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"God, Forgive These Bastards" Songs From The Forgotten Life Of Henry Turner (2012)

by The Taxpayers

/
1.
When the fight broke on Brighton Road, traffic stopped. Some old man hit the pavement and they ushered in the cops, and the camera crews arrived, and people gathered all around - as the sun beat down. Picked up the phone: “It's no emergency, but come on over quick.” Ricky drove his old Ford truck over to give us both a lift. Headed for the hospital, that big one downtown – as the sun beat down. It was a day that broke records, melting tar on every block. People dropping from the climate in the streets. Something died inside the sweltering garage – a sacrificial lamb in honor of the heat. As the sun beat down. August 23rd, 1959: got word from the hospital that there hadn't been much time. A screaming baby boy now slept without a sound – as the sun beat down.
2.
“Turner on the mound, 120 pitches in: right now it's 2 to 1 for Georgia Tech with runners in between. 1,000 in the bleachers and 1,000 on the side; right from the stretch...” “Here comes the pitch!” “Looks like a hit!” “Go hit the lights!” “Go get the phone!” “Go tell the press!” “And baby, kiss that ball goodbye!” “Now, I've called Turner the left-handed NCAA Cy Young before, Atlanta's own, but this is just absurd: A change-up on the 3 and 2, two-hitter on the line, deep in the 9th, with a runner hugging third.” “Weltzer in left field quickly closing on the wall; somehow squinting through the blinding light, he snags it on the fall!” “That's the game!” “But all attention turns now to the pitcher's mound, Turner's clutching his left shoulder and he's writhing on the mound.” “Looks like he's hurt!” “Alert the press!” “Go get the phone!” “Go hit the lights!” “God, what a game!” “But what a shame!'“What a way to end the night.” “Georgia Tech must be upset, they can't be happy with this win. They've got a play-off spot secured, but not a starter that can pitch.” “Now, I've called Turner the left-handed NCAA Cy Young before, Atlanta's own, but this is just absurd: A change-up on the 3 and 2, two-hitter on the line, deep in the 9th, with a runner hugging third. No word yet from the trainer. I can't bear to see the savior of the Yellow Jackets carried off the field. That could have been enough to tear his left rotator cuff – I can't imagine if or when that will heal.” “A moment away from a perfect game, but hey: some records were never meant to be broken. Right?” “A shaky close to a shaky win, shackled by a crippled team. Improvement? Retention? LEft on the defensive. When everybody leaves so completely resigned, it's apparent that a dream that once was shared must have died.”
3.
When the days get long, I remember Atlanta. I can taste the summer on my tongue when I think of the city where I was young. I remember Atlanta; I coulda been a big deal. Coulda been a top pick, but I threw out my arm, so I went into steel. When I moved up to Cleveland, I got a house in Linndale. Worked in the steel mill for a bit, but my ambitions died and life went to shit. I remember the weather there – it was like a war zone. I fell behind in rent and I bounced some checks, so they kicked me out. Who the hell are you? Did you put me here? Can you spare a blanket or a cigarette? See, I lost my coat in a football bet. You know, I used to be a pitcher back in the Georgia summer. Did I tell you about how I threw out my arm? I remember Atlanta. I coulda been a big deal back in '79.
4.
Linndale '85. Broken bottles on the floor. Some sad, dark man at the unopened door. Cold air comes through the cracks in the windows; 15 below in the house when the wind blows. Haven't made rent in a month, maybe two. Got scum in the drains and dead birds in the flue. Some scumbag swings by four times a week selling bathtub crank that he scored on the street. Gonna get clean, gonna get these devils all out, gonna leave this hell, gonna get back down south. So goddamn these people. Goddamn city. Goddamn this weather. And goddamn these broken down hands of mine.
5.
When I was five I was king of the yard, and my grandfather said I had one hell of an arm. I remember learning his split-finger fastball, and all the tales he would stretch with that famous Turner charm. And by the fire pit in my old backyard, I used to sit transfixed by his stories. About the time him and Mickey Mantle drank all night long, spinning yarns of all their former glories. And I remember Christmas eve when I was ten and Ma told Grandpa he was wasting my time. She sent him packing in the pouring rain; things were never quite the same after that night. But in the package he left under the tree was a new silver wristwatch addressed to his favorite grandson, Henry.
6.
Raised in the shadows, formed in the shape of a dog in the night. Interview with Jason Barnett.
7.
Dead black meadows, crimson waves, these broken nightmares on your plate; believe me, I am a weapon of god too. Crumbled bones inside a sock, the ticking of a busted watch. The storm is a thunderous, dark applause, and my love is locked in a pitbull's jaws. Believe me, I am a weapon of god too. Bridges burn and children scream – their faith is shaken so easily. But not mine. I'm made of concrete beams, you'll see. Believe me, I am a weapon of god too. Cats are screaming out in back; they've all been stuffed into gunny sacks. The Johnson boy started selling crank. This neighborhood has gone to shit. But believe me, I am a weapon of god too.
8.
There was this kid I used to know and he was born with the wrong name and I would walk with him to school every day. On a cold October morning he was jumped by a gang of local high school kids with pipes and rusty chains. When the ambulance arrived all his teeth were broken out and Jimmy Bartlett never walked quite the same. Turns out the house that he grew up in had been stolen by a man 100 years before who shared his last name. And while we're talking about houses we grew up in, lemme tell you about mine: it was an honest little one story place. But when my mother died it became abandoned for a while, and was quickly repossessed by the bank. But then in 1985 a couple neighborhood kids broke into the house through the back door. When the fire trucks arrived, it was burnt to the ground. There ain't a sign of that house there any more. But that's alright. When I was nine years old I watched a kid get his legs broken because of his last name. 17 years later, an arson fire burned down the house where I was born. There ain't no moral to any of that and there ain't nobody to blame. It was just one of those things.
9.
My brain, my fingers bought bottles in a package place. Got caught up on a park bench. Everybody tried to get a taste. When the sun goes down, I swear to God, they'll try to run you out of this town, and they will beat you down. The will beat you down if you stay around. You're gonna get shot down if you stay around, and you'll feel like a hungry dog in the street on a very short leash. My heart is a cancer; radiation wouldn't help a thing. My God doesn't answer; I pray nightly, every single week. When the liquor runs low, my friends run low. Got nowhere to go, no religion could ever save my soul. Nowhere to go, and I feel like a hungry dog in the street on a very short leash.
10.
God, it never got easy, but it sure got good when the business man came to my adopted neighborhood. There was a bird I named Frank, a chapel, a steeple, and a pile of blankets outside of Trinity Cathedral. Every weekday morning he would walk right by with a three piece suit, new shoes, and a tie. And this dead face, real hate in his eyes. In such a devilish way he would materialize. He was put there to rob from men like me – from the broken down scoundrels that live on the street. So I prepared for his initial attack; I said to myself, “Henry, you gotta watch your own back. You wanna make it outta here alive, you better learn to improvise.” So there we were: one morning at dawn, he appeared at the church with the cold autumn fog, briefcase in hand, walking towards me. So I jumped from my blankets and sunk my teeth right into his ear and ripped it right off. Blood poured down onto his luxury watch. He ran away and I went back to sleep, and when the cops arrived, man, I was relieved. I said, “Thank god ya'll are here. This bastard in a business suit just tried to rob me. And you know what? I think he might have been the devil.”
11.
Wet paint, cold tiles, white bed, bright fluorescent lights like diamonds. Like scalpels. Like the doctors in the hallway there. My keeper in his white coat at the doorway. My little clear plastic cup. Look at the faces. Look at the faces as they walk down the hall to the small common room. Look at Alex in his bathrobe, crying and rocking back and forth on the ground. He's crazy. Fucking batshit. But he's alright in small doses. My fingers now trembling like earthquakes. Now the people start appearing and the room starts filling with flies that blot out the diamonds on the ceiling. And the walls all breaking. Their mouths now gnashing, biting, and screaming. Thick flesh in their mouths coming out without a sound. My keeper in his white coat at the doorway. My little clear plastic cup. He asks me with a smile, “What's the score today, champ?” before the lights go out at night. My people are coming to get me. My people will come to release me.
12.
Heavy humid night. Corner of Park and Main. Cast that first glance: your smile, my veins at maximum capacity, blood pumping so fast. My girl, if looks gave heart attacks. The dangerous men in the shadows were like an audience, and even the meanest among them had a little shine in their eyes when they saw us walk by. Walked about twenty blocks talking about good bars and better towns than this one. Kissed that first night, and then the rain opened up the sky to get one last kiss – I love you like an alcoholic. I love you like a statuette. I need you like I need a broken leg. I was getting off the late shift, attempting to recover. Crumpled up the bus pass and tossed it into the gutter. Some handsome dark stranger, you were standing there on the corner. You had those compelling magnetized eyes that you must have lost when you got older. Seven blocks in, my fingers brushed your hand; I blushed and you laughed, but you seemed a little sad. I ain't one to jump a ship, but I absolutely knew – I was six steps in when I fell into you. One last kiss, I love you like a broken pot. I love you like a pack of dogs. I need you like I need a gaping head wound.
13.
They stuck you in the dirt while I was still away But nobody had the decency to tell me about it anyways. Well, I guess it's for the best that they laid you down to rest without some wreck like me to ruin things and turn into a mess. But I remember when we ran away and the car we stole broke down along some dusty highway with nobody else around. So we hitched a ride to Reno, but the ring I got you wouldn't fit. And the minister got drunk before, and we laughed 'til we got sick. And of course, I know you could have done much better, and I know that I must have been your bad habit. Some rotten man. Nobody's savior. Your oldest friend. I haven't slept the same since you been gone, and when I do sleep, the nightmares come. This hell I live in hasn't been the same without you here. Our daughter still won't speak to me. My letters aren't returned at all. I can't believe the mess I've made of everybody's lives. And of course, I know you could have done much better And I know that I must have been a real fucking nightmare. Some rotten man. Nobody's savior. Your oldest friend.
14.
Interview with Patricia Lee Kempke

about

"God Forgive These Bastards" Songs from the Forgotten Life of Henry Turner by The Taxpayers (2012)

The first time I met Henry Turner I feared for my life. I remember the exact date – February 18th, 2007 – because the day before, a close friend of mine had unsuccessfully attempted to commit suicide in his studio apartment and I'd spent the entire night at the hospital. It was one of those terrible and typical Pacific Northwest winter nights where the rain seemed relentless and the gloom was contagious, and as I waited at a sheltered bus stop on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard for the # 6 to arrive, a man approached me for a cigarette.

I shook my head and gave him a half-smile.

“Sorry. I quit a few years back.”

I stuck my head back into the newspaper I was reading, and he took a few steps closer.

“How about a buck and a quarter then? All I need is a dollar and a quarter and I'll have enough for bus fair.”

I shrugged and fumbled around in my pocket.

“I'm using an expired bus transfer myself, but I might have a few extra dimes. It ain't much, but if it helps, it's yours.”

I passed him the change, and when he grabbed it, he ducked down to my level and looked me straight in the eyes.

“Look at me. Does it look like a few extra dimes would help? You think a few extra dimes would do any good to anybody? Take a look at me. I got a rotten heart and a bad shoulder and I ain't slept a good night's sleep in the past ten years, and you wanna know the kicker? I get fuckers like you tossing me their condescending extra dimes.”

He was tall and intimidating, with wild gray hair and deep wrinkle lines all across his face, and his eyes would occasionally roll up into his head, quiver, and then refocus. His thick, wet coat and his tangled beard had bits of crumpled leaves stuck to them, and he carried himself with the strange confidence of an angry and confused lion.

“And the best part about all of this is that I know you're cheating me. And you know what I did to the last bastard that cheated me? “

He paused for a few silent, terrifying seconds.

“I bit his ear off.”

I almost pissed my pants. My brain was telling me, “get up and run”, but my body was frozen in fear, and I sat there shaking in excruciating silence. Sure, maybe he was harmless, but something about the look in his eyes terrified me. I could see the bus approaching from about a quarter of a mile away. I did the math. From that distance, it would be another minute or so before the bus arrived, saving me from certain death. I could try to fight back. But while he was an old man, he was an enormous old man, and anyways, you just can't fight a crazy person. I could run. That was it. I was going to have to get up and run before he sunk his teeth into me, or pulled out a knife, or worse.

Suddenly, he burst into laughter. Not a maniacal laughter, but a booming, good-natured laughter, and his angry eyes became kind and warm. His snarl turned into a crooked smile, and he slapped me on the back like an old friend.

“Aw, I'm just fucking with you, kid. Ain't much for laughs around here. You'll have to forgive me.”

He held out his massive hand for me to shake.

“Henry Turner. Friends call me Hank. How ya doin'?”

I was still petrified. Was this some sort of a trick? Was he going to grab my hand and then snap it off like a tree branch? He looked me over and laughed again, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a bus pass.

“Here. This one ain't expired. Go on, take it, I got a whole stack of 'em.”

And with that, the bus pulled up to our stop in the rain, the doors opened with a loud mechanical sigh, and Henry held out both his arms, outstretched, in the direction of the doors.

“After you, kid.”

I didn't realize it at the time, but he was a semi-celebrity around town, although most people wrote him off as just another one of the crazy folks that told rambling, drunken tales - amusing for a few minutes, but best largely avoided. It was true, he had his demons, but he also had a magical brilliant quality to him, and whenever I ran into him around town, I'd end up spending a few hours with him, if for no other reason than to listen to his unbelievable stories. It didn't really matter whether they were true or not, it was the way he told them, with absolute clarity and confidence, no matter how crazy they sounded. Some of it even checked out. He'd often talk about his years playing baseball with Georgia Tech, and the famous play-off game where he pitched a two-hitter in 1979. When I got home, I went on the internet and looked up the Georgia Tech roster from 1979, and there he was. Henry Turner. I'll be damned.

The years went by. I'd leave town for months at a time, but when I came home I could always expect to run into Henry for the latest news and a ridiculous tale. Businesses closed and new ones opened, houses changed ownership, new faces arrived and old ones disappeared, but he was like an ancient marble pillar – unaffected by the changes around him. Or so it seemed. In the winter of 2010, three years after we first met, I ran into Henry on one of the downtown park blocks. He was disheveled and had these crazy eyes, and when he recognized me, he touched me on the shoulder and said something to the effect of, “Gonna go away for a while. You'll hold onto something for me, yeah?”. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a huge stack of unused bus passes, thrust them into my hands, and walked away. It was the last time I would see him.

Henry Turner died on March 25th, 2010, a product of years of substance abuse and tough living. If a funeral was held I wasn't aware of it. The news of his death hit me harder than expected, and it sparked an obsession: I began compulsively writing down every outlandish and unbelievable story he'd ever told me, as a sort of tribute. My band started working on an album of songs pertaining to Henry's life. My nights were spent researching everything I could find about the Turner family. I would rant on and on to complete strangers about the whole ordeal. Then slowly, it began to subside. Life went back to normal. Though I never quite forgot about it, my utter entrancement with the Turners faded.

What follows is an amalgamation of the stories Henry told me, as best as I can remember them. I hope I did him justice. There are some embellishments and I took quite a few liberties, but like all good narrators, Henry knew that any story worth telling should be grand, significant, and a little bit false. It's important to note that Henry was no hero, and I'm not trying to romanticize or defend him – as you'll find out, he was a murderer, an abusive husband, an unapologetic addict, and a crook who was haunted by his most awful moments. But he was also at times a tender, loving father, a brave adventurer, and an amazing pitcher, who was surprisingly candid and an absolute charm to listen to. No person can be summed up by their worst actions. And despite his insistence that “forgiveness ain't an inherent human quality”, that's what this whole thing's been about for me: the capacity to forgive someone's most wretched moments.

Ultimately, I think that when Henry was at his best, he was something simple: a kind, strange friend.

Rob Taxpayer
September 17th
12:44 a.m.
Portland, Oregon

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released June 23, 2012

Alex Taxpayer - baritone and tenor saxophones
Andrew Taxpayer - banjo and lead guitar
Dylan Taxpayer - accordion, keys, and vocals
Kevin Taxpayer - trumpet and piano
Noah Taxpayer - percussion
Phil Taxpayer - bass
Rob Taxpayer - rhythm guitars, harmonica, vocals

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