Blisters on my fingers

Bob and blisters

During my junior year at Sterling College, I roomed with Scot and Bob, both from Kansas City and both one year behind me. We were all football players and a third guy from their school, Matt Breen, was also a resident of our same dorm.
Scott and I were offensive linemen. Bob was a linebacker and Matt played D. line. We trudged through football season together, along with our other dorm buddies, Mack and Don. When we were in the room, either the stereo or TV played constantly. Bob, or Mo as he was dubbed, always seemed to play either Todd Rundgren’s “Something Anything”, some Robin Trower or from some place he pulled out an album by Chaka Khan. The Chaka Khan alum became a constant joke, and our buddy Mack pulled it out whenever he needed to drag Mo across the hot embers of friendly ridicule.
The Beatles made up the biggest bulk of my collection, both as a group and solo LPs. So, everyone knew the Beatle albums. Mo preferred the “White Album” and especially the song “Helter Skelter.” It had been made infamous by Charlie Manson and his family, but it was the last line of that song that captured a drunken vision of Mo to this day.
Mo had been out drinking with some of the other guys when Scott and I arrived at the dorm room. Bob had a tendency, when drunk, to crawl up into his top bunk, naked. It was there, we walked into the bedroom, to find him pretty much in the wasted zone, humming and naked. Mo’s “manhood” stood at attention, obviously the target of his plans.
“Mo, you have a little dick!” Scott had said. “Look at that poor thing!”
“It’s only half mast,” Mo slurred. “Pepe is only half mast!”
Scott and I laughed as Mo threw semi-literate curses in our direction, hoping to keep us there as a distraction. We turned to walk out of the bedroom and Mo began to sing, “I’ve got blisters on my fingers” just as John Lennon had wailed at the car crash ending of “Helter Skelter.” “I’ve got blisters on my fingers!”

I am still an obsessive Beatles fan, but unfortunately, that song that I had once rated as 4 stars in the margin of the LP lyric sheet while sitting intently, poring through every musical nook and cranny of my newly acquired Beatle LP had become attached to a picture of a drunk, naked Bob Morrison. Maybe he was only at half mast and did have blisters on his fingers. How and why? I don’t think I want that mystery’s answer as a memory the next time I listen to the “White Album.”

Mo did play a part in another musical memory. Although it was not from any of the albums I had collected and entered as a group performance on a small highway headed toward northern Kansas.

Mo had started dating Sue Freeborn at the end of his Sophomore year. Sue was one of our football cheerleaders and the daughter of Doc Freeborn, who ironically in later years I would see speaking at my wife’s grandfather’s funeral. Sometimes, it is a small world.
Obviously, their romance took an eventful turn when Sue found herself expecting and she and Mo decided to marry. The marriage date was set to occur during the first weeks of our college football practices. We were still in the early weeks of practice and were finishing 3-a-day workouts. Our head coach, Les Unruh, set practice at a time on Sat. so that we could practice and haul ass to get to the wedding.
So, showering quickly, our group of friends piled into cars, carrying tuxes, changes of clothes and food to drive wildly to the wedding site. Mo was apparently nervous, just hours away from making things legal. So far, everything had gone according to plan and schedule when Mo’s car broke down.
We pulled over to the side of the lonely 2-lane road. The hot late morning was begining to settle over Kansas. The wind of August drifted across the adjacent cornfields as our group of larger than life travelers stood staring at the defunct car. Scott, always one to be mechanical and proactive, looked over the car.
Mo paced back and forth. He sweat nervously. “Jesus Christ, what are we going to do? What am I going to do? Sue will shit!”

IT was there, in the midst of that sweltering morning, heat rising off the blacktop, Mo confused and upset, that we his friends did what we always did best.
Our large frames, graceful in collisions of the football field, but less than delicate anywhere else, joined together, arms linked and stepping in a near high kick fashion to do a roadside sing-a-long of “Get Me to The Church On Time.”

I don’t quite remember how many times Mo said, “Fuck you guys,” but we did eventually make it to the church.

“Get a sense of humor, Chaka Khan!”