Maryanne's Weekend

What I’m posting today is an email that I sent to two of my friends about seven years ago. It was just an email, but it read like a short story. That spurred me on to do some more writing and before I knew it, here I am asking you to read about my misspent youth (again). By the way, every word is true (unfortunately). And please forgive my syntax, tense mistakes, and all the rest. It was my first effort and I’m too indolent to go in and change anything.

 

Dear Ben & Rick,

Mount St. Helens blew its top, the Liberty City riots, and this story all took place between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning of that fateful weekend of 1980. There must have been something in the air.

First, a little background: You guys remember my old office and the kind of neighborhood in which it was located. Well, I decided to relocate to a little bit better area. So we moved a mile or two east on 79th street. But we were east of Biscayne Boulevard and that made all the difference in the world. Or so I thought at the time.

Our new offices were in a strip shopping center. You know, about ten stores set up for retail businesses. However, this place was a little different; it had offices at each end to act as anchors. Our set up was two stories and had large, mirrored windows you could see out, but not in. They were massive, about twenty feet high and ran across the entire front. They come into the story later.

In this layout was a “dance studio” two doors down from me. It was owned by a beautiful Jamaican lady. There was not one wrong thing about her. Long hair, glowing brown skin, and curves most women would kill for at that age … she was twenty-five. Her name was Maryanne. And to top it off, she drove a brand new black Corvette. Maryanne got my attention.

I don’t remember how our relationship got started, but before long, I found myself going over there to hang out in the afternoons, if she had no customers. I must digress for a moment to disabuse you of the idea that this may have been a dance studio in any way, shape, or form. The only person who danced in that dance studio was Maryanne or one of the girls who worked for her. The customers, who were all male, sat in beanbag chairs and observed the girls dancing to music supplied by a boom box (at least that’s where I remember the music coming from). As to what these men did while a girl was dancing, I’ll leave to your vivid imaginations, but the girls were never touched.

There’s one other thing you need to know. Maryanne and I were not in love, it was pure sex. One weekend, we drove her car to Key West, and the first night there, at a bar, I saw a girl I was very interested in. So I suggested to Maryanne that she should see what she could dig up for herself, which she happily set about doing. I went home with the local talent and spent the night with her. The next morning, Maryanne and I met up and continued our weekend, no questions asked. That was the type of relationship we had. I tell you this because it is pertinent to the story.

Now the fun begins. It’s Friday afternoon, just before Mt. St. Helens and Liberty City blow up. I’m on my houseboat doing a little housework. (In those days I still did things of that sort.) Maryanne jumps on board—unannounced I might add—with her sheets flapping in the wind. (Sailor talk for very drunk.)

She wasn’t too bad, but you know what Quaaludes were like. She wants to have sex “Right now!” You guys, because you know me, might not believe this, but I said no. Probably the first and only time in my life I’ve done anything of that sort. I expected her to take it like a man, turn around, and walk out. But, boy was I wrong! She said, and I quote, “When I tell a man to fuck me, he better well do it, and fast!”

If she had given me a few sniffles instead, you guys wouldn’t be reading this sordid tale. But no, she gets butch and throws a left hook, which connects and pisses me off. She was a petite little thing, so I wrapped my arms around her, picked her up, and carried her to the dock where she was gently deposited and told to be a good little girl and go home.

As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. But remember it’s only Friday afternoon and this drama didn’t have the National Guard throwing me to the ground and pressing five shotguns into the flesh of my back, with one resting on my head, telling me if I moved one muscle I’d have my “fuckin’ head blown off” until Sunday morning. Dear, dear Maryanne made it a most interesting weekend. I preferred our Key West get-a-way much better. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After she struts down the dock in an angry huff, I turn my attention to more serious matters—that evening’s debauchery. A few docks over lived a guy that reminded me of you, Rick. He had been in a serious motorcycle accident and had just got out of his body cast. His boat hosted a never-ending party that included the fabled Dancing Girls. Never had I seen such depravity, and I was right in the middle of it most nights. No … I cannot lie to you guys. I was in the middle of it every night. What happened on that boat is a story for another time. But going over there that night saved my life. By the way, Rick, it was the body cast and not the depravity that reminded me of you.

As I’m walking home the next morning from that boat of ill repute, a neighbor informs me that there were two guys hiding in some bushes the night before waiting for me to pass by. Some people in the marina noticed them after a while and called the police. They had guns and one of them shouted that he was going to kill that son-of a-bitch (me) for insulting his wife.

Maryanne, as it turned out, was married. Who knew? I learned later that she had gone home to her husband and gave him an edited version of what had happened, leaving out her wanting to go to bed part. I also learned that her husband’s original plan was to walk right to my houseboat, knock on the door, and shoot me point blank as I answered said door. That is why they were hiding in the shrubbery, and why I am still here to tell this tale of woe. I was not at home when he knocked on my door—I was two docks over enjoying the hospitality of my dear crippled and crazy friend.

So now I do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I go to my debauched friend and tell him the story. He wants in on the fun, but he can only hobble around, so he offers me one of his many guns for self-protection. Being the genius that I am, I take a 9mm automatic. All of a sudden, I’m Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson.

It’s now Saturday, and that night I go night-clubbing with the 9mm in my back pocket, ready for action (what an A-Hole!). Well, I’m not attacked and make it home unscathed. About the time I got home, Mt. St. Helens was blowing her top, Liberty City was just getting a good burn going, and Maryanne was setting events in motion whose end result would culminate with me in the Dade County jail.

I get a few hours sleep and I am just getting up when my brother Mike bursts in and says, “What’s with your crazy girlfriend?” He goes on to tell me he had gone to the office that Sunday morn to get a little work out of the way. But as he exited his car, two guys assaulted him, hitting him over the head with the butt of a rifle, breaking the stock. The only thing that saved him was Maryanne yelling, “That’s not him, that’s not him!” He goes on to tell me that every window in our place has been smashed. You’ve heard the expression “He saw red,” well, I really did see red. It must have been the stress of the last couple of days, coupled with what happened to Mike (and my windows).

I reach for the gun as I’m telling Mike to come with me. We get into my car and off I go on a mission of vengeance and in a cloud of self-righteousness. We were there in less than five minutes and I slide my car sideways as though I’m Magnum PI. My plan is to use it as a shield. As the car comes to a rest, I pop out; draw the gun and start shooting straight into Maryanne’s studio (the bullet holes are still in the aluminum framing of the door to this day).

Well, ol’ Dirty Harry gets off two shots when my “friends” stick their heads out to see what’s going on. I take carful aim for the first guy, putting my thumb over the top of the gun. Up to that point, I had been firing one-handed. But now, I’m holding the gun with two hands like I see them do in the movies. I take careful aim at the motherfucker, pull the trigger, and almost severed my thumb (still got the scar), and the gun jams. No one told me automatics slide back with every shot. By the way, after my first shot, Mike said, “Are you nuts!” and walked (or ran) away. I was too busy to notice his means of staying out of jail that day.

So there I am. My thumb is dangling by a piece of bone, my gun won’t shoot anymore, and my targets are coming out with guns drawn. So what’s a hero to do in such a situation but run. I go around to the back of the building—there’s a house there—and I start knocking on the door screaming that they are going to kill me and please let me in. Amazingly, I’m let in. Two minutes later, the National Guard and about fifty local cops show up and drag me from the house. The riots are only blocks away, so I guess it wasn’t any bother on their part to run down the street and apprehend another crazy. Especially one that is armed and dangerous!

Well, as I’ve said before, I was thrown to the ground—the five shotguns on my back and a sixth on the back of my head, etc… etc…

Jail was interesting. I was the only white guy in there that day. They had arrested so many people because of the riot, we had twenty guys in a holding cell made for two or three at the most. And did I mention I was the only white guy? My fellow cellmates, at first, paid me no heed. They were too busy recounting to one another the exploits that landed them in our merry little conclave. But after about twenty minutes, things quieted down and one by one they turned their faces to me—Whitey. And believe me, there was no love lost in even one of those faces.

Presently, one young fellow spoke up and asked what I was in for. I looked at him, took a moment to answer to make sure I had everyone’s attention, and then said, “I just killed two people.” With that, they, as one living organism, shuffled away from me and I heard a voice in the back say: “I’ll take my TV rap” (he was in for looting). The rest of my cell mates wholeheartedly concurred. After that exchange, I was left to my own devices.

Ten hours later, I was allowed my phone call. I called a customer of mine, a bail bondsman. He told me I was getting him out of the sack with the sweetest little thing, but he came. Remember the streets were closed and there was a curfew. But somehow he got there and got me sprung. I then called good old Henry, who also got through the police lines—somehow.

As Henry and I made our way home that evening, Mt. St. Helens was calming down, the flames of Liberty City were now nothing more than embers; and my relationship with Maryanne had undergone a profound change. It had been quite a weekend.

The final outcome was this. The charges were pretty serious, so I took no chances and hired Roy Black (the guy who defended William Smith, the Kennedy who was charged with rape in Palm Beach, but this was years before that). I gave Roy $5000.00 cash (this was before money-laundering laws) for a retainer. After the preliminary when we knew which way the wind was blowing, we would then discuss his fee. So we went to court to ascertain my fate. When they called my case, the complainant’s name was called: Maryanne Jones. The judge looks up and says, “Is this the same Maryanne Jones that is in here every other week?” His clerk says it is indeed. To which the entire courtroom breaks out in laughter. It seems she was rather well known in judicial circles. Even the judge cracked a smile as he said, “Case dismissed.” That was $5000.00 well spent!

As a postscript, I subsequently spoke with Maryanne and she said she didn’t show up in court because she wasn’t a snitch. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wouldn’t have mattered if she had been there or not.

Somehow, after that weekend, the romance kind of went out of our relationship, although we remained friendly.

On a serious note: My hands shake every time I think of how close I came to taking a human life. I have not touched a gun since, nor will I if I live to be 100.

Your friend,

Andrew

 

 

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