Goatman Bob & Other Stories

photo by Joy

I just got word that my old friend Brock passed away. I remember him as a beautiful, complicated person and I never forgot his epic stories even though we weren’t the closest.  

First, he looked like a model.  Second, he was one of my first train hopping crusty friends who was dusty most of the time--which made his insanely perfect bone structure stand out even more.  

I knew Brock through my friend Joy who was my first close, crust-punk friend (a woman who has a lifetime full of adventure stories I wish you could hear).  She had bones in her hair and stick-and-poke tattoos before it was common.  She harvested bonsai from the forest in her spare time and knew how to process roadkill hides before it was cool. I remember brainstorming with Joy about how to make a face mask out of wetsuit material her first summer as an Alaskan fisher woman.  Her job was to free the fishnets of jellyfish and she got stung mostly all day.  

Joy and Brock trainhopped cross country in 2007 (?), and they got arrested by train police somewhere in the Midwest.  They slept outside in the snow (in sleeping bags) and almost froze and they are in my top 5 toughest, most adventurous friends to this day. 

Somewhere on this journey, Joy and Brock got a ride from a big-rig driver named Goatman Bob.  He was called Goatman because he had his pygmy goat riding shotgun most of the time. Soon after he picked them up, Goatman Bob about scared them to death driving off the paved road onto the open prairie.  Bob started shooting prairie dogs out the window of his truck with a big ol’ gun as prairie dusk swirled around outside making it impossible to see.  My pals were no doubt thinking about how easy it would be for Goatman to murder them along with the prairie dogs as they struggled to breath in the dust-filled cab. He didn’t, though, and they lived to tell the tale.  

One time (after the trip), Brock was house sitting (or cleaning or something) someone’s condo at home in Virginia Beach.  Joy and I went to visit him and we all got in the hot tub.  I had a bathing suit and they just wore their clothes and it was the first time I felt embarrassed for wearing appropriate-to-the-activity clothing LOL (learning about punk subcultures, amiright?! what a square). 

Well, anyway, Brock was explaining how one time he got locked up for stabbing a Nazi.  Apparently, he ran into some dumb skinhead who had said something racist about his friend so he stabbed him and then he got arrested.  His parent’s Bible study put Brock on the prayer list.  He was getting cranked up telling some part of the story and tapping his beer bottle on the side of the hot tub.  Finally, it shattered loudly and broke into the water and we all had to jump out.  All Brock said was something like, “Aw damn, now I’ve got to drain and clean this hot tub, too.”  

There are plenty better stories out there about our friend but these are the ones I’m thinking about today. These stories are from memory and I haven’t heard them in over a decade, so plz give me grace if I got any details wrong. Happy trails, my sweet pal!