The Drop

Once the decision to move in with my dad was made there was a flurry of activity. The plan was for me to move out to the river house as soon as I could, my plan anyway. I’m sure it didn’t sit well with my mom. She wanted me to hang out until my twelfth birthday that was six weeks away. I was sure I wouldn’t last; I couldn’t last, time slipped by so slowly, like the last days of incarceration for a short timing inmate. I was sure I’d commit some capital offense whereby my expected freedom at my dad’s would be postponed or even worse, completely cancelled. I tried to stay under the radar and the only thing I could possibly be busted for other than my horribly underperforming showing at school was the small box I had stashed with rolling papers and barely smokable pot. Oh, and stealing from my step dad. I didn’t get an allowance and barely had a dime so I’d glean loose change out of a jar he had, go behind the garage, smoke some pot then truck up to the pony keg and buy these really shitty locally made soft pretzels that we’re all wet and soggy from the humidity and the wax paper wrapping they we’re in. Sometime I could shoplift a Coke too, Pepsi was easier to lift due to its placement in the cooler but that was for hill billies and besides, that’s what Mr. B drank. I hated the stuff. So I tried to keep a clean nose, kept to myself and was permitted to move out to my dad’s a week or two after I got out of school. Unbelievably I was caught stealing the change out of his jar. I don’t know how, but I suspect he suspected my petty thievery and coerced a confession out of me. Great, an excuse for him to give me one last whopp’n. No worries, I could take it and I’d be out of there soon and he couldn’t touch me.

During those brief two or three weeks there was tension to be sure and I’m sure I’ve forgotten about most of it, I do remember the dynamic of things changing between me and my step dad. I’m sure he was pretty all right with it once less mouth to feed, one less body to cloth and one less mouthing off spawn of another man slinking around the house up to no good of some sort. See you, don’t let the door his you in the ass. On the other hand he was sort of a bully and that kicked in a little harder. He didn’t actually beat you up but he’d do things like make you have push up or chin up contests with his son, who was 2 years older than me or a living room boxing match. That was always fun. Let’s put the gloves and the pads on and swing at each other until we get knocked down, crack our head on the coffee table, cry and get a popsicle as a reward for being such a pussy. Yeah… in this corner weighing in at a measly 65 pounds the Maggot eat’n Faggot (that’s me). Wearing black trunks with the confederate flag over the crotch, hailing from beautiful Lebanon Ohio, weighing in at an appalling 165 pounds is the Brose Bomber. Cheers from all the beer drinking hill billies sitting around our couches. All of them family members of the champ. I’d be force to walk into the middle of the room, shuffle my feet around a bit before I took a dive only to be picked up again and involuntarily made into MR. B’s offspring punching bag. Yep, couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there.

There wasn’t a lot to take with me, so packing wasn’t such a big deal. Mr. B wouldn’t let me take the shitty discount furniture from the room I shared with my brother. Apparently he didn’t want to break up the set, I’m sure he expected it to be a family heirloom. Yeah, particle board covered with veneer was the ultimate in shabby chic in 1973. So no bed or dresser, he let me know in no uncertain terms that it was my dad’s job to support me and couldn’t wait to see what kind of man I’d grow up to be. I didn’t have a record player, albums, cassettes, games or books so it was pretty much my cloths. When the time came I just stuffed my wranglers and t’s into a plastic garbage bag, underwear was overrated and I knew I wouldn’t have to wear any so those were left behind. Bye-bye Scooby do underwear.

Mom was stoic and unemotional leading up to the days of my departure. Why wouldn’t she be, she probably felt like throttling me or my father or anyone just to release some frustration and stress. I know I would. My mom would drive me out to my dad’s that Saturday morning I was to move in. It should have been one of those gray miserable, constantly spitting mid-western days. It wasn’t, it was bright, shiny and beautiful. Only are hearts were gray, I could feel it. I started questioning myself; did I make the right decision? Doubt crept into my mind. I was nervous, really fucking nervous, butterflies in the stomach didn’t begin to describe it, and I threw my breakfast up a few times until my throat and mouth burned with the taste of bile and acid. Anything that was left came out the other end. Yuk. Pulling it together I threw my half-filled pitiful plastic garbage bags and climbed into car. I didn’t say good bye to my brother or sister because I didn’t know what to say, it was easier.

I sat there in the front seat of our, what am I thinking, their 1970 Pontiac station wagon. Funny how that’s one of the strongest memories of that day. It was white, with fake red leather interior, had power windows that mostly worked; we got yelled at every time we fiddled with. The seats where perfect for jumping from the middle row to the cargo area with the flip up seat. Ideal for when you’re on the road shooting at the car behind you not unlike Bonnie and Clyde. It still had its new-used car smell overlaid with the freshly smoked cigarette and ash aroma. I really liked that car.

After what felt like forever my mom made it into the driver’s seat and we started our drive out to the river house. She was prolonging the inevitable I’m sure. We drove in absolute silence, what could we say? How nice the weather is? Mr. B’s recent calculation on the gas mileage of the station wagon? What I was going to miss for dinner? No words were spoken.

Turning down the old dirt road we zigged and zagged through the water filled pot holes we could avoid and bounced through the ones we couldn’t. Silence. I couldn’t look at my mother. Pulling into the little trashy ranch house no one came out to greet me other than the dogs. Eli and a few of the others ran around the car, wagging their tails and yapping a bit. That was my welcoming committee. There was no banner. No Party. No celebratory dinner. No this is your home now. Silence.

I sat there, not knowing what to do or what to say. There were no tears; the time of tears was over. I wracked my brain for some reasonably appropriate thing to say to my mother. Nothing came; I was a hollow little eleven year old with a shitty attitude. I didn’t say thanks for the meals, love or the hugs. I didn’t say thanks for sending me to school and church, thanks for trying to make me a better person. There were so many things I could have said, I should have said. Even a simple I love you or I’m sorry. Just silence. Finally, in a feeble trying to sound up beat sing songy chalky kind of voice I just squeaked out that I’ll miss you. I grabbed my garbage bag full of cloths, got out of the car and left my childhood behind.