After the red lights stopped alternating in their warning dance and the bus shrugged off empty, I shuffled up the gravel driveway to my house. Soon after, I heard the metallic gag of the transmission as the bus turned around at the town line and headed back down my road. I felt the cool insanity of being twelve years old fill my being. I quickly scanned my surroundings and zoomed in on an egg sized rock two feet to my left. I took a step and scooped it up with my right hand. My thumb instinctively rubbed the dirt away so it could angle tightly around the back edge.
I waited until the nose of the bus passed my mailbox and then rotated my arm forward. The egg sized rock bee lined from my hand and shattered the window three seats from the back.
I felt cool for less than a second and then the screeching tires panicked me into a run. All rational thought left me and intelligence just stood off to the side laughing. I thought I could get away by scurrying under my front deck, past a missing piece of lattice.
I low crawled between the damp earth and pressurized wood and tried to make myself small against the foundation of my house. The cold cement didn’t yield to my scared hot skin trying to melt safely into the basement and I was frozen in my fear.
I heard the bus driver wheezing and cussing her way up the gravel to my house.
Then hell broke loose.
I heard the side door open and the heavy footsteps of my dad pounded down on the boards above me. I gagged with fear and tried to make myself smaller.
I looked out through the diamond holes of the lattice and saw my bus driver with her hands on her knees and gasping for breath.
She looked up and said to my dad “Your fucking piece of shit kid just threw a rock through my window and I’m going to kill him!”
Well, my dad might not have been the best of fathers, and he may have thought that I was a piece of shit, but damn if someone was going to talk shit about his kids. He started spewing out hatred and insults that whittled that 300 lbs bus driver into a sniveling toothpick.
He took a few angry steps in her direction. She found herself in my world and I saw the fear knock her over.
Stumbling to her feet, she retreated down the gravel and drove her bus off.
My sense of relief was short lived.
Moments after the diesel growl of the bus signaled its departure, a shadow filled the space in the lattice and five fingers cuffed each of my ankles. I was jerked out, face down, and then flipped over so I could see the anger.
I was afraid.
But….
I wasn’t impressed.
I had seen it before and it was getting a little old.
I closed my eyes and watched the bright lights. They flickered every time fist found flesh and the light show somehow made me numb to the pain.
It wasn’t easy to know when it was over, but there was this moment when I noticed the silence. I stood up and ran up the steps, past the door and straight up to my room.
I couldn’t lock the doors to my room, so I tried to disappear in the space between the left side of my dresser and the wall.
I wasn’t afraid, but I shivered as the stairs warned me that he was coming.
His presence pushed on the paper thin walls of my room.
I waited for the bust in.
I waited.
I could hear him breathing.
Then I heard the stairs creak with his retreat.
I didn’t believe it and stayed right where I was for at least twenty minutes. I couldn’t believe that was all I was going to get.
But it was.
I even thought I deserved more.
It would be another six months until my father beat me again and that time was for the last time.
Not like I didn't deserve it.
I got suspended from school for fighting. I was always the new kid and I was always fighting. He slapped me upside the head and managed to pop my ear drum. I crashed down the stairs and grabbed my head, failing to hold back the tears I knew would just piss him off more. Something inside of him clicked at that moment. He stared down at me, paused in a contorted torture I will never forget and he promised to never hit me again.
The way he was looking at me and the way he said it, I knew he meant it.
He never has
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Letter From Mom
I have this memory that really isn’t mine. I was there, alright, but I was only a bit player in that fucked up scene. The tragedy played out all around me and I stumbled through it like Rosencrantz.
It all started with a letter.
Letters are powerful things. They capture forever words that might be forgotten seconds after slipping past the lips. Proof standing of the delicate insanity that resides in us all. The anonymous pale of the parchment, emboldens us to throw open the locked gates hiding our inner most thoughts and pushes them out our fingertips in scribbles of ink. Folded into thirds and stuffed behind the postage, letters deliver all the words that we really wanted to say.
Letters change the world.
This particular letter changed my world. This letter, three small pages filled with poorly scripted confessions, turned my brother’s world upside down.
My brother and I were the last kids to get off the bus. Being the last stop was pretty cool in the morning, but it sucked on the ride home. I followed Eric down the steps and off of the bus. He started up the gravel driveway. I put my books down and turned to watch the bus pull away. I stood there for a while, the grumble of the bus faded on down the road, and I breathed in deep. Spring was just about done and you could almost taste the salty thick of summer in the air. I went over and pulled open our red mailbox. We always had a ton of mail. I was mostly junk mail or bills. I rarely got anything, but it was my job to bring it up to the house. I made my way up the gravel and flipped through the twenty or so letters. About halfway through, I saw it and started running up the driveway. I bounded across the porch and into the kitchen.
“Yo! Eric, come here.” I yelled and through the entire pile of mail onto the counter, save for one letter. “You got some mail.”
I made my way over to the living room and flopped down into the couch. I didn’t here any movement from the basement and gave out another yell.
“Hey!”
Nothing
“You got some mail.” I yelled, slacking my jaw and faking a baritone. “It’s from mom.”
I heard the downstairs toilet flush and some awkward banging as my brother clamored his way up from the basement and into the living room.
“Mom?” he asked rhetorically and picked his letter up from the floor. I was hoping he might open and read it there but he didn’t. He just stuffed it in his back pocket and squirreled off down to his room. I kind of wanted to hear about her, hear about what she was thinking. Maybe she might even mention me.
Mom didn’t write me. I guess she was just too embarrassed. I didn’t expect an apology from her. I knew her all too well. She always had an excuse and it was always someone else’s fault. I always believed her lies. I was the only one that still did, but this last time I couldn’t. She fucked me over and got caught red handed. She couldn’t sweet talk her way around it.
One day she dropped me off at my girlfriend’s house. No one was home but I knew where the key was and I let myself in. Mom made note of where the key was hidden and went back there two days later with some guys and a van and robbed the place. Unfortunately, my girlfriend’s brother was home sick in his room in the attic and saw the whole thing. Mom was quickly picked up and sent to prison. I lost a girlfriend, suffered some embarrassment when it came out in the papers and stopped believing all the lies that come out of her mouth. She knew it and since she couldn’t lie to me anymore, she just stopped talking to me.
My brother, on the other hand, got a letter every other week. I admit I was jealous. I hated the stupid cunt, but she was my mother. If she was going to fucking write a letter, why not write two? I didn’t care that she fucked up. She had been fucking up for as long as I can remember. Hell, one of my first memories of my mother is visiting her prison and hearing “Rock the Boat” over the loudspeakers.
But no, Eric was the one she wrote to.
I envied him on all those days he got a letter and I didn’t.
That day, was even worse, he took his letter and never came out of his room. He didn’t share it with me. I banged on his door a couple of times.
“Fuck Off!” was all I got.
My brother was a strange cat so I just shrugged it off. I forgot about the letter and went on with my day.
I used to get up early in those days to go to church. My dad worked third shift and we didn’t see much of each other but occasionally we crossed paths. I barely blinked when I saw him at the kitchen table as I reached up to grab some cereal. Then I saw my brother and I could feel the shit start to sprinkle back from the fan.
“Rob, come over here and sit down,” Dad said “I got to talked to you about something.”
I inched over to the table and sat down.
My dad cleared his throat. He wasn’t nervous; in fact he was straight deadpan.
“Eric got a letter that wasn’t meant for him. Your mother must have mixed up the letters she was trying to send. The letter confused your brother and he showed it to me. I thought it would be best if I just explain it to the both of you at the same time.”
I looked over at Eric. His eyes caught mine and he tried to wink, but he was too sleepy. I kicked his shin lightly under the table. He shifted upright and we smiled at each other like friends.
“Your mother likes women,” dad said. That statement got our attention and we both turned and stared at my dad intently.
I felt a faint throbbing that I quickly suppressed.
Eric stood up and said “Fuck This” then walked down to his room. I didn’t know what floored me more, the fact that my mom was a lesbian or that my little brother just swore in front of my dad.
“You know what I’m saying, Rob?”
Dad was looking kind of drunk.
“I already knew.” Was the lie I threw back at him. I went downstairs to my brother’s room and knocked on his door. He wouldn’t open.
I remember seeing the sinking look of betrayal on my brother’s face that day. At first, I chuckled and welcomed him to my pain, and then I looked closer and saw the hurt I had already learned how to bury.
We have never talked about that day or our dad’s explanation of it.
I just wonder how his eyes saw that dayMoments
I enjoy the moments
with my son
our life, the minutes
and how every second goes
I feel time now
and appreciate
its swift and subtle flow
I was ten and merely blinked,
then suddenly I was old.
I wonder how long I held my breath
as I watched my son be born.
I wonder how many times again
I'll hold my breath
and pray
while
waiting
hoping
watching
as his wonderful unfolds.
A promise
is just
a promise
it means nothing
without time
I will be a better Dad
someday
a better Dad
than mine.
with my son
our life, the minutes
and how every second goes
I feel time now
and appreciate
its swift and subtle flow
I was ten and merely blinked,
then suddenly I was old.
I wonder how long I held my breath
as I watched my son be born.
I wonder how many times again
I'll hold my breath
and pray
while
waiting
hoping
watching
as his wonderful unfolds.
A promise
is just
a promise
it means nothing
without time
I will be a better Dad
someday
a better Dad
than mine.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
3
3
Johnny was a little man, not just in stature, but in mind and in the unspoken measure. None of that bothered him until he hit the eighth grade. Then every guy in the locker room knew his religion and the distance from his stomach to his pee hole. Not to mention that his hormones had only managed to push out one pubic hair.
One hair.
It didn’t even curl. It just dangled awkwardly about an inch above the base of his penis and slightly to the right. It had sprouted next a mole but still seemed lonely. It was way too early for the party. Sometimes, at night Johnny would talk to it and twirl it gently with his index finger trying to cheer it up and keep it company.
One day, five boys that Mother Nature let go first on the Puberty Train, pummeled him mercilessly with red rubber balls on the dodge ball court in gym class and then really let him have it in the shower.
They laughed and pointed at his undeveloped phallus and his solitary pube. They even made up a song about his inverted pee pee. His balls were as big as sun ripened oranges but his stick wasn’t enough to, well, shake a stick at. Thimble sized at best, Johnny’s Johnny quickly sailed from a Junior High wisecrack to a High School legend. Cheeks ripe with red acne and a smelly tooth never mattered much when his nickname was Needle Dick. Not one girl said yes to his invitations to a night at the movies or super melts at Friendly’s. He couldn’t even get a maybe from the midget girl in A.V.
That all ended with graduation.
He didn’t get any poon, but he decided he was taking his show on the road and get shunned by girls from a different state.
He decided to grow a mustache to look older. He stole a bottle of High Karate from his dad and hit the road.
Two days of pavement behind him, he stopped into a place called The Big Red Dog. Nobody asked him for I.D., probably because of his mustache, he thought. He leaned on the sticky bar and ordered a Manhattan. He didn’t know what was in it but it was the only drink he knew. Next thing he remembers, a girl in a wheelchair was tugging on his back pocket. She invited him out to the parking lot to share her Jim Beam. He followed and put his sneaker behind her wheel as she fished through the back seat of an Impala looking for the booze she was baiting him with. She finally found the bottle and held it up like it was Excalibur. She tilted her head back and made like a siphon on that bottle. Her adams apple jumped up and down as she guzzled down the booze, mesmerizing Johnny like a bouncing ball on a karaoke screen. Wiping her chin, she passed the whiskey over to Johnny. He rubbed the rim with his fingers and started to take a sip. As he did, the wheelchair girl unzipped his fly and fumbled around his groin till she grasped his stuff.
Johnny had never felt another persons flesh on his wang before. The shock and warmth of delicate female fingertips erupted him into a gooey mess, just barely outside of his zipper and slightly above her elbow.
Now he was a man.
The mustache really paid off.
He gallantly wheeled the girl back inside and thank her with a Pina Colada. She wasn’t impressed, but he didn’t care. He was off to his next conquest.
Somewhere down the road.
Johnny was a little man, not just in stature, but in mind and in the unspoken measure. None of that bothered him until he hit the eighth grade. Then every guy in the locker room knew his religion and the distance from his stomach to his pee hole. Not to mention that his hormones had only managed to push out one pubic hair.
One hair.
It didn’t even curl. It just dangled awkwardly about an inch above the base of his penis and slightly to the right. It had sprouted next a mole but still seemed lonely. It was way too early for the party. Sometimes, at night Johnny would talk to it and twirl it gently with his index finger trying to cheer it up and keep it company.
One day, five boys that Mother Nature let go first on the Puberty Train, pummeled him mercilessly with red rubber balls on the dodge ball court in gym class and then really let him have it in the shower.
They laughed and pointed at his undeveloped phallus and his solitary pube. They even made up a song about his inverted pee pee. His balls were as big as sun ripened oranges but his stick wasn’t enough to, well, shake a stick at. Thimble sized at best, Johnny’s Johnny quickly sailed from a Junior High wisecrack to a High School legend. Cheeks ripe with red acne and a smelly tooth never mattered much when his nickname was Needle Dick. Not one girl said yes to his invitations to a night at the movies or super melts at Friendly’s. He couldn’t even get a maybe from the midget girl in A.V.
That all ended with graduation.
He didn’t get any poon, but he decided he was taking his show on the road and get shunned by girls from a different state.
He decided to grow a mustache to look older. He stole a bottle of High Karate from his dad and hit the road.
Two days of pavement behind him, he stopped into a place called The Big Red Dog. Nobody asked him for I.D., probably because of his mustache, he thought. He leaned on the sticky bar and ordered a Manhattan. He didn’t know what was in it but it was the only drink he knew. Next thing he remembers, a girl in a wheelchair was tugging on his back pocket. She invited him out to the parking lot to share her Jim Beam. He followed and put his sneaker behind her wheel as she fished through the back seat of an Impala looking for the booze she was baiting him with. She finally found the bottle and held it up like it was Excalibur. She tilted her head back and made like a siphon on that bottle. Her adams apple jumped up and down as she guzzled down the booze, mesmerizing Johnny like a bouncing ball on a karaoke screen. Wiping her chin, she passed the whiskey over to Johnny. He rubbed the rim with his fingers and started to take a sip. As he did, the wheelchair girl unzipped his fly and fumbled around his groin till she grasped his stuff.
Johnny had never felt another persons flesh on his wang before. The shock and warmth of delicate female fingertips erupted him into a gooey mess, just barely outside of his zipper and slightly above her elbow.
Now he was a man.
The mustache really paid off.
He gallantly wheeled the girl back inside and thank her with a Pina Colada. She wasn’t impressed, but he didn’t care. He was off to his next conquest.
Somewhere down the road.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Dugout
The Dugout
There was this place called The Dugout. I don’t know how it got that name. It wasn’t dug out of anything nor did it resemble a dugout one might find on a baseball field. It was just a small dirt circle encased by trees. It was twenty feet down the hill from Route 6 and didn’t seem to be anyone’s property. The path linking it to the road was obvious to everyone that knew it was there, but somehow it hid itself from every parent, cop or Neighborhood Watch Nazi.
I had seen some older kids go in there now and then. I often stopped my bike at the entrance and strained to decipher the muffled words trickling through the leaves. I never made out anything but murmurs, coughs and laughter.
Sometimes everything would go silent. Then, suddenly I would hear a rush of snapping twigs and rustling leaves. The Big Kids were coming out. I pedaled off as fast as I could, even standing up to get the most out of my twelve year old legs. I don’t think they ever knew I was trying to eavesdrop on them.
One day everything changed.
It was a summer day, not too hot, shortly after Highland Elementary had paroled us for three months. It must have been a Saturday because I had just finished delivering The Register; it had a Saturday but no Sunday, like my other two routes. I turned the corner, aimed my front tire into the hill and started pumping my legs. I had barely gained momentum, when I looked up and saw Chase come around the top of the hill and disappear into The Dugout.
What The Fuck?
I was shocked.
I know Chase was cooler than me. He was friends with some of the older kids. He always knew what to say if we came across them shoplifting at The Notch or when we had to give up our spot down at The Pond. I just never thought he would go into The Dugout.
I pushed my bike up the hill as fast as I could.
I reached the opening and hesitated for just a second, then pushed my bike into the archway that split open the forest.
Twenty five feet stretched into a mile.
Nobody was happy to see me when I pushed back on the coaster break and slid into the circle. I smiled at Chase. He wasn’t even looking at me.
“What the fuck are you doing in here, you piece of shit?”
It was the oldest kid there and ruler of the realm, Bob Keuhl. He wasn’t very tall but my prepubescent frame dwarfed under his cleft chin and bowl hair cut. He was just a flat out asshole. He could be. He was 3 years older than me and my friends and nobody was going to stand up to him.
“I saw all you guys duck in here.” I replied.
“So, nobody invited you.”
I pulled a bunch of saliva from the insides of my cheeks and creased my tongue to collect it into a ball. I spat a glob three inches from his left foot. Bob glared at me, and then yanked the handle bars of his bike up over his head as he pushed down on the pedals. He let his spinning back tire kiss the ground and shoot some dirt and pebbles at me.
“OOOOOOWWWWW, I’m scared.” I smiled back at him.
“Fuck you.”
“No….Fuck You.”
Another older guy named Kevin, pulled a soft pack of Marlboroughs out of his fanny pack at gave everyone a cigarette. He hesitated briefly when he got to me. I held out my hand and he flipped one onto my prostrate palm. The small cylinder rolled back and forth between the fleshy mound of my thumb and the under-knuckles of right hand. I waited for it to stop then flipped the dark yellow end between my lips. Kevin flicked the tip of his yellow Bic into flame and everyone bowed their head forward. One by one, each cigarette was lit and its owner puffed a few times to make sure it was lit, and then they pulled back from the circle and sucked the smoldering head into a brilliant cherry red.
Then it was my turn.
I felt the wind stop. Everyone looked at me. I looked at Chase but he looked away. Bob stared down at me and started laughing. “What’s wrong Mormon Boy? Is your Magic Underwear protecting you from that cigarette?”
Nothing pisses me off more than ignorance.
Well, maybe being laughed at by ignorant assholes.
I pierced my lips and pulled a small cloud of smoke into my mouth. I held it there for a moment then pushed it out. I repeated this and started to feel cool.
“Why don’t you fucking inhale pussy?” Bob barked at me.
“I am.”
“No you’re not you dipshit. Pull the fucking shit into your lungs. Don’t waste our cigarettes,”
I sucked a little harder on the filter and tried to inhale. As soon as the first particle of smoke hit my lungs, I could feel my mistake. It burned. My knees buckled and I hit the ground doggy style. I couldn’t stop my diaphragm from juggling my lungs. A stream of drool stretched from my bottom lip down to the exposed root I was hanging onto. I felt all the pain. I felt all the shame.
Bob and Kevin were laughing hysterically. They kept calling me every variation of female genetalia they could think of.
I rose to my feet.
I took another drag.
I fought back the urge to cough, my stomach rippling like just poked jello. I winced and I weaved, but I didn’t cough. I even let the gray exhale stream out from my nose.
I clamped my lips around my smoke and got on my bike.
“See ya dickweeds!” I said and pedaled back to the street.
As soon as I was out of the Dugout, I relaxed my jaw and let my cigarette fall to the pavement. I started to down the hill, but backtracked and picked up my smoke. I didn’t want them to know I didn’t finish it.
There was this place called The Dugout. I don’t know how it got that name. It wasn’t dug out of anything nor did it resemble a dugout one might find on a baseball field. It was just a small dirt circle encased by trees. It was twenty feet down the hill from Route 6 and didn’t seem to be anyone’s property. The path linking it to the road was obvious to everyone that knew it was there, but somehow it hid itself from every parent, cop or Neighborhood Watch Nazi.
I had seen some older kids go in there now and then. I often stopped my bike at the entrance and strained to decipher the muffled words trickling through the leaves. I never made out anything but murmurs, coughs and laughter.
Sometimes everything would go silent. Then, suddenly I would hear a rush of snapping twigs and rustling leaves. The Big Kids were coming out. I pedaled off as fast as I could, even standing up to get the most out of my twelve year old legs. I don’t think they ever knew I was trying to eavesdrop on them.
One day everything changed.
It was a summer day, not too hot, shortly after Highland Elementary had paroled us for three months. It must have been a Saturday because I had just finished delivering The Register; it had a Saturday but no Sunday, like my other two routes. I turned the corner, aimed my front tire into the hill and started pumping my legs. I had barely gained momentum, when I looked up and saw Chase come around the top of the hill and disappear into The Dugout.
What The Fuck?
I was shocked.
I know Chase was cooler than me. He was friends with some of the older kids. He always knew what to say if we came across them shoplifting at The Notch or when we had to give up our spot down at The Pond. I just never thought he would go into The Dugout.
I pushed my bike up the hill as fast as I could.
I reached the opening and hesitated for just a second, then pushed my bike into the archway that split open the forest.
Twenty five feet stretched into a mile.
Nobody was happy to see me when I pushed back on the coaster break and slid into the circle. I smiled at Chase. He wasn’t even looking at me.
“What the fuck are you doing in here, you piece of shit?”
It was the oldest kid there and ruler of the realm, Bob Keuhl. He wasn’t very tall but my prepubescent frame dwarfed under his cleft chin and bowl hair cut. He was just a flat out asshole. He could be. He was 3 years older than me and my friends and nobody was going to stand up to him.
“I saw all you guys duck in here.” I replied.
“So, nobody invited you.”
I pulled a bunch of saliva from the insides of my cheeks and creased my tongue to collect it into a ball. I spat a glob three inches from his left foot. Bob glared at me, and then yanked the handle bars of his bike up over his head as he pushed down on the pedals. He let his spinning back tire kiss the ground and shoot some dirt and pebbles at me.
“OOOOOOWWWWW, I’m scared.” I smiled back at him.
“Fuck you.”
“No….Fuck You.”
Another older guy named Kevin, pulled a soft pack of Marlboroughs out of his fanny pack at gave everyone a cigarette. He hesitated briefly when he got to me. I held out my hand and he flipped one onto my prostrate palm. The small cylinder rolled back and forth between the fleshy mound of my thumb and the under-knuckles of right hand. I waited for it to stop then flipped the dark yellow end between my lips. Kevin flicked the tip of his yellow Bic into flame and everyone bowed their head forward. One by one, each cigarette was lit and its owner puffed a few times to make sure it was lit, and then they pulled back from the circle and sucked the smoldering head into a brilliant cherry red.
Then it was my turn.
I felt the wind stop. Everyone looked at me. I looked at Chase but he looked away. Bob stared down at me and started laughing. “What’s wrong Mormon Boy? Is your Magic Underwear protecting you from that cigarette?”
Nothing pisses me off more than ignorance.
Well, maybe being laughed at by ignorant assholes.
I pierced my lips and pulled a small cloud of smoke into my mouth. I held it there for a moment then pushed it out. I repeated this and started to feel cool.
“Why don’t you fucking inhale pussy?” Bob barked at me.
“I am.”
“No you’re not you dipshit. Pull the fucking shit into your lungs. Don’t waste our cigarettes,”
I sucked a little harder on the filter and tried to inhale. As soon as the first particle of smoke hit my lungs, I could feel my mistake. It burned. My knees buckled and I hit the ground doggy style. I couldn’t stop my diaphragm from juggling my lungs. A stream of drool stretched from my bottom lip down to the exposed root I was hanging onto. I felt all the pain. I felt all the shame.
Bob and Kevin were laughing hysterically. They kept calling me every variation of female genetalia they could think of.
I rose to my feet.
I took another drag.
I fought back the urge to cough, my stomach rippling like just poked jello. I winced and I weaved, but I didn’t cough. I even let the gray exhale stream out from my nose.
I clamped my lips around my smoke and got on my bike.
“See ya dickweeds!” I said and pedaled back to the street.
As soon as I was out of the Dugout, I relaxed my jaw and let my cigarette fall to the pavement. I started to down the hill, but backtracked and picked up my smoke. I didn’t want them to know I didn’t finish it.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
DA !
Dad was Dad.
He was what he was, the sum of all he tried to be and what he was supposed to be, minus all the things he couldn't be.
He was Dad, but he was just a man.
There was a time I hated him. It was a few years in my late teens. I hated him partly for who he was and partly for who I wanted him to be and who he wasn't.
Sandwiched around that time was the adoration only found in the heart of a boy who loves his dad.
Now I look to him for advice on how to live my life. When I was young I looked at him like he was The World
He was Dad.
He was The Man.
He was all I knew to be constant in a world that changed almost daily. I was in a different school every year. I was in a different house more than that. I had a dozen people trying to raise me, grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, girlfriends, stepmoms and and friends of friends. None of them ever even noticed me unless I did something that got me in trouble. I was a ghost to every one.
Nobody saw me.
Except for Dad.
Sometimes I was afraid. He was so big, so loud and so scary. I cried every time I had to ask him for something but tried to choke back my sobs so he would't think I was weak. It must have worked because he always managed to anser my questions and relate it to a real life scenario.
He taught me about life as he was teaching me how to live
He taught me how to tie my shoes. I remember I was tucked between his legs, his knees folded up and towering above my head. He reached down with his giant hands and guided my fingers as we made a knot and tied the rabbit's ears together. I rember doing it until I could do it all by myself and feeling Dad's arms hugging me after I did it, letting me know how proud he was of me.
He taught me how to fry an egg, change a tire, repair the brakes on my car, iron a shirt, balance my check book and many other things.
He was the first person I called when my first marriage was desintergrating. I called him under the guise that I wanted advice, but all I really wanted was just Dad. He gave me some advice, but the best thing he did that day was give me a big hug. I was trying to be the man he taught me to be but at that moment I was a little boy and just needed Daddy! For a couple of seconds Dad let me be his little boy again and hugged me. I felt safe and warm and just knew everything was going to be O.K.
I have a family of my own now.
I know That I I have a great responsibility, escorting my son up to his own gateway of manhood.
I also know that no matter how old I get, I'm still Dad's son and he loves me.
He was what he was, the sum of all he tried to be and what he was supposed to be, minus all the things he couldn't be.
He was Dad, but he was just a man.
There was a time I hated him. It was a few years in my late teens. I hated him partly for who he was and partly for who I wanted him to be and who he wasn't.
Sandwiched around that time was the adoration only found in the heart of a boy who loves his dad.
Now I look to him for advice on how to live my life. When I was young I looked at him like he was The World
He was Dad.
He was The Man.
He was all I knew to be constant in a world that changed almost daily. I was in a different school every year. I was in a different house more than that. I had a dozen people trying to raise me, grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, girlfriends, stepmoms and and friends of friends. None of them ever even noticed me unless I did something that got me in trouble. I was a ghost to every one.
Nobody saw me.
Except for Dad.
Sometimes I was afraid. He was so big, so loud and so scary. I cried every time I had to ask him for something but tried to choke back my sobs so he would't think I was weak. It must have worked because he always managed to anser my questions and relate it to a real life scenario.
He taught me about life as he was teaching me how to live
He taught me how to tie my shoes. I remember I was tucked between his legs, his knees folded up and towering above my head. He reached down with his giant hands and guided my fingers as we made a knot and tied the rabbit's ears together. I rember doing it until I could do it all by myself and feeling Dad's arms hugging me after I did it, letting me know how proud he was of me.
He taught me how to fry an egg, change a tire, repair the brakes on my car, iron a shirt, balance my check book and many other things.
He was the first person I called when my first marriage was desintergrating. I called him under the guise that I wanted advice, but all I really wanted was just Dad. He gave me some advice, but the best thing he did that day was give me a big hug. I was trying to be the man he taught me to be but at that moment I was a little boy and just needed Daddy! For a couple of seconds Dad let me be his little boy again and hugged me. I felt safe and warm and just knew everything was going to be O.K.
I have a family of my own now.
I know That I I have a great responsibility, escorting my son up to his own gateway of manhood.
I also know that no matter how old I get, I'm still Dad's son and he loves me.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Pretty Pirate
It was the sixth grade championship. All seemed lost when we were down to our last out, even with Jimmy up. He bounced a double out into right field and then it was Keri McFarland's turn. Keri was the kind of girl who would rather be doing anything else but playing a competitive sport. The political correctness of boy-girl-boy-girl order in the kickball line up didn’t make her feel liberated, it just interfered with her ability to gossip about how cute the guys were when they got all red-faced, sweaty and heated up about such a silly sport as kickball.
The other team knew this, and the taunts came bouncing in. Faint at first, they just kept increasing in amplitude and anger. I heard Heath Pollard, that little shit, call her McFartland a couple of times and then call her Gobbler.
I cringed when I heard that.
No, check that, my blood started to boil. I wanted to kick Heath's ass. I was pretty small back then, compared to everyone else, but I was a scrapper, and I was mad as hell.
You see, anyone calling Keri “Gobbler” was my fault.
I came up with the name four years prior, when girls still seemed yucky and you wanted nothing to do with them.
Well, a lot of eight year old boys didn’t, anyway.
By that point though, I didn’t mind them.
There was this bunch of girls who prowled the grammar school playground known as The Kissers. The Kissers were a group of girls that would let the boys do all of their “boy stuff” for most of recess. They would wait for that moment when the teachers weren’t watching and swarm down on the group, each girl picking out a boy to kiss. Then they would each kiss him and run away.
If a boy saw them coming for us, he would just yell “KISSERS!” and everyone would run away.
Scattering like the rabbits from hawks, we would all fend for ourselves and each find our own escape hole. If you got picked off, it was just nature. The first couple of times it happened, Keri got me. I figured it was because I was right in the middle of stuff (revise for precise lang.) and couldn’t get away. Then I realized they hunted in packs and she was the Queen. They all funneled me back to her. They were like lionesses on the hunt.
I was a fast little guy and soon learned how to avoid the lioness.
That was, until I had a crush on this little brunette named Katie Gardner.
She wasn’t a Kisser when it first started, but she became one and I definitely took notice.
I would run away only to meet her behind the library so she could catch me.
It was a perfect plan until one day we were caught.
Just as Katie Gardner laid a kiss on me I heard some boy yell “Bobby Ferguson let himself be kissed! Bobby Ferguson let himself be kissed!” (Too long, not believable as a chant. Maybe “Bobby Ferguson wanted it!”?)
My first reaction was angry embarrassment and I started to run after that kid to kick his ass, but then I got a grip on myself. I reached back and grabbed Katie’s hand. We walked up to the line hand in hand, and everybody was OOOOOOHHHing and AAAHHHHHing at us.
It didn’t matter. We walked together with pride.
A few hours later, when we had been dismissed for the day, I left with the rest of the walkers that were going my way. It was a group of about 25 kids ranging from kindergarten to 6th grade.
Out of nowhere Keri came up to me and pushed me. She was much bigger than me in those days. Her shadow even weighed more than I did. I craned my neck and looked up into her green eyes flared wide with fury.
She was mad at me for kissing Katie.
I rose to my feet, dusted the dirt from the ass of my school pants and tried to shake off the embarrassment of being pushed down by a girl. She spread her yap scary-wide as she yelled at me, “Why did you kiss Katie?”
I just blurted out that she looked like a turkey and I hated her gobbler (or “You look like a turkey and I hate your gobbler!!!” for more impact). I flicked my index finger and it snapped against its intended target. The excess flesh spanning from her chin to her larynx rippled like stale Jell-O, sending shockwaves of humiliation surging through her body. The waves crashed in crimson against her skin and emblazoned her in burning red.
A couple of older kids busted out laughing and started making turkey sounds. Time froze for a moment when our two panicking glances collided and we held onto each other with a stare. The black of her pupil swelled open and pulled me in. I entered her mind and I tasted that all-too-familiar bitterness of ridicule. I withdrew in shame, peeling my eyes from her panicked glare.
I ran one way and she ran the other.
I cursed my mind and my tongue for being quicker than my better judgment. With every step, I replayed the incident in my mind, hoping that the ending would be different. It never changed. Curse words mingled almost audibly into every exhale and peppered my breathing with swears. I kept my head down, fixated on the sidewalk. The spaces between each block of concrete flickered by like the last of the celluloid as it passes through the projector.
My father remarried later that year and I moved to a different town, only to move back a year and a half later when he divorced. (What grade?)
Keri wasn’t a Kisser any more and I wasn’t a little kid. We became friends, but not the kind that everyone could notice. We both knew our reasons...
Everyone started screaming.
I snapped my focus back onto the game. I saw Keri running to first, as the red ball floated over the stubby arms of Heath. It was just a little dribbler, but she kicked it into a spot where nobody was. Now Keri was on first and Jimmy was on third.
I bent over, arching my head up so my chin was perpendicular to the asphalt, and focused in on the release. Faster than I could describe, my eyes picked up the red rotation of the ball as it skimmed down the black tar and sent the correct geometric calculation to my leg. I took two and a half steps and my right foot sent that rubber ball flying further than anyone on that playground had ever seen a ball kicked. The ball left the schoolyard entirely, clearing the wooden palisade fence of the yard bordering left field. I jogged around the spray-painted bases, smiling as everyone was still looking at where the ball went. I soaked up the triumph.
When I crossed home plate there were twenty-five kids and two teachers in the chaos. I pushed myself through it and found Keri.
She was with two of her friends and they all turned to look at me as I ran right up to her. She was unaffected by themoment.
I grabbed her hand.
“You’re not going to kiss me!” she said, laughing.
I echoed her laugh and pulled her closer with a hug.
I kissed her like I was Hollywood. I was old style black and white. I was the rogue with a giant heart, the pretty pirate that promised a life filled with passion.
I was Errol Flynn.
That moment, so simple and innocent, always seems to creep up on me when I least expect it. I shrug off the heavy here-and-now daydream into a smile.
The other team knew this, and the taunts came bouncing in. Faint at first, they just kept increasing in amplitude and anger. I heard Heath Pollard, that little shit, call her McFartland a couple of times and then call her Gobbler.
I cringed when I heard that.
No, check that, my blood started to boil. I wanted to kick Heath's ass. I was pretty small back then, compared to everyone else, but I was a scrapper, and I was mad as hell.
You see, anyone calling Keri “Gobbler” was my fault.
I came up with the name four years prior, when girls still seemed yucky and you wanted nothing to do with them.
Well, a lot of eight year old boys didn’t, anyway.
By that point though, I didn’t mind them.
There was this bunch of girls who prowled the grammar school playground known as The Kissers. The Kissers were a group of girls that would let the boys do all of their “boy stuff” for most of recess. They would wait for that moment when the teachers weren’t watching and swarm down on the group, each girl picking out a boy to kiss. Then they would each kiss him and run away.
If a boy saw them coming for us, he would just yell “KISSERS!” and everyone would run away.
Scattering like the rabbits from hawks, we would all fend for ourselves and each find our own escape hole. If you got picked off, it was just nature. The first couple of times it happened, Keri got me. I figured it was because I was right in the middle of stuff (revise for precise lang.) and couldn’t get away. Then I realized they hunted in packs and she was the Queen. They all funneled me back to her. They were like lionesses on the hunt.
I was a fast little guy and soon learned how to avoid the lioness.
That was, until I had a crush on this little brunette named Katie Gardner.
She wasn’t a Kisser when it first started, but she became one and I definitely took notice.
I would run away only to meet her behind the library so she could catch me.
It was a perfect plan until one day we were caught.
Just as Katie Gardner laid a kiss on me I heard some boy yell “Bobby Ferguson let himself be kissed! Bobby Ferguson let himself be kissed!” (Too long, not believable as a chant. Maybe “Bobby Ferguson wanted it!”?)
My first reaction was angry embarrassment and I started to run after that kid to kick his ass, but then I got a grip on myself. I reached back and grabbed Katie’s hand. We walked up to the line hand in hand, and everybody was OOOOOOHHHing and AAAHHHHHing at us.
It didn’t matter. We walked together with pride.
A few hours later, when we had been dismissed for the day, I left with the rest of the walkers that were going my way. It was a group of about 25 kids ranging from kindergarten to 6th grade.
Out of nowhere Keri came up to me and pushed me. She was much bigger than me in those days. Her shadow even weighed more than I did. I craned my neck and looked up into her green eyes flared wide with fury.
She was mad at me for kissing Katie.
I rose to my feet, dusted the dirt from the ass of my school pants and tried to shake off the embarrassment of being pushed down by a girl. She spread her yap scary-wide as she yelled at me, “Why did you kiss Katie?”
I just blurted out that she looked like a turkey and I hated her gobbler (or “You look like a turkey and I hate your gobbler!!!” for more impact). I flicked my index finger and it snapped against its intended target. The excess flesh spanning from her chin to her larynx rippled like stale Jell-O, sending shockwaves of humiliation surging through her body. The waves crashed in crimson against her skin and emblazoned her in burning red.
A couple of older kids busted out laughing and started making turkey sounds. Time froze for a moment when our two panicking glances collided and we held onto each other with a stare. The black of her pupil swelled open and pulled me in. I entered her mind and I tasted that all-too-familiar bitterness of ridicule. I withdrew in shame, peeling my eyes from her panicked glare.
I ran one way and she ran the other.
I cursed my mind and my tongue for being quicker than my better judgment. With every step, I replayed the incident in my mind, hoping that the ending would be different. It never changed. Curse words mingled almost audibly into every exhale and peppered my breathing with swears. I kept my head down, fixated on the sidewalk. The spaces between each block of concrete flickered by like the last of the celluloid as it passes through the projector.
My father remarried later that year and I moved to a different town, only to move back a year and a half later when he divorced. (What grade?)
Keri wasn’t a Kisser any more and I wasn’t a little kid. We became friends, but not the kind that everyone could notice. We both knew our reasons...
Everyone started screaming.
I snapped my focus back onto the game. I saw Keri running to first, as the red ball floated over the stubby arms of Heath. It was just a little dribbler, but she kicked it into a spot where nobody was. Now Keri was on first and Jimmy was on third.
I bent over, arching my head up so my chin was perpendicular to the asphalt, and focused in on the release. Faster than I could describe, my eyes picked up the red rotation of the ball as it skimmed down the black tar and sent the correct geometric calculation to my leg. I took two and a half steps and my right foot sent that rubber ball flying further than anyone on that playground had ever seen a ball kicked. The ball left the schoolyard entirely, clearing the wooden palisade fence of the yard bordering left field. I jogged around the spray-painted bases, smiling as everyone was still looking at where the ball went. I soaked up the triumph.
When I crossed home plate there were twenty-five kids and two teachers in the chaos. I pushed myself through it and found Keri.
She was with two of her friends and they all turned to look at me as I ran right up to her. She was unaffected by themoment.
I grabbed her hand.
“You’re not going to kiss me!” she said, laughing.
I echoed her laugh and pulled her closer with a hug.
I kissed her like I was Hollywood. I was old style black and white. I was the rogue with a giant heart, the pretty pirate that promised a life filled with passion.
I was Errol Flynn.
That moment, so simple and innocent, always seems to creep up on me when I least expect it. I shrug off the heavy here-and-now daydream into a smile.
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