The story I'm about to tell is really, really personal, and
while it'll probably piss my parents off if they ever read it, I'm gonna tell it anyway for two reasons. One, a lot
of funny (amazing?) shit happened. And two, I'm an asshole.
Okay, so I had a really crappy childhood in most respects,
and chiefly because I didn't "fit in" with the environmental hand I was dealt. I suppose if I was born a lot dumber
and a little less of a smart ass, I'd have been mediocre, well adjusted, and happier than a pig in shit. Unfortunately,
I'm the smartest guy the race of man has ever produced, so that didn't happen.
Without throwing a pity-party for myself, lemme' just
say that I was your typical dickhead teenager... TIMES TEN!!! And this resulted in a never-ending battle between me
and my conservative Christian parents. As such, I was constantly running away from home, the last time culminating in
an adventure that would change my life forever.
I was fifteen at the time, and- on the night this saga began-
I was out collecting money for my paper route. Why did I have a paper route at fifteen? Fuck you, that's
why.
I had my driver's permit, and Mom was riding shotgun as I
wheeled her silver Toyota Cressida from house to house in an attempt to get our redneck, deadbeat paper readers to pay
up. It was late- like, after nine o'clock, and I was already pissed off about being anywhere BUT
in front of the TV. To explain, my mother was FANATICAL about collecting the paper route money, and she would force
my brother and I to champion this cause at the weirdest times. Thus, you might hear a knock at your door in the
dead of night, only to answer it and find me standing there with my hand outstretched.
"Two dollars, Bitch! Uh, I mean, Mame."
After one such extortion, I was given a check instead of cash, (yes,
a check for two dollars), which I absently pocketed before returning to the car and sliding into the driver's seat.
The conversation that ensued between me and my mother went something like this:
Mom: "So? Did you get the money?"
Mike: "Yeah, she gave me a check."
Mom: "Well... Where is it?"
Mike: "In my pocket, under my butt."
Mom: "Why don't cha give it to me. Ya know, for safe
keeping."
Mike: "What? Why?!?"
Mom: "I just wanna make sure none of the money gets mixed
up."
This enraged me, and lemme' tell you why. Ya see, you
probably can't tell from the above little diatribe, but Mom was insinuating that the money should be in HER possession so
that my brother Eric, (who was my partner in the paper route), would get his share. Now, I love my brother more than
the waking world; always have, always will. Eric is, by far, the most noble person I've ever had the privilege of
knowing, and while I don't always agree with his ideals, I can do nothing other than respect him. He commands that from
me, and- in more ways than one- I owe every "good" trait I boast, to him.
Naturally, the mere idea of me cheating him was blasphemy,
and I refused to give Mom the two dollar check on general principle. My defiance sparked a full on cat fight, (and I
say "cat fight", because we were both bitches), during which Mom came right out and accused me of wanting to keep the check
all to myself, (never mind that I didn't have a bank account, and that I couldn't have possibly cashed the paper treasure
horde in my pocket).
Eventually, I said something subtle yet dismissive, like,
"FUCK OFF, YOU EMOTIONALLY SCARRING SADIST!!!", and exited the car.
We weren't that far from home, so I was content to walk
back- the check's security still in place- while my mother drove past me in the Cressida at mach seven.
This disturbed me somewhat, because I knew she'd beat me back
to the house, which would give her at least fifteen minutes to retell the story to my father. Mom did and does have
a unique way of orchestrating the "truth" so that it serves her own purposes, so I figured I'd have to do some damage
control once I got home.
I never got the chance...
As soon as I walked through the front door, my dad started
taking off his belt.
"Turn around," he said, apparently intent on spanking me.
Keep in mind, I was fifteen, and long since past the age of
spanking. Add to this nine years of off-again/on-again karate lessons, and you've got yourself a father versus
son fisticuffs.
"NO!" I screamed, simultaneously bursting into tears like
the pussy I was, "I WON'T TURN AROUND!!! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!!! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT SHE ACCUSED
ME OF!!! AREN'T YA EVEN GONNA LISTEN TO MY SIDE OF THE STORY?!?"
From what I remember, Dad expressed his indifference to "my
side of the story", and proceeded to try and hit me with the belt.
To this day, I still don't know what Mom told him, but
it must've been one of her better exaggerations to get Dad all worked up like that.
In the early part of my childhood, Dad was immune
to her self-centered, "I'm a martyr" bullshit, and would often call her on it when she started in. Alas, as the
years passed, Mom wore him down, and the night of this story was the first time I'd ever seen my father unequivocally
manipulated to the point where right and wrong, justice and injustice, were completely irrelevant to him.
In the interest of clarification, my father was a badass when
I was growing up- his handshake iron, his gaze prideful, his demeanor forged from the horrors he'd seen in Vietnam. I've
been in enough street fights to "know" combat, but I will never know it as he knew it; never as a continuous struggle
for survival where there're no bouncers, no police, no referees to save your ass when things turn sour.
I love my father. Not as I love Eric, but I love him.
The man I knew was a pillar of uncompromising strength, a man larger individuals feared, a man you liked and respected whether
you wanted to or not.
I miss that man. I miss the senior I so much wanted
to be like...
Crying yet? Well, DON'T!!! This story
isn't about regret. It's about the fucked up things I did in the name of adolescent pride, and the good parts are coming
up.
So Dad charges me with spanking belt in hand, and I hit a
karate stance. I was filled with bowel loosening terror, but I held my ground, thus blocking his inane strikes with
characteristic skill... that is until Dad realized I was actually "fighting" him, and decided that my defiance warranted
an asswhipping.
Lemme' just say right now that I've never been physically
abused, at least not by my parents. When I got out of line, they smacked me, which is what parents SHOULD do.
Even the situation I'm talking about now was justified, because- in Dad's mind- I was a cocky rebellious teenager
that'd disrespected his mother. Of course, my mother was lying, but that had no relevant bearing on the situation as
it was.
Anyway, after absorbing two or three admittedly clumsy punches
from Dad, I fled in full "coward" mode, thus running past him and pushing my way through both Mom and Eric, (who were
also in the living room by now). I don't remember this, but, according to Eric, I unleashed some kind of demonic laugh
as I ran; a maniacal gesture I'm sure my mother attributed to Satanic possession.
"BWAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!!!"
Out of the living room, through the kitchen, down the hall,
and eventually to my bedroom I ran, then locking the flimsy pine door to negate pursuit. Once in my sanctuary,
I retrieved my full length samurai sword from the closet, (yes, as a fifteen year old martial artist, I had a samurai sword),
then brandishing it between shaking hands in anticipation of any would-be attackers that came through the door.
I was ready to fight, I was ready to kill- until a series
of knocks heralded my Dad's deep, Mississippi voice.
"MICHAEL JUNIOR!!! UNLOCK THIS GOD DAMN DOOR!!!"
I shit my pants, panic causing me to drop the drawn samurai
sword and scramble over to the window. I got it open a half a second later, then leaping through and toppling over into
the manicured line of sticker bushes outside. The nasty landscaping cut me in a score of places, but I was so scared
that I hit the ground running, then sprinting to a house two lots down where I knew there were no fences. Traversing
the backyard beyond, I crossed over to the next street, found a fitting tree, and climbed up as far as my semi-fear of heights
would allow.
Was I a douche-bag or what? The answer is "yes", and
I stayed in that tree for more than an hour, my caution eventually deemed necessary when a cop car prowled slowly past my
hiding place.
They didn't see me though, BITCHES!!! 'cause I was a
ninja.
Eventually, I started getting tired and hungry, and I came
down once I figured it was too late in the evening for anybody to be up. Staying close to this house or that, I made
my way through the neighborhood in true ninja style, perodically leaping into the nearest bush or backyard when headlights
turned down whatever street I was on.
I needed a place to sleep, I needed solace, and the logical
choice was my grandmother Shirley's place, (my Dad's mom). My grandmother Lucille's crib was closer, (my Mom's mom),
but I'd already "run away" to there on numerous occasions, and I figured my best chance was to switch things up. Judging
by the police car I'd seen earlier, I rightly guessed that Mom had called the cops on me, and grandma Shirley's was just far
enough away to work.
And so, I set out to cross the five or so miles that stood
between me and grandma Shirley's house. Just to set the record straight, BOTH grandmothers were well aware of Mom's
perpetual persecution of me, and thus, sympathetic to my cause.
Inching my way from frontyard to frontyard, I came at last
to my first obstacle: Solomon Field. The field itself was a vast and flat expanse where the various teams of Solomon
Junior High School conducted scrimmages. As they played both football and soccer on that field, it was void of hiding
places; the enormous meadow flanked to the east by an equally enormous weather ditch, one that pretty much traversed the entire
city of Greenville. The ditch was broken only by the tunnel supported "bridges" that allowed cars entrance to this playing
field or that.
I know I'm not describing it well, but the only thing you
need know is that I was out in the open, and taking a big chance of getting caught.
It was storming by this time, and storming HARD! -lightning
spearing across the sky as blankets of fat raindrops pelted me from above. I was tired and wet and emotionally drained,
but I was also fifteen, which made the whole thing seem like a grand adventure. Added to this, I was insane, months
and months of defiant rebellion having taken its toll on my mental stability, which is why I decided to run from the police
when they finally showed up.
Just as I reached the midway point of the field, a cop car
crossed the first bridge and pulled in some fifty yards behind me. I immediately took off running, only to stop dead
in my tracks as a second cop car pulled into the Solomon Junior High School parking lot.
I was cut off from both north and south, which left me with
only two options. Either I could flee west into the open field proper, (thus insuring that the cop cars would run me
down long before I reached the safety of yet another neighborhood), or I could jump into the ditch.
Guess what I did...
With the musical score from Raiders of the Lost Ark
suddenly playing in my head, I screamed, "TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!!!", and hurled myself over the edge.
As anyone from Greenville can tell you, the Solomon Field weather
ditch is massive, spanning some twenty feet across and boasting a depth that's just about as much. In addition to the
thunderstorm of that night, it'd rained the previous few days, (which is common in the Mississippi Delta in the Spring), and
I found myself in a river-like torrent.
The rushing water carried me along at a frightening pace,
but I was and am an expert swimmer, and the sheer "coolness" of my escape negated all fear... that is until I started going
towards one of the bridge-supporting tunnels.
It yawned before me like a big black butthole, and I started
to panic. After all, I had no idea what kind of hell spawned ditch monsters lived in that tunnel, and the pursing police
officers would be of no help once I was inside.
I think I yelled something brave like, "OH FUCKING SHIT, I'M
GONNA DIE!!!", before darkness descended, and I was enveloped by the abyss. I could see the other side illuminated by
periodic flashes of lightning, by that didn't stop me from screaming like a non-virgin in a horror flick.
Instinctively, I caught hold of some kind of protrusion near
the end, thus hanging on for dear life as rainwater continued to wash past and over me. It was a smart move, in retrospect,
because if I'd come out the other side, the driver of the first cop car, (parked directly above), would've seen me flushed
into view like a turd in reverse.
As it was though, I stayed in the tunnel, thus waiting
until the blue and red strobes diminished before I let go and allowed the pseudo-river carry me further down. After
another twenty minutes of floating along like a fecal gingerbread man, I managed to reach the embankment and
climb out, now fully convinced that I was, indeed, Indiana Jones.
Soaking wet but feeling like I'd just enjoyed a full body
enema, I once again took off for Grandma Shirley's, eventually reaching her house around eleven thirty or twelve. I
have no memory of the lengthy journey, and I'm amazed that I didn't get picked up by the cops or ass-raped by a roving gang
of thugs.
Anyway, Shirley took me in and listened to my panicked rambling,
subsequently soothing me with ice cream and preparing the pull out couch so that I would have a place to sleep.
I didn't sleep long.
At what I'm guessing is three in the morning, two of Greenville's
finest knocked on the door, then handcuffing me and taking me into custody- much to the horror of my grandmother. Granted,
the policemen were sympathetic to my dilemma, (doubly so once my grandmother put her two cents in), but they had
a job to do, and I was spirited off the Washington County Juvenile Detention Center.
I was fingerprinted, processed, and put into a little cell
with a blanket covered slab of concrete for a bed.
Was I scared? Well, no, not at first. My fifteen-year-old
mind was too stunned by all that had happened to realize that I was actually in jail, and I slept without dreams.
If memory serves, it really didn't hit me until the next day, when my cell door was opened and I was herded into the main
"common" room for breakfast. Said common room was about twenty feet by twenty feet square, with a single picnic
table of metal pushed against the side wall. There was a surveillance camera hanging from one corner of the ceiling,
and a large Plexiglas window with a television on the other side of it.
I wasn't a criminal, per say, so I ate my crappy breakfast
in silence with the other four detainees, confident that my parents would arrive at any moment to pick me up.
That moment didn't come, and I was forced to interact with
my fellow convicts as best I could. Even though I was the only white guy, I was pretty much the biggest; my only size-relevant
rival being this tall black kid that had been incarcerated for rape. Yes, you read that right... RAPE!!!
They gave me shit at first, making "honkey" jokes and
such until I established dominance by beating the rapist kid at arm-wrestling. I'm gonna call him "Rapist" from now
on, but I don't mean that in a negative way. Rapist soon became my friend, but only after I manhandled him. Before
that, he warned that he could "cut out" this freckle on my neck, thus causing me to bleed to death.
I would later learn in college that freckles aren't connected
to any major arteries. Besides, Rapist didn't have anything to cut me with... BUT I DID!!!
The whole time I was in the Detention Center, I had a key-chain
Swiss army knife that the cops had missed when they padded me down.
So much for security, huh?
Ah, but I never had cause to shank anybody because my other
four cellmates were "down with whitey", and I spent that whole Saturday showing 'em just how cool a honkey could be.
Turns out, they were all innocent, just like me- though I must admit that some of the rationales they cited were a less than
convincing.
As one guy, who I'll call "Blatant Liar", put it, "Just 'cuz
they found that motherfucka's stereo in my room, don't mean I stole it! Shiiiiiit..."
I kept waiting for my parents to show up, but they never did,
and- as night descended- I obediently went back to my cell with a growing sense of despair.
As the darkness embraced me, I started to sing, (as all convicts
do, right?), thus pitching my angelic voice so that my "brothas" on the row could hear me. Not knowing any Blues songs,
I rendered a few Poison ballads before ending my concert with "I Saw Red" from the band Warrant.
I can only assume that mine was a worthy performance, since
nobody told me to, "STOP SINGING THOSE CRACKER SONGS!!!"
Anything I can do to ease the suffering of others...
The next day, Sunday, was pretty much like the one before
it, and I slowly came to realize that my parents weren't coming to get me. My mind ran the gambit of emotions, from
anger to fear to hatred to desperation, and a plan of action began to form. I wasn't going to be rescued, and since
none of the jailers would entertain my pleas for information, I decided to escape.
Surprisingly, I'd already started to hatch this plan the day
before. As I had nothing else to occupy my thoughts- beyond the soundless television, and the ghetto babble of my cohorts-
I'd previously scouted the facility itself for weaknesses. Alas, it was a jail, so- short of super powers- I
couldn't get out by sabotaging the architecture. In addition, we were herded from the common room to our cells
and back again, by full grown police officers, and I rightly figured that if my punk ass couldn't karate chop my
way through my own father, any attempt against multiple and armed subduers would result in another beat down.
No, force was not the answer. I had to use my
brain, and this is something I've always excelled at.
Around five o'clock that Sunday afternoon, it came to me....
I would fake an injury.
After all, if I were hurt, they'd have to carry me out on
a gurney, and once given the freedom of the parking lot, I could run like hell. Even if I was well
guarded, I could wait until I got to the hospital, stab some well meaning doctor in the heart with his own syringe, and then
disappear into the night.
Yep, I'd thought it all out, (with a fifteen-year-old's imagination),
going so far as to envision a hitch-hiking trek to California or New York, where I would then make my living as a junior
assassin for hire. The mafia would take me in, no doubt, for I was so young that none of their "targets" would
suspect me until it was too late.
"Can I get you some more tea, sir?" I'd ask, and as soon as
they said "yeah", I'd kill 'em with a fork or something.
Yep, I was that bad.... in my head.
Ya know what's funny? The first part of the plan might've
worked, had I actually been as smart as I think I am. Unfortunately, I'm not, for I made the cardinal error...
I confided in others.
Desperate for information on "injured inmate" protocol,
I prodded my compatriots, (who'd all been there before), to see if what I thought would work, actually would.
Undoubtedly eager to see the white boy make an ass of myself, they encouraged me, and I embarked on my ruse with their expressed
and enthusiastic cooperation.
As nighttime approached, (the transition from common room
to cell, nigh), I pretended to become fascinated with the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling, going so far as
to scoot the metal picnic table over so that I could stand on top of it and "eye" the camera itself with expertly feigned
curiosity.
Our female "warden" of the hour, (who watched through the
same Plexiglas window that separated us from the silent television), was engrossed in paperwork, but I played my hand just
the same, confident that SOMEONE was watching.
And so it went for a good ten minutes, before I heard the
female warden shout, "HEY! GET DOWN FROM THERE!"
Preparing to employ my karate-ingrained "break fall" skills,
I pretended to be startled, then toppling over the edge of the table to slam against the cold, concrete floor.
The flood of screaming tears that followed was only half an act, for I was, in truth, at the end of my wits.
"AHHHH!!!" I cried, "MOMMY!!! MY LEG!!! MOMMY!!!
AHHHHH!!!"
I'll tell ya right here and now, without arrogance, that it
was one of the best performances I have ever offered. Given my flexibility, I'd engineered my fall so that my right
leg was now bent sideways, as if it was truly broken, and I proceeded to wail at the top of my lungs.
After the shocked female warden shit her pants, I saw her
pick up a CB mouthpiece and yell into the mike... pandemonium ensuing.
Less than a minute later, a foursome of police officers charged
into the room, two of 'em manhandling my four cohorts back to their cells, while the other two tried to comfort me with soothing
words.
Cop 1: "It's okay, son. It's okay. Tell me were
it hurts.
Mike: (my Golden Globe winning performance continuing) "MOMMY!!!
I WANT MY MOMMY!!! MY LEG!!! MY LEG!!!"
Note: For the slow folks, I didn't really want my
mommy, but I wanted to appear as young and helpless and frightened as a kid could be, and I figured that that's who
a five year old would call for: his mommy.
It worked.... kinda.
The two cops with me turned into pseudo-father-figures, assuring
me in gentle tones that, "help was on the way", and that I was a, "brave little camper."
Little did I know that the OTHER two cops were back in the
cells interrogating my newly claimed friends, and that they'd already discovered that I was full of shit.
After five or so minutes of me milking as much sympathy as
I could, one of the "bad" cops stomped back out of the door that led to the individual cells.
Bad Cop: "Josh! Randy! Come'er!"
Good Cop 1: "What, man? He's scared out of his wits!"
Good Cop 2: "Yeah, what's wrong with you?"
Bad Cop: "Just come'er!" he sighed, the dismissive tone of
his voice alerting me that I was pretty much fucked.
With the fourth cop still in the cell area, the remaining
three conversed in the corner for a couple of seconds, before they all looked back at me, their malicious triumph almost tangible.
Once Good, Now Bad Cop: "So, you hurt your leg, huh?" he chided
me, then reaching down to pull me up to my feet, "Well, I guess we won't know for sure until you stand on it!"
I knew the game was up. I knew THEY knew I was faking,
but such was my pride that I wasn't about to come clean.
I wailed anew as- first one cop, then a second- tried to get
me to stand. Alas, my leg wasn't discolored or swelling- much less broken- so I had only my acting ability to carry
me through.
It didn't work...
After humiliating me by demanding that I pull down my blue
jeans so that they could "see" the injury, I was tossed back into my cell, my bawled protests falling on deaf ears.
Again, that shit would've worked had I not been betrayed,
'cause I was one hell of an actor- even at fifteen- and I'd probably be a mafia assassin RIGHT NOW, otherwise.
Never trust a nigger...
Just kidding. I've experienced racism on both sides,
and I can tell you one thing with absolute certainly... you can NEVER judge a person by the color of their skin.
So Sunday night came and went with me crying myself to
sleep, (instead of singing 80's glamrock songs), and I awoke the next morning as a boy yoked with defeat. In my
arrogance, I continued to fake a limp, but no one took notice- or, if they did, no one said anything.
When I questioned my fellow inmates about their loyalty
over breakfast, they SWORE that they'd told the cops nothing, and that I must've failed because, "cops know about
shit like that. Can't fool a cop."
I knew they were lying, but I didn't feel that a Swiss army
knife shanking was yet in order.
Anyway, I endured another day and night and day again, before
my parents came and got me, thus appearing in the Plexiglas window late afternoon on Tuesday. As soon as I
saw them, I hated them. I was not a criminal, and I never would be, yet I'd been subjected to an admittedly mild form
of incarceration that was, still, for me, abominable.
My relationship with my mom was never the same after
that, especially when I learned that my father had wanted to have me freed the first day. Regardless,
that Tuesday evening, they took me straight from the Detention Center and right to the office of a psychiatrist named Dr.
McVaughn. Said psychiatrist evaluated me in every possible regard, going so far as to give me an IQ test; which, ironically,
confirmed my intelligence.
He concluded that I was neither insane nor unruly, but smothered,
and the fact that I'd never had sex or smoked cigarettes or drank alcohol or done drugs, was a testament to the fact that
I was, indeed, a good kid. Given the verdict, my mother immediately dismissed his diagnosis as that of a "quack".
Something HAD to be wrong with me; otherwise, why wouldn't
I be going along with her demands?
As was true of Caesar, the evils that parents do, live after
them, and I've never been able to bring myself to forgive, chiefly because my mother has never acknowledged that
she did anything wrong. I later moved in with my Grandmother Lucille, (again, my Mom's mom), for nine
months or so, and it's one of the fondest memories I retain from adolescence.
Lucille understood that I needed a free reign, that I could
not be browbeaten into a mold that was not my own, and I loved her for her wisdom. Having raised five children herself,
she had the experience to wield me, and the only reason I later went back to my parents, was because Lucille couldn't
afford to feed and clothe yet another kid on social security, (even though I supplemented her income with a job of my own).
I wanted this story to be funny. I wanted it to
be like some of my other ones. But I realize now that it is not- and maybe, it shouldn't be. The evil that
parents do, truly lives after them, and perhaps this should be a lesson rather than a joke, for while it is only one example,
I've personally persevered countless others.
I've analyzed this. I've analyzed the way I turned out,
they way my brother turned out, and I can only attribute it to chance. We should've been fucked up, we should've been
miscreants- but we're not, (comparatively speaking). Granted, my younger brother is financially successful, and while
I'm but a struggling writer doing his best to pay the bills with a job he hates- I cannot deny the fact that it could've
been much worse.
In life, you have to accept the things you're fortunate enough
to have, and let the bad things go.
Sometimes, those that become great, become so IN SPITE of
their upbringing. And, if I'm ever worthy of that designation, I will continue to attribute it to nature rather
than nurture.
I do not know whether or not I will
ever become a father, but, if I do, I think I'll be a good one. I know all too well what NOT to do, and perhaps the
wisdom of parenthood is nothing more than that...
