Sunday, August 3, 2025, 5:45 p.m.
West 7th’s C.S.P.S. Hall was emptied out. Lights down, chairs and tables folded and put away.
The band was packing instruments and coiling microphone cables. The beautiful 140 year-old wood floor was being swept, polished.
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I just returned from outside Carl “Mr. Positive’s” St. Clair home. He is six months gone from the West 7th speck on the old earth ball.
His house is empty. There is a huge boxcar-size dumpster alongside his curb. Bright, canary yellow. Industrial. 10 feet deep, clean, shiney. You would need sunglasses to hold any gaze upon it.
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West seventh All-Star cab driver, William “Texan” Dubois is a happy man. Ever-wise, calm, alert and ready. Knows who he is and what he is doing.
Tex is happy… I’m pretty sure.
I asked Tex once if he was and he said, “You bet” and then he laughed hard. “I’m 64 years old, still standing, working. My elimination functions are under control. No debts. Nothing to run from.”
OK, good.
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I still grieve Mr. Positive, R.I.P. 12-18-25. Carl Lambert Bentson. Age 62.
I’ve driven or walked by his house most every day for 30 years to the clinic or West 7th. Both ways. 20,000 times I figure. Really.
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Notebook Recollections The last time I saw Carl Bentson, he was laying on his back on his front steps. Eyes
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I asked real estate sale guru-friend Steve Sprafka if he had any famous clients or notable sales recently.
“Eric Clapton bought two 1969 Fender twin reverb amps last year. He calls me sometimes.”
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The fall weather is extra-ordinary today. 80°. Blue sky. Patches of atmosphere with the correct water content and altitude have been tricked into Cumulo-Nimbus white fluffs. Even the street folks look happy for this moment.
I’m walking to the Day By Day Café.
“Sit with me,” Carl says from a round metal outdoor table at the café as I approach.
Of course I will.
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It is verified factual that Carl Benston – Mr. Positive – has had seven months of stage four esophagus cancer and six months of “no more cancer chemo.” So, it was awfully good to see him this lovely fall Sunday out in front of his St. Clair house at his umbrella table.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good,” he answered. “A little tired. It’s too hot out to cut grass, 88.”
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