One Stick Pony

There I was, riding through the desert on a horse with no name...

Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly a desert.

And maybe it wasn't really a horse, either, but I swear it didn't have a name, or maybe the horse did have a name and it was something sordid that was whispered in back alleys in the dead of the night, or maybe, just maybe, I'm completely fucked in the head. You be the judge.

You probably want an explanation. No worries, I'm about to give you one, you poor fucking bastard.

La, la, la, la, la, la... La, la, la

On the first part of the journey...

It started out as a typical, lazy Saturday morning at my girlfriend Hannah's house. By the time I popped out of the shower, Hannah was already downstairs making breakfast for her daughter, Little Moon (not their real names), who is all of eight years old, tall, stringy and blonde, with an infectious and toothless grin. Little Moon is just a bit more than somewhat of a precocious kid, like twenty miles over the fucking line kind of precocious. Anyway, I bounced down the stairs, without falling, wished everyone a good morning and then said something that was undoubtedly cheesy. Cheesy, I say, because that's what dudes who are dads do, we speak in cheese. Dads who speak in cheese, telling their horrid, cheesy jokes are the fucking worst, let me tell ya'. Pure fucking torture. I used to run for the hills, whenever my father got started. It was inhumane; the true face of child abuse. That man couldn't tell a joke. As for my kids, well, they've earned their punishment. I like to have them trapped in the car, at speed, on the highway, when I start telling my cheesy ass Dad jokes. Hell is for children.

Little Moon looked up from her pancakes and rolled her eyes at me. I wasn't impressed.

Hannah and I briefly discussed our plans for the day, she and Little Moon were headed to a friend's house for a swim and I would be headed off on an adventure with my friend Luke, until I reconnected with the girls later that evening, for dinner with Hannah, Little Moon and their friends, but all of that was still hours away. Once our executive level strategy session was out of the way, the three of us talked about whatever kind of humdrum stuff we discussed, until Little Moon told us about a totally cool, super secret spy pen that her totally cool BFF Abby had shown her at school.

"It's not a totally cool, super secret spy pen anymore if she showed it to you," I told Little Moon.

"Whatever." Little Moon replied and rolled her eyes again. "It's just the coolest thing ever. You can write in invisible ink on one side of the pen and it has a black light on the other side, so that you can read the secret messages." Little Moon then went on to explain, in great detail, just why she needed that totally cool, super secret spy pen and that it only cost way more money than it should for a cheap piece of crap like that (but maybe not in those exact words) and how she would be the envy of every child in her school if she had her very own totally cool, super secret spy pen and how she would become a complete outcast, a social pariah needing years of therapy, if she didn't.

"You wouldn't happen to know where to find this totally cool, super secret spy pen, would you?" Hannah asked her daughter.

"It just so happens that I do," Little Moon answered. "They sell it at Fairhaven Toy Garden, downtown, right by Village Books."

Hmmm... Village Books. I'd been meaning to stop in there. The bookstore was supposed to have a machine that could print books on demand, as in print myself a few copies of my stories as a vanity project kind of demand. The rusty gears in my mind started turning. I don't think they turned very far.

Little Moon then went on to explain that she had to have that totally cool, super secret spy pen that very same day, because the toy store was closed on Sundays and she had to have that pen before walking into school on Monday or the world would stop spinning, the sky would fall and everyone would laugh at her, reminding us once again that such cruelty would require years of therapy.

"Little Moon," Hannah started, "Momma has lots of things to do around the house today, before we can go swimming. I don't know that we'll have the time to do that today."

"Please, Momma?" Little Moon pleaded.

"I could take her," I blurted out, in a fit of insanity. "I could take her to get the pen and then we could stop at Village Books and I could ask about printing a few copies of my book and then we could head over to Sweet Art and get some chocolate fudge. This way, we'll both be out of your hair and you can get whatever you need to do taken care of. "

If you talk fast enough, sometimes you can baffle them with your bullshit.  Sometimes. Evidently, this wasn't one of those.

"This is just your excuse  to buy chocolate fudge and you wouldn't happen to be thinking about stopping at a certain little ice cream parlour that just happens to be next door to the candy store? Paper Dreams does sell chocolate fudge, you know and it's right next door to Village Books." Hannah asked me in what I must describe as a very accusatory tone.

"I've had their fudge and I'm not a fan," I said. "The chocolate fudge at Sweet Art is the best I've ever tasted; it's made with LOVE. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about any ice cream, but now that you've mentioned it..."

It was time to bring out the big guns. Remember kids, always cheat, if you want to win. This is why I'm a paragon of fucking virtue.

"What do you think about getting some ice cream too, Little Moon?"

Little Moon was all about that ice cream. She sure didn't roll her eyes at me that time.

The tide had turned. Resistance is futile.

"Who eats ice cream at nine o'clock in the morning?" Hannah asked rhetorically.

"Who doesn't?" I answered, just as rhetorically.

Hannah was sold. Shit, she just about chased us out the door. Sucker. Wait. Maybe I was the sucker. Maybe Hannah just wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet, or something. More likely, Hannah had a few souls stashed away and she wanted to devour them. She is a Ginger, after all.

Hannah handed me twenty dollars and told me that it was for Little Moon's pen and whatever else. I told her not to worry about it, but she insisted. We settled for Hannah buying the pen and I would buy the sweets.

"May I please buy a book with the leftover money, Momma?" Little Moon asked, just as sweet as could be. "I've read all of my books."

This kid was good. What parent is going to tell their kid they can't have a book? Little Moon sure knew her shit. She's got Hannah wrapped around her finger. They make quite a pair, those two and they love the shit out of each other.

"Of course, baby," Hannah told her.

Ha! Suuuuuckerrrrrr.

"Momma, may I please get a plushy instead of a book? I haven't got a plushy of the week, yet," Little Moon reached.

"That's because there's no such thing as a plushy of the week," countered Hannah.

"But Momma," Little Moon shot back, "It's been so very long..."

I was fairly certain that Little Moon had overreached with that last request and I was quickly proven right when Hannah interrupted her daughter.

"I don't think so, baby," Hannah informed her. "That money is only for a book."

"Awww, Momma..." Little Moon replied with typical pre-teen angst, but she let it go..

Nice try, kid.

"The two of you should probably run along and get going, before it gets too late to go," Hannah told us.

Wow, Hannah sure was in a hurry to get rid of us. She must have been anxious to get at those souls. Who eats souls at nine o'clock in the morning?

I grabbed the twenty and put it in my wallet, ushering Little Moon out the door and into my car. We drove the ninety second drive into downtown Fairhaven, because I'm too damn lazy to walk a few blocks and we found a parking space right where we needed to be and that had to be a good omen, didn't it?

Well, didn't it?

Fuck no. Of course, it wasn't, but at least it was predictable.

We exited the car and I scanned all four corners. Village Books, an antique store, an empty store with a For Rent sign and some other shit shop. No toy store. Okay, no problem. I pulled out my handy dandy smartphone and I conjured up the Oracle of Google. How the fuck did we ever survive before Google? The gods smiled upon me and the address popped up and it was at the opposite end of the block, but I didn't recall having passed the toy store earlier, but in Google we trust, so Little Moon and I trudged down the block. No toy store.

The Google had failed me. There is no God.

I called Hannah. She told me that the store was back at the other end of the block, the very corner that we had just trudged from. I casually mentioned that there was no toy store at that location, but Hannah was insistent, so Little Moon and I trudged back down the block to our starting point. We arrived back at my car and I looked for the store again. Nothing. I had a sudden, sinking feeling. Little Moon and I crossed the street and approached the empty store. Sure enough, it had been the location of Fairhaven Toy Garden. I was about to have a very upset eight year old girl on my hands.

Fuck.

"Oh, no!" Little Moon cried.

"Let's see if they've moved," I said. "Maybe they have their new address posted on a sign in the window."

I've never been a praying man, but that seemed as good a time as any to start.

As we came closer to the store, I could see that there was indeed a sign on the window. It said, "WE'VE MOVED" and nothing else.

Double Fuck.

It was then that I noticed my saving grace, a small sign on the front door that had the new address of the store. Meltdown avoided. Thank fuck. Eight year old girls are volatile things. I should know, I tend to freak out like one, so that's two, eight year old girl meltdowns we'd just avoided.

This was turning into the journey of Odysseus.

The new location was only four blocks away. Unfortunately, part of that walk included trudging back down the block that we had just trudged down twice and then trudging down it again on the way back. Fuck me. It was like the Triple Crown of Fucks.

Fer fuck's sake.

We trudged back down the block. We trudged and we schlepped and then we trudged some more, finally arriving at the toy store.

 Walking. Like common people, or something. Who does that shit? It was fucking exhausting. I'm not a fucking animal, you know. Seriously, who does that shit?

We walked into the toy store and Little Moon was like, well, she was like a kid in a fucking toy store. What the fuck did you think she was like? The shit that I have to explain to you people. I fucking swear...

We looked around at this and that, played with all kinds of crap designed to help children to separate adults from their money, but we came up empty when it came to the totally cool, super secret spy pen. Apparently, that thing could hide better than Anne Frank.

Little Moon found a display of stuffed birds that tweeted or made whatever kind of annoying fucking noise that birds make and she made sure that I heard every fucking bird call. Twice. Sometimes, even three times, just for shits and giggles, I guess.

"You're not getting a plushy, Little Moon," I told her.

"I  know," she answered, "I'm just showing you what they have."

She moved on to the next bird. Tweet fucking tweet. I wanted to shoot myself in the fucking head.

"Why don't we ask at the counter?" I suggested to Little Moon. I think I was becoming a little exasperated at that point and I think she knew it and took pleasure in it. Little Moon stared me straight in the eye as she exchanged bird after bird, a smile of savage glee plastered on her face.

"Why don't you?" she replied.

Yeah, definitely exasperated.

We approached the counter and I inquired about the totally cool, super secret spy pen.

The very helpful and friendly sales staff informed me that the totally cool, super secret spy pen was one of their most popular items and one of those very nice ladies came out from behind the counter to help us find what we were looking for.

"They're right over here," she told us, leading the way. "Oh my..."

Oh my? That didn't sound good. Nope, that shit didn't sound good at all. Oh my never fucking sounds good.

"I don't see any," the saleswoman said, "But I'll check the computer."

She went back behind the counter and checked the computer. Unfortunately, they were completely sold out of totally cool, super secret spy pens. Yeah, this was turning into the Triple Crown of Fucks, alright.

Fuck.

Little Moon did not take the news well, but I was able to distract her by telling her that she could pick out something else; anything she wanted.

She ran right to the closest display of stuffed animals.

"Anything but that, Little Moon," I cautioned. "I'm not going to get into trouble with your mom by getting you one of those."

"Awwww...," Little Moon said, but she listened.

Little Moon and I wandered around the store, checking out this and that once again. I swear, that girl must have picked up and hugged every single stuffed animal in that store, telling me how they were all just meant to come home with her.

Good luck with that.

We reached the back of the store and it was loaded with art and craft supplies. Little Moon wasn't interested in much until she finally came across something that caught her eye. It was a diary, with three cartoon owls on the cover and just perfect for a little girl. Plus, anything that encourages a child to write creatively is a wonderful thing, so I was all for it, for the most part.

"This is what I want," Little Moon informed me. "I need a diary and this one is perfect."

Well, it was almost perfect. The only problem that I had with the diary was that I thought it looked a little too childish and that she might outgrow it quickly. Plus, when you buy the very first thing you see, you might end up with a case of buyer's remorse if you spot something that you like better, later on. It's a bit of a conundrum.

I explained how I felt to Little Moon and she did not like my answer. I suggested that before we bought the diary, we should walk back over to Village Books and see if they had any diaries for sale and that she might find something she might like better, over there.

"What if I don't see anything that I like at Village Books?" Little Moon asked me.

"Then we'll walk right back down here and we'll buy this one," I told her.

"Do you promise?"

I promised and we schlepped our way back over to Village Books. Little Moon showed me a shortcut that saved us two blocks. I really wish that whole shortcut thing would have come up earlier, you know, like before my ass was dragged all over downtown Fairhaven. We wandered around Village Books for a bit and then I suggested that we ask where the diaries were.

"You can ask," Little Moon told me.

Not that shit again.

Ask I did and we soon found ourselves in front of a display of diaries. There was a much larger selection to choose from and Little Moon quickly found the perfect diary. It was a much nicer book and was definitely much less childlike than the ones at the toy store; perfect for an eight year old girl.

With her diary in hand, Little Moon and I climbed the stairs to the children's section of the store. At the very first display, there was a book on Greek mythology that just happened to be open to a picture of Medusa. I had to do a double take, because I thought it was one of my wedding photos. Little Moon was off on a mission, bouncing with excitement as she ran ahead to where the new releases were, rounding the corner and quickly disappearing from sight. No worries, she wasn't that far ahead.

As I took my next few steps, I noticed that there was a large wooden barrel filled with stick horses. You know what I'm talking about, it's a stuffed horse's head with reins, mounted on a stick that little kids and demented people like me can pretend to ride on.

Fucking A.

Never missing a chance to embarrass myself in public, I grabbed one of the stick horses and hopped into the saddle, clippety-clopping my way down the aisle behind Little Moon, passing a woman reading a book to her son. They pointed at me and laughed. That happens a lot. I'm used to it.

I galloped down the aisle like Don Fucking Quixote and I darted around the corner, where I pulled up behind Little Moon with a whinny and a neigh, but Little Moon just looked at me and rolled her eyes. Again. That eye rolling shit was starting to be downright fucking annoying, if I do say so myself and I fucking do. Say so myself, that is. Fine. So, I did what any other sane and rational adult would do and I doubled down on the fucking crazy. I galloped in circles around Little Moon, pantomiming like I was a world class rodeo rider, riding a demon bucking bronco. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the ghost of a smile cross Little Moon's face, but it may have just been wishful thinking. Instead, Little Moon gave me a withering look that said she thought I was more like a world class ass of a rodeo clown than the world class rodeo rider that I seemed to think I was. Whatever. Tomato, potato.

Don't ever go full potato.

"Do you always have to be soooo embarrassing?" Little Moon asked me.

Duh! Of course, I did. How could she even ask? I was hurt. Distraught. Wounded. I wept.

Are you fucking kidding me?  Pffft... Like I have fucking feelings or something. Nah, fuck that shit.

"Little Moon..." I began.

Run, Little Moon, run. Run as fast as your little legs will carry you and as far as you can, because you're about to get a little life lesson.

The poor kid had no clue what was coming. Heh.

Where were we? Oh, yeah.

"Little Moon," I began, "Always dance and sing like no one is watching and who cares if anyone is. Take joy where you find it. Laugh loud and strong. Never, ever, miss an opportunity to be silly and have fun. Never be ashamed of who you are and don't be embarrassed to be yourself. Besides, this is a fine steed, a true warhorse to carry a valiant knight such as myself into battle. I shall call him 'Soul Eater', after your mother."

What can I say? I'm a motivational motherfucker.

Little Moon's reaction to all of this was...

Crickets.

 It was so fucking quiet that I could literally hear Little Moon's eyes rolling around in her head.

Huh? WTF? I'd just given Little Moon an incredible and important life lesson, words of wisdom to last throughout the ages and she'd completely blown me off. Little Moon had completely dismissed what I'd said and instead she showed me the book that she'd picked out. It was the story of Argos, faithful dog of Odysseus.

Irony can be so fucking cruel.

I hate children. All children. Except mine. I love my children (pinky swear!) and I'm not just saying that because they read my stories. Okay, I am. saying that because they read my stories. Look, I don't want those little fuckers to grow up with some kind of complex, or something. Fuck, I already worry that the middle one is going to be some kind of serial killer or mad scientist that destroys the world, or some kind of shit like that. I'll bet he cackles maniacally when he reads that. Little fucker wants to create a zombie virus that will take a bite out of your ass. He's smart and demented enough to do it, too. You should be worried. I know I am.  Oh, and I like Little Moon too and I'm not just saying that because my girlfriend is a homicidal Ginger who reads my stories and always reminds me that if I cross her, she will kill me in my sleep and eat my soul. Nope, I say these things out of love. I just fucking love everyone. I'm a fucking people person. Really.

It all comes down to one thing, really. Some truths are universal. Kids are fucking assholes.

As you can imagine, I was crushed. Devastated. Nah, that's total bullshit. We've already established that I don't give a fuck.

"This is the book that I'd like," Little Moon told me.

"That's a great choice," I said. "It's from a very old and famous story called, 'The Odyssey'. Do you remember what I said about buying the first thing that you see, though? You might want to take a look around at something else, before you make your final decision."

Little Moon agreed and we decided to look in a different section. As we turned to go, in a voice as faint as a whisper, I heard Little Moon ask, "Can I try it?"

Holyfuckingshitballs, Batman!

I whipped Soul Eater around and I dismounted, handing the reins to Little Moon, who was in the saddle in no time at all. The kid was a natural. Now that I had been unhorsed, I used the magical power of imagination to conjure forth a new mount and Little Moon and I took off down the aisle, clippety-clopping to a full on sound effects soundtrack provided by yours truly.

Little Moon giggled.

As we approached the mother that was reading to her child, I warned Little Moon that we were about to pass people. That stopped her cold and she handed the stick horse back to me, unwilling to be embarrassed and ran ahead, so that she wouldn't have to be seen with me, either. Having no shame myself, I quickly climbed back on Soul Eater and continued my clippety-clopping on my way down the aisle.

As  I neared the end of the aisle, in full stride and just as loud and embarrassing as I could be, a salesperson and a group of four or five people came around the corner and almost ran into me. Thankfully, I pulled back on Soul Eater's reins quickly enough to avoid an unfortunate accident. The salesperson glared at me, as salespeople generally do and I never understand their enmity, but the other people gave me strange looks too, as if encountering a grown man riding a stick horse isn't something that you see every day. It was disconcerting. I really don't need that kind of negativity in my life.

Our close brush with death had spooked Soul Eater and I was more than a little embarrassed at being caught out at being an idiot. I thought back to the words that I had just spoken to Little Moon and wondered if that was what I truly believed, that you should never be embarrassed or feel ashamed to be yourself, or was that just so much bullshit? Fuck it. It took me about half a second to decide as I continued my ride down that dusty old trail, sound effects and all.

Little Moon ended up picking out a different book, surprising me, she compared prices and went with the less expensive option. I was pretty impressed. We were a little over budget, but that was cool. If a kid wants to read, you buy them a book. I put Soul Eater back into his stable and then Little Moon and I headed for the register to get checked out. I inquired about the totally cool, print your own book because you're not good enough to get a book published machine and was told that it was a piece of shit and had been tossed upon the great ash heap of history and no extra charge for the disappointment.

Fuck.

At least I still had fudge and ice cream to look forward to and to wash the taste of that disappointment out of my mouth and that gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling. I think out of all the food groups, sugar and chocolate are my favorites. Healthy, too. They come from plants, so it's like a salad.

Unfortunately, life is a cunt.

Little Moon and I left Village Books and crossed the street to my car. After we were both buckled in, I checked the time on my phone. Our little jaunt had eaten up all of our allotted time and we wouldn't be able to get any fudge or ice cream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

I really wanted to cry, now. The fudge had been all that I had wanted, the ice cream just an added bonus. I had earned that shit, fought for it, paid for it in fucking blood and now I wasn't going to get any? What kind of fucked up shit was that? It was completely unfuckingacceptable and I was going to get my damn fudge, come hell or high water.

I took Little Moon home, dropped her off, kissed the Ginger goodbye and I went to pick up Luke, informing him that we were headed to downtown Bellingham (as opposed to downtown Fairhaven, even though Fairhaven is part of Bellingham). Luke told me he didn't want any fudge, but I didn't really give a fuck what he, or anyone else wanted by this point, because all I wanted was that fucking fudge and I was sure as shit going to get it.

I drove downtown and was lucky enough to score a parking space directly in front of the store. That had to be a good omen, right?

Yeah, sure.

I could see the fudge piled high in the front window, calling to me like a Siren's song. I could practically taste that chocolatey goodness. I drifted closer, closer; the end of my quest in sight. I approached the front door and smashed my head against it like a ship against the rocks. Dazed, I stepped back and had to wait for the world to stop spinning before I was able to see the sign that read 'Closed Today'.

Fuck me. I just love the taste of disappointment.

The gods are cruel and the struggle is real.

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

Every Picture Tells A Story

Some truths are just unequivocal.

A child will love their parents unconditionally, even if that love isn't returned. Even when that child is mocked and ridiculed, or told that they're less than nothing and worthless. The words we use; the things we say. The words of a parent hold such great power and great power must be brandished with great care.

My parents were firm believers in the art of ridicule and they used it to great effect. To them, I was stupid, I was never good enough, I was weak and I would never amount to anything.

Well, I was a straight A student all through school, with a steady 4.0 gpa, I was considered a leader at school (one of them, anyway), I was a big kid and I excelled at sports such as football, track, basketball and soccer. I also got into a lot of fights, I won the majority of them, mostly through luck and picking my battles wisely. I haven't really amounted to a whole hell of a lot, though, but hey, three out of four ain't bad. If it counts for anything, I've got three amazing children. I'm not convinced that I deserve points for my ability to procreate, though.

Still, no matter what I did, no matter what I accomplished, medals, trophies or scholastic excellence and recognition, nothing that I did was ever good enough for them. Nothing. I was shy and withdrawn as a child; socially awkward, as children with overbearing parents usually are.

After a while, you get used to it. After a while, you start to believe it. It's easier that way, it hurts less. Holding on to that belief scars your heart and your mind; yes, you get used to it, but you never get over it. It takes a toll and you either give in completely or you learn to stand up and fight for yourself. Thankfully, in later years, I found the courage to do the latter.

Outwardly my family was the perfect Potemkin village, but behind the facade that was presented to the world was a family that was torn apart by strife and dominated by cruelty; mental, emotional and physical cruelty. I'm not going to catalog a history of abuse, nor am I looking for any sympathy, I just wanted to give you a little bit of history about two of the people who will end up being featured in quite a few of my stories.

When I was eight years old, my parents took me on a two week long Caribbean cruise for Christmas and New Year's. I had a great time, even though they had mostly abandoned me during the trip and I was left to my own devices for the majority of the cruise. I was only expected to take meals with my parents; an accessory. Other than that, I didn't see them much. It was as if I were invisible.

During the course of the cruise there were many activities planned for the children and we were kept occupied and out of the way for some of the time. The activities director had scheduled a talent show for the kids and I immediately signed up and began working on a comedy routine. I begged my parents to come, I begged them to watch my performance. I so very desperately wanted them to be proud of me. They agreed to come. I was so excited.

I worked on my act all week long, rehearsing over and over. I knew my routine by heart and I was ready to go. The big night came and I waited backstage, bouncing up and down with excitement, waiting for my turn to come. I peeked through the curtain, scanning the audience, trying to spot my parents, but I couldn't find them; the only thing I saw were a bunch of parents, families and a scattering of old people that had nothing better to do. I peeked through the curtain again,but I still couldn't see them, but I knew they were out there, somewhere and I so very desperately wanted to make them proud of me. My name was announced and I walked onstage to polite applause. I tried to look for my parents once more, but I was blinded by the glare of the lights. I stood there in my cheesy clown makeup and performed my little act, telling a handful of lame jokes that elicited polite laughter, followed up by something that was much more risque; a little story of how I had been watching a cartoon about car racing and had seen a banner that read 'Grand Prix', Well, when I asked my mother what a Grand Pricks was, my horrified mother grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to the bathroom where she proceeded to wash my mouth out with soap over a slight mispronunciation of  an innocent French word. The audience roared with laughter and gave me a nice round of applause. My turn was over and it was time for the next kid to perform. As I walked offstage, I was congratulated by the other kids and and some of the cruise ship staff. I was stoked, as I walked out into the audience, searching for my parents. I walked up and down the aisles looking for them, but didn't see them anywhere. Thinking I must have missed them, I checked again, stopping at each row and checking carefully. Nothing. Frustrated, I checked one more time and then I gave up. I went over to sit with the other children whose parents hadn't bothered to show up.

A few other children performed. Some tried to sing and others tried to dance; some were just down right strange. The last act finished and the emcee took to the stage to announce whom the "judges" had chosen to be the winners of the talent show. The third place winner was announced and then the second place winner. The buildup of tension that followed was incredible and I thought that my heart was going to explode, because I had been holding my breath for so long.

The first place winner was announced.

It took me a moment to realize that they had called my name. I had won! I had really won! I couldn't believe it; it wasn't possible. My parents would be so proud of me when I told them that I won. I stood stunned for a moment and then one of the other kids pushed me forward, back toward the stage to accept my award and prize.

My smile was ear to ear.

The emcee shook my hand, and the audience applauded once more as he handed me a blue ribbon and a small, gift wrapped box. I shyly thanked everyone and practically ran offstage and out of the theater. I stopped in the hallway outside of the theater and I looked at the box. I shredded the gift wrap in my haste to open it and see my prize. I looked at my treasure and to my delight, it was an AGFA ISO - PAC 126 camera and two film cartridges.

It was perfect and something that I really wanted. I loved looking at great photography and now I would be able to create my own.

I ran off in search of my parents, with the voices of various crew members yelling at me to slow down, receding in the distance.

I caught up to my parents in the casino, where they had been since shortly after dinner. My mother looked at me, aghast. She stood there in her finest dress, baubles and fur, while I dared to show up and embarass her because I was covered in clown makeup. I tried to tell her about the talent show, but she would have none of it, cutting me off and sending me back to my stateroom to shower and get ready for bed. I was crushed, but did as I was ordered. You didn't cross my mother; not if you knew what was good for you.

The next morning, the ship docked in San Juan, Puerto Rico and my parents went ashore right after breakfast. I went down to the duty free shop and bought two more rolls of film and then I went ashore, as well. There was a really cool old fort that I wanted to see and I would be able to try out my new camera. I walked to the fort and I started taking pictures of everything. I remember that the view from the top of the wall was inspiring and it filled my little heart with joy. I had a great time, even if I was by myself and I used up all of my film.

It was starting to get late and I knew that I couldn't be too long, because the ship was pulling out around dinnertime. I asked an adult for the time and it was much later than I thought. There was no way that I could walk back to the ship in time and it was going to leave without me. My parents were going to kill me. They had already warned me about what would happen if I missed the ship and I really didn't want to endure the punishments that they had promised would await me, because if I understood them correctly, Satan would be building an entire new circle of Hell, just for me. I ran out the front of the fort and I saw that there was a taxi stand outside. I had money, so at least that wasn't an issue. I ran up to the first cab and I asked the driver how much it would cost to take me down to the harbor. He told me that it would cost me five dollars. I had two. Dejected, I turned around and started to walk away, but he called me back and asked me which ship I needed to get to. I told him and he said that it was leaving soon. I nodded and he told me to hurry up and get into the cab; he would take me to the ship, but we had to hurry. I jumped in the front seat and we took off. He asked me how much money I had and I told him two dollars. He nodded and said that would be enough. He told me that he had a son about my age and that if his son ever needed a little help, he hoped that someone would show him kindness. That thought has always stayed with me.

He drove as quickly as he dared, ignoring traffic laws and one way streets, while dodging chickens and pedestrians. Unfortunately, traffic came to a grinding halt, about two blocks from the harbor.

"Go, amigo, go!" shouted the taxi driver. "Run, amigo! You should make it there, just in time."

I paid the driver his money and thanked him for his kindness as I darted out of the door and started sprinting for the pier and the ship, weaving in and out of the crowds and evading more than a few startled goats. I was out of breath when I arrived at the gangplank, and luckily, just as they were about to pull it up and make way. I had barely made it, but I'd get to live at least another day and thankfully, my parents would never find out and I wouldn't be punished for almost missing the boat.

I ran back to my stateroom, accompanied by a chorus of "Slow downs!" Boy, the crew sure did like to yell a lot. I arrived at my room, hopped in the shower and got dressed for dinner. We had been invited to eat at the captain's table and I knew to keep my mouth shut and be on my best behavior.. My parents came to collect me, knocked on the door and came into the cabin. My mother straightened my bow tie and fixed my tuxedo, making certain that I looked presentable, but then she noticed the camera that was sitting on my bunk.

"What's that?" she asked, "And where did you get it?"

I started to explain about the talent contest, but my mother cut me off once more.

"Where did you take this from?" she demanded.

I was confused.

"I didn't take it from anywhere," I explained. "I won it in the talent contest that you promised that you were going to come to!"

My accusation hung in the air, an almost physical presence.

"Shut your damn mouth and get your ass to dinner," my father told me in a cold and warning tone.

"Yes, sir," I replied and I marched out the door and down the hall.

We rode the elevator in silence. Other than being congratulated by the captain for winning the talent show, dinner for me was nothing but silence. I tuned out the adults and their conversation. The waiter took pity on me and hooked me up with some extra desserts.

After dinner, I went and did the planned activities and it was movie night for the kids. I was told to go to bed right after the movie, but I snuck out and went to the casino to play on the slot machines. I won a few dollars and left, my pockets full of quarters. I went back to my cabin and went to bed.

Well, I guess that my parents must have eventually felt a little guilty over the whole talent show thing and the accusations over the camera and they tried to buy their way out of it as they always did, by throwing money at the problem, thinking that would make things better. They accomplished this by taking me back to the duty free shop and buying me twelve rolls of film, explaining to me that I could shoot all of the pictures that I wanted, but that they would only pay for one roll a month to be developed. They asked me if I understood and I said yes.

That night was New Year's Eve and I was allowed to stay up late, a long as I was with the other children and participating in the planned activities for kids. We ran around, played games and watched movies; it was a lot of fun, but the night, like all good things, came to an end. There wasn't much time left on the cruise and the ship was headed back to Miami. I snapped a few more pictures, but not all that many. I wanted to save the rest of my film for when I got home.

A few days after we arrived home, I was up with the sunrise. I grabbed my camera and hopped on my bike and rode down to the Intracoastal Waterway, just a few blocks behind our house. There were scattered storm clouds and a brilliant sunrise, a radiant backdrop to a stand of hibiscus that was in bloom. It was perfect. I raised my camera and I snapped away, frame after frame. It was a high that I just can't give words to; it was the beginning of my love affair with photography.

I finished off my roll of film and I headed home, ready to run down to the drug store and drop off the film for processing. I burst through the door of the house, a blur of energy and loudly informed the house that I was ready to drop off my film. The only problem with that was that I was the only one home. According to the note that I found, my parents had gone to breakfast and then they would be taking the boat out. I made myself a bowl of cereal and sat down to watch Saturday morning cartoons. After the cartoons were over, I packed myself a sandwich and spent the rest of the day fishing with some friends, topped off with a swim in the pool when I got back home.

The next day, my father and I dropped the film off at the pharmacy and the clerk told us that it would take at least one week to process the film, possibly two. They did offer a twenty-four hour service, but my father refused to pay the extra money for it.

Even though I knew it was going to be at least a week before I saw my photographs, that didn't keep me from stopping at the pharmacy every day, on my way home from school and harassing whichever unlucky soul happened to be behind the counter that day. Rather than be annoyed by my exuberance, the clerks were wonderful and they humored me by checking the incoming orders, every day. Being avid amateur photographers themselves, they also encouraged me and gave me photography tips.

After a full year of seven whole days of losing my eight year old mind with practiced impatience, my father and I went back to the pharmacy to see if the film had come in and as luck would have it, the film had just arrived.

The clerk handed me the envelope, but my father snatched it out of her hand and tore it open straight away.

"I need to make sure that they're the right pictures," my father said. It wouldn't be the first time they've gone and mixed things up."

My father had never seen my photographs. How was he supposed to know if they were the right ones or not? I was confused.''

"Where's the kid's pictures?" my father demanded. "These aren't the kids pictures. Where are his pictures?"

What? Not my pictures? It couldn't be! Then again, how could he know?

"Let me see," I said as I pulled at the envelope in my father's hand and it fell, the photographs scattering across the floor.

My father cuffed me hard, on the side of my head. I saw stars.

"Pick that crap up," he said and then he turned back to the clerk and demanded once more, "Where are his pictures?"

The clerk started to stammer out an apology while I knelt down to pick up the photographs from the floor. I recognized the images instantly; they were the ones that I had taken.

"Dad," I said.

He ignored me and glared at the clerk. She looked terrified.

"Dad." I said again, a bit louder.

He shifted his gaze and that angry glare settled on me. It was terrifying. I knew there was an explosion of violence that was close to being released upon me. I had to watch my step.

"Don't interrupt me again, if you know what's good for you."

I was scared, but I stood my ground.

"Dad," I said once more, quite loudly. "It's okay, these are the pictures that I took. These are the right ones."

"You didn't take those pictures. Don't you lie to me, you little shit," my father accused.

"I'm not lying. I took those; they're mine."

By this time, quite a few people had stopped to watch what was going on and the store manager was approaching the counter. My father was aware of their scrutiny, but I think that only made him angrier. The manager walked up to my father and asked if there was something that he could help my father with.

"You people messed up and gave my kid the wrong pictures. I'm not paying for these," my father said. The anger was evident in his voice and the set of his jaw.

"Sir," the manager replied, "Your son claims that the photographs in question are indeed his and in light of that claim, I'm afraid that I must insist that you do indeed pay for the photographs."

My father gave me a look that chilled the blood in my veins. I knew that look all too well; I had pushed my father too far and I knew that once we got home, things weren't going to be pleasant for me. I didn't care. I took those photos; they were mine and nothing was going to take them away from me. Unfortunately, I always seem  to pick the wrong time to be more brave than smart, After all, discretion truly is the better part of valor.

My father was silent, never a good sign, as he reached into his wallet and grudgingly paid for the photographs. He scooped them out of my hand and put them back into the envelope that they came in, turned, grabbed me by the neck and pushed me out the door, face first. I can still hear the smack that my face made as it hit the cool glass of the door. With his meaty paw on the back of my neck, my father guided me to the car, opened the door and threw me in like a sack of potatoes. I knew I was really in for it, this time. You could see my father's anger in the firm set of his jaw; you could see his rage in the pulsing of the vein in his neck. I was dead meat and I knew it.

My father and I drove home in silence. Before the car had even come to a stop in the driveway, I had bolted out the door and headed for safety. My father wouldn't chase me, I was much faster than he was and we both knew it. I was in the clear, for now, but I'd have to go home at some point. It wasn't an escape by any means, more like a stay of execution.

After a few hours of hiding out at a friend's house, I'd hoped that my father might have calmed down a bit and I headed home, mostly because it was almot dinner time and I was getting hungry.

Big mistake.

Moments after I walked in the door, my father grabbed me by the arm and spun me around until I faced him and he started yelling at me, calling me a liar and informing me that I was going to get what I deserved as he started taking off his belt.

The next part wasn't very much fun.

My mother watched.

And smirked.

When my father was finished with me, I could barely stand. My mother broke her silence and told me that I was to apologize to my father for embarassing him, I was to admit that I did not take the photographs and that I would have to pay for the film processing, because I had lied about taking the photos in the first place. I might have been able to stomach all of that, but there were two more things; the photographs would be destroyed and my camera would be taken away. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I refused. I wasn't going to apologize for anything; I took those photographs, they were mine and I wasn't going to give up without a fight. I tried to explain.

Bad move.

My mother started screaming at me as my father lashed out again, this time with his fists. I was given another chance to recant and once again, I refused. My mother then invoked her favorite puishment and I was locked in the closet. I can't even begin to tell you how much I hated that. As I stood there, in that pitch black closet, shaking with fear, frustration and rage, my heart shattered into a million pieces.  That was the moment when I lost all respect, faith and confidence in my parents; our relationship had fundamentally changed

After my release from the closet, my parents followed through on their threats. Over the next few days my camera was taken away, I was forced to pay for the film processing and I was told that the photographs were destroyed. I never apologized. After a few more days, things went back to normal and my parents shifted their attention back to themselves, once more. Eventually, my camera was returned. My parents may have decided to forget all about it, but I never did. Memories can smolder.

Twenty-eight years later...

In the summer of 2001, my ex-wife Medusa and I threw our infant son in the car and drove up to Atlantic City, NJ, to visit my mother for the weekend. My father had passed away in 1986 and not too long after that I became estranged from my family for over a decade, only reconciling with them shortly before my marriage and at my ex-wife's urging. We had a rather pleasant visit that weekend; my mother was head over heels in love with her grandson, who was named after her husband. My son had a very soothing effect on my mother; he kept her calm and rational, which was a good thing. Trust me on this.

We were all sitting in my mother's living room, cooling off, after a hot day at the beach. My mother was playing with the baby and Medusa and I were talking, when she noticed my mother's collection of photo albums. Intrigued, Medusa asked if we could look through the photographs. She had met less than a handful of my family and she wanted to learn more about them. We started leafing through the albums and I explained who everyone was and told her stories about them.

We were about halfway through the second or third book when she turned the page and I saw something that I hadn't seen for many years. I froze. Medusa looked at me and she asked me what was wrong. I asked her if she remembered the story that I told her about my first camera and she said that she did.

"These are the photos," I said.

Medusa looked about as confused as I felt. My mother was oblivious to what was transpiring; she was too busy cooing at the baby. She was about to get a rude awakening.

"Hey, Mom," I called to her.

She turned her head and looked at me. I held up the photo album.

"Aren't these the first photos that I took?" I asked.

My mother looked a little shocked. She knew that she was busted.

"Yes," my mother answered.

"You and Dad accused me of lying about taking these and yet you saved them?"

"We always knew you took them, that's why we saved them," said my mother.

"You belittled me and punished me. You took away my camera. You locked me in the goddamn closet! Why? Why would you do this? What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded.

"When your father and I realized that you did take the photographs, we didn't want to give you false hope. We thought you were talented but didn't want to see you try to chase some crazy dream; we wanted you to have success and security, not foolishness. You've always been a very talented photographer and you take beautiful photographs, but it wasn't something that we wanted for you."

"So you just thought it would be best to crush every dream that I ever had?"

"And what have your dreams ever gotten you?" my mother asked me.

I pointed at my wife and son and I said, "Love. That's what they've gotten me. Love. But I guess that's something that you just can't understand. Your loss."

I looked at my ex-wife and I said, " We'd better start loading up the car. It's getting late and we have a long drive home."

I'm not sure that my mother got the message.

Medusa and I packed our bags and our baby and we loaded everything and everyone into the car. We said our goodbyes and we headed home. My mother had damaged our relationship once again; I don't know why I ever expected anything else. It took a while before I was able to speak to my mother again. My anger sat on simmer for quite some time, but my son deserved to kmow his family and so I put my anger behind me. At least I hope I did.

If your child has a talent or a dream, your job as a parent is to provide encouragement, not ridicule. This encouragement should be tempered with common sense and the need for a back up plan, along with an education, because sometimes the real world isn't  always friendly to talent and dreams. Our children do not exist to live our dreams by proxy, nor should they. Love your kids, nourish their hearts and minds. More than anything else, teach them to dream big and dream along with them.

Once again, a special thank you to Lisa and Kristina for their time and their help with proofreading and editing, My fumble fingers sure do like their typos.

Thanks to you, as well, for stopping by and reading.

If you enjoyed this story, why not another?

Patch

Want something to make you laugh, nstead?

Kill It With Fire

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. 

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.