Day 7 #scintilla13

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Still trying to catch up, here is another that I thought fit the prompt better than anything else I could write now. Sorry for all the reposting.

 

Cause & Affect

 

I have never told this story to anyone; not because it is horrific or filled with things that hold any shame for me. I only recently allowed this story to drift up from the inner recesses of my mind, and now that it is there, right up in front waving its arms pleading for me to show it the attention it deserves, I will succumb to its desires and give it to you. There is no bully, or malevolent aggressor, but I think it will do just fine for our purposes today.

It starts many years ago when I was fresh faced teenager, just thirteen years old. I had been back at home from the farm for only a short time, and was becoming a problem in school. All of the women that worked in the admin office of my ninth grade class knew me on sight; I had been sent there for various disciplinary offenses so many times that they would just shake their head and tell me to have a seat.

About a third of the way through the school year I was called to the Vice Principal’s office; I was genuinely surprised, I had no idea what I had done this time. My surprise turned to fear when I walked in and saw my father sitting there with a look of fiery disgust written all over his face. Before anyone could say more than a few words there was a knock at the door and a man walked in that would come very close to changing my life forever.

He swept into the room with an air of self assured purpose; his hair was as black as any I’d seen and combed back into a large pompadour, almost enough to make me laugh out loud. He wore a mustache that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any 1970’s cop drama or Mexican cantina. He wore a tie but no jacket, and stood six foot tall without an inch of the broken slouch that many of the adults in my life wore with pride.

He introduced himself to me first, and then my father; he said, “You can call me Mr. E,” but all I heard was “mystery”. He began to speak; he talked about a school, for children like me, of which he was the Principal. He talked about alternative teaching methods, and smaller class sizes so kids could get more individual time with the teachers. He went on and on, but I heard very little of what he was saying because there was a miracle happening right before my eyes: he was skillfully plucking all the right strings to keep my father firmly in his seat. My father nodded in all the right places, asked only a minimum of questions; they were old friends just met, or so it seemed.

When it was all over, I was to be transferred to this new school and start the uphill fight to get a high school diploma. My father would eventually shake free of the spell Mr. E had put on him and tell me that I was attending a retard school, but never tried to pull me out. How could he, from that day forward I was a straight A student.

In my first year I worked through three Math books, and half way through a fourth. When I first got there I did a few placement tests to find out where I should start, but once they had a firm grasp on where I needed to be, they handed me a book and told me to go to it. It was simple enough, start at the beginning, do the chapter test, if I passed it, go to the next, if I failed, go back and learn the stuff that needed work. If there was something that I just couldn’t get my head around, there was a teacher that worked her way around the room, and would take as much time as you needed until you got it. There were no two students in that room that were working on the same thing at the same time, several of them were in separate books altogether, but it worked, and I was off to the races.

Another thing about this school was their attitude toward skipping class, if you wanted to ditch a class all you had to do was tell the teacher you wouldn’t be there, no reason given, just the courtesy to let them know you weren’t coming. We called it “speaking”, you would walk into the classroom and say, “I’m speaking, fourth period,” and the teacher would mark you down. That simple, never a lecture, or a stern look, just a quick check mark next to your name; if you didn’t speak, a call would be made home that afternoon. You could go to school first thing in the morning and speak to every one of your teachers for that day and then go about your business, but if you just didn’t go at all, they would call home. If you didn’t want your parents to know that you hadn’t gone to school, you had better speak. I think the philosophy was that once you had gone through all the trouble of going to school, why not stay?

The basic premise was each student was responsible for their own actions; if you wanted to get your education, your diploma, you had to be in class, on time, and do the work. You were the only person to blame if you couldn’t make it in that system, period. I thrived. Every rule at that school had been voted on by students, and were as fair as they could be.

Mr. E was unlike any other principal I had ever met, or met since; he would walk the halls whistling bird calls so loud you could hear him coming miles away. He was famous for sticking his finger in his nose and faking a grand booger flick in anyone’s direction, even some of the teachers. He commanded a room and made everyone feel at ease in his presence.

I don’t know if he saw something in me, or if he thought I needed a little extra attention, but we became friends. He would talk to me about home, even told me, more than once, that my father was an asshole; something I already knew, but delighted in hearing out of someone else’s mouth just the same. Eventually, he invited me to his house for the weekend, to go hunting with him and a friend of his. I agreed, he called my father and got his okay.

Those weekends were amazing; he had two small daughters and was an extraordinary father to them. He took time with each of them and really talked to them. Listened to what they had to say and gave each of them more attention than I could manage at home in a month. His wife was a beautiful woman that he had met in college, she too was a teacher; there were pictures all over their house of them through the years, and I delighted to see what Mr. E looked like before the mustache. I made fun of him about those pictures at every opportunity. I always felt at home in that house.

By the end of that first year at that school, I felt like I was going to be okay after all, until one weekend when my father and I had a huge argument and he told me to get out of his house. I called Mr. E and he came all the way to town to pick me up; I slept on the same pullout couch I had occupied while I was there on our hunting trips. I knew it wasn’t going to last forever, but I couldn’t help but wish it would.

The following Monday, Mr. E came to one of my classes and called me out; my father was waiting in his office. With Mr. E acting as moderator, my father and I talked, really talked. He agreed to let me come home, and I agreed to a laundry list of new rules; things that I had never started doing in the first place were suddenly forbidden, but it was easy enough to agree to never start, but over the summer, things got increasingly hard at home.

I had started smoking pot, was so blatant about it I never even tried to hide it. My father caught me in one lie after another; I said I was working when I wasn’t so I could go get drunk with friends, I started staying out all hours, and on more than one occasion didn’t come home at all for days on end without so much as a phone call. I just didn’t care anymore, I was no longer afraid of him and there was nothing he could do about it. I didn’t feel wanted there, and made a point of staying away.

On one such excursion, I ran into my step-brother one afternoon and he told me he needed the weed I had hidden in my room for him. He was only a couple of months younger than me, and had asked me to get him some; he had been at work when I got home with it, so I put it away and had forgotten it was there in the few days since. He was on his way to work but told me where to put it in his room and so, I went home for the first time in three days to do just that.

When I got there I was glad to see that there was nobody home; I had hidden the pot in a shoe box in the bottom drawer of my dresser, and so I went into my room, still tiptoeing despite the empty house, and opened my bottom drawer. I reached in and pulled the top off the shoe box, but where there should have been an ounce of marijuana, there was nothing but a note written in my father’s sprawling script. It said, “Surprise!”

I wasted no time putting the lid back on that shoe box and getting the hell out of there. I wasn’t about to get caught there if I could help it. I left and went to a friend’s house for another day, but the next time I went home my father was waiting for me, and he told me to get out, and stay out.

I tried to sleep at friend’s houses as much as I could, but it only took a couple of days before I had no place to go. I decided to call Mr. E; I knew he would know what to do, and so, I bummed enough change to use a pay phone and dialed his number.

Mr. E answered the phone and I said hello, but not much else. He told me that my father had called him, that he told him I was selling pot out of his house and he wasn’t going to put up with it. My father had told him he could have me, and then he told me that he couldn’t condone what I was doing, that I should know that. He said I was on my own on this one, and should go home and try to work things out. Then he hung up.

I never got to tell him that it wasn’t true. That there was weed, but it wasn’t mine. I never got to say that I had made a mistake, but it wasn’t one worthy of being cast out into the world at fourteen years old. I stood there for a few minutes and listened to the busy signal that the old school touch-tone phones used to sound when there was a broken connection, tears stinging my eyes. I had trusted in this man to be there for me when I couldn’t count on anyone else, and even that was gone.

I never again found a connection with someone that I felt I had had with that man, and as the weight of the betrayal I felt at that moment turned to utter despair and I found myself with nowhere to be, I swore to never again trust anyone but myself. Nobody was ever going to take care of me, but me, and that was never more obvious than right then.

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Day 6 #scintilla13

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Again, this is an old one but I don’t know if there is a better example of my character being tested than this, so I re-share it with you now. Thanks for reading guys.

 

It’s So Easy

 

As homeless people go, he is no hobo-scout in the “be prepared” department. The clothes he wears are that of a typical heavy metal crazed Maine-iac teenager: a black leather jacket, a Metallica t-shirt, tight stone washed jeans, well-worn and badly abused high-top Nikes―not exactly attire for an ‘I will turn your toes black if you fuck with me’ winter. It has been well over a year since he’s had a haircut, and it looks as though the last was from a weed-whacker. His bangs rest on his chin, and the back is well past the shoulders; he looks as though he would sacrifice your cat to the Un-holy Father and drink its blood before raping your refrigerator. Weight loss and dingy clothes are the most obvious changes from the boy he was only months before, but he has also lost the shine in his eyes. When he speaks now, his voice has no weight to it. His words always sound as though he is asking a question. “I wish I were never born?” ―”I don’t know why nobody wants to help me?”

November in Maine is more forgiving than January, but not much.   Especially not for Andrew. Truly, he has never been more alone. He spends most nights hungry and cold, sitting on a stranger’s back porch, huddled into a corner.  There isn’t anything on the porch except some protection from the wind. He hides because if he is seen, someone will call the police and he will be rousted out into the cold where nothing awaits him except frigid temperatures. The nights can become so cold there is physical pain, a penetrating gnaw that causes him to shiver violently. He is now making his rounds to the few people he has left that recognize him from the boy he was only months ago to see if anyone will give him a few dollars or a sandwich.

It has been exceptionally cold for a few days now, and he has been walking.   It’s what he does now: he walks.   He goes to the library to see if he can slip in back―catch some sleep in the newspaper room for an hour or so. He walks to the ashtray in front of the grocery store to see if there are any long butts to grab for later. He walks the railroad tracks looking for empty bottles and cans to cash in for the deposit―hoping to make enough to buy a cup of coffee at Denny’s (you can sit for a couple of hours drinking refills and staying warm  for the price of the first cup). He walks to a building that has a basement he knows how to sneak into―he curls up close to the furnace when it is too cold to remain outside.  He walks to the park for a place to sit in the sun. He walks for his sanity―for his life. He has to keep moving.   As long as he is moving, he knows he’s alive, and it’s not always so easy to tell.

He is walking down Spring Street in Auburn, just now, and can see the lights in a friends’ apartment. His pace quickens as he hopes to find some food and a warm place to rest for a minute or two. He knocks and is greeted nicely enough before he’s allowed to enter. It is apparent right away that his friend has had a few drinks―the glassy-eyed haze gives him away. Andrew walks in and sits in the only chair in the room. This room serves as the entire apartment aside from the bathroom.   Some might call it a studio, but it’s really a dirty closet with a sink in it. The walls are plaster with a whitewash that hasn’t been touched up in a year or two. The only light comes from scattered candles that make the walls look almost swampy. There is a single poster of a Ferrari with a few car girls that would fuck a water buffalo if it drove that car. The bed sits in the corner (unmade), and music plays softly from a cheap radio sitting on the floor under the window. A steady drip comes from the faucet of the sink in the opposite corner, above which are two small cabinets. Roaches peek from between the toaster and a pile of empty beer cans on the counter, waiting for the candles to burn out so they can roam freely.

Before being homeless, Andrew ran with an older crowd, and the fact that he was crazy and fearless made him cool enough to be accepted by them.   Growing up shy meant friends never came easily, but a life in and out of foster homes and troubled youth programs forced him to be tough and act mean; he attracted friends most often as confused and troubled as himself. Acceptance can be a seductive temptress, reeling in with kind words and knowing smiles while leading to the devil hiding around the corner. This one is older than Andrew and doesn’t have a truthful bone in his body.   Fat and lazy, he wouldn’t work in a pie factory tasting pies, as the expression goes.   He paces around the room, and Andrew recognizes this for what it is right away―he has something on his mind―some scheme or deceit. In trouble on more than one occasion because of this hoodlum, Andrew has seen this before.  Trouble usually follows. Breaking and entering to steal televisions (twice), hitting people he doesn’t know or have any problem with, shoplifting… Andrew is almost proud of the fact that he will do the shit most of his friends won’t.   It’s what makes him different.

The despair he feels for his current situation is stapled to his face, and it doesn’t take long before his friend launches into the diatribe he was expecting: “The landlord lives in the apartment next to this one, and he always has hundreds of dollars in his wallet.”

“He has been an asshole lately, hounding after the rent.” A bottle of beer materializes in his hand, and the story continues.

“He is at the store right now and will be back any minute. All you have to do is jump him and grab the wallet.” The words come flying fast, and the only one he hears clearly in his desperate and hungry condition is “wallet” which translates to money in his mind.

“Man, if you do this I bet I can get ‘So and So’ to let you stay for a few days. You’ll have cash, man. You KNOW they’ll let you stay.” The lies get thicker and the promises get more grand, but Andrew has already decided. If he can get a couple hundred bucks for grabbing an old dude’s wallet, then he says, “Fuck it!”

The time for talk is running short, and Andrew knows there’s no time to waste. “I’ll do it.”

Thinking it would have been much harder to convince the fool that he would benefit from robbing an old man, his friend stops in his tracks. Andrew gets up and heads for the hallway to get things ready.   It is shaped like an uppercase “L”:   when you first enter the building there is a staircase directly in front of you that leads to the second and, eventually, the third floor. To the left is a door that leads to the friend’s apartment, and if you walk past that door the hallway leads on to the rear apartment that belongs to the landlord. Pieces of the plaster have broken and fallen away, leaving menacing holes that look like cancerous sores on the jaundiced flesh of the hallway. The plaster makes way for some wainscoting that may have been white in a past life, but age and neglect have turned it the color of dust. The floor is painted hardwood with worn areas that give hints to the floor’s past glory.   Too much light! He walks halfway up the stairs and tries to reach the bulb so he can spin it out enough for it to go off. He can’t reach it so he makes an impulse decision and uses his belt (a studded leather monster that has several new holes punched in it as the weeks of homelessness have turned to months) to break the bulb and darken the first floor. The light on the second floor is already out, so the hallway becomes dark instantly, and he is forced to stand there for a minute as his eyes adjust.

The perfect place to hide becomes obvious as he descends the stairs―there is a little piece of wall directly next to the door that is about four feet long before it turns and cuts back to the main wall, and that corner is hidden in shadow and dark as the inside of a coal mine. Andrew briefly considers sweeping up the glass from the light bulb, but decides it’s a waste of time―by the time the landlord gets that far he will already be devoid of his wallet. The only thing left now is to wait; he goes back inside to watch for the landlord. He can then take up his hiding place just before he walks through the door. There isn’t much conversation between the two friends now―they briefly discuss Andrew’s course of action after the wallet is in hand. It’s decided he should run out and “disappear” after the robbery―it wouldn’t be good to be seen walking into the apartment―that would certainly get both of them several years of hot meals and a place to sleep. They will meet up later at the train trestle that is just up the street to split the cash (an even split, as usual).

“There he is!” The friend sees him first and almost screams these words as the old man is spotted. The man is still a little ways down the street, and Andrew feels there are a couple minutes before he has to go out and wait in the shadows, but he wants to get out there before he loses his nerve. The shape shuffling towards the building is still small, but it threatens to expose Andrew for the weak and frightened child he really is―he can’t watch it any longer.

As he moves to go wait in the hall his friend says, “Wait.” From a drawer next to the small sink, he produces a small ball peen hammer that weighs about 16-20 ounces.

Andrew is confused by this, and his friend offers an explanation. “He has seen you in here, Man. You gotta whack him first, or he’ll recognize you, and we’re both fucked.”

Andrew takes the hammer in his hand and heads for the door. There is no fear of what he is going to do as he enters the hallway and the door closes behind him―after surviving on spare change for months, a few hundred bucks sounds like a prince’s ransom. There is little time to think this over; the old man will be here any minute, and any hesitation will cause this whole thing to fall flat before it even gets started. The darkness is complete with only a little light from the street lamps outside. Andrew doesn’t consider what hitting an old man in the head with a hammer will do to him. He does not think about the blood that will come from the fragile old skull, splattering the walls and himself. He does not think about watching this old man die right before his eyes. He does not think about fingerprints or witnesses. He doesn’t think that he lives in Maine―one of the few states that still allows capital punishment. He stands in that corner and thinks instead about ordering a pizza, thinks about a shower, thinks about a warm bed and not waking up shivering so badly that it takes him 25 minutes to feel his fingers and toes after he starts his morning walk―this is his only hope for tonight. He holds that hammer and thinks about things that a fourteen year old boy who has nowhere to go and nothing to eat would think about―he thinks about being desperate and alone.

Suddenly, he can hear him: there is a cough, rough evidence of the old man’s chronic smoking habit. As he gets closer, Andrew can hear slippers shuffling along; the old man drags his feet as though they weigh a hundred pounds each. SShht. Sshht.  Sshht. The sound is getting louder, and it is making Andrew anxious.

Sshht. Sshht.  Sshht. The old man is walking up the stairs and about to enter the hallway. Sshht. Sshht.  Sshht. Andrew can’t see him right away but hears the door slam as he walks into the hallway. Sshht. Sshht.  Sshht. Old Spice and sweat turn the corner before the old man does, and then Andrew could reach out and touch sagging flesh. Sshht.  Sshht. Sshht. There is a paper grocery bag, and it crinkles as he walks.  Sshht. Sshht. Sshht. When Andrew sees him for the first time, he sees that old man is very skinny and helpless. The landlord,  breathing heavily from the short walk from the store, stops right beside the distraught and hungry child. Andrew is certain the old man hasn’t seen him, and when the landlord looks up, the boy realizes he is wondering about the light.   He has no idea how close he is to dying.

HIT HIM!! This thought slams into the back of Andrew’s skull, causing him to slink even farther into the corner he has pinned himself into. His intentions aren’t really to kill, but in a flash he sees what will happen: the hammer will hit too hard. It will break the skull open, and Andrew will be a killer. The blood will pour, and it will get it all over him―it will haunt his nightmares. The old man will fall forward, and his groceries will spill down the hall. Andrew will stare in horror as the old man takes his last breath―the money forgotten―he will stand there and lose any innocence he had had left.  He clearly sees what he is about to do: murder. He is about to kill an eighty year old man for hundreds of dollars. He is going to smash an old man’s head in and take his money. Andrew’s hand grips the hammer so hard, he is certain there will be fingerprints embedded in the rubber handle for the rest of its days. The landlord starts to walk again and passes Andrew.   The maddening sshht sshht sound rings in his ears. He knows in that instant that he can never come back from this. He will be lost forever in the sin he is about to commit.

There is one more tense moment after he decides he can’t―won’t―do it. The old man walks to his door and unlocks it. He enters the apartment and as the door closes. Andrew is left in the dark to contemplate what has just happened. He is a boy forced into a man’s life with little preparation and less hope. He wants to be good―to try to look people in the eye and say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, ma’am.’ He is only a poor and lonely involuntary adult who will have to sleep outside again tonight―hungry and cold. He will never forget that for one split second he was a murderer and a thief―worthy of the life he was living in those days. He will never forget the reality of the choice he made that day, and no matter how bad his life gets, he will never be too far gone to be saved.

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Day 4 #scintilla13

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Last Sunday morning I found myself being offered a chance to work on the road and make a decent wage, enough to save my ass and possibly get my head above water for the first time in what has been far too long. So I went, but I had to sacrifice my commitment to the Scintilla Project. Working 10 hours a day before heading back to a motel room that I share with two other men is exhausting, but more than anything I need some quiet time to write. I need to be able to sit and think, to focus my attention on what I am trying to say, not on the fool watching Dancing with the Stars four six feet away. But I have been reading the prompts and I have been trying to answer them, in my mind, so I can attempt to answer them later. So, here we go:

This is an old one, but I simply couldn’t think of a better “in a car” response, so I share it again now. If you read it before I hope you liked it enough to read it again, and if this is your first time, read it then please  to the first half of this sentence.

 

Coveting

 

“What are you looking at?”

“You, always you. I like to look at you. You know I think you’re beautiful.”

She has no response and turns to look out the window of my truck to hide the rose color that is creeping into her cheeks. I chuckle at her shyness; I never would have guessed that she could be embarrassed.

She sits next to me as I drive her home for the night. I try to catch all the streetlights red in order to delay the time in which I have to turn away from her and go home. Her hands rest in her lap, trying to keep the wind from blowing her skirt up and embarrassing her further. I suspect that it may also be to hide the slight flutter to her hands. She says I make her nervous. If she only knew.

I could look into her eyes for days; they are thoughtful and kind. They whisper words of encouragement as she listens intently to what I have to say; she wants to know what I think, how I feel. There is also darkness there, an edge—a warning to keep your distance or suffer the consequences; it captures my imagination. I dream of lazy afternoons spent in her arms, of kissing her; I dream of her skin: softly touching it and kissing away the gooseflesh that my fingers leave behind. I dream of her sleeping, gently curled beside me, nestled into me comfortably.

I pull up to the last light before her turn, and I look at her once more. I want to reach over and brush the hair away from her face, to kiss her in the moonlight. I want to tell her I’d never hurt her, that she makes me feel alive. I want to pull her close to me and say all the things she needs to hear, to know, without question, that I will always be there for her.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment. She likes to make me wait; she likes to tease me. Never too long, just enough to make me smile. She turns, wearing a delicious smirk; I imagine this is the same grin she would use to tempt the Devil.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I can’t help but smile as she leans forward, reaching for the knob on the radio. The sun is setting in the western sky, and the light of early evening makes her radiant. The bronze tone from a fresh summer tan contrasts with her white skirt; I lose my breath each time I see her legs. The strap from her tank top hangs lightly on her shoulder, and her neck is begging to be kissed. In this moment, she could make me believe anything.

I pull into her driveway and turn the radio down.

“I miss you already.”

“Tell me something good.”

I need no time to think, this one I know:

“Something good is hearing you say my name; it’s seeing you smile. Something good is watching you walk, or talk, or laugh; it’s watching you. It’s this, this day, this minute; it’s us. Something good is you.”

“I miss you too. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

With that and a smile, she is gone. I watch her walk to the door, carrying her bag. She stops just before entering and offers another wave.

I wave back and say to myself, “Goodnight, beautiful.”

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A- #scintilla13

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The wind was starting to pick up and it was growing colder by the minute. I held the hard plastic receiver of the pay phone to my ear and listened to the soft sounds of her tears on the other end. There were millions of things I should say; hundreds of things I could say, but I just listened.

“Are you there?” She sobbed.

“Yes.”

“Say something.” She screamed.

“I have to go.”

“I fucking hate you.”

The words reached through the line and slapped me, leaving a fresh scar on my heart. I could hear her trying to take it back as I turned to hang up the phone but it was too late, she had got it right the first time.

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Only The Good Die Young #scintilla13

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I got up early this morning and grabbed an old spade; I wandered into the back of my mind and found the ”X” just where I left it, under the mangled old oak that grows beside the faded memories of days gone by. With each new shovelful I thought about what I was looking for and pondered my reasons for burying it so deep. Nobody ever found it very easy to love me and I had always known if anyone ever saw what I had hidden there love would be impossible.

So, while I was still living in diamond shaped shadows topped with ring after ring of razor wire, I killed the man I had always been and dragged him to this very spot. There were no kind words, no ceremonial chants, just his empty stare as I buried him deep. It was murder, I admit, but it was him or me; self defense, open and shut.

I always knew that if I was ever going to be bigger or better than I had ever dreamed I had to break free from that hate filled junkie and the shackles we shared. So, in the hole he went; the deeper he was the further away from me and my new life of hope he would be. But today, as I thought about the worst lie I ever told, I knew I had to come here, I had to see for myself what I have long suspected.

I dug a hole, and then another; one more just to be sure, but as I stood looking into these empty graves I knew I had found my lie. I had dreamt of killing that awful man; had even dug his hole, but he is alive and well and I am he. I imagine if I keep digging I will find a shallow grave somewhere not too far away that holds the man I thought I should be; there may even still be a blade in his back.

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Angry Peasants Be Damned #Scintilla13

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There’s a famous scene in the 1931 Frankenstein movie in which Dr. Frankenstein himself has just lowered his creation from a lightning storm raging above and witnesses its hand moving to which he responds by yelling, “It’s alive, it’s alive!”  Dr. Frankenstein

Now, imagine that same scene, but instead of an actor playing the doctor overflowing with hubris and bad movie makeup, imagine my father. The patented long sloping Frenchman’s nose sitting just above the bad 70’s Magnum P.I. mustache; the dime store falsies flopping to and fro in his mouth—just the tops, the bottoms never fit well and they lived in a cup of water in our bathroom and were only allowed out at Christmas time when he was trying to look good for Nana—and the fast rat-a-tat-tat of his Maine yankee accent.

He had, indeed, created a monster; jumping from one foster care situation to another with bittersweet moments—some lasting months and others a year or two—at home sprinkled in between before sending me to live at a reform school disguised as a farm had turned me from an innocent little boy to a troubled teen with a chip on my shoulder big enough to be featured in a Prudential commercial. The extent of my father’s parental skills ended with fear and since I had witnessed things much scarier than he I was no longer going to be swayed by his threats or hollow rage.

In what would be one of his last efforts to control me he came home when I was fourteen and said rather matter of factly, “I got you a job today. You start in the morning.”

We spent the rest of the day acquiring a work permit and talking about the amount of my check that would be “owed” to him each week, for “rent”. The next morning at the butt-crack of dawn I walked to Mac’s Variety to start my first day.

Mac’s was and, to the best of my knowledge, still is exactly what the name implies, a variety store, but this is one like I have never witnessed since. Along with the expected convenience store staples such as beer, cigarettes, a multitude of snacks and soda, and just about anything else you’d expect to see in your basic corner store, it was also fitted with a section where you could rent VHS movies, both the big budget Hollywood and XXX variety, and, for a small deposit, even the player to watch them on. There was a small section where you could purchase any one of several firearms including handguns, rifles, or a shotgun. I was hired to wash dishes in the diner; yes, the diner. It opened at 4:30 every morning and served mostly breakfast, but stayed open until 3:00 in the afternoon and had quite a complete menu. It was just like any diner you can imagine except it happened to be in a convenience store.

It was a good first job; there were two electric washers that were stationed under the counter and I stood in front of the customers for about six hours every Saturday and Sunday. I came to know the regulars, enjoyed watching the families come and go, and even got handed a couple bucks once in a while because a customer thought I was a good worker and deserved a tip. Good job or not, I was still that lumbering monster my father had created and there was one regular that I showed this to.

Her name was Mary, but I called her Crazy Mary, everyone did. She smelled of rot, like there was a dead cat trapped beneath her dress and the only thing able to escape was the stench of its decay. She was usually barefoot and got removed before she got too far in the door, but at other times there was no good reason to keep her out and they had to let her in.

I didn’t take against her at first, but she would often accuse me of raping her; she would get herself worked up and before I knew what was happening she would be screaming incoherently. The first few times it happened I found the fear that I thought had left me along with my innocence. Eventually I learned that she was like a feral cat that would spit and hiss but really just wanted me to think she was too much of a threat to get too close to.

One afternoon I was alone loading the last load or two into the dishwashers when I heard her voice from the other end of the counter, “I know you, you’re Daniel; I remember what you did!”

I knew who it was without turning around and decided today was the day.

“I’m not Daniel,” I said as I turned around, “I’m the Devil.”

Ridiculous as it may seem that the Devil would ever decide to take the form of a pimple-faced 14 year old dishwashing punk, I still tried to look as evil as I could as I started walking toward her, but still safely behind the counter. She tried to say something but the closer I got the more frightened she became and it showed on her unwashed face.

“I’ve been waiting for you Mary, and it’s time for you to come with me.”

She started backing away from me a little at a time and when she was just far enough away from the counter that I knew she couldn’t reach me I pretended to make a grab at her wrist. I wanted her to think I was going to drag her to Hell kicking and screaming.

Mary was a big woman and carried most of her weight below the waist and as she turned screaming I heard her dress rip, the same faded black dress she had worn every time I ever saw her and as she ran out the door that dress lifted up and I got a glimpse of the real Hell, one that still haunts me at random moments in my life. I can’t say if that image burned into my mind is ample penance for what I did to that woman that day, but I can say that I hope that Mary finally found the peace she deserved; a peace I have yet to know myself.

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Blog Hop

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My friend Mark over at Aggaspletch (be sure to read his responses and check out his words or I’ll be forced to release the Kraken) tagged me in this blog hop thingy, which I think is named for the author’s love of frogs–see question 4–but that’s just a guess. In this blog hop I was given five questions and instructed to answer them, tag three other victims, and laugh maniacally whenever there is a comment to the post itself. I’ve been practicing the laugh ever since.

Without further verbal excretion on my part here are my victims in no specific order:

Matt B.-

Blog - M.A. Brotherton

Twitter - M.A. Brotherton

Facebook – (I’m starting to see a pattern here) M.A. Brotherton 

Brandee B. -

Blog - brandeewine

A beautiful & heartfelt post by Brandee - Was there something to get away with?

Twitter - BrandeewineB

Noel Rozny -

Blog - French Christmas

Twitter - noelrozny

Now, to get to the meat and potatoes of this hop: The question and answer portion of our programming:

Tell me about your writing process. Do you plan out what you’re writing
or sit down and do it? What was the greatest surprise about
this writing process for you?

All of the above. There are days when I sit down with no idea what it is I have to say, or if I am going to say anything at all—and believe me there is a trail of half written pieces behind me so long I have to be careful not to sit on them—but then there are words that bounce about my mind until I am forced to pry them free. It can start with a single sentence and it will rattle around up there clanging and banging or, at other times, I will know where I am going and who I am taking with me. I will know the who and the what, the where and the why; I just have to sit down and find the how.

What was your worst job ever? (doesn’t have to be about writing) and why? What did you learn from it?

This one almost made my brain wrinkle. You’re in the presence of a man that has had more worst-job-evers than a twelve year old sweatshop worker; I mean, let’s face it, I was in prison where the top paying job you can have nets you a full dollar a day. Of course I was incarcerated for almost two years before I managed to work my way into one that paid more than $.40 a day. Hell, when I was on a boy’s home at the age of twelve I still managed to make $.40 an HOUR, but I must admit that the work I did on that farm was usually pretty fun and would shape my work ethic for many years.

I was tempted to say that being a drug dealer was a pretty bad job; it did result in all of the horrible jobs that would come later in prison, but the money was really good and even though I never made a single dollar worth the years of my life, and the resulting social anxiety I am still working through, that I gave up to prison it still isn’t at the top of my list.

So, I have to give the prize to a job I had recently where my immediate supervisor was so uber right-wing-Christian-nut-job-I-am-right-and-everyone-else-is-stupid-and-not-worthy-to-call-themselves-American, and if you are one or more of these things please don’t think I am calling you out because I feel that everyone has the right to their opinions and beliefs, but that is where I differ from him. The things that came out of his mouth were almost always filled with hate; hate for “stupid Libs” and “fags”, hate for “baby killers” and, well, everyone.

On my first day at that job I found myself in a conversation where he said something to the effect that “fags” like the Boy Scouts because there’s a chance they can go on a camping trip without supervision. I actually laughed thinking he was making a crude joke, and told him that homosexual doesn’t necessarily mean pedophile. To which he responded that I was mistaken and that it was a well known fact that over 70% of homosexuals  would rather have sex with children but are too afraid of getting in trouble.

I could go on and on with examples that include words like “nigger”, and “terrorists” when talking about Muslims, but I think you might get the point. I was told one afternoon that there was no work for a few days but was never called back, and I have to say that I was never so relieved to be unemployed in my life.

If you knew tonight was your last meal for a week, what would you eat?

Ribeye, medium; whatever medium means to the individual cooking. Asparagus, grilled; I like the little ends that look like the treetops to be charred just a little. Potato, mashed; butter, salt, and pepper—cheese is a bonus, but not mandatory. And since someone has apparently invented a “replicator” from Star Trek TNG, and I can have absolutely anything I want, a piece of pineapple upside down cake. Thanks, now I’m starving; that’s a hell of a thing to ask a fat guy at 1 A.M.

 How do you feel about frogs?

It may surprise you to know I am quite apathetic towards frogs, and toads too since I still don’t know the difference. When I was a child I grew up in a house that was right on the edge of the Androscoggin River, and we found frogs/toads on a daily basis. My brother was famous, and I should preface this by saying that he couldn’t have been more than five years old, for catching a frog and carrying it around “playing” with it for hours, but if the poor devil was foolish enough to pee on my brother, which anyone who has ever held a frog knows is almost a surety, he would set it down on the ground and return the favor.

That alone is enough to make me feel for the little green victims, but it doesn’t stop there. I have been witness, and yes even involved, in frog murder. We were mean little boys and I have seen poor little frogs play baseball where they were the ball. I remember sliding them into the street in the hopes that passing cars would splat them flat. Ever wonder what would happen to a frog if it were smashed with a hammer? I used to. I think my brother urinating on them might actually be one of the nicer things we ever did to a frog.

I have since repented for my frog-ecide and can only hope that there weren’t scores of tadpoles that were left orphaned by my evil little self. Don’t judge me.

Where’s your favourite place to chill out, and why?

I have to say in my bed, with my dog curled up close and a good book in my hand. I haven’t read as much as I should be lately and need to find my way back there.

Be sure to read the responses of my victims in the days to come. Thanks for reading.

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