Chocolate Rainbow

and the voice in my head.

Like many of you, I have a voice in my head. Maybe yours warns you of impending chaos or tells you not to do something stupid. Mine does the opposite. It encourages me to create chaos and inspires me to be stupid. 

If I could sum up all the suggestions the voice in my head has given me over the years into a single sentence it would be, “Hey Mick, let’s burn this to the ground!” And historically I have nodded and replied, “Sounds good voice in my head, with the exception of every time, when have you ever let me down?”

My cousin is like a brother to me. He lived in a working-class western suburb of Chicago that butted up against a tremendously wealthy suburb filled with entitled rich kids who sometimes paid us to bounce their high school parties. 

When their parents traipsed off to Aspen or some other shithole festering with caustic cuntery, their kids honored their entitlement by throwing huge parties in their huge houses. That’s where my cousin and I came in. 

One of us worked the door while the other roamed the party to make sure nothing got out of hand. We were working one party and the girl throwing it had a stalker. Next thing you know we hear a scream in the kitchen. I run in and find the guy standing in front of her squeezing her wrists. 

I put him in a full nelson, arched my back lifting him off the ground and by the time I turned, my cousin was already there and cracked him in the face. We dragged Sammy The Stalker outside, dumped him in the bushes and told him if he came back I’d bite his cheek off (thank you voice in my head for that bizarre threat.) But the real party showed up after I got the chopper.

When I turned eighteen, I got my driver’s license. I could have gotten it when I was sixteen, but you had to be eighteen to ride a motorcycle and that was all I cared about.

I had a subscription to Easy Rider since freshman year. I dreamt of owning my own chopper since my father rode me to kindergarten on one. I hugged the tank. No helmet and he may or may not have been drunk. So, when I turned eighteen, I bought a 1969 Triumph chopper.

“You know how to ride a Triumph?” the jelly rolled biker asked.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” I replied with the unearned confidence only an eighteen-year-old idiot possesses. 

“Because everything is backwards from an American bike. Throttle. Clutch. Breaks. Everything,” he explained. 

“Don’t worry about it,” the voice in my head said, “You’ll be fine.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine,” I repeated on behalf of the voice in my head.

I should pause here to note that when I was eighteen, I almost joined the Marines twice - to get a sword.

I paid Jabba the Hut six hundred bucks cash then he nodded toward an old school green sparkly open-faced helmet.

” Take the helmet. Don’t need it anymore.”

The helmet was six sizes too big, but it was free, the perfect price, so I put it on, strapped it to my chin, rolled the chopper down the driveway then realized I had no idea how to start it.

'“Where’s the key,” I asked?

“No key. You trickle the carburetor ‘till you get a little gas on your finger then kick her over,” he said as he pumped the nub on the carb until unleaded spurted out. 

“Now kick it over,” he said.

I flipped out the pedal, stood on it, then kicked my leg toward the street as I turned the throttle. The chopper roared to life. The shorty dual pipes growled so loud they set off a car alarm across the street. 

Imagine total freedom, imagine your soul splintered with the shards of an outlaw pirate ship, imagine having nothing and then with the kick of a leg and flick of a wrist, you have everything. That is what it feels like to fire up an old school chopper. 

I proudly hopped on, turned the throttle, let the clutch out, immediately stalled the bike and almost dropped it. I had no idea what I was doing.

“Hope you don’t die,” Fatty McFatFuck cackled before he wobbled back inside. 

“What do you wanna do?” Jimmy asked.

“You’ll be fine,” the voice in my head shouted. 

“I’ll be fine,” I shouted at Jimmy. 

He hopped in his giant Ford LTD and said, “I’ll follow you back in case you crash.”

After five minutes of figuring out the clutch, brakes and throttle, it was time to take the chopper on the highway where I would have to control it going sixty miles an hour.

Cruising down the highway, everything was going fine until Jimmy pulled up next to me and honked. When I turned to give me the thumbs up, the giant helmet strapped to my face caught the wind like a sail and whipped around, so now the open face was on the back of my head and the back of the helmet was on the front, completely blinding me. 

I shook my head, and the wind caught the helmet again, spinning it around 360 degrees and blinding me again. I took my hand off the handlebars, grabbed the helmet and held it with one hand, finally able to see, only to realize the hand I used was my throttle hand, so the chopper began to decelerate rapidly.

When I let go of the helmet and turned to make sure nobody was behind me so I could veer into the slow lane, the helmet whipped around blinding me again. I finally made it over to the shoulder and stopped. Jimmy wheeled up behind me in the grey LTD boat, laughing his ass off. 

“Fuck man, I thought you were gonna fucking die,” he said. 

“Me too,” I replied, as I yanked the helmet off and handed it him. 

Helmetless, I kicked the chopper back to life and pulled out on the highway. Everything clicked into place. I was going sixty, wind in my face, Jimmy driving in the lane next to me, now proudly wearing the glittering green helmet. 

I finished summer up, went to college, got kicked out of two dorms then the college. Another summer was about to start when my cousin called and said we were needed at a party in Hinsdale.

I rode the chopper to the party and he and I posted up as usual, one on the door, the other in the party. All the rich kids were triumphantly celebrating their return from college.

Not much celebrating on my end. I was broke so going to another college wasn’t an option. People back home were broke so going home wasn’t an option. I had to find work.

I had a few jobs before getting kicked out of college. I was a paperboy, sold tracksuits at the mall, bus boy, cook at BFC, waiter, caddy, sign maker, fence, thief, bouncer, carnie worker, pool hustler and valet guy. 

I parked cars at Excalibur Night Club where I got punched by a pimp and had a car stolen then drank with the thief the night he got out of prison four years later at 3am in Rogers Park. I smoked a joint with Buddy Miles in his Lincoln, which was tense because I didn’t know if he was chasing a high or a hand job. 

I worked a carnival for a weekend and almost went on the road with them cross country. I worked a ride inside Baja Beach Club that spun people around or as the guy who trained me said of girls wearing miniskirts on the ride, “give the crowd a “beav” show.” I was a bouncer at a bar when I was eighteen, so anybody over 21 who came in and looked like me, I took their ID, because I needed a fake one. 

There was also an outlaw motorcycle gang in Chicago, who very much like Mark Zuckerberg, sidestepped college to be creative entrepreneurs. If nothing shook out on the legal job side, I was excited to see what the bikers were up to. 

Which takes me back to the party.

I’m there with my cousin and we’re switching off who takes the door and who takes the party. I’m watching the rich kids drink but it’s different from last year. I’m seeing the transition from Birkenstocks to Brooks Brothers in real time. 

Throughout the night, a girl was flirting with me, which made the time pass a little easier. Then another girl came up and asked if I wanted to go upstairs? Yep. 

We headed into a room, started making out, got naked, then there was a knock on the door. It was her best friend, the girl who had been flirting with me all night. It was immediately clear that the girl I was with was only with me to make her old high school best friend jealous. One was better looking in high school and now the other was better looking in college and neither knew how to deal with it. 

“Time to wake the neighborhood up,” the voice in my head declared.

I slipped on my boxers, stormed out of the party, trickled the carb on my chopper, kick started it to life and roared down the street. Fuck these rich motherfuckers. 

I raced up and down the block, setting off car alarms and smoking the tires until I looked up and saw a policeman making the “shut if off” motion. 

I shut it down and rolled right up to him.

“What’s the problem, officer?” I asked.

“Really?” he replied, “Tell you what, I’m gonna point a few things out and you tell me if you see a problem?”

“Sounds fair,” said the voice in my head.

“Sounds fair,” I repeated. 

“It’s four in the morning and you’re out here driving like a lunatic. I tried to run your plates, but you don’t have any on the bike. I’d ask you for your license and registration but you’re in your fucking underpants. I can smell the alcohol on you from here and you’re going the wrong way down a one-way street - on the sidewalk. You want me to keep going?”

“No, I can see why some of that would be a problem.”

“Some?” he yelled, then laughed, “Clearly you’re not from around here.”

“I stay in the city,” I answered.

“Where?”

“Rogers Park,” I replied. 

“I’m from Chicago too. I’m actually on the list for Chicago’s Police Department. I’m out here taking naps until fuckheads like you do dumb shit.”

Then he offered an unexpected olive branch, a way out. 

“Just tell me your bike is insured and I’ll let you walk it back to wherever you came from, so you can sleep it off then get the fuck back to Rogers Park before another Hinsdale cop realizes you’re here.”

It was a fair deal. It was an unearned deal. It was a gift. I stared at the cop and smiled. Then the voice in my head whispered, “Touch his mustache.”

“What’s that you say, voice in my head?” I said to the voice in my head. 

“You heard me,” the voice in my head said, “Touch his mustache. He’ll love it.”

Like slow motion, I reached out and ran a single finger over his crescent mustache as I whispered, “Chocolate Rainbow." 

Not sure if you ever ran your finger through a cop’s mustache without his consent or permission but there is a moment of silence that immediately follows where you both stare at each other in awe; you because you can’t believe you did it and the cop because he can’t believe you did it but also because he is processing how to cover up the violence he is about to unleash.

When I came to, I was handcuffed to a metal table in a holding cell. Didn’t even see the punch coming. I didn’t know the number to the party so I couldn’t reach my cousin to come get me. My good pal Johnny Longfellow (name changed to protect the guilty) drove all the way from Rogers Park to bail me out. 

You may think that night changed my life, that I learned my lesson, that from that night forward I stopped listening to the voice in my head. But let me tell you how this story ended. 

Six years later I’m driving trucks for a home improvement company for legal purposes I will call Home Sleepo. I was making a delivery to a wealthy suburb called Glenview. I made a right at a red light and got pulled over by a Glenview cop for missing the “No Turn on Red” sign staring me right in the face. 

“You got any warrants?” the Glenview Cop asked.

“No,” I answered, digging deep not to run my finger through his sweet sweet mustache. 

While he went back to his squad car to run my license, my co-worker Stinky Bill hopped out of the truck and lit up a smoke. He repeatedly got written up for poor hygiene and every time he did, would show us the write up and ask what hygiene meant. This was before the internet. 

The cop came back and shouted, “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You got a warrant for your arrest in Hinsdale.”

I should mention here that I ghosted my chocolate rainbow court date. 

“For what?” I asked.

“Failure to appear in court,” the cop replied. 

“Fuck Hinsdale.” I declared. 

“Not how the law works. I’m bringing you back to the station. If Hinsdale doesn’t come get you, you can post bail and go home.”

Stinky Bill hopped in the driver’s seat, ecstatic he had gossip to bring back to the loading dock that didn’t involve his body odor.

As the Glenview cop drove me back to the station, the voice in my head chirped up, “Hey, ask him when the police test is? Law enforcement could use a fellow like you.”

“Great idea, voice in my head,” I replied to myself. 

“Hey, when you guys testing?” I asked.

The cop laughed. 

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“I been on the job seventeen years, and I never had a guy in cuffs ask me when the police test is,” he replied. 

“Well today’s your lucky day. When is it?”

“You’re not gonna be a cop,” he declared-matter-of-factly. 

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

“Because you're under arrest for one. And it’s in two weeks and I run the physical test,” he answered.

“You saying I’m not in good enough shape to pass the physical exam?”

I should pause here to note my daily fitness routine was was drinking until four am, sleeping badly for an hour, waking up, throwing up, going to 7-11 at 6am to buy two chili cheese dogs, a large bag of Doritos, a super Big Gulp of Mountain Dew and three packs of Marlboro Reds, or as I saw it. If they were looking for somebody in perfect crime fighting shape, I had the crime part down pat.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say the fat piece of shit handcuffed in the back of my squad car isn’t gonna do too hot on the physical test,” he proclaimed. 

We got back to the station. He booked me. Hinsdale didn’t come extradite me so my wife came to bail me out. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

“Hinsdale,” I replied. 

“Fuck Hinsdale,” she said.

Get you a ride or die woman. 

“Don’t forget to tell her you’re going to be a Glenview cop,” the voice in my head whispered. 

“Good news. In two weeks, I’m taking the physical test for the Glenview Police department,” I shared on behalf of the voice in my head. 

“Didn’t they just arrest you?” she asked. 

“Please don’t be negative,” I pleaded," “I just got out of jail and need to focus on my police career.”

For the next two weeks, I dreamt of nothing other than that police test all while doing literally nothing to prepare for it other than drinking and smoking. 

The day finally arrived. I borrowed my wife’s car and showed up, still drunk from the night before. Everybody there was fresh out of college or the armed forces, with crew cuts, muscles and something strange called hope. I was in sweatpants and a Minor Threat t-shirt. I saw the cop who arrested me checking people in on the other side of the field house but figured I’d wait until he saw me to start causing real problems.

I also recognized a dear friend from high school (and supporter of this substack) who was making the rounds on all the local law enforcement tests and Glenview was up next. He complimented me on the shirt and wished me good luck. 

The test was a combination of push-ups, sit ups, pulls ups and running. I got through the push-ups, sits ups and pulls ups without the cop recognizing me but when we lined up for the run, he saw me and blew his lid.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he yelled.

Everybody turned to see who he was screaming at. My pal Mike clocked it was me and shook his head. He was well versed in my stunning capacity for chaos. 

“I’m here to be a Glenview Police Officer, sir,” I screamed in my best military impression. 

“The fuck you are. Get outta here.”

“Unless it’s illegal to take this test, I’m gonna finish the run.”

“Finish the run then get the fuck out of here.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” I whispered in a sultry voice. 

The military guys cracked up. 

As he ordered everybody to line up for the run, the voice in my head made a beautiful suggestion, “Time for a cigarette.”

I took out a smoke, lit it, took a long drag then nestled it in the corner of my mouth for the pending three mile run around the track. 

“What the fuck is that?” he yelled as he charged toward me. 

“A Marlboro Red,” I replied, “Real man shit, sir. Lets the criminals know I ride a horse and own a pair of chaps, that I’m a real man of the law.”

Another cop yanked him away so he literally wouldn’t take my life. 

Then the running portion began and I ran side by side with some of America’s most promising future law enforcement officers, all while puffing away of my cigarette. When the three miles was up, I jogged straight to my wife’s rusty '94 Chevy Cavalier with one hubcap and drove straight to the bar where I posted up with a shot and a beer.

“Great work,” the voice in my head whispered.

“Thanks voice in my head,” I replied proudly.

It’s nice spending quality time with somebody who gets you.