"Tumbleweeds"

When I was about eight or ning years old (or so), my mother and I got into an argument. Probably over something silly, I can't remember much about what started it, or why. Just that I was angry at her for something, she became frustrated with me. Ever the turning cycle of 'tit for tat' responses and retorts. I thought, then, she would be sorry if I ran away. So I told her:

"I'll just run away!" My hands defiantly on my hips as I glared at her, "THEN you won't have me to yell at anymore!"

"Fine, run away then!" she responded, catching me WAY off guard. My smug look of 'upper-hand' stoicism rapidly fading as I frantically thought of the best response, but kept comming up blank. She pressed her verbal advantage as only an olympic soccer star would do, seeing a slight, keyhole maneuver to victory.

"In fact," she said, mirroring my previous 'upper-hand' stoic pose. "Let me help you pack."

I was floored. I mean . . . did I really want to run away? Sure, the thought of not having to constantly get yelled at was enticing, but . . . what did it mean to 'run away', really? Its at times like that, when you realize you just did something without thinking it through, but, given the climate of the altercation, you can't really back down just because someone . . . even your mother . . . calls your bluff. It was with that realizaiton, that I folded my arms, dug in my feet, and said the only thing that a 9 year old pig-headed boy really can say.

"Fine!"

So, it was with that in which my mother started packing my bags. I had never run away before, so I really didn't know what to do. Ironically, my mother transformed at that moment into some weird, "Your on death row, so its pointless to argue" demeanor. It had been decided that I was going to run away. My mother said it, and I committed to it. It was a done deal. Just the mechanics of the situation still needed to be worked out.

My mother, a court reporter, and rather adept at phone book research, found the address of a runaway shelter called 'Tumbleweeds'. This is where I would go. It was rather far, but the bus went right by the place. I'd have to make a couple of transfers, but I would get there. I was given enough money for the bus ride, and sent on my way. As I started walking down the street with my suitcase in tow, my mother yelled out to me to come back.

I rushed back . . . half expecting a pat on the head, or a hug with a comment of "be safe" to send me on my way. Instead, my mother handed me a peice of paper that had my dads contact information on it. "When you get there," she said, as if giving instructions to the paperboy, "give this to the people there, and tell them to call your dad . . . not me. Do you understand?"

. . . and then I was off.

I had a long time on the bus to ponder my situation. I was numb. I was running away, and I couldn't actually remember 'wanting' to run away, but there I was. Sure, I 'said' I wanted to run away . . . but, c'mon! Doesn't EVERY kid get angry at their parents at sometime and yell, "I AM GOING TO RUN AWAY . . . THEN YOU'LL BE SORRY!!" But then again, if that were true, and their parents called them on it like my mother did, wouldn't the busses just be FILLED to capacity with kids and suitcases?

There were only a few people riding with me, and they all looked strange and foreign. Come to think of it, I can't remember if there was a time before this that I ever really RODE the public bus. . . . well, maybe a SCHOOL bus, but not the public bus. Maybe I had, but I couldn't remember it. I definitely didn't 'run away' on a bus before. This was new. . . and scary.

I realized that I was very much afraid of the situation I was in. . . and it was my fault I was there. Well, I can say that writing this now, but it probably came out more then like, "I am miserable because my mother can't see reason" . . . or some nine year old equivalent.

Still, I stuck with it. I remember shaking at one point, afraid to get off the bus. Mostly because I had just realized that I was in a part of town that I didn't know. I also didn't know how to get back home. The only familiar thing to me was the seat I was sitting in and the pole and handrail that I clung to with a Pitt Bulls verocity. I didn't know what I was doing anymore. Suddenly, I wasn't 'running away', I was scared shitless and clinging to the guardrail as if it were a life preserver keeping me from sinking.

The bus driver, however, was helpful. He remembered me . . . he had asked me where I was going when I got on. I had given him the address, and he said he'd make sure I got there. My head was a buzz. I wasn't thinking anymore. I wasn't angry, I wasn't defiant, I wasn't thinking about anything. I was just scared. I cried a little, but, if I were a nine year old boy telling this story, I think I would, instead be saying. "I never cried,and looked on towards the future defiantly .. . dry-eyed. Even as an adult, its a little hard to admit to an innumerable amount of people that there were times you cried as a kid because you did something stupid.

Anyways, the bus driver collected my things and helped me off at the stop when we got to the address. The bus driver, at least, looked at me kindly, patted me on my head, and said "Be safe". I remember that moment vividly because it was all I could do not to fall to the ground bawling. I don't know if the Bus driver knew where he was taking me, or why I was going, or what the situation was, but for the first time that I can tangibly remember, I felt that someone cared for me. And with that realization, came another one that I wasn't entirely too sure my mother cared for me. I mean, I'm sure there was . . . lots of times . . . but I couldn't remember any. Not a single one. That scared me even more. It also made this trek very real, and very scary.

I toted my suitcase through a wrought iron fence connected to a rough stone wall that had a sign that said, 'Tumbleweeds' . . . it was one of those 60's hardcase suitcases. . . there were no rollers, so, I guess when I say, 'toted' my suitcase, what I really mean is, I picked it up with both hands, and lumbered forward a few steps, set it down, picked it up again either on the other side, or at a different angle, lumbered forward again, and repeated that several times till I got up to the house that was down the driveway. It wasn't heavy, just bulky, and probably too large for the few things that I packed.

I was met at the door by a menagerie of teenagers and adults. All welcomed me warmly, with looks of grave concern . . . me as if they had just rescued a small, dirty puppy thrown away in the garbage dump. Each touched me as they lead me into the house and through a myriad of rooms and chambers. Ironically, the touches were warming and made me feel good, but I couldn't understand why. It was very strange and helpful at the same time. One of them said breathily, "My GOD, he's shaking something feirce!" It wasn't until then, that I realized that I was, indeed, shaking. I felt embarassed because of it, and tried not to shake any more. I stood up taller to let everyone know that "I was ok, nothing to see here. You can leave me alone now." But I was still shaking somewhat.

They sat me down in a too big, leathery chair in front of an equally overly large oak desk. All left with soft words of "You'll be ok," and "Nothing to worry about now, you are safe here." Within a few minutes, a man and a lady came in. The man sat behind the desk, the lady sat next to me, and gave me a small, motherly squeeze. She didn't say anything, just sat there, closer than I, in other circumstances, would have been rather uncomfortable with.

The man asked my name, and asked if I was ok, and a slew of questions that were designed no doubt to guage my mental and physical health. No, I wasn't hurt. No, my parents didn't hit me at all, No, I didn't have any injuries, No, I wasn't scared (which was a lie, but I am confident, he knew that already), yes, my Mother and I had a fight, No, my Father didn't live with me, my parents were divorced. On, and on. I can't really remember the exact questions, just that he asked them in a deep but soft voice, with havy lines of concern in his face as he stared at me intently.

After the questions, he asked, "Well, Steve, I'm glad you are ok, that makes us feel better. But I am very concerned about your parents. They must be worried sick to death about now. I think it would be very good if we gave them a call. Would that be okay?

I said it would be, and gave him the note my mother handed me as I was leaving.

"Whats this?" he said, looking at it closer.

"My mother gave that to me. She said that you should call my dad when I got here." The man's brow furled a little. I explained, "She's the one that found the address of here. She knows I'm here, so you don't have to call her." The brow deepened as he nodded and picked up the phone, dialed the number.

I could faintly hear the tone of my Father's voice as the man explained to him that I was safe, and where I was, and if it would be possible for him to come pick me up. . . adding that of, course, if he needed some time, that they would be happy to keep me there for a while.

I could hear my dad's angry voice over the phone, and my heart sank. They talked for a few moments longer; the man seemingly trying to calm my Father down. I wanted to dissapear in the oversized chair I was in. My head felt dizzy and my mouth was dry. I heard my dad yell for a while, then the man handed me the phone. "Your dad wants to talk with you, is that ok?" I nodded faintly and took the phone.

"Are you ok?!" my dad yelled at me. To which I really wanted to answer, "No, I'm not ok. I'm scared, I'm tired, I'm dizzy . . . and I just want to go somewhere and lie down." . . . but instead, I said meekly, "I'm ok".

My dad yelled at me some more. I remember soemthing like "What did you do to make your mother so angry?" and "How could you let it get to this?" . . . which, in hindsight, probably meant "Your mother really pisses me off, but I don't even want to talk to her, I'm so angry, so you will have to do for now".

My Dad came to pick me up. At the 'tumbleweeds' home, he thanked them for helping, and asked for the phone. I was in the next room, but I could hear him clearly, he was very loud. VERY loud. He called my mother. It was the first time I remember them actually having a direct convesation with her. Before, my mother would always just ask me to call him for weekend visits.

The next part is hazy. Not so much because I don't remember the actual conversation, but moreover because maybe I don't really want to remember it. I think it is the cause of many of my issues today. And while, my parents may have had nothing but the best of intentions, to a nine year old boy, it was soemwhat traumatic.

My Father yelled at my mother. My mother yelled at my father. My father said things like, "I'm not going to let you dump him on me like this." and "If you can't work out your issues, that doesn't mean I have to take him." . . . but, in the leanest mean terms, what I heard between them was, "You take him" . . . "NO, YOU take him" . . . "I don't wan't him" . . . "That doesn't mean I want him either. I've had him for nine years, he's your burdon now".

The words may have been different, but thats what I remember from them. My parents fighting over me like I was a hot potato.

I don't remember much after that. My father took me to my mothers, I collected some more things, then we drove to his house, where I stayed for a while before my Father came into my room one day when I did something wrong (wrong as in 'didn't mow the lawn right', or wrong as in 'forgot to clean the pool' . . . never wrong, as in 'you are doing drugs', or wrong, as in 'You got suspended from school for stealing') and said that he couldn't deal with me beig there anymore, that I would need to go back to my mothers. Which I did, with no argument. I never argued with my father. I don't know why.