It was just a shirt

It was just a shirt

I was wearing a black tee-shirt that let me advertise Jack Daniels to everyone I came in contact with. I was eight years shy of being able to drink legally, but the shirt was black and the giant Jack Daniels label made it wicked cool. Jack Daniels got a four foot nine billboard. I got a cool shirt. It was a win win situation.
The plastic white lettering adorning the front was cracked and starting to chip from multiple washings and a tree branch had stabbed a hole into the left shoulder. It was slightly ragged, but I loved it.
I had been swimming all day and the bottom sagged into a damp gray just below my waist where it clung to my still clammy bathing suit.
My bike was almost on auto pilot as I glided into my driveway. I pushed back on the right pedal and skidded sideways across the gravel. My fists let go of the handlebars and my bike slid flat against the ground. Hopping over the frame, I grabbed my mailbox to balance my body into a stop. Some older kids were driving by just then and screamed a bunch of unintelligible taunts at me. I folded my fist and flipped a bird high into the air.
"Fuck You!" I screamed like I didn't mean it and waited for the screech.
Waited.
Waited.
Nothing happened, just a fading hiss from bald tires.
The car kept on going.
I pulled my shirt over my head.
The wet part, cold and clingy, stiffened my tiny boy nipples into angry pimples and pointed both of my chest hairs out at right angles. I flapped my arms trying to shake off the goose bumps and then spread prostrate on the soggy ground, just past where the gravel met the grass. I reached down into the small metal tube that tunneled under the end of our driveway and pulled out a small plastic shopping bag. The bag contained a plain white tee shirt. I pulled the white tee shirt out and replaced it with the half damp cotton advertisement, then pushed the bag back into the tiny tunnel.
I had to do that just so I could keep the shirt. If I brought it home my grandmother would surely find it and confiscate it under the pretense of trying to save my soul.
Never mind that my father was an abusive alcoholic or that my mother was a heroin addicted prostitute down in New Haven. No, that shit wasn’t going to ruin me. Beer labeled cotton was going to lead me right into Satan’s arms.
I had given up trying to illuminate the outdated monolith that was my grandmother with my teenage wisdom. Her mind was closed tight around her ignorance. She paraphrased partial scriptures and misquoted anecdotes, trying to piece together a religion that would justify her crazy. I knew her religion better than she did. I actually read the books several times and could correct all the erroneous quotes she used to justify her psychosis. She was nothing more than a control freak.
But, she was the one making the rules. She had my father, my grandfather and all my uncles quivering under her egomaniacal regime. Any protest I spouted fell on deaf ears, so I did the only thing I could do.
I followed the letter of her law to a T, but exploited all the loopholes so I could still be me.
Well, the me that snuck around and changed his clothes at the end of the driveway at least.
I pushed my head out the neck hole and wiggled my arms out the sleeves. Just then, the postman pulled up to my mailbox and stuffed it full of mail. He glanced into my stare and we met briefly with our eyes. He gave me a two finger salute and a casual nod as he leaned out from his jeep to stuff a wedge of mail into our box.. I responded with a half-assed wave. Pulling back the pornstache from his corn nibblet smile, he offered out a cigarette yellow grin.
I must have looked like I just sniffed in a rancid fart..
He caught my reaction and slammed his mustache down around a fast formed frown. His right arm sailed out and grabbed the gear shift, grinding it around until it landed into first, then he floated out the clutch. He slolwly sped off at full mail jeep speed, down the road and around the corner, out of site.
It’s funny how that moment was more embarrassing for him than it was for me, but I’m the one who remembers it after all these years. He probably beat himself up for a bit then let the whole incident fade into the soft pickled fog of his middle aged mind. I can’t seem to keep that memory from popping up every now and then. It makes me giggle for a second and then pauses me with the wish that I could let him know I was....never mind I just giggle when ever I think about our mailman with that giant bushy pornstache.
I pulled out the chunk of mail and cradled it in my left arm as I pushed my bike up the driveway. I got to the top and leaned my bike up against the porch, making my way up the steps and through the side door to the kitchen. Flippin through the delivery pile and smudging all the corners with dirt from my play stained fingers, made me glad I wasn't an adult. It was mostly junk and stuff that looked like bills, but a cream colored business envelope had my name on it. I pulled that one out and tossed the rest of the pile onto the counter. I tore off one end and shook the folded contents out into my palm.
The paper was heavy and milled thick. Off white and important looking, the stationary seemed too fancy to be carrying words meant for a thirteen year old. The two pages were creased perfectly into thirds and I balked at opening them.
I knew what it was.
I even knew what it going to tell me.
I was glad the only one home. I didn’t need any of my self hating relatives rejoicing in the fact that I had been pushed back down into the puddle of failure they were content to wallow in.
I had tried to get out. Out of the crazy.
I applied for a scholarship to Oak Ridge, a military prep school in North Carolina. My dad couldn’t afford it, but they took one charity case every year on merit. Dad said I could go if I got the money. I applied thinking that I would get in easily. I was smart; got straight A’s and was in the program for gifted kids. I never expected the level of competition I ran into. My grades test scores and extra curricular activities got me into a final field of fifteen that were invited in for an interview. I went down there with my aunt and all the finalist were sent home with assignment of sending in a five page essay on why we should be chosen.
I thought my essay rocked.
I freaked a little when I sealed it up in an envelope put it in the mail. I thought that maybe I could have done better.
Big Breath.
I flattened out the pages and splashed down into the ink black words that were all well coifed and double spaced for clarity. A few pleasantries and a “Thank You for trying” trickled into the meat of the matter that let me know that I didn’t make it and that I could apply again next year.
Next year?
Next Year?
Yeah Right!
There was no way I was living with Grandma and all her crazy for another trip around the sun.
I was going to find a way out now.
That’s how I ended up in Utah.