Waterworks and a tip of the scales

Tipping the Scales

A few weeks had passed since my dad asked me to move into the river house. I had talked about it to my mom and she let me know it was my decision and wouldn’t stand in whatever I decided. Later in life I learned that she did put up a fight, but chose to spare me the trauma of going through the courts.  

I was like a dry sponge, I was wrung out, I needed soaking up, and I needed something quick. Emotionally and spiritually malnourished I floundered. I needed advice and I didn’t know where to look. I went to a catholic school but got very little direction there, my connection with the nuns was less than ideal having been labeled a problem child, a nickname which I was perversely proud of at the time and excelled at maintaining. The monsignor and priests weren’t my friends; I did the altar boy thing but only to get a hold of the sacramental wine, drink until I got a little dizzy and give out “communion” in the school yard until one of the girls ratted me out. Again… I was ratted out for small misdemeanors quite frequently.

So with nowhere to turn I turned to the only place I had left. Inside. Being a day dreamer it was easy for me to imagine what life might be like on the river. There was a girl who lived next to the Miamiville Tavern who I flirted with, horses, driving the truck up and down the dirt road, guns and motorcycles. No rules, but my future was uncertain out there. I knew I’d have to sleep in that creepy room with the nearly constantly damp floor and I knew I wouldn’t have a dresser or a bed. I’d be sleeping on a folding chaise lounge with nylon strapping missing; I’d be sleeping on an oversized pillow that looked like cow skin on the living room floor. I knew I could eat, go to bed, wake and pretty much do what I wanted anytime I wanted. I also knew I wouldn’t have my mother and that was the hardest knew of all.

After my folks got divorced they both remarried, both for different reasons and I hope they both where happy. My dad left town with the baby sitter and was sort of black listed for a while from her family and his. Running off with a minor even in those days apparently was frowned upon. My mom, I guess married the best thing coming down the pike that life had to offer her. I was completely confused and bewildered by her choice. Maybe he was the best that that specific time and place had to offer. How they met I don’t know, I didn’t get it, I feel like I could repeatedly whack myself in with a tennis racket until I was nearly unconscious trying to figure this one out a. Even today.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a complete polar opposite from my father that created the attraction. By all outward appearances he seemed to be a normal fellow. Tall, strong, had a job, car, drank beer, had kids of his own. Everything a woman could want in the mid 70’s; we’d be a real Brady Bunch family, minus Alice and the dog, Mr. B didn’t like dogs. There’s a strike.

Mr. B, wow, Mr. B. I could write a few stories about him, my step dad. I don’t think we liked each other from the first time we met. I remember him coming over to pick my mom up for a date, or maybe he was coming over just to get to know us. Whatever the reason first impression count and boy did he leave one on me. As the screen door swung open and shut with a slam his silhouette blocked all incoming light. He cast a long shadow, walking further into the room and towering over us kids all the oxygen was completely sucked, flowers wilted, paint and paper peeled off the walls, panes of glass shattered, dogs cowered and old ladies shielded their eyes. Babies within a two block radius started crying spontaneously and when we rode It’s a Small World at Disney the ride stopped working and all the characters popped bolts, sprung springs, fell off their tracks and started singing Helter Skelter and reciting Mein Kampf.

Of course I’m kidding, he wasn’t that bad, it was just the over exaggerated impression of a little kid. He certainly was grim, not very smiley and couldn’t appreciate the value of a good fart or boner joke. He was sterile, ignorant, not gentle or fun. Didn’t like animals or playing with food at the table, I knew corn catapult would be completely out of the question. If my mother’s soul was the color of capiz shining brightly his was void of any color, a black hole that sucked all the life and light out of the room.

I’m sure we each represented what the other disliked the most on this earth. If Mr. B thought I was a greasy haired, smart mouthed, no respecting, slacking little fucker, he wasn’t far from the truth. I pegged him as an ignorant, uncreative, unimaginative, smelling of cleanser and oil, central Ohio hick whose only value was knowing which way to turn a screw. He was mechanical and could drive a nail, lay a plumb line and change the oil in his Plymouth Duster and Dodge Super Bee, the coolest things the dude had going for him. On the other hand I represented my dad and I was fiercely loyal defending him when someone was talking smack and I wasn’t going to be won over by some modern day dust bowler regardless how good his intentions might have been. In my eyes he was trying to take my father’s place, a position no one was good enough to fill. Our relationship was doomed from the start and neither of us seemed to give a shit, especially since I generally got the shorter end of the stick and he came out on top.

Pressure was on and I had to choose between two camps, two life styles. On the one hand it’d be a free wheel’n, keep on truck’n, mad magazine flying freak brothers extravaganza. Then, my other choice was living in a sterile middle class environment surrounded by upholstery and drapes that represented my step dad’s rural sensibilities and general lack of originality. In bed by 8:30, regardless of the night of the week, no choices, no negotiating, just goose stepping towards false cleanliness to the sounds of Pat Boone and Bo Donaldson’s version of Billy Don’t be a Hero. Mass on Sundays which he refused to attend with the rest of the fam, “I warship gawd my owhn way”, yeah, sleeping in on Sundays, I’d like to worship that way too.  Family entertainment was anything Doris Day, Hee Haw and the Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. “Don’t touch that channel!” If you happened to be home during the week and Mr. B was home, the Price is Right was a must see and don’t even think about talking over the Bob. Hanging out with the snot nosed tattle tale of cop’s kids that lived across the street wasn’t a picnic either. Their idea of a good time was chasing each other and you with a booger ended finger and trying to get you to drink piss they’d dyed with food coloring.

As my twelfth year birthday started closing in I started looking for someone to tell me what the right and smart thing to do was. I knew what I wanted to do, but for the first time in a while I also wanted to do what was the right thing. I couldn’t talk about it with either of my parents; they were the ones fighting over me. Most adults at that time spoke down to me rather than at me so they weren’t to be respected or regarded. As double d date approached (Decision Date) my step father tried to do the right thing and have a man to man talk with me. We were given our space in the living room where I generally wasn’t allowed to sit on the furniture, but the severe tone of our conversation merited me the honor to sit on washed out flowery yellow couch. No real treat considering all the grease marks left from Mr. B’s head imprint with the indelible scent of Royal Crown Pomade. It grossed me out. We talked about school, awkward silence, he let me know I could sit behind the wheel of the Duster anytime I wanted, awkward silence, told me he loved my mother, awkward silence and he told me he tried to be my friend. He told me how much my mother loved me and how much it would hurt her if I moved out. Sobbing, I knew that, that’s why I couldn’t make a decision. If there was one thing that was pure and good and nice and sweet on this earth it was my mother. I there were two, it was my mother and grandmother.

Guilt! That’s why the fuck I couldn’t make a decision. The shadow of guilt. The worst kind of guilt, a son betraying his mother. We’re not talking about shop lifting some penny candy, no breaking into the neighbor’s house while they’re on vacation, or poking someone in the eye with a stick.  We’re not talking about dipping and stirring the end of your step dad’s new water pick into a piss and turd filled toilette, it’ not even on the same scale of breaking into a black powder warehouse and making pipe bombs. Out of all the different stages of guilt turning your back on a family member, let alone your mother is the worst kind of guilt possible. That’s something you’re going to carry around for a while.

Mr. B made it clear that I was welcome in this house and that maybe we could have a fresh start. Kids have a great bullshit detector and that’s exactly what I smelled coming out of his mouth, his central Ohio red neck twang might have been laying it out, but I wasn’t buying it. A fresh line of crap. Sweet words spoken with a sweet deep accent, like poison that smelled of lavender and lilacs. Too much water under the bridge. I stood up, wiped my eyes, shaking I shook his hand and said good night.

My mom was waiting for me in the bedroom I shared with my brother. She was sitting on the bed and gestured for me to sit next to her. I plopped down and again, the waterworks started as she told me how much she loves me, how she thought it was probably a bad idea but she would understand if I left and would love me as much then as she did that day and the day I was born. Did I mention guilt? She wasn’t laying a guilt trip on me, just being honest and forthright. But there is no way an eleven year old kid can feel anything but remorse and shame. I couldn’t even say the words, wasn’t a man enough and I didn’t have the stones to utter them. I could not say “I want to move in with my dad.” She actually had to come out and ask me if I wanted to move in with my father. I trembled, sobbed and nodded my head. She helped me change into my pj’s for the last time, waited for me to brush my teeth, tucked me into bed and said “Goodnight, sweet dreams and I’ll always love you.”