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

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.