Le Seat Sniffer
“I don’t give a fuck about your faults or mishappens. We from the Bronx, New York, shit happens.” — Fat Joe
I used to tour with a guy who had the curious habit of sniffing seats. His, yours, mine, anyone’s really. Before and after it had been sat in. He wasn’t picky.
Now, while touring in a van with the same band members, although it was strange and unsettling, it wasn’t embarrassing. It was expected. We got used to it. However, there was a time we did a lot of touring by trains and airplanes. Those methods of transportation proved to be quite embarrassing. In hindsight, it boarded on criminal.
Those who weren’t familiar with his seat sniffing proclivities tended to frown upon it. You couldn’t blame them; it was gross and creepy. However, he was one of the founding members of that band. We could do little about it aside from implementing a harm reduction approach where we’d steer clear of attending a basketball or baseball game on one of our off days. He probably would have spontaneously combusted seeing that many seats. Stadiums and arenas like that are a sniffers paradise.
Headed out of New York and into New Jersey, we went through the Lincoln tunnel and approached the Meadowlands stadium, home of the NY Giants and Jets. You could see his demeanor change. His whole appearance shifted. His skin took on a reptilian and scaly form. He began rubbing his meaty hands on his thighs incessantly, wiping off the sweat which poured from his hams. His typically fixed and beady eyes dilated and pulsated, darting back and forth. His nose sloped like a shape-shifter, itching and salivating for a sniff. Just a whiff he pined. Our driver had to employ the child safety locks in fear of a sudden tuck and roll bailout from the back seat as he’d run like a wildman in the night.
We safely passed the stadium without incident and soon arrived at Newark international airport, my most abhorred airport. The employees at Newark are a particular type of awful, and the security typically takes hours to get through. Everyone’s a suspect. That day, however, we got through security promptly. We boarded our flight headed for Las Vegas, Nevada, where we were to play a festival.
Once on the plane, I was unexpectedly seated in the middle aisle between two Jews for Jesus. I was surprised as I was usually reserved a side aisle window seat. The two Jews for Jesus, which due to my poor eyesight I initially misread as Jaws for Jesus, were a pre-teen and teen brother-sister duo displaying their religious affiliation on their tee shirts. Jews for Jesus in large, symmetrical black block letters with black denim jeans, yellow stitching and black and yellow Nike sneakers. The bumblebee look. Cute, I thought.
Now, on an adult, the bumble look would bother me, but these two were just kids, children, really. I took an interest in them, their religion, their look, and the possibility of an apiculture discussion. Not only was I interested, but I was also a handful of Vicodens, one Xanax, three pints of Guinness, and two shots of Power’s whiskey in. A.K.A. the four-hour flight starter kit.
Shortly after takeoff, I ordered a Heineken from the flight attendant who I tipped on the way in, a whiskey neat, and the Passion of Christ as my in-flight movie choice. The children and I had exchanged pleasantries by this point. However, I was still waiting on their inevitable investigation and probable proselytization of me. After the seat belt lights went off and we stabilized, we could move around the cabin. I made my way to the bathroom to sniff the remaining cocaine I had carefully placed into tissue paper, rolled up into tiny balls, and put into my ears as fake earplugs. I wasn’t in the habit of smuggling drugs onto planes: I was a musician, not a smuggler. This was a trick I had invented years earlier when I had flown out of Ireland, back to New York with too much coke on me. Now there’s a phrase you won’t hear too often form the likes of me, “too much coke.”
We had just finished a short European tour, and we were about to fly home out of Heathrow airport, when we got offered a show in Dublin. We were to open for west coast rockers Seaweed and Rocket from the Crypt at the Mean Fiddler, a club in the Temple Bar section of Dublin.
It was all three bands last show before flying home to the States, and we were partying hard: smoking hash, sniffing coke, eating mushrooms, and drinking, the usual. The show had gotten off to an auspicious start as both Seaweed and us received a great response. Then Rocket from the Crypt took the stage as they were the headliners. Rocket from the Crypt were a great band. They made some outstanding records, but live, they’re a different animal; they smoked.
Midway through the set, as I was standing stage right behind Pete, the bass player’s amp, John, the singer/guitarist, was rocking out during a lyricless interlude with one leg cropped on the center stage monitor. A cliché stance for a lot of frontmen, but John really owned it. His guitar was hanging low. Some drunken opportunist in the front decided to reach up, grab John’s guitar, and started pulling it down. A brief struggle ensued. Dave, Rocket from the Crypt’s roadie, came running out to help, and John soon broke free. He stumbled backward, dismayed and pissed. After regaining his balance, he took three long, deliberate and intentional strides forward, gaining momentum and force with each stride. San’s placekicker, John teed off on the guy’s head with his right foot. I can guarantee you he broke the guy’s nose, maybe more, as blood splattered everywhere. All over the guy’s face, the people next to him, all over John’s jeans and white creepers, and all over the front of the stage. There was a lot of blood. I like blood. I was turned on.
The show quickly got out of hand. John grabbed the microphone and yelled, “show’s over fucko’s! Ya can thank the fucking cocksucker up front,” and then bolted off the stage. The band and crew followed. The promoter, kind of freaking out, urged all three bands to load their shit and get away from there as soon as possible. He wasn’t pleased.
It was almost certain we’d encounter pissed-off fans outside the back of the clubs’ load-in entrance. Thankfully, we were the first band to have played and used the club’s backline; we had no equipment to load aside from our guitars. As we hauled ass out of the club, fights had already spilled out onto the street in front of the club, and the Guarda could be heard pulling up with sirens wailing. I wanted to get into some shit and mix it up, but I was the minority, so we hopped in our van with a quickness and boogied straight to the airport. It was safer to kill time at the airport as opposed to our hotel or a local pub. It was only a little after 10 pm, and our departing flight wasn’t until 3:05 am. As we pulled into the airport, I still had a good amount of cocaine on me. In a panic, I snorted as much as I could. I hid the remainder in a torn-off piece of napkin which I then placed into my ears as earplugs.
Boom. Invention.
Maybe not that marketable, but nonetheless practical.
I didn’t sleep at all that flight but arrived safely at JFK airport in Queens about ten hours later, with some coke to spare.
As I returned to my seat from the bathroom, I was not surprised to find the brother-sister team in their seats, tray tables down, both studying the New Testament.
I wiggled in-between them and sat down.
“Do you love Jesus,” the bright-eyed girl asked.
As a rule, I usually avoid conversations about religion or politics, especially with children. However, I was feeling overly chatty at this point and indulged her.
“I do,” I replied.
“No,” the boy interrupted as he shook his head, “we mean, do you really love Jesus? I mean, really really love Him?”
I took a gulp of my Heineken and shot my whiskey back and replied, “I do. I really, really, really love Jesus. In fact, I’m enamored with the Trinity and Mary and all the angels and saints. I love all that shit.”
They both straightened up at the sound of the word shit.
“Then why are you drinking so much,” the girl asked. “The Word is clear that we should remain alert and of sober mind.”
“Ah, First Peter, 5:8, nice,” I replied and nodded in agreement. “However, the Bible also says we’re not to judge people; that’s God’s job.” I paused only to take another swig of my beer and continued, “Look, listen. Jesus is my Lord and savior. I believe and trust in him. I confess and repent for my sins, and I follow his teachings. Now, you two, as advertised on your tee-shirts, are Jews for Jesus, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You’re what, ten and fourteen years old? I’m 27. That’s almost double and triple your ages. Now, I’m an artist, a musician, who loves God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I pray and I read the Word. However, I also like to drink, have sex, get into fistfights, curse at old ladies, start shit and fuck shit up. Basically I sin all day, which makes me an Irish Catholic by default. Now, I suspect we share the same fundamental religious and spiritual beliefs but perhaps follow different traditions. Does that make sense,” I asked them.
They looked lost, bewildered, and somewhat amused, so I continued.
“See, you two like to minister to strangers on domestic flights, and I like to relax with a few drinks and either a book or an in-flight movie. But I’d bet my salvation we both prayed this morning. I know I did,” I said. “How’s about youse?”
“Of course,” they replied simultaneously, with a lion’s pride.
“Well, there you have it,” I said, “problem solved,” as I waved to the flight attendant for another round of drinks.
The girl, frowning at my order, leaned in and asked, “Yes, but did you meditate on His Word and seek the Spirit’s guidance?”
The words little bitch toiled on my tongue. How could I have? I thought. I woke up late, had a terrific hangover, and had some broad in my bed who didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t find my Rosary, my bass strings or my sans amp, and had to catch a cab to the airport like 20 minutes ago. I was a mess. But the truth was, she was right, I hadn’t, and I was furious she was trying to one-up me at such a young age. The gall of this kid, I thought. I didn’t respond. Instead, we each settled into our respective books and gave each other a little space. I could feel her peeking at me from time to time, judging me. I wanted to smash her in her face with my elbow. Little bitch.
About an hour later, the girl turned to me and asked, “Sir, have you ever thought about becoming a Jew for Jesus?”
I hadn’t, and I didn’t feel an ounce of laziness or Catholic guilt about it. It seemed like an awful lot of work to convert from Catholicism to Judaism only to re-arrive at the same belief in Jesus I already had. I explained this to her in detail. Furthermore, although I knew where the Jews stood on circumcision, I didn’t know where the Jews for Jesus did. I knew I couldn’t undo that, nor did I want to; I liked my penis. But I didn’t dare ask her about that. I thought that might be a little inappropriate of a question for a fourteen-year-old girl. I didn’t want to leave the airplane in handcuffs or with another fucked up proclivity.
“What’s your name, darling?”
“Charlene.”
“That’s a pretty name, young lady.”
She smiled.
I’m a heathen.
“I believe having differences and similarities is one of the reasons the world is so interesting, Charlene. I once heard a priest during a sermon say that differences were man-made and that similarities were from God. I had to disagree. I questioned that. I believe men and women were different. That God made us that way, to complement each other. I understood the point he was trying to make, but it seemed misleading. I don’t like being misled. The point is, differences are good, kiddo. Take music, for instance. Do you two like music?”
“Oh, yes, we love music,” the boy exclaimed with his eyes bulging. Charlene nodded vehemently in agreement as her eyebrows bounced.
“Good, I love music, too. I love music so much, I decided to play music professionally, and that’s not an easy career path. Ya see, I play heavy music: New York hardcore punk stuff, but I also play folk, Celtic, Hip-Hop, Drum and Bass, and so on. I listen to all sorts of music, too. I love all music, just like I love all all people regardless of their taste in music, the God they serve, their color, and their culture. I meet people where they’re at. Plus, ‘you can’t teach anybody anything; you can only help them discover it within themselves.’ Galileo said that, and he wasn’t just a man of science. He was a man of God. And look how the church treated him. Terrible.”
My take on life and God seemed to amaze the children. Or maybe they were just tired of my bullshit, I couldn’t tell.
“What exactly do you mean,” the girl asked. “Can you expound on that, give us an example, maybe?”
“Certainly,” I replied.
“It was my first week of school. I had just started sixth grade. While in gym class, I spotted a new student standing off to the side, aloof, alone, awkward, and probably afraid. Steven Mardji was his name. He was wearing this bad-ass Iron Maiden Number of the Beast tee shirt and rocking a white skull cap. I walked over and introduced myself and soon learned that he was indeed a metalhead. I asked about his skull cap; I hadn’t seen one of those yet. He explained it wasn’t a skull cap at all, it was a Kufi.”
“A what,” the boy asked.
“A Kufi. A Kufi is a prayer hat that Muslims wear.”
“He was a Muslim wearing a Number of the Beast tee-shirt,” the boy asked.
“Hells yeah,” I replied and flashed the universal metal sign.
“He’s probably the antichrist,” Charlene added with an air of disgust.
I shook my head and thought, fuck, this girl is gonna make some poor shmuck really unhappy one day.
“One might think, “ I replied. “However, Steven turned out to be a well-adjusted and productive member of society. Whereas another metalhead friend of ours, Brian Benedette, an inexorable quality Catholic boy like me, would qualify for that spot like ten times over. He introduced me to bands like Venom, Slayer, D.R.I., and Exodus. So, you just never know.”
This explanation seemed to satisfy or maybe mystify the children as they both fell back into their seats and went silent. Again, I couldn’t tell, and i didn’t care. I wanted another line of coke.
I ordered one last round of drinks, kicked my seat back the two inches it allowed, and started the Passion of Christ.
As we neared the end of the flight, I felt I needed to put some closure on our conversation and anchor it back to music, love, and open-mindedness. I quoted a band out of Reno, Nevada: 7 Seconds. I thought it clever as we were landing in Las Vegas.
“Hey, kids,” I said as I grabbed my bass guitar from the overhead storage bin. In those days, pre-September 11, most airlines would allow you to store your instrument in the overhead bin with you.
“If we can walk together, why can’t we rock together?”
The boy smiled and nodded. I could tell he was squirreling it away in his short-term memory for later exploration. It felt good; I felt as I had gotten through to him. Punk rock usually does. It encourages and challenges us to think for ourselves. Charlene, however, wasn’t having any of it. She remained obstinate and fanatical. Definitely a Tiffany fan. What a phony I thought. And a potentially dangerous one, too.
I collected the last of my belongings and finished my Heineken as the children and I had exchanged parting pleasantries. The children’s attention turned to the lanky man across the aisle, a few rows back from us. The man was on his knees, his head down in the seat in what appeared to be a prayerful position.
“He’s a perfect candidate,” the boy whispered to Charlene.
“Indeed,” she replied. “Let’s see if we can talk to him on our way out.”
As much as I wanted to bear witness to this, human decency prevented me from letting that happen. These were children, for Christ’s sake. I had a duty to protect them from anyone who sniffed seats as a religious practice.
“Who, him,” I asked and pointed.
“Yes,” they replied in gleeful harmony.
“I’m sorry for having to tell you this, but that guy isn’t praying.”
“Then what is he doing,” Charlene asked snidely.
“He’s sniffing the seat.”
“Gross,” the boy shouted as he watched in amazement. “Is he wafting the aroma of the seat-“
“The stench you mean,” I interjected.
“Right,” the boy nodded and agreed, “the stench.” He squinted to get a better understanding of what he was seeing. “He is, he’s wafting the stench of that seat with his hands into his nostrils in a cupping fashion. That’s nasty,” the boy yelled.
“It is nasty,” I said in agreement.
“Will you please not use the word wafting? It’s disgusting. It’s an awful word.” Charlene added.
“Ugh,” the boy screamed while his body convulsed, jolted, and wiggled, shaking off the nastiness of what he was witnessing.
“Now he’s smushing his nose around in the seat in a circular motion!” He turned to me with an alarmed look on his pre-pubescent face, “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, son. No fucking idea.”
“Well, he’ll never get into heaven behaving like that,” Charlene added, “it’s despicable.”
“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t Charlene, only God knows,” I replied. “But please, whatever you do, I implore you, don’t say that to him.”
“Why not,” Charlene fired back, seething.
“Well, he’s really looking forward to the whole seated at the right hand of the Father thing.”
She shook her head and glared at me. The same way my mother had when I told her I was dropping out of school to tour.
Years later, in Eastham, an East Texas prison where I was serving time, I was cellmates with a French African guy named Lesat. Lesat was tall, 6’3" at least. He was meaty, well built, and imposing. He had an intoxicating dark chocolate hue, thick skin, a chiseled face with a distinct jawline, charcoal eyes, high cheekbones, and a bright red tongue. From what I could ascertain, he was in his early twenties. He was also pretty sharp. He spoke four languages and already had earned two degrees. He was a foreign exchange student who came to the states from the L’Oriental region of Morocco to study Anthropology at Texas Tech.
Apparently, Lesat was sent to prison for some perverted shit. It was challenging to get the story from him as he had a thick accent and his English wasn’t excellent. My French sucked, so I didn’t even attempt embarrassing myself there. We’d speak to each other in conversational Spanish primarily, but for an entire story, my Spanish just wasn’t there.
As a rule, I didn’t look to hear people’s prison stories much anyway. You seldom got the truth. However, from my understanding, it wasn’t for rape or child molestation or anything like that. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Lesat went to prison for some shit perverts and degenerates like me think and laugh about but don’t act on. And if you’re are going to act on them, you go to a sex club with consenting adults to do that shit. Clubs like that are everywhere. You don’t do it on a city bus or hiding somewhere in a city park. Parks are for people, for crying out loud, not for rubbing one out.
One evening during a lockdown, Lesat and I had been drinking coffee, and we got to talking. Him in tongues, at times, and me in English. Lesat could understand English fine. However, he was still learning to speak it properly, so I did most of the talking. I managed to extract from him the admission of a handful of previous arrests for sexual harassment and indecent exposure. Lesat explained that he was on probation for sniffing seats on a city bus when he was apprehended lying naked in a bushy area of a well-known city park in Lubbock, Texas. As it was, growing up in New York City, I saw all sorts of crazy shit like that. Guys in trench coats beating off in subways, girls and guys blowing each other in-between parked cars, guys fucking at Penn Station, orgies, gang-bangs, donkey’s, yeah, it got fucked up. But his story didn’t shock me. Nothing’s shocking. If anything, it intrigued me. As a person in long-term recovery from drugs and alcohol, I understood and empathized with him regarding the powerlessness of it all. Simply not possessing the ability to stop yourself when you want to, when you need to, even in the face of dire consequences, is catastrophic. I’m not suggesting that what Lesat, you, or I may have done in the past is okay, and I’m not using addiction or compulsive behaviors as an excuse. What we’ve done is not okay. We must be held responsible for our actions, and we have been. That’s why we went to prison. What I’m saying is that I understand it, and unless you were born wired the way I was or Lesat was, you probably wouldn’t understand it, but it is not a moral thing. We know we’re wrong. We know we’re terrible. We just can’t stop it. I’m sure when Lesat was a kid running wild in the countryside, he didn’t aspire to become a sex offender. No one does. But shit happens.
Now I can see doing shit like he did under the influence of drugs, say in a blackout or in a speed-induced psychosis, but Lesat didn’t do drugs. He did that shit sober. Probably the same way a non-addict wonders how and why addicts do the shit we do. So, I try not to judge; that’s God’s job. However, I will bait people with stories of my own, fiction and non — fiction, in hopes of pulling the absurd truth from them. In my experience, truth has always been stranger than its counterpart.
“Least, so if I understand correctly, you said you were caught jerking off on a city bus while sniffing a seat in the back, correct?”
“No,” he replied with a nasally French inflection.
“I was on probation for the bus incident and got picked up on another charge.”
“Oh, okay,” I replied as if this was breaking news to me. “I used to ride the buses and subways in New York all the time, but here in Texas, I would drive everywhere, or run. I really enjoy running, especially in the parks, for exercise, ya know? I like running on trails where you can scope all those healthy and sexy females running beside you. All sweaty and sexy, and revved up, I love it. I feed off of that energy.”
“Yes,” Lesat replied in a charged tone. His shift in demeanor reminded me of an addict after that first hit, that initial rush.
“You know,” he said, as he stood up with a glaze in his eyes, “I be hiding in dem bushes, watching dem run by, and waxing dat boy.”
“You too,” I exclaimed, as more bait. “I used to do that, too, until I started watching and waxing it from above, in a tree. I found it a much better vantage point. Plus, when I’d shoot my load, if a passer-by down below got hit, they’d just figure it bird shit, a sign of good luck. I just had to be careful that when I ejaculated, I was in a supportive spot in the tree so I wouldn’t fall some twenty feet to the ground. That would be awkward, huh? Falling from a tree with your pants around ankles and a wilting penis in your hand, covered in cum.”
“Wow,” he responded, that’s a great idea. “Where else would you watch?”
“Schoolyards.”
An uncomfortable moment followed. I couldn’t tell if Lesat was about to punch me, try to suck me off or admit he liked kids.
“God no, Lesat,” I continued, “not for the kids, you sick fuck! How could you think that? I like the teacher’s Lesat; I find them sexy. Academic girls turn me on.”
I paused, paced the four steps our tiny cell would allow, and soon stopped back in front of Lesat.
“Dayum, Lesat, you’re a fucked-up dude man, the teachers,” I reiterated, “the teacher’s man. I’m going to bed. I’m in here for robbery, Lesat, not some fucked up chomo case. Teachers, man.”
I woke up the following day and saw Lesat tucked snuggly under his sheet. He knew I had gotten up and would periodically peek at me as I brushed my teeth and got ready for the day. It was early, maybe 7am and it felt like it was about 160 degrees in there already. Plus, the cell smelled awful. He had obviously been delighting in dutch-ovening himself and doing God knows what else under there. Lock down was over and I removed myself from the cell to get some air in the dayroom below. I purposely left the cell door open to air it out.
I returned 30 minutes later and noticed the cell door was closed. I leered in through the little window before I entered. There I saw Lesat down on his knees, face buried in his sheets in that familiar position, sniffing up a storm like he was auditioning for a fucking Downey commercial. Fuck me, I thought. This shit never ends. When am I going to make parole?
