend, and I’m here to tell you; I’m not getting my fair share. He was dragged out of bed last night; had to come running because you messed up. That’s too much to ask of a friend.

Hollis looked both of us in the eye. “I was unaware a caretaker had been assigned to me. Thank you for pointing it out; the arrogation will be rectified. Anyone preoccupied with self-immolation should find another flame.”

He returned to his meal. Cindy took a deep breath and blasted him. “You know, you can’t stand the idea of being human. You’re Hollis the intellectual machine. You don’t enjoy books; you read literature. You aren’t into music; you collect blues albums. You can’t lower your guard for a second. You resent life. You pick it apart with philosophy and politics. Do you know why they call modern art, abstract? …Because, it doesn’t look like anything.”

C. M. Barons was born in Rochester, New York, October 26, 1953. He studied journalism at SUNY New Paltz, graduating in 1976 with a BA in Communication Arts. During his time at New Paltz, he served as Photographic Editor for the student newspaper the Oracle and reported. Upon graduation, he was hired by The Daily News of Batavia. He started as a proofreader and rose to the position of Sports Editor. He resides in a small village in Western New York. His interests aside from writing and literature include politics, history, theater, art, international/ independent film and Egyptology. He has traveled to Russia and Egypt. He is a frequent contributor to blogs, letters columns and e-groups. Supporting his reputation as a Renaissance Man, he currently manufactures blood products for the American Red Cross. His resume reflects additional diversity: educational technology, live sound technician, cemetery caretaker, wedding photographer, food processing quality control, dock foreman, cable installer, electrician, youth employment counselor...

My heart was full of joy as I took the first hit, which was oddly soft and painless. No real shock at all. Just a sickening thud, like running over a body, a corpse -- or, ye fucking gods, a crippled 200- pound sheep thrashing around in the road. --"Fear and Loathing in Elko" by Hunter S. Thompson. Orig. printed in Rolling Stone #622, January 1992. (The last issue I ever bought)

HST Cashed his chips February 21, 2005; Poe 1849, London 1916, Hemingway 1961, Kerouac 1969, Brautigan 1984, Kosinski 1991, Bukowski 1994.