The Ballad of Steve

 

After all of these years it’s hard to believe

That I never wrote a ballad for my old friend Steve

Who jumped off a bridge in Boston one day

And called a bit later, said “I just have to say

I jumped off a bridge and found out I’m gay!

And I’m calling you now just to report

I’ll be on a jet plane from Logan Airport.

I’m leaving now. I just gotta go.

On a jet plane to San Francisco.

Remember me now like you remember me then

For I won’t go back to the straight life again!”

 

We were in the first grade and Sister Edwin Marie

Said “I want you two hoodlums to come out here with me.”

We went out to the hallway and she turned and hissed

“You better know, you bold articles, that you’re on my list.”

Then she pulled out a copybook that we had left on the bus.

With art on its pages that was signed by us.

“I don’t care that you mock me but, boys, at the least

You shouldn’t be mocking God’s holy priest.”

Steve had drawn Father Keegan. I had drawn Donald Duck.

Sticking a pitchfork in his fat ass.  Good luck!

Good luck to you boys.  You’re headed to Hell.

Well, that was implied and we both thought “Oh, well.”

 

Now, poor Steve’s father was happy and smart.

A nice guy, a great Dad but he had a bad heart.

But in spite of it all Steve had some hope:

His Dad was doing better and had a great telescope.

And he took Steve out on a clear Saturday night

To a far field near Honey Brook away from the lights

Of the steel mill, etcetera that made up Coatesville

And put his hand on his shoulder as they stood on a hill

To point out the planets.  And there he dropped dead.

“I loved my Dad.” was all that Steve said

Many years later as we sat in some bar

After Steve had said “No” to the Vietnam war.

 

Should I continue?  Steve might say “Why bother?”

But by the Fifth grade Steve had an asshole stepfather

Who would beat him and tell him: “You make me sick.

You think you’re so smart you little Sputnik.

Let’s see how good you are . . . you dumb little joker.

Sit down right now and play me in poker.”

At least that’s what Steve told me . . . but what he told me still sings!

“He had four Jacks. But I had four Kings!”

I never believed him but let the story abide.

And in the Fifth grade Steve tried suicide.

Ran into the woods with twenty feet of old rope.

Now, I hope you believe me.  It’s good to hope.

Steve ran through the woods then fell down on his back

And tied his sad ass to a railroad track.

He had dug through gravel right under a tie.

Steve said, “I was serious. I wanted to die.”

And he stayed there all night. “The thing was in the main—

I waited and waited for that goddamn train.

I think.  I don’t know.  I might have fallen asleep . . . ”

But here’s a last fact that would make the bad angels weep.

His mom . . . the next morning . . . found a note on his bed.

“I’d told them just where I would be,” poor Steve said.

His stepfather found him.  Tied up in the rope.

“Trains don’t run down this track anymore you damn dope.”

There was no-one else there. The man lifted Steve’s head.

“Trains don’t come down this track anymore,” the man said.

 

Then Steve became bad—a blot and a blister!

God said “That little punk” and sent Sister Eucharista!

She came from a Dago school in South Philly

From whence God had sent her with a view to a kill.

He said, “Sister, you’re done with those wops at Don Bosco

Smite that little smart-ass.  Smite Steven Wasko!”

 

She arrived at our school one drear day in December.

How the Earth groaned!  Cried “Remember, remember

All that is mortal may be destroyed in an instant.

All living must die.  When you think about it isn’t it

Fucked?  There you go.  Dammit.  God is the boss of us.

Is it any damn wonder he would send a colossus

To destroy a small boy who could grow up to be gay?”

Yes, that’s just what the Earth was saying that day.

 

She entered our room.  I sat like a Quaker.

Then I heard a rough voice, “I think I can take her.”

A voice blent with doom.  I’ll never forget he

Will e’er be remembered—brave Tom Trionfetti!

The toughest kid there and of an obsolete race

And the only Fifth grader with his own parking space.

Flunked how many times?  He was almost sixteen

And looked like a cobra but was six times as mean.

His Dad owned a bar and brave Tom would go

After school to the bar to hang out with Negroes!

Guys named Spiderhead, Bantu, Bullet and Baby.

And sometimes after school Tom would say “Maybe

Today is the day that I kick your dumb ass.”

But if you cringed and you whimpered, he’d give you a pass.

He had places to go! He had no time to stop.

And all fell before him—a brave Negro-Wop.

A scandal to all.  To the American nation!

But I cried “Hurrah!” for miscegenation

As I heard his fine words (though spoken quite lowly)

Then the evil nun turned and said distinctly and slowly:

“Why did God make you? Mr. Trionfetti?”

Who replied “I don’t know.”  Now, I’m willing to bet he

Just in that instant felt the meaning of fear

As the nun said, quite weirdly “Just come here, my dear.

Let’s look at God’s world.  Just open the window.”

Which he did ah, he did!  We all felt an ill wind blow

From heaven into our Fifth grade classroom

As brave Tom smiled nervously awaiting his doom

As the nun smiled like a camp guard at Camp Bergen-Belsen

And seized brave Tom in a quite effective Half-Nelson

Hoisted him up and in an instant the fated

Brave Negro-Wop was defenestrated!

 

And all the class screamed.  Steve cried “Oh, no Oh, no!”

It looked like the evil nun was letting him go!

But Sister Eucharista held on to poor Tom

Who screamed, the poor boy.  Sister Eucharista stayed calm.

Thirty feet down!  Well, twenty at least.

But Sister just smiled like an unholy beast.

Then Steve Wasko stood up and cried “Stop it, you bitch!”

Which had an effect on the mad nun—one which

Was ordained, one suspects, in celestial realms

Where contempt for the heathen quite overwhelms

All of the talking points about charity, caritas,

And the fact of defiance leaves one quite at a loss

Except to, of course, smite the goddamned young heathen

Which is what, God knew, was waiting for Steven.

The nun jerked brave Tom in.  He collapsed on the floor.

“God won’t have to put up with you anymore!”

She seized Steve by the wrist.  Dragged Steve to the casement.

Which appalled even the damned down in Hell’s basement

Who raised a confused,  a “half-human” cheer

For Steve—who smiled calmly, showing no fear

As the nun heaved him outside and he, hanging, suspended

Inspired all the damned in red burial blended

As he cried “Fuck you, bitch. There’s one thing I know.

You’re a big dumb chickenshit!  C’mon, let me go!”

 

The mad nun hauled him in!  She started to cry.

Then fled from the room to the sweet bye and bye.

Never heard from again.  Deemed quite insane!

And the next month Steve’s stepfather was killed by a crane.

Which quite cheered Steve up.  Made him blithe and so bonny.

As he moved through the grades singing “Hey, nonney nonney!”

And always alone.  He had become as a God.

Which, of course, drives one crazy and makes one quite odd.

You marry your cousin.  Deny “Ecce Homo!”

You are Andy Warhol but prefer Perry Como.

Throw yourself off a bridge.  Then change your mind.

And decide that you’ll leave the straight life behind!

Head out to Frisco to see what fate brings

Which, for Steve, meant that he would move to Palm Springs

With his only beloved. The guy Kismet sent:

A software engineer with a Limey accent.

And there they live now. But it’s hard to believe.

That this is the end of the ballad of Steve.