Of Midgets and Men

Most people don’t seem to like Thanksgiving much. I mean, they like the utopian concept of the holiday well enough, sit around, hold hands, sing Kumbaya, be thankful and all that bullshit, but in truth, it’s nothing more than reality TV show, dysfunctional family bullshit with extra stress and the gluttonous consumption of animal flesh chased down with copious amounts of alcohol, just so we can celebrate the fucking over of Native Americans by our forebears and then watch as various family members experience epic meltdowns and titanic rages throughout the day.

Yelling and screaming, maybe even an assault or two, hopefully, a food fight, if you’re lucky. Good stuff. Uncle Joe sure looks great covered in mashed potatoes and I'm pretty sure he's peed himself. I’ve never seen grandma cry before and did you know that you’re the reason she drinks? That’s why the night before Thanksgiving is the busiest night of the year in bars across the United States and that’s because everyone is getting hammered and braced for ‘Family Time’. But you know what? I love Thanksgiving. No, I fucking love Thanksgiving and it’s not just because most of my family is dead and the few who are still alive are so far flung, that I don’t have to worry about putting up with any of that Thanksgiving dinner, reality TV show, dysfunctional family bullshit and I still get to consume copious amounts of food and alcohol. It’s a win-win situation for me. Don’t hate.

The reason that I love Thanksgiving is pretty simple, really. It’s turkey. See? Nothing too fucking complicated, I just fucking love eating turkey. A big fucking roast bird. With mashed potatoes. Oh, yeah. And gravy. Lots of fucking gravy. I want to be able to surf that shit. Like, absolutely smother that big honking pile of shit on my plate in so much gravy that I’ll have instant arterial sclerosis and my arteries are so fucking clogged with gravy that I can’t move.

Poke me with a fork and watch the gravy pour out. Gravy. It’s as American as pie. Oh, pie. Can’t forget about some motherfucking pie. Lots and lots of motherfucking pie. It’s as American as gravy. Apple, pecan, blueberry, whatever. Fuck that pumpkin shit, though. There’s only one way to eat a pumpkin pie and that’s to slice it up and then throw that nasty shit in the trash. You can keep the cranberry sauce, stuffing and the rest of that crap, too. Veggies? Nah, fuck that. Just because the turkey’s dead, it doesn’t mean that you should eat its food. Have some fucking compassion, people.

Just give me my turkey, taters, gravy and pie.

I’m kind of aroused, just thinking about it.

Gravy. It’s like edible KY Jelly.

Last year, I discovered another reason to love Thanksgiving and it’s quite a delicious one; a veritable plastic bag full of goodness, Boulder Canyon Turkey & Gravy flavored potato chips. Each wonderfully crunchy, salty, and tasty chip is like a little Thanksgiving adventure piled high with deliciousness. It’s like a little Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of flavor marching across your tongue. Be still, my cholesterol clogged and barely beating heart.

Unfortunately, they also have a Pumpkin Pie flavor. What the fuck were they thinking? What kind of sicko would eat something like that? Besides white girls, I mean. And my friend Steve, but he’s just a white girl at heart; he likes Broadway musicals and shit and he claims to be straight. White girls go crazy over pumpkin anything. I can’t even begin to tell you how much pumpkin spice chloroform has improved my sex life. Yeah, right. Anyway, there’s so much pumpkin flavored and scented shit these days, I’m surprised that there isn’t a pumpkin scented douche. Oh, wait, there is. He likes Broadway musicals and his name is Steve.

Unfortunately, Boulder Canyon Turkey & Gravy potato chips are a limited time item and are always in short supply, so I have to stock up whenever I see them. They start to appear close to Halloween and I make sure to buy them as soon as I see them, because they go fast and they are impossible to find after Thanksgiving. I was at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago, stoned as usual and wandering in circles around the store, pretty much the same way that I always do, when I spotted them. The heavens had opened up and a little light shined down and there they fucking were. Two bags. Only two bags? I was distraught. Some other motherfucker or motherfuckers unknown had beaten me to the booty, but there were still scraps. I snatched those bags up so fast, I was like the motherfucking Flash and I dashed to the front of the store to pay for my treasure, conveniently forgetting, in my excitement, all of the other shit that I had wanted to buy at the store and I hopped in my car and drove off. I immediately realized my sheer, stoned stupidity and quickly flipped around, making a U-turn in the parking lot, nearly taking out some midget in a mobility chair that darted out in front of me.

I stood on the brakes and came to a tire squealing, bone-jarring halt, barely missing the little dude. By all rights, he should have been flatter than silver dollar pancakes. He looked up at me and instead of just feeling grateful to be alive, he totally lost his shit, going off like a little firecracker. Fuck me. Now, I had a screaming midget on my hands. What the fuck? And why was the little shit so angry? It’s not like I hit the little bastard, not even close and I thought he was just as much at fault as I was, but suddenly I’m the bad guy? How the fuck I manage to get myself into shit like this is completely beyond me and I was starting to wish I’d hit the gas and not the brake. Instead, I smiled and waved like a grinning fucking lunatic, which only seemed to agitate him more. It took the munchkin another minute or two to wind down and after telling me to go and follow the Yellow Brick Road, the midget rolled on his way toward the grocery store and I shrugged the little motherfucker off and went to look for an empty parking space, found one and ran back into the store to get the rest of the things that I needed.

It was a pretty smooth trip, except for a couple of little things…

My girlfriend called and asked me to pick up a couple of bottles of wine. No problem. This became my number one priority, because a smart man knows better than to come between a woman and her wine. I veered off my path and headed for the wine section of the store, grabbed a few bottles, and in my haste, I exited the aisle without really looking where I was going and I accidentally collided with another customer. Guess who?

What are the fucking odds?

Little dude looked at me and I looked down at him and I watched as his face turned a deep red, kind of shading towards purple. It was not a healthy, nor an attractive color. I watched in awe as he sat there and pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much, mind you and that little fucker unleashed a stream of invective at me that was so strong, I felt staggered by its weight. Everyone around us stopped what they were doing and stared. Thankfully, it was nice and extra fucking busy, so lots of folks got to see the freak show. Like half the fucking town. Mortified, I did the only thing that I could. I muttered an apology, tucked my tail between my legs, turned around and moved off as quickly as I could without breaking into a sprint. I did have to maintain some sense of dignity and decorum, after all.

Two aisles later and I’m grabbing some rice off of one of the lower shelves when someone crashed into me from behind and sent me stumbling into my cart, nearly causing me to faceplant on the floor.

Guess who?

The little motherfucker laughed and said, “Sorry,” before gunning his little scooter down the aisle, cackling like a madman and escaping before I could even come to my senses.

That little fucking prick. Whatever. I picked myself up off the floor.

As I came to the end of the aisle, he was sitting there waiting for me. He looked at me, laughed, flipped me off and then took off down the aisle. Asshole.

Go fuck yourself, dude.

I definitely should have hit the gas. Fuck that, I should have backed over him again too and then just gone back and forth a few times. Sigh… A boy can dream, can’t he?

One more aisle over and I ran into my friend Luke and we started shooting the shit for a moment, when all of a sudden that little prick comes zooming down the aisle, drives past us and yells, “Fucking asshole!”

Luke looked all sorts of befuddled, but I just laughed and I said, “I think he was talking to you, bro.”

“Did we really just get screamed at by an angry midget on a mobility scooter?” Luke asked. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”

I laughed and said, “Maybe it’s just you. You do seem to attract that kind of shit.”

We said our goodbyes and I continued on my way, coiled and ready to strike like a deadly snake if I spotted my prey, but alas, I didn’t see the little bastard anywhere, which was good news for him, because that little fuck was about to become a real-life Elf on a Fucking Shelf. Ugh, if I could only get my hands on him.

That little bastard was really starting to get on my fucking nerves. And what the fuck was he doing in the store, anyway? Shouldn’t Santa’s little fucking helpers all be up at the North Pole, this time of year? No wonder I can’t find a fucking Hatchimal.

I finished my shopping and headed for the cash registers at the front of the store. Exiting the aisle, I noticed an empty register and picked up my speed, making a beeline for it. That was when I heard a loud and high-pitched electric whine as the midget came out of the aisle on my left, heading for the same cashier that I was. Oh, hell to the fuck, no. That little bastard wasn’t going to beat me. I picked up speed and so did he, but there could be only one and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be that little prick. I looked at him and he looked at me, eyes locked, like two bad 50’s movie, hot rod drag racers headed for the finish line at the edge of the cliff. We locked eyes for a moment and I saw murderous intent as he swung his handlebars toward me. He tried to veer his scooter into my cart and pass me, but instead I feinted and then swung my cart directly into the front end of his scooter, shoving him off course and into a display rack of potato chips that was in front of the register and I laughed as I watched the bags of chips crash down around the midget and then his scooter came to rest, quite ungracefully, against a drink cooler. There were bags of fucking chips everywhere and I couldn’t help but laugh like a fucking madman as my cart popped into the chute and I strolled casually up to the register, feeling like I’d just won the girl and the race and fuck that guy.

The midget started carrying on, bleating like a wounded goat, as if he were completely innocent and hadn’t contributed anything at all to what had just happened to him and I was just big, bad Gulliver trying to destroy the poor little people of Lilliput. Yeah, fuck that. People started picking up bags of chips from the floor and clearing a path for his scooter to escape the wreckage.

I threw the few things that I had on the conveyor belt and paid as quickly as I could, which was a good thing, because Mr. Midget was on his way.

The cashier was just handing me my change when he started screaming. Again.

“You son of a bitch,” he started, but it was too late and I bolted from the checkout line and headed for the exit, but I stopped before I had gone too far and I turned around, looked that little motherfucker right in the eye, smiled and gave him a one fingered salute, before making my escape and running for my car, laughing hysterically the entire way.

People really should watch where they’re going.

I made it over to my girlfriend’s house without further incident. As I was unpacking the groceries, I foolishly decided to show her my prize. I pulled out the bags and I showed the chips off to her like a proud papa.

“That looks disgusting,” Hannah told me.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said. “Look at me.”

“You’re disgusting,” she said.

“Be that as it may,” I replied, “These are actually really good. Try one.”

Hannah gave me a dubious look, but she tried one anyway.

“These are delicious,” she said.

“I told you,” I said.

She reached for the bag. I tried to pull it away, but I had created a monster. Hannah beat me up and took my chips. It was the school cafeteria line all over again and I was shit out of luck when it came to keeping my milk money.

While we were stuffing our faces, I had a brilliant idea. I have lots of brilliant ideas. Unfortunately, I’m the only one who ever thinks that they’re brilliant ideas. That’s unfortunate, but I have no doubt that one day, the world will see me for the genius I am. Probably not any time soon, though.

“Baby, what would you think if we made a poutine out of these chips?” I asked Hannah.

Now, before we go any further, I need to take a moment to explain what exactly poutine is.

Walk down a street after a hard night of drinking in Montréal and you’d be hard-pressed not seeing someone gorging themselves on poutine, a high-calorie classic staple of Québécois casse-croûtes—or “greasy spoon”—cuisine.

Just what is poutine, you ask? The delicious Canadian dish is comprised of a holy-hoser trinity of ingredients: French fries, cheese curds, and gravy. Try some yourself and you’ll be hooked. It’s become so popular that it’s readily available at certain restaurants in the U.S. (Lucky New Yorkers can get their hands on some traditional poutine at Brooklyn restaurant Mile End.) Otherwise, the dish has become so ubiquitous in its home province that even McDonald’s and Burger King sell it as a side. – A Brief History of Poutine, by Sean Hutchinson

Now poutine, like Rush, is Canada’s gift to the world. I’m sure that some of my Canadian readers will be quick to point out all sorts of other cool Canadian things and accomplishments, such as they may be, but you also gave us Justin Bieber and that wipes out a whole fucking lot of goodwill. Take him back and we’ll talk.

So, my idea was to take the chips, throw on a few chunks of turkey, some gravy, a little bacon and some cheddar cheese curds and we’d be eating like gods.

Hannah didn’t seem to be very enthusiastic about my idea.

“I really don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said. “I don’t think the chips would hold up well under the gravy and that it would just be a soggy, nasty mess.”

I knew Hannah was wrong, but I let it go. I was fixated on creating what I was sure would be a culinary masterpiece, this Pilgrim Poutine, as I was now calling it. We had one bag of chips left and I was going to use it for what God intended it for.

A couple of weeks went by and I’m pretty sure Hannah had thought I’d forgotten my brilliant idea, but I hadn’t. One night, I made an executive decision that it would be poutine night and headed for the store to begin collecting the ingredients. I called Hannah from the store and informed her of what was on the menu.

“I’d kind of hoped you’d forgotten about that,” she said.

“Would Bob Ross forget painting the Sistine Chapel?” I replied. “I’m making it, it will be delicious. Get over it.”

But Hannah wasn’t done. “That’s fine, but my biggest concern is that the chips aren’t going to make it. Could you please pick up some waffle fries, or something as a backup, just in case?”

I agreed to make the waffle fries, even though I didn’t want to. I was stoned and I knew what I was doing. I know my shit when it comes to cooking. What could possibly go wrong?

I grabbed a few bottles of wine, just in case something went wrong.

I was in and out of the store, quickly picking up the few items that I needed. Okay, that’s complete bullshit. I was so fucking high that it took me like ninety minutes of wandering around, just to buy gravy, cheese curds, turkey, waffle fries and bacon. Five fucking things, fer fuck’s sake. The problem was that I kept picking up this and that, changing my mind on the ingredients that I wanted to use and walking around in circles, returning shit to where I picked it up before finding something else and changing my mind yet again. Chasing my tail, like an idiot dog. Never take me to the fucking grocery store when I’m stoned. It’s a fucking trial is what it is.

At least there weren’t any fucking midgets.

So, I end up over at Hannah’s house and I’m unpacking the groceries. Hannah waltzes into the kitchen and turns on the oven, which I found curious, because we didn’t need the oven for anything.

“Why did you turn on the oven?” I asked her.

“To make the waffle fries.” she answered.

Wait. What? Bake the waffle fries? I’m not sure I understood what Hannah was trying to say. Who does that? It’s wrong. French fries. Waffle fries. Whatever. You’ll notice they all have the word fries, as in fried, in their name. They’re supposed to be fried, not fucking baked. This kind of fuckery just couldn’t be allowed to stand. I decided to set Hannah straight in the most assertive way possible.

“Oh,” I said. And then more meekly, I added, “Baby, I thought we were going to fry them. That’s what you do with potatoes.”

It was like I needed validation, or something.

“No, baby,” she said, “We’re going to bake them.”

I did as I was told.

Sometimes, I’m a smart motherfucker. It just doesn’t happen very often.

When the fries were ready, I took them out of the oven and added the turkey and gravy chips to the cookie sheet. Then I topped the fries and chips off with some roast turkey breast, shredded cheddar, cheddar cheese curds and bacon. I poured the turkey gravy all over that shit, turned on the broiler and tossed it back into the oven. I let it sit under the broiler just long enough for the cheese curds to melt and I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven,

It looked like a big, heaping, honking, pile of shit.

Smelled fucking great, though.

I carefully portioned out the poutine, making sure that my girlfriend got the half with the waffle-cut fries and saving all the chips for myself, naturally. I handed her plate over.

“Did you give me any of the chips?” she asked me.

What? Wait. What? Oh, no. You don’t go dogging my turkey and gravy chips, make me cook something special just for you and then just expect me to hand over the good shit after you’ve talked shit about it for weeks? I battled a mighty midget, for fuck’s sake and you just expect me to hand over my loot? Oh, fuck to the hell no! Dog my chips and you don’t get shit.

“No.” I replied, “You said you didn’t want any and you made me cook the waffle fries for you. You said the chips wouldn’t hold up.”

“I didn’t say that I didn’t want any,” she answered. “I said that I wanted to have a backup, just in case.”

“But, I…” I stammered.

She just looked at me.

I rearranged the plates and reluctantly gave her some of the chips. I thought about adding one more herb, but I couldn’t find strychnine anywhere.

We looked at our heaping, honking, piles of shit and we dug in. It was fucking delicious and one of the best things that I’ve ever tasted and not just because I was stoned, either.

You should try it sometime.

Midget battles are optional.

Go read something else!

Amnesia

The Middle Aged Man and the Sea

One summer, my friends Jack, Chad, Dana and I all chipped in and we rented a very large and luxurious, almost palatial, vacation home in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. We loaded up our families and our vehicles and then we caravanned down to the Barrier islands off the coast of NC, for a relaxing week full of sun and fun.

After we'd been there for a day or so, the guys and I made plans for a day of surf fishing at the beach, with our families. Being an experienced salt water and surf fisherman, I was considered the resident expert and when our Deadliest Catch crew invaded the waters of a local bait and tackle shop, I advised everyone on the purchase of rods, reels and other assorted fishing gear. Our purchases made, we headed for the beach and the bounty of fresh fish that must surely await us.

After unpacking our families and getting them settled on the sand, it was time to get our gear together. I assembled the various rod and reel combinations for everyone, seven sets of them; two sets for Jack, and one each for Chad, Dana, his son Zack and one for myself. I strung the lines for everyone, added weights, leaders, hooks, bobbers and bait. One by one, I got everyone squared away before showing them how to cast their lines into the surf and how to set their poles in the sand without having them dragged out to sea. Everyone was all set up, fishing and as happy as a fat kid with a gallon of ice cream. I started assembling my own rod and reel. I ran the line, added weight, attached a leader, a hook, a bobber and bait and then I double checked everything. Satisfied with my handiwork, I was ready to start catching some fish.

I grabbed my gear, stood up and walked down to the surf line. I got myself situated, drew my arm back and cast out my line.

Snap.

Dafuq?

My line had snapped. Well, that was just fucking great, but not that big of a deal. Still, I was feeling a little frustrated. I had set up five other rods and reels without a hitch, but when it came to my own, there just had to be an issue. I dragged my rod back to where I had left my fishing tackle and I put everything back together again, before walking back down to the surf line. Once more I drew my arm back and then I snapped it forward, giving my cast a good bit of distance.

Snap.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The line had snapped again. I couldn't believe it. I started cussing up a storm that would have made a drill sergeant blush. I was overcome with frustration and anger and I took it out on the closest thing that I could; I looked at my fishing rod before throwing it down in disgust.

Jack looked over at me and said, "Wow, it really sucks to be you, doesn't it?"

Yeah, fuck you, buddy.

I wasn't about to give up just yet. Once more into the breach...

I picked up the fishing rod and walked back to where all of the fishing tackle was and set up everything once more fucking time, walked back to the fucking water and cast the fucking line back out. It was a perfect cast. Satisfied with my handiwork, I expertly set my pole into the sand and walked back to the where the coolers were, so that I could grab myself a beer.

Just as I had reached the cooler, I heard Jack yelling my name.

I turned around and looked. Holy shit! I had a strike and I had caught something. The way that my rod was bending, it was something big, too. I watched horrified as my rod bent over, was dislodged from the sand and was quickly pulled into the ocean. I started running like hell, but was slowed down by the soft sand. I was slowed down even more by the face plant that followed next. I got back up and started running again, almost making it in time, but I watched horrified as my fishing rod, like my dignity, was pulled swiftly out to sea. I ran into the ocean trying to chase it down, but it was already too late. I searched and searched, but I couldn't see the damn thing anywhere.

Dejected, I turned around and started wading back towards the beach. I was about halfway back to shore, when I was taken by surprise by a large rolling wave that sent me tumbling over and over and dragged me the rest of the way back to the beach. Let me tell you, I could have done without the fucking shortcut. Spluttering and spitting out half a gallon of fucking water, I rose from the ocean like a drowned rat and made my way back to where my ex-wife and son were sitting.

Medusa looked up at me as I approached and as she took in my bedraggled appearance, she raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Don't even fucking ask," I told her.

O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

My family moved around a lot, when I was a kid and the longest period of stability that I was to know until I was an adult was the four years that I spent in military school. We were like gypsies, always moving, never putting down roots. By the time that I was twenty-nine, I had lived in seven states, at least twenty-three different cities and gone to four different high schools. I had even lived in some of those cities multiple times over the years. That’s a lot of moving around.

When I was sixteen, my family moved back to Philadelphia, for the fourth time. I don’t remember why, exactly; maybe it was for me to have that long sought stability, maybe it was for me to go to college, or maybe it was just to indulge me. Who knows? I was just happy to be anywhere but Florida and even more importantly, for the first time since fourth grade, I now had my very own bedroom. It might not seem like much, but if you’ve never really had one, it’s a beautiful thing. The only thing that I needed in order for my happiness to be complete was for the moving van to arrive and for my motorcycle to be offloaded. It was spring and the days had been clear and warm; I couldn’t wait to go for a ride.

When that happy day arrived, I set about washing and waxing my baby, to get her ready for her inaugural ride through Philadelphia. As I was finishing up, one of the neighbors from across the street meandered over to introduce himself. As I saw him walking over, I took his measure and was struck with this uncanny sense of déjà vu. I knew this guy from somewhere, although where I didn’t know, His face was eerily familiar and I also felt something else; a vague sense of something wrong. I was instantly on guard.

The guy introduced himself as Michael and we shook hands. As we were talking, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen him before, that I knew him from somewhere. Michael looked so familiar and I don’t know what it was about him, but he made me feel very uncomfortable. We chatted for a bit and I told him that we had just moved up from Florida and that I would be starting college, in the fall. I really don’t remember any of the things that he said until he spoke the following words, “Steve, I haven’t been completely honest with you and there’s something important that I have to tell you.”

“Oh shit,” I thought, “I knew there was something wrong. This guy’s gay and he’s hitting on me. Why does this kind of shit always have to happen to me?”

I had no idea just how wrong I could be.

“I’m your brother, Michael,” he confessed. He then pointed back in the direction that he came from and said, “And over there is your sister, Sandy and your mother, Barbara.”
Holy shit! Yeah, I say that a lot.

Maybe I should have mentioned that I’m adopted. By my grandparents. Strange shit and an even stranger story. I’ll get around to telling it, one day.

“Holy shit!” I thought, my mind finally making the connections. “No wonder he looks so familiar, he looks just like me!” And he did. It was uncanny; we could almost have passed for twins. It also explained my uneasiness.

Michael went on to tell me that he hadn’t seen me since I was a toddler and that when the three of them had realized just who the new neighbors were, they had become very excited.

I did not share in their excitement.

How was it even remotely possible that we had moved across the street from these people? The odds had to be billions to one and yet, here it was. There is a special word that I save for occasions such as this one. It was a complete and total mindfuck.
To say that I was less than thrilled, would be putting it mildly.

While I recovered from these thrilling revelations, Michael really opened up, telling me how he and Sandy had thought that they would never see me again and that they could hardly believe that it was really me. He told me that they hoped that we could get to know each other, that maybe we could be friends and perhaps, given enough time, we might even learn to be a family.

I looked into his eyes and I saw hope and I saw something else. I think I also saw fear, reflected back at me.

Just for the record, as mentioned above, I am adopted by my grandparents and the events surrounding my adoption literally tore my family apart. There are some serious skeletons, in the old family closet. The story is long, complicated and filled with tales of abuse, attempted murder, abandonment, neglect, foster care, kidnapping and lots of other fun, family activities. I won’t delve deeper into that, not now and not here. I don’t know why I was spared while Michael and Sandy were condemned to their lives, but I’d heard many stories about them, none of them good. Tales of alcoholism, addiction and worse, ran rampant throughout my family. They were said to be nothing but trouble and were not to be trusted.

My parents were never able to give me an adequate explanation as to why they chose just me. The best that I ever got from them was that Michael and Sandy had been exposed to the insanity for too long; they had seen too much and were themselves already exhibiting signs of mental instability. My parents went on to explain that they thought that I was young enough to still have a chance. Their reasoning has never sat well with me, nor has it ever made any sense whatsoever, but they also thought that my life was in extreme danger, at the time. I guess that in the end, they did the best they could and made the best choice they thought possible, when looking at a catalog of bad choices. And sometimes, if it smells like bullshit, that’s because it probably is.

In the end, I too, had nothing but bad choices. Although these people were related to me in a biological sense, they certainly weren’t my family; quite the opposite, they were complete strangers to me and I didn’t owe them anything. And what about my parents? What would they think? How would they feel? Wouldn’t they see this as treason, as the ultimate act of betrayal that it would be? What about me? What about what I was thinking or feeling or even what it was that I wanted? Did this complete and total stranger have any right to intrude upon my life?

I had already made my decision. I did what I thought was best at the time and now, more than thirty years later, I still think that I made the right choice, but for one short-lived moment of regret.

I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can’t.”

In that moment, in those five words, I saw all hope fade from Michael’s eyes, only to be replaced by a depth of unknown loss and sadness the likes of which I had never seen before and rarely since.

“I can’t do this,” I continued. “Not now and maybe not ever. Regardless of the past, this is my family and for better or for worse, this is the only life that I know. I would never do anything to harm my family, Michael. I’m sorry, I truly am.”

The expression that crossed his face has haunted me for years.

Michael started to say something else, but only a sigh escaped his lips as he turned to go. What it was that he wanted to say I will never know; perhaps I’m better off not knowing. It was pitiful, watching him walk away like that, head down, with his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a beaten dog. If he would have had a tail, it would have been between his legs as he scurried off. I can’t even begin to tell you how terrible that made he feel and yet, at the same time, I felt so relieved.

After a few minutes, I went back into my own house and told my parents what had happened. They totally freaked out, but calmed down after a bit and they asked me how this had made me feel. For a moment, I was shocked, because my parents had never before asked me how I had felt about anything. You see, in my family, emotion was seen as a sign of weakness; we didn’t have “feelings”. After recovering from my second shock of the day, I told them that I was more than a little freaked out, myself.

Things got a little weird, after that. You know, as if they weren’t weird enough already.
Michael, Sandy and Barbara would sit on their front steps (they lived in adjoining row homes) and just stare at our house. Talk about uncomfortable; I felt like I was being stalked and it was really, really creepy. We started to avoid the front of the house. We kept the shades and curtains drawn on the front windows. We started parking in the alley around back and using the back door, instead of the front one. No one in this house, it seemed, was willing to confront the ghosts of the past.

After a few months of this, my parents asked me if I wanted to move. I couldn’t say yes, fast enough. Hell, I would have gone back to Florida, if they had asked me to. My parents took a lease on this huge, luxury apartment, that was just incredible. They put the house on the market, taking a huge loss, when it sold, but they seemed as eager to get out of there as I was. They never said another word about it. With my parents, when something was over, it was over and you forgot all about it, unless it was something that you did to piss them off; they’d never shut up about stuff like that. I was in my late 30’s and my mother was still bitching about things that I did when I was twelve. Even worse, the woman has been dead for years and I still hear her bitching at me.

Family. What a strange and wonderful thing that can be and what a terrible and tormented thing it can be, as well. Originally, this post was going to be about family; about redemption, forgiveness and second chances, but as I started to write about those very things, the words just stopped flowing and I found myself thinking back to this story instead, but it still ties in. Family has to be more than just blood, or the flesh of my flesh and that of my once beloved. There has to be a bond, something that with the best of people, you feel right away; some sort of connection. You feel connected to your family and accept them as family. I felt no connection to those people; I felt nothing for them, other than pity. Well, they also made me feel pretty creeped out, too.

I thought that I had seen the last of Michael, Sandy and Barbara when we moved away, but little did I know that I would run into all three of them again, a decade later and a thousand miles away, but that’s yet another story.

I know that some of you will think that I was unnecessarily cruel, that day. Some of you will think that I made the wrong decision. All I can say is that time has proven my decision to be the correct one. I know that many people who are adopted long to find their birth parents, for whatever reason and that’s fine. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why someone would want to find the people that didn’t want them, but that’s just how I feel. I don’t judge, I just don’t understand. I’ve never met my biological father. Well, I have, but I haven’t seen him since I was seventeen months old, so I just don’t remember him, which is a good thing. I’ve unwillingly met the rest of my birth family; perhaps things might have worked out differently, if I’d been given a choice. Giving birth to a child doesn’t automatically make you a parent. It’s the people who raise you and love you that matter. That’s what being a parent is.

These many years later, I look back and I feel a little guilty, as I second guess myself. Was I too hasty? Should I have given Michael and Sandy a chance? After all, they had never done anything to me. They were innocent children at the time of my adoption and if anything, Sandy had tried to protect me from my birth parents. From the stories that my own parents told me, she was a hero. All that they were asking for was a chance to get to know their brother. Was I right? Was I wrong? I don’t know and I never will.

You’ll notice that I didn’t mention Barbara.

The last I’d heard, Sandy was living on the opposite side of the state from me and Michael fell off the face of the Earth years ago. We had some mutual friends and no one has ever heard from him; he just disappeared. If I wanted to and if he’s still alive, I’m sure that I could track him down, but I’ve never had the desire to look for him. I’ve also heard that Barbara is long in her grave and perhaps that is where this whole matter is best left, in its grave, with all of the other dead things.

Life is really strange, sometimes.

I had a few people proofread this story for me. I was looking for errors in spelling and grammar, as well as any issues with the story itself. Hopefully, everything has been corrected, but any mistakes are mine and mine alone, although I sometimes will intentionally use improper grammar. In the course of this proofreading, I was asked if this story was true and if we really did move across the street from my birth family. Here is what I have to say about this:

All of my stories are true. If I make something up, I will tell you in the story, but every word of these stories are true, unless otherwise noted. The events in this story really happened. We really moved directly across the street from my birth family. The odds against this happening have to be beyond calculation and yet it happened. As I said earlier, it was a complete and total mindfuck.

Questions, questions, I’m so full of freaking questions…

What do you think? Did I make the right choice? Would you have done something differently?

Are you adopted? Have you searched for your birth parents? Did you find them? How did that work out for you? Was it worth it?

Begging and pleading for attention…

As always, comments, questions, criticisms and insults are always welcome and encouraged.

Thanks, for reading and for coming back. 