The Long Walk

Memories are funny things, elusive at times and intrusive at others. Sometimes welcome, sometimes not, more often bittersweet; a knowing smile and a soft sigh, trapped where the shadows pool and pull. Childhood memories, wisps of smoke beyond my grasp and so much of that childhood is lost to me, or hazy and smudged, the result of traumatic brain injuries and additionally, I think, the willful suppression of most of whatever does remain, the memories that wait, like a trap to be sprung. And then, there are the things that I do remember, the monsters locked away in the closet and under the bed, where I’m afraid to look.

Sometimes, I look where I shouldn’t. I pick at the scars and the scabbed over wounds and I remember…

Memories truly are funny things. So funny. Memories of my mother, the little things that come to mind when I think of her and the complicated mix of emotions those little things bring forth, surging like a tsunami of childhood terrors brought forth by the ever-haunting ghost of her. How do I explain how the smell of soap makes me gag and remember the taste of every bar that she shoved into my mouth? One bar of soap that she’d forced me to eat, all because I’d asked her what a ‘grand prix’ was. I’d just wanted to know what the word ‘prix’ meant. She’d thought I’d said pricks, which was the way I’d pronounced it. One false word. 

Locked in the closet for hours, the darkness and isolation scratching at my soul, inciting shame, anger and madness. A betrayal of love, the smack of a paddle, a shoe, my father’s belt, his fist, in later years, a baseball bat; whatever might be within reach at the time. As I got older, the line between hidden and public abuse became blurred. I'm sure many of my friends remember my father beating me on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, or watching me flee, as I ran from him, or in later years, as I held my ground and stood up to him, fists flying. I never won.

Sometimes, I’d be punished for the things that I hadn’t been caught doing, misdeeds that existed only in my mother’s imagination. Not that any of it mattered, though, because I’m worthless and useless and stupid and a regret and so many other things that frankly, I’m sure I deserved all of it and who can deny the truth? 

I know this because my mother showed me the truth of all things and she told me these truths every day. Her truth, her fury, however she saw it at the time and her will was God’s will and it was God’s punishments that were being inflicted on me, in all His righteousness and wrath. That’s one story, one truth. And then there’s my story, my truth. The two truths are quite different. In my truth, I can’t place any real moment of affection, love or concern from my mother, but I can paint, quite vividly, so many scenes of her cruelty, both mentally and physically. I remember fear. I remember tears. I remember pleading, as only a small boy can, wishing for it all to stop and for me to go away, to cease existence, but it never did and I never did and my soul was kept in chains. Little things. The little things that come to mind when I think of my mother. Little things.

Soul killing things.

And with a strength borne from where I know not, I endured.

Somewhat perversely, I also loved my mother, and desperately so. I begged for her attention, her love and for her affection. I begged for these things, but I never knew them, not in anything other than the meager, measured and miserly fashion in which she dispensed them, only employed when she wanted something. It was pure manipulation and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker, every time. Desperation breeds fools. Love becomes a pyre and burns to ashes. All that remains are ashes, the burnt taste in my mouth. Love and loathing, a strange dichotomy to live with, to hate and love someone so much, at the same time. Strange indeed, but I’ve learned to accept it. Maybe it’s more like I just got used to it. Maybe there isn’t any difference between the two. And maybe I just don’t know anything. Whatever.

My parents were pretty hands off. They had rules, sure, but so long as I followed the few there were, they really didn’t care what I did, or where I went, so I had a lot of freedom at a very young age. I learned to take care of myself, because nobody else would do it for me. My parents just weren’t interested in being parents and so they abdicated all parental responsibility and I was pretty much left to my own devices. In my family, it was all about appearances, really. That and following the rules. If I screwed up in any way, if I were not the model child for all the world to see, there would be hell to pay and I paid Hell, almost daily, on a never-ending installment plan.

My mother had many strange obsessions, one of which was timeliness. She not only had to be on time for everything, she needed to be there fifteen minutes early, or she considered herself late and if I made her late, I’d be paying a little extra on that installment plan, so I usually had a bit of motivation. Usually, but not always. Being a young boy, I was perpetually tardy for everything, in the way that young boys are and I had the bruises to show for it. When I was seven years old, I had missed the bus to school and my mother was in a rage, because she had to drive me to school. That one incurred a beating both before and after school, plus, she locked me in the closet for hours. As did the second instance and once again, I was locked in the closet, a favorite and effective torment of my mother’s.

That closet…

A linen closet, just deep enough to wedge in a small boy in the space between the shelves and the door with no space to spare and none to move. A confined space, claustrophobic and made even more so by the absence of light and sound as the door would close and the darkness settled in. Nothing but the darkness and the smell of bleach to keep me company for all those hours spent in exile.

It was after the second time that I had missed the bus, my mother had told me that if I missed the bus again, I would be forced to walk to school. In my young mind, this was not a bluff. I’m sure that many mothers have uttered those words to their children over the years, but the difference is that my mother meant it and I’ve never had any doubt that she did. My mother always meant exactly what she said and she always followed through on her threats and promises. If she told you something, it was a one hundred percent guarantee of what and how it was going to happen.

I made every effort to get to the bus and school, on time.

Until that one day…

I had been waiting for the bus, my hands full of books, notebooks, folders, my lunchbox and pencil box. Backpacks weren’t really a thing back then, so you were stuck carrying everything by hand and it was always a juggling act, balancing more things than you had hands for. As the bus pulled up, I started making my way to the door as the other children started up the steps. Suddenly, I tripped and dropped my pencil box, spilling the contents out onto the sidewalk. As I stooped down to pick up my things, I could hear the other kids telling the bus driver that I wasn’t on the bus yet, but to no avail. I heard the familiar squeal as the door to the bus closed. I looked up in horror and panic as I watched the bus start to drive off. I dropped everything and chased after it, leaving my things behind and I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, which wasn’t fast enough, of course and I started crying in fear and frustration as I watched as the bus gained distance before it disappeared.

I went back to where I’d dropped my books, head down, walking like a condemned man to his execution.

I picked my things up, got myself situated and weighed my options. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared to go home and incur the wrath of my mother. I didn’t want a beating now and then another when I got home. And then another, when my father got home. Three for the price of one. Such a deal. Plus, my mother was only going to make me walk to school anyway, so why not just skip the beating and walk to school? In my mind that was the only option that was available to me and so I set off, determined to walk to school. It was only about a thirty-minute bus ride, so how far could it possibly be?

It was four and a half miles. I Googled it.

It was a typically hot, late spring day, in Florida, with no breeze to speak of. Traffic was heavy on Collins Avenue, but I paid it no mind as I put one foot in front of the other and trudged on, step after step, the blocks turning to miles. I walked and I walked and then I walked some more, the Bal Harbor Bridge in the distance and it seemed to pull further away with every step. I counted those steps until I lost count. Bored beyond words, I kicked rocks and squashed bugs. I lost myself in my own mind, daydreaming, and for a time, I rose and I soared above it all. But mostly, I was bored. I was also thirsty and hot, soaked in sweat, sore and tired, but I was scared, determined, angry and frustrated. I cried nearly every step of the way.

As I was passing the golf course at Haulover Park (about three miles in), a Ford Mustang Convertible pulled over onto the shoulder of the road in front of me and the driver turned his head and called my name. I was dumbfounded. Right there in front of me was my principal, Mr. Stearns, who had come to my rescue. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I was very familiar with my school principal, almost being a permanent fixture in his office, as I was always in trouble for something or other, whether it be fighting or just being a general annoyance and disruptive in class. These episodes were always followed by a trip to the principal’s office, a short lecture, a call to my mother and then, more often than not, the judicious application of corporal punishment that would be inflicted on my bottom by the school’s wooden paddle and the stern hand of Mr. Stearns.

I would be in the principal’s office, sitting across the desk from Mr. Stearns and we would discuss what happened and then the paddle would make an appearance. Our conversations would go something like this:

Mr. Stearns: “Now, I’m going to have to call your parents and get permission to spank you.”

Me: “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Stearns. You know my mother will say yes. You don’t need to call her, you can just go ahead and spank me.”

 I was more terrified of that phone call to my mother than I was of being spanked. That phone call meant at least two more beatings. Beatings and a punishment that would make whatever Mr. Stearns could do to me seem like nothing and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. Unfortunately, it never worked that way and he always made the call and then I’d spend the rest of the day in agonized terror of what would happen when I got home.

Anticipation.

Mr. Stearns beckoned me to the car, opened the passenger door and I got in. I’ll never forget what happened next. He looked at me and he told me that when the bus got to the school, the other kids had told a teacher that I had missed the bus and that teacher had reported it to the office. Concerned, Mr. Stearns told me that he had called my mother to see if I had made it home safely. I hadn’t and my mother had no clue where I was. I’m not sure that she even cared. After he hung up the phone, Mr. Stearns called the police and then he took it upon himself to go looking for me, while my mother stayed home watching soap operas, something I didn’t know until much later.

A stranger to come to my rescue when my own mother wouldn’t.

As I got into the car, Mr. Stearns admonished me for walking and he told me that he would call my mother as soon as we got to the school and let her know that I had been found, safe and sound. Mr. Stearns must have noticed something in my face, perhaps it was a moment of fear that I hadn’t covered up quickly enough, but whatever shadow it was that had crossed my face seemed to completely unnerve him and I watched as a look of compassion and sadness flitted across his face, as if he had an inkling of what would be waiting for me, once I got home.

Things were different back then.

“I’m sorry. It will be okay,” he said.

And then he hugged me and I buried my face into his chest and cried once more, warmed by his compassion and shamed by his pity.

Mr. Stearns took a bit of a detour, before he drove us back to school, allowing us to enjoy a small part of the day in that fast Mustang convertible. He opened it up and it wasn’t long before he had me laughing and smiling, a moment to soar above it all. A fleeting moment, for all too soon, we pulled into the school’s parking lot and then he shepherded me into his office and called my mother to let her know I’d been found. He had her on speakerphone so that I could talk to her as well. When confronted, she denied ever telling me that I’d have to walk to school, but then she caught herself in her own lie and asked why I’d ever believe such a thing in the first place. She didn’t seem unduly concerned, but I could tell by the timbre of her voice that I had embarrassed her and there would be hell to pay. Just another day.

After that, Mr. Stearns plied me with ice cream and asked me if I’d like to go back to class. He told me that I could hang out in his office and read, if I wanted to, but I wanted to go to class. I just wanted to be around the other kids and not think about what would be waiting for me when I got home.

The school day ended and I took my time leaving the classroom. Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough to miss the bus ride home.

And then I was home.

The next day, my mother called the school and told them that I’d had an accident and would be out for a few days. I ended up missing a week of school after I “fell” down the stairs.

I never missed the bus again.

If you liked this story, please give this one a chance:

O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

Need to laugh, instead? I've got you covered...

The Fugly Duckling

Don't Be Lude

As I've mentioned in a number of other stories, my family had a summer home in Atlantic City, NJ and I spent many a summer season prowling that old wooden boardwalk with my friends in search of adventure and girls, always girls.

I've always been a whore. My father respected and encouraged that.

My father... As tough as that man was, I could get straight to that man's heart, and his wallet, by mentioning that I had the possibility of getting laid. It worked every fucking time. Pussy was my personal four leaf clover. Okay, I'm lying, but I'd like to pretend it was. Fuck off, they're my memories.

I remember when my father and I had the sex talk. It was pretty damn funny. I was about thirteen or so and he sidled on up to me.

"Steven," he said, "We need to talk."

My father looked embarrassed; horribly so. Good.

"Sure, Pop. What's up?"

"We need to talk about sex, son," my father said. There was quite a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

"Sure, Pop. What did you need to know?"

My father's face grew red and drifted into purple. I didn't know if he was embarrassed, pissed off, or what, but he just spluttered something and stalked off in a huff. Ah, good times.

But our typical conversations would usually go something like this:

Me: "Dad, can I have $20?"

Back in those days, $20 could get you places.

My Father: "No. You work, use your own money. I'm not giving you $15. I'm not giving you $10. What the hell do you need $5 for?"

Like it was a fucking negotiation or something. How much was the vig going to be?

Me: "I'm broke and I have a date. I might get laid."

My Father (reaching into his wallet): "Don't use words like that. Here you go, Is $20 going to be enough? Don't tell your mother."

And then there was this famous conversation after I started high school in Atlantic City when I was fourteen. We were headed back to Florida and the transfer paperwork from my high school had a typo in it that made me a year older. In my mind, this opened up a world of salacious opportunities and I did a little research. As it turned out, the State of Florida's Department of Motor Vehicles would accept school records as proof of identity and age. Suddenly, I was eligible for my learner's permit an entire year earlier than I should have been. I had a plan.

I approached my father and I told him of the typo and my scheme. He refused to be a part of it. What the hell? My father was into all kinds of shady shit, why not this? I tried and I tried, I fast talked as much as I could; I was literally tap dancing, but still my father stood firm, so I pulled out the big guns.

"Dad," I said, "You just don't understand."

"I understand plenty," my father said, "I said no and that's final. Don't make me tell you no again, or you'll regret it."

Fuck that. I wasn't about to give up, this was totally worth a beating.

"Dad," I pleaded and then I dropped the magic words, "This could get me laid."

"Your mother will kill me."

I was winning. I knew it and he knew it. I pressed home my attack.

"She doesn't need to know," I told him. "I'll never say a word. Seriously, Dad, I could totally get laid."

When the collapse came, it happened all at once.

"Alright," he said, "We'll go to the DMV on Saturday morning. Don't tell your mother. She's going to kill me."

I couldn't believe it, I had won.

I got my permit and then I got a motorcycle. It got me laid. Oh, did it ever.

I just wanted you to understand how my father was when it came to me and girls. We're going to go back to Atlantic City, now.

It was the Summer of 1980 and I was almost fifteen years old. I thought that I was hot shit with my license that made me a year older than I was and it set the stage for a whole new world of trouble. Trouble of the best kind.

I worked a lot in the summertime, usually having two jobs and I also dabbled in a few other things to help supplement my income. I had a close relative that moved a lot of drugs and I would purchase weed and Quaaludes from that relative and then sell the weed to my friends and the ludes would make their way to other friends, or I would sell them for top dollar at the local discos. Nobody really cared about your age back then when it came to getting into bars. If you had money to spend, you were in.

On this particular day, I had scored three hundred Quaaludes from my relative and I needed a safe and secure place to count the pills and then divide them up. Our condo was out; my parents watched me like a hawk and they didn't trust me for shit. I've never understood why, I was always such a wonderful and loving son. Responsible, too.

My friend Sue had a sister named Kathy, who was a few years older than I and lived in the same building that we did. Kathy was also one of my biggest customers. Her parents would let her stay in their condo all summer long and would only show up on the weekends, when they would drive down from Cherry Hill, a suburban enclave in New Jersey, but was more of a suburb of Philadelphia. I went down to the beach and I approached Kathy and explained what I needed to do and I asked her if I could use her apartment for a few minutes, telling her that I'd make it worth her while. As luck would have it, my parents were also at the beach and they took notice of the two of us leaving together. I looked over at my parents and waved to them. They didn't wave back. Instead, they looked at me suspiciously. Somehow, they always knew when I was up to something, not that they were the most trusting of souls to begin with.

Kathy and I went back to our building and she brought me up to her apartment. Once inside, I pulled the bag of ludes out of my pocket and I dumped them on a small table by the door. Those fucking things were rolling all over the place. We started counting everything up, to make sure that the amount that I had was accurate. When we were finished, we would divide them up into piles of ten and wrap them in aluminum foil; they looked just like a roll of Lifesavers when we did that. It was so cute.

Just as we started counting, someone started pounding loudly on the front door.

We both looked up, startled. We hadn't been expecting anyone. I looked at her and she looked at me. Who the fuck could it be? Whomever it was, it couldn't be good, we had three hundred fucking Quaaludes on the table and they were in full view of the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck...

The pounding on the door continued.

Kathy's voice was cracking with fear as she asked me what we should do.

I whispered back to her, "Stop freaking out. Calm down and ask who it is."

Kathy gulped, took a deep breath and sounded a lot like a big ol' hoot owl when she asked, "Who-who is it?"

"It's Tony. Is Steven in there? Tell him to get his ass out here, right now!" yelled the voice at the door.

It was my father. Fuck. Shit. Fuckshit. What the hell was he doing here? Shit. I was well and truly fucked. Maybe he'd understand that I was just trying to make some extra money. Maybe he wouldn't actually kill, me either, but I knew that I was just bullshitting myself. My father wasn't going to understand shit and I was a fucking dead man. Hell, even I understood that much.

If I thought Kathy had been panicking before, she seemed about to piss herself at that very moment and I don't think that I was too far behind her. This shit was getting out of control. I had to think of something.

Like a lightbulb that sizzles and pops, I had an epiphany and I knew what I had to do.

I looked at Kathy and I said, "Don't worry, I've got this. I've got a plan."

You'd think that would have calmed her down, but noooo... Why do people always get nervous when I say that I have a plan? They always work. Mostly. Sometimes. On occasion, maybe. Fuck you.

I got up and started walking towards the door, unbuttoning and unzipping my pants as I went. I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and then I messed up my hair. I unlocked the door and cracked it open enough for my father to see me as I was pulling my jeans back up and started zipping them. I could tell from the look on my father's face that he thought that he had interrupted something and that I was getting dressed. My father's face turned cherry red. It was working, I was going to get away with this. For once, one of my fucking ideas was actually working. I felt giddy with joy.

"What's up, Pop?" I asked him. "Need something?"

My father was speechless for a moment and then he started spluttering.

"I just wanted to know where you were," he said. "When you're finished here, come and find me. I need to talk to you about something."

He was trying to save face. My gambit had totally worked and I was going to live to see another day. The relief that I felt was palpable. This... This right here... This is why I'm a fucking evil genius and you're not.

"Sure thing, Pop," I said as I closed the door in his face and locked it. I turned around and started laughing my ass off.

Kathy looked at me as if I'd gone mad. I told her what I'd done and she started laughing too. Insanity, like laughter, is contagious.

"I can't believe he fell for it," I told her. "He really thought we were having sex."

Kathy looked at me a little funny and she said, "What would be so hard to believe about that?"

Oh? Ohhhh...

It was a while before I went looking for my father.

Thanks for stopping by!

If you enjoyed reading this story, you might enjoy this one as well:

If the Shoe Fits

Premonition

Have you ever felt a bit off, as if something were wrong and you just couldn't put your finger on it? A warning of sorts. A premonition. A portent of things to come. You know that something's going to happen, but you don't know what. You just know that it isn't going to be good.

One day, my friend and many times roommate Luke and I were immersed in our usual post-work decompression ritual of getting stoned. Neither one of us said a word, we just passed that big red bong of mine back and forth and to and fro. We were smoking in silence, melting into the couch, a simmering stoned. Generally, we tried to smoke ourselves into a near comatose state before we decided what to order for dinner.

I had been feeling a little strange that day; a bit off and the feeling had come on quite unexpectedly. It was a feeling of dread and impending doom, crushing me in it's embrace. It was a sense of foreboding, a sense of impending doom. Nothing seemed right, I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had the feeling that my world was about to be turned upside down.

The silence was suddenly shattered by the ringing of the telephone, a ringing which seemed to me so desperate and foreboding. Luke and I looked at each other and the look that he gave me was an odd one, as if he sensed it too. The sound was off, more likely, we were both just really stoned.

The phone was next to Luke and he reached for it.

"Don't answer the phone," I said forcefully and much louder than I had intended to. "Don't answer that phone."

The phone continued to ring.

"Why not?" Luke asked me.

And ring...

"I don't know why," I said, "But something's not right and whatever it is, it has something to do with that phone call, so don't answer it."

Luke looked at me as if I'd completely lost my mind.

And then I suddenly knew.

"Because my mother is on the phone and if you answer that phone, she's going to tell me that my father is dead and if you don't answer the phone, my father can't be dead yet, so don't answer the damn phone.

Ring, ring...

"You've completely lost your mind," he said. "No more pot for you, you're cut off. You can't possibly know that. Your mother isn't going to be on the phone and your father isn't dead. You're out of your mind and you're high."

Luke reached over and picked up the phone, "Hello?"

Luke's face froze.

"Hello, Mrs. M.," Luke managed to croak out and then I saw a strange look come over his face as he handed the phone to me. I pressed the phone to my ear and spoke into it.

"Mom?" I asked. My worry had found focus and was dialing in. "What's wrong?"

My mother explained that there had been an accident and that my father had passed away. Evidently, he had been in the hospital for a little while, but no one had thought it important enough to tell me. That made me feel so much better. My father had been heavily sedated and was fast asleep in his bed. Against hospital policy and doctor's orders, his nurse had left the sides of his bed down, left the room, closed the door and then gone to lunch.

My father had rolled over in his sleep and he fell out of his bed. His catheter was violently dislodged as this happened and he fell heavily to the cold, hard tile floor below.

He started to hemorrhage, bleeding out in those long eternal moments between seconds, frightened and alone. I'm sure it was a terrifying and lonely death.

My mother told me of the scene that she had found when she entered the room; the pool of blood that he was laying in, so much of it; a entire life's worth. She told me too, of the hand prints. The bloody hand prints that she had seen on the sheets and the bed, where my father had tried to pull himself up, fighting until the end, but he never had a chance; it was over too fast.

I asked my mother when it happened and the time frame that she gave me corresponded to the same time that I had started feeling strange. I began to wonder if I had known the moment that my father had passed away and I'm pretty sure that I did know, I just hadn't recognized it for what it was. Strangely enough, the last time that I had seen my father, I knew it would be the last, that I would never see my father again, not alive, anyway. I don't know how I knew, I just did, I was convinced of it then and I still am today. I was so convinced that I would never see him again, it was impossible to get me to believe otherwise and it turned out that I was right. I wish I hadn't been, but I was.

Have you ever experienced anything like that?

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

In My Father's Footsteps

Need a good laugh, instead? I've got you covered:

They Call Me Bae

I'm Challenged

A few months back, I was having a conversation with my middle son; a conversation where he urged me to add Oompa Loompas to one of my stories, as if it were something that would happen in real life. Could you imagine? Holy shit, I can picture it now, Those funny little orange fuckers would come rolling out and be all like:

"Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-do 

Nobody's as fucking stupid as you."

It's an Oompa Loompa sing-a-long!

Just what I need to narrate my life, How about saddling me with Jiminy Fucking Cricket for a conscience while you're at it? Because great fucking jumpin' jiminies, that'd be just swell.

Challenge accepted.

Security

When I started writing again, really writing, not just a piece here and there, but really writing, this was the very first story that I wrote (there’s actually another piece that I broke off to form the base of another story). It’s deeply personal and for a long time, I debated whether or not to post it on here. For better or worse, I’ve decided to post it.

As always, comments, opinions, suggestions and insults are always welcome.

Last November, I went back to West Virginia to visit my children. My oldest son’s football team had made it to the playoffs and I had sworn to him that no matter what, I would make it to one of his games to watch him play and I knew that it meant the world to him, as it meant the world to me, to do whatever it took to honor that promise. I missed all three of my boys desperately and it was with great expectations that I set out upon my journey.

I left home at six that morning; I’d barely slept, I was so excited by the thought of holding my babies again and I was driving as fast as I dared, down those dark, deserted country roads that were shrouded by a dense fog, when there was a sudden flash of brown and white caught in the glare of my headlights. Before I could even form a thought, there was a doe in front of me and then a bump and a thump, as pieces of my car and the deer flew off, into the dark morning mist.

Fuck. Maybe it was more like Holy Fuck.

I pulled over to the side of the road and went to look for the deer. When I found her, she was in bad shape; broken and bleeding. I showed her the mercy that she so desperately needed and blackened my own soul a little more in the process, before heading back to the car to inspect the damage. I tried not to think about what I had just done; I locked it away, in the dark places with the other memories that are best forgotten.

Double Fuck. Not fuck, but Fuck, with a capital ‘F’, for extra emphasis.

I had hit the doe with the edge of the front end, on the driver’s side. The headlight assembly was torn apart, the left front quarter panel was missing a good chunk and the hood was a bit buckled. Amazingly, all of the bulbs were still intact and were still working and the car seemed to be running fairly smoothly, although it did rattle a bit. That was new, but if I turned the stereo loud enough, I couldn’t hear it and I could then pretend that it wasn’t there. I’d bought the car just four days before.

Triple… You can guess where I’m headed with this, right? All caps. Go on, say it. Throw in a bunch of fucking extra exclamation points. How’s that, for extra fucking emphasis?
I called my ex-wife, just to let her know that I’d been in an accident and to let her know that I was on my way, but if there were any problems, I’d do my best to let her know. Her response was basically; glad you’re alive, fuck you and you’re an asshole, for waking me up. It’s good to feel loved. 

Determined to make it back to West Virginia, I got back in the car and drove off, arriving back at my former home, without any further excitement. The children had been told that I wouldn’t be able to make it, so my visit was a surprise for them. The property hadn’t changed in the time that I’d been gone, with the exception of a few ‘No Trespassing’ signs. Idly, I wondered if they were there for my benefit.. Shaking my head, I walked up to the door and was about to knock, when I noticed that the lock had been changed. I found that somewhat amusing, as I hadn’t kept a key and I now lived three hundred miles away. As I raised my hand again and knocked upon the door, I thought again of my family, as I had for the entire drive down. While I was ecstatic to see my children, I couldn’t help but wonder how I would feel, what I would do and what I would say, when I saw my ex-wife. Even though I’d started dating and was convinced that my heart was purged, would sixteen years of emotions come flooding back? Was my stoicism nothing more than a façade that would crack and break? For a moment, I hesitated; I was frightened. I didn’t know what to expect, or what to feel.

“To hell with it,” I thought and I knocked upon the door.

In seconds, my nine year old son was peeking out of the window and I watched as the shocked smile spread across his face; the worship and adoration of a son, for his father. I heard him shout, “Dad’s here! Dad’s home!”

Well, he was right and he was wrong. I was there, but I wasn’t home. Frankly, I didn’t know what, or where home was anymore. Home wasn’t here and it wasn’t back in Pennsylvania. It was like some weird Daliesque bizarro thing; definitely a Twilight Zone moment.

The door flew open and he was in my arms, hugging me for all he was worth. It was incredible. It’s great, to be loved.

And then I saw her standing there. She was as beautiful as I remembered and as much a stranger as someone that I’d never met. And I felt… nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was beautiful and liberating. Before I could even blink, my other two sons were in my arms and I just held my family to me and we shared in the joy of being reunited, after many months apart. It was at that moment that Belle, my demon of a Black Lab (she’s still my dog, damn it!), realized what all of the commotion was about. Telling you that she went ballistic, might be putting it mildly. Belle sprinted down the hallway, knocking the children aside as if they were bowling pins. Nothing was going to stand in her way, until she could get to me. For Belle, her daddy was home and all was finally right, in her world. She jumped on me and her paws were on my shoulders. I guess she wanted her hugs, too. It saddened me to know that I would be breaking her heart again, too, when I left.

I exchanged a few hollow pleasantries with the ex, neither of us meaning the words we said, while the cold look she sent my way said unspoken volumes. I quickly gathered up the kids and hurried them out to my car. The plan was to take them out for lunch, bring them back to the house, so that my oldest could get ready and then take them all to his football game. I hoped that I was going to be almost as popular as the pizza was going to be. When the boys saw my car, they made sure to let me know that it looked like a great car, but it would probably look a lot nicer if I didn’t go around hitting deer with it.
Like I said, it’s nice to be loved.

After lunch, we hurried back to the house and while my oldest son was getting ready, the other boys helped me pack a few things into the trunk of my car. My youngest son, who was two years old at the time, had been clinging to me, from the moment he saw me. He was and still is in that wonderfully affectionate stage of childhood, one that’s full of unexpected, but always welcome, hugs and kisses. Too young to understand the upheaval in his life, he just missed and loved his dad and I certainly felt the same way about him; about all of them. I’ve found that there’s a lot less joy in each day that I spend without my children.

When we got to the field, I saw a lot of old acquaintances and a few friends. Some were cold and distant and some were as friendly as always. Apparently, sides had been chosen and I’m sure in most cases, not chosen. If it makes you happy to throw a dirty look my way, by all means, be my guest.

As we made our way into the stands, my oldest ran off to join his teammates. The younger boys hung out with me for a bit, before running off to play with the other children, occasionally returning to try and scam money for candy from the concession stand. I’m proud to admit that they were only partially successful.

My son’s team won and advanced to the next round, a game they also won, advancing once more, into the championship game, where they became the 2013 Tri-County League Varsity Champions. My son was overjoyed at their victory that day and I was too, so very happy to be able to share in his triumph. When the celebration was over, we drove back to their house, so that my son could get cleaned up and I could pack up my car with some of my belongings that I had left behind. I would be moving into my new apartment the next morning and I would finally have room, for some of my things.

After we had finished loading the car, I realized that I had nothing, when it came to household items. I asked my ex-wife if I could take a blanket, as the days and nights were growing colder. I could tell from the look on her face that she was not pleased by my question.

“The only one that you can have is dirty,” she said.

“I can wash it,” I replied. “There’s a washer and dryer, in my apartment.”

She made a face, but she honored my request.

Upon hearing all of this, my medium son told me that I could have one of his blankets, because he had so many of them. He ran into his room and promptly returned with his Superman comforter, which he handed to me. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder how a shit like me and a bitch like her have managed to raise such amazing and selfless kids, but it’s apparently the only thing in our marriage that we ever managed to get right. I thanked son #2 for his generosity, but I think I might feel a little odd and be a little too old, to be sleeping with Superman blankets and Star Wars sheets. Besides, I’ve been holding out for the complete Hello Kitty and Strawberry Shortcake sets.

While this was going on, my ex-wife had gone off in search of the blanket and soon returned, handing it over to me. The moment that I touched that relic of the past, it became much more than a dirty blanket to me; it became a secret treasure and I had no intention of washing it, ever. That dirty blanket would smell like home and it would comfort me, through the endless and lonely hours. Had she known the gift that she was so unexpectedly giving me, I doubt she would have given it so freely, if at all.

Too soon, it was time for me to leave. I spent a few more minutes with the boys, hugging them to me one last time. It was so very hard to let go of them and by the time that I did, all four of us were in tears. My ex-wife invited me to stay for dinner, but it was only out of courtesy; I knew she didn’t want me there and I didn’t wish to share a table with her, either. I had a long drive ahead of me and I wanted to get home.

After I got into the car, I sat there for a few minutes and held the blanket to my nose, breathing deeply. The blanket smelled like my boys and my dog and my house and… someone else; it smelled like home. I smiled a secret little smile, put the blanket on the passenger seat and drove off.

After an extremely long day and long drive back to where I had been staying, I left everything in the car and went straight to bed. There was no sense in unpacking anything, only to pack it up again for the move to my new apartment. As soon as the new day dawned, I packed a few more things into the car and headed off to the new place, unloaded my things and headed into work. After yet another long day, I headed to my new place, where I promptly fell into “bed.” At this point in time, my bed consisted of a small air mattress, comparable in size to a pool float. It sucked ass. It didn’t matter, though; I was exhausted and I had cocooned myself inside of that treasure of cloth and dirt. Just the scent of it was enough and as I closed my eyes, for one brief, glorious night, I was home again, instead of alone in this strange new world to which I’d exiled myself. It was beautiful and it was wonderful; it was torture and it was Hell, to wake up alone and remember all that I had lost.

I woke early  the next morning, knowing what I had to do, what I needed to do, to finally let go and find closure; perhaps even a little peace, if only symbolically.

I clutched that blanket to my heart, hugging it like it was one of my boys and I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, once again. And once again, I was home, even if it was only to say goodbye, one final time. I opened my eyes and I tossed the blanket into the washing machine, cleansing the remains and stains of her, from the blanket and from my heart. It’s strange, yet fitting that what I thought would be a comfort, became a lesson in letting go, instead and just like you can never go home again, apparently, you can’t take it with you, either.

Baby

Elmwood Cemetery, Shepherdstown, WV

I was wandering through the cemetery; a mix of Confederate graves, forgotten stones and family plots; a place where Antebellum South antiquity meets Mid-Atlantic modernity; I was happily snapping away, until I came across this marker, tucked away in the back, with the simple, heart-wrenching inscription of “Baby.” I took a moment and I thought about this poor child, alone, these many years. Had she taken a breath and smelled the sweetness of life? Had she opened her tiny eyes and gazed with love and longing, upon her mother? Had she felt that radiant love, returned to her, if only for the briefest moment? Did she even have a moment, before she fell, without a name? I wondered how many years it had been since anyone else had thought about this child and I felt a wellspring of grief that seemed to span the many years that lay between us. I’ve thought of her in the days that have passed; I wonder if she’s lonely still.

I wrote this a few years back and rewrote it a little bit, today. The original photo and post are available on my photography page on Facebook (www.facebook.com/phatography). Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find an original copy of the photo and I was unable to download the photo from Facebook, so the photo that is posted here is just a screenshot, from my phone. I still think about this child, from time to time. I guess that I just wanted someone else to think about her, too.

In My Father's Footsteps

Every little boy wishes to be just like his father. I've seen this in myself, with my own children and with every other little boy I've ever encountered. A father's habits are acquired by their sons, both consciously and unconsciously, and thus, these little quirks of personality are passed down through the generations. Sons learn to become their fathers both figuratively and literally. Be careful what you wish for may be borrowing an old cliché, but the truth rings through, and, like any other bargain made with Fate, you often find that you get more than you'd bargained for. Little did I know that when my grandfather died, it would echo down the years with a sense of déjà vu at the death of my own mother, and I found myself relying on the behavior and lessons learned from my father, for better or for worse, some twenty-five years earlier.

I don't remember much about my grandfather; he was already very old when I was born and sometimes I feel a little guilty that I can't remember him more, or better. The memories are small things really, more like vivid thoughts; there are no color to these memories. A gaunt and grizzled old man in a dark suit, standing in the doorway; a crown of gray hair and that enormous Roman nose. The ever present sparkle in my grandfather's eyes that spoke to me of youth and mischief, even though those eyes had grown weary, wrinkled and tired. What I remember most though, was when my father took me to say goodbye to my grandfather.

My grandfather, the patriarch of our family, had been in the hospital for some time and now he was quickly fading away. I hadn't known; it wasn't the sort of thing that adults tell a five year old boy. My father told me when it was time for a final goodbye and he took me to the hospital to see my grandfather one last time. To the eyes of a young boy, the old man seemed to have faded to almost invisibility. The tubes and wires coiled around his body like angry snakes, writhing, living beings. I took tentative steps toward the bed, trembling with, not fear, but perhaps nothing more than the infinite sadness of a young boy's heart, for I knew, as those too thin arms encircled me and pulled me close to him, his large, bony hands tousling my hair, I knew that this was the end. I remember all of the love that had the heart of that little boy bursting apart at the seams, as my grandfather spoke to me, telling me to be a good boy and a great man; he told me of all of the love in his heart, and then he told me goodbye.

As I left the room, there seemed to be a shadow hanging over my grandfather's bed, a sound that seemed to be almost a rustling of wings, half heard and haunting, it echoed through my mind as I closed the door. Moments later, my grandfather left the mortal prison his body had become; the betrayal of time chiseled so evidently upon his face. And I remember too, the realization of true loss, even at that age. I'm glad I was there, thankful to have had the opportunity to say goodbye.

The world turns, a carousel; years pass, life rises and falls. I had acquired all of the accoutrements of a family, a wife and two sons. Life was good, or so it seemed. The idyllic peace of a Sunday morning was shattered by the tortured shrieking of the telephone. My mother was in the hospital, the prognosis going from bad to worse; she wouldn't be leaving. The boys weren't told much, an adult shouldn't burden young children with these things, but as my mother started fading faster, the children were told and offered the opportunity to say goodbye to their grandmother. Of course they said yes. I remember standing in the hospital room with my sons, when I came to the realization that I was the same age as my father, and my oldest son, Anthony, the same age as myself when my grandfather died. I watched in almost disbelief, as history repeated itself and the scene continued to unfold.

Dominic, my youngest son, gave his grandmother a quick kiss and a hug before running out the door with tears in his eyes, whereas Anthony, at age five, was different. I looked up and I saw the tubes and the wires coiled around my mother's body, once again conjuring an image of angry, writhing snakes; her too thin arms encircling Anthony and pulling him closer. I watched as he held her bony, frail hand in both of his, and it seemed as if she had shrunk; Anthony's hands seemed to envelop hers. I watched as he gently patted her hand and reassured her that everything was going to be alright. I listened to my mother's voice, thin as a reed, as she whispered to him of her love, told him to be a good boy and a great man; how she didn't want to say goodbye. I was so proud watching my stoic little man, my heart bursting at the seams. When we left, he told me, with tears in his eyes, "I'll never see my grandmother again." And in that moment, I knew what he knew, and I knew that he had that same prescient knowledge of death that has haunted me through all of my days.

Despite the many similarities between the two scenes, they were each distinct in their own ways as well. My grandfather's death was caused by a stroke, my mother's was caused by lung cancer. My grandfather died in the hospital, whereas, my mother did indeed make it home once more. She passed away, in her own bed, three days after leaving the hospital, but it wasn't her, it was just the shell of her body; that was all that remained. In a sense, my mother never left the hospital at all; the person that came home just wasn't her. Yet it's only the similarities that seem to play through my memory.

I'm not sure if my father or I made the right choice. Was I condemned to suffer the same fate twenty-five years later? Have I condemned my children and grandchildren to the same fate as my father seems to have condemned me to? I feel that I am not fit to judge, but it would seem that even a history remembered is doomed to repeat itself. I always wanted to be just like my father, my sons want to be just like me. I'm afraid that we've all had our wishes granted, for better or for worse.

Growing Up the Neat Way

First and foremost, let me begin by stating that I am an unrepentant slob; always have been, always will be. I shouldn’t be this way, not after growing up in the white glove inspection household of my parents and attending military school for many years, but I am. Strangely though, I’m not always a slob; outside of my own home, I am one of the neatest, most organized people you will ever meet, and while sloppy at home, I’m still organized; I actually know where everything is in those mounds of paper and books that envelop my entire home office. Harking back to one of the oldest lines ever uttered by a parent, it’s my house and it’s my rules.

It wasn’t always like this of course. Once upon a time, I lived in a different house and under vastly different rules. My mother was, beyond a doubt, the most neurotic neat freak there ever was. A smudge on the refrigerator would have her get out the bucket and mop brigade to clean the entire house. Growing up in my parents’ home was like growing up in a living museum, and it certainly was. We were one of those families that had the showplace living room; the kind that no one was allowed to use, ever, under any circumstances. We had those horrible plastic covers on the couch and the drapes; antiques and artwork everywhere. One step into that room and the wrath incurred from my mother would be like having the flaming sword of God descending on you. I think that, perhaps, God may just have been a bit more forgiving. If you cleaned up any mess that you had made, it was imperfect and she had to reclean it herself. She would clean before the cleaning lady came and after she left. If toys were left on the floor of my room, I might as well have thrown them out myself. Even trying to keep my mess hidden and locked away in my bedroom was a failure. My mother was better at picking the lock on my bedroom door than a professional thief could have been. But what about my father, you may well ask. Dad was something else alright., he was a secret slob, one who’s many years of military training helped him in the arts of camouflage and subterfuge. My father had a secret stash of a pack rat’s nest hidden in the apartment above the garage; strictly man turf that my mother would not enter.

My father, the general, was almost kind of sort of a laid back guy, with the rod of military discipline shoved straight up his kiester. You would never imagine that outside of his job, he couldn’t even organize an expedition to the fridge for a midnight snack. Responsibilities? Bill payment? Forget it. Had that been left to my father, we would have lived as Neanderthals. Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair with my father. Dad was a highly decorated and terribly wounded veteran of World War II. Some of the things that poor man had been through and that had steeled his soul… he deserved whatever it is he wanted. The Air Force may have kept him around but it was more, I think, that they felt they owed him something. This was a man that had been through the veritable fires of hell and had returned, against all odds and he deserved a little slack, but jumping jehosophat, that man couldn’t bring himself to throw anything away. When I cleaned out his office after he passed away, I threw enough junk away to start up my own landfill; the junk seemed to be more treasured than the box of memories and honors that he had hidden away. Dad wasn’t going to be neat unless he was absolutely force to be, and while that may have been true in the main house, he was free to be a secret slob anywhere else.

And while I’m on the subject of secret slobs, it brings me to my tenure in military school; another home of enforced cleanliness and order. However, if you knew how to game the system, and I did, you could be a secret slob hidden under the very thin veil of neatness. For example, there was my footlocker, subjected to daily inspections. Everything in the upper layer of the footlocker was gathered in a tray and was always kept very neat and clean, except, well, don’t lift up the tray. Ceiling tiles above the bunk beds would hold all kinds of junk, and so would the locked dress uniform cabinet that I was expert at breaking into. In retrospect, I probably put more time and effort into hiding my messes than I would have spent just cleaning them up.

All in all, I would have to say that it was either the forced cleanliness and order or some kind of weird genetic mutation that has turned me into the slob that I am today. It certainly wasn’t hereditary. My sister and my brother both seem to have been bitten by the clean bug, although I do suspect that my brother is a secret slob just like my father was. It’s not that I don’t appreciate neatness, I just have more important things to do with my time.