Sticky Feet

Shangri-La

2010-08-25T19:43:00.000-07:00

Retrospective in Prose . . . (i.e. boring inner reflection and not interesting at all . . .)

I’ve been telling a lot of stories lately. It’s the one thing that I like to do when I’m feeling empty or sad . . . or even just sometimes when I’m just plain blah. I write mostly for self healing, and introspective thought. I feel sometimes as if I’m ‘writing just to myself’, and that in doing so, I’m telling myself things that I need to know. It takes care of an obscure need deep down inside me somewhere and calms the anxiety that builds up, unbidden. It’s like putting sand in a deep, dark hole, just so you know that there’s something there and are comforted that it is not quite so mysterious anymore; not that it really does anything substantial. The stories, it seems, are always about my childhood . . . past memories that, in times, have been humorous, or traumatic, or even both at the same time to me. Sometimes I embellish it a little to make it interesting . . . not much, but I don’t think anyone really cares. The stories are a true account of my childhood the way I remember it. Sometimes, I am way off, and events are more ‘emotionally’ driven, than factual. Maybe I remember things the way a child of that time would remember things, or maybe I remember them in a biased way that doesn’t really tell the whole story. All I can say is these are my thoughts, and these are my stories. However they come out, they come straight from my heart and soul . . . inconsistencies and all.

With each telling, I become a better writer, I think. And I like that. Maybe I NEED that.

I write these for me (artistic cliché #1). All you other readers are just passersby, just looking into a window that is my life. I guess that sort of makes me an exhibitionist at heart, but I don’t care. Hate them, love them, ignore them, and scoff at them . . . Do whatever. If you happen to find these stories heart-filled, and spend less time noticing the MANY grammar and communication errors I make throughout . . . then maybe you will come closer to understanding me as I yearn to be understood. I wouldn’t mind that at all. I like to share.

Sometimes, it just takes a story to bring people together . . . and that thought, makes me happy.

Shangri-la

I was about 12-13 years of age . . . puberty. (Yes, I see that you see where this story is going already, grin). My mother was in full-swing to bring the family together. She had recently gone through a spiritual, physical, and emotional transformation from a being that was quite different than the one we ended up with. In retrospect, to say the ‘old’ Mom was better than the ‘new’ Mom would not have been accurate, but at the time, I was hard-pressed to find the ‘good’ aspect of the things that have changed in my life, along with my Mother.

For one thing, my mother wanted us to be more of a family, do family things, eat meals together, etc. Not as bad as you’d think, but it was different for us. When one is used to ‘taco bell’, suddenly ‘liver and Onions, brussel sprouts and (ick!) Asparagus were torture food. It was meant to tear down the will of someone who lived free, and ate wild. For instance, my Sister wanted to grow up and work her way through the McDonalds food chain. That’s how ingrained into trash food we were. We worshipped it.

When there was a meal we didn’t like, (see the above ‘liver and onions’ statement . . . a favorite staple of my mothers) I would be steadfast . . . fold my arms, and just sit there. Of course, like many of the 70’s families of the time. There was a standing Presidential order that ‘Liver and Onions’ was good, you also could NOT get up from the table until you at every last bite. My sister did the same. Sometimes we would sit there for hours . . . until I discovered the ‘dog’ compactor, or the wonderful taste of 6 ounces of ketchup. We endured, but it didn’t quite ingratiate our dear Mother into our hearts.

Mealtime was family time, my mother would say. We didn’t do it to eat so much, as it was to participate in an event as a family. ‘Family events’ had become sacrosanct. You might as well appeal to the Supreme Court. My mother thought them up, and she would endeavor to make us ALL participate in them . . . even if it horribly scarred, maimed, or even KILLED any one of us.

Another thing our mother did was date a guy, Gary, who just happened to be the manager of the downtown Phoenix Playboy club. Now, to a kid just turning 13, this was a WONDERFUL thing. He once invited my mother, my sister, and I down to the nine-story building where the playboy club took up the top floor in central Phoenix. I remember having the BEST burger I ever tasted there . . . served to me by a girl in a skimpy bunny suit . . . fluffy tail and bunny ears and all. The girls there doted on me, said how cute I was . . . I was in heaven. What a WONDERFUL guy my mother dated. I could really get used to this!

But the guy, Gary, also had another hobby he did on weekends. A sinister and nefariously evil hobby that should remain hidden from public venue and NEVER discussed. I was horrified when my Mother first mentioned it. My mother, however, was thrilled to hear about this new hobby, and couldn’t wait to partake (now you KNOW how evil it is, right?). My sister, the turncoat, thought it would be okay and even fun to spend time doing. It didn’t bother her at all; she was ready for the ‘eventual’ family outings.

At first, I kept it inside, but even thinking about it put a lump in my throat. It was unnatural, and not right. I had decided I would NOT participate.

Saturday came rolling around, and that morning, my mother had decided that we were, as a family, going to go to this camp in Cave Creek, called ‘Shanrgi-La’. The name hinted at cool summer breezes in soft-grass apple orchards with children and adults frolicking around, happy to be alive. It was nothing of the sort.

Shanri-La, was a Nudist colony out in the most desolate landscape of the Arizona desert. Cactus, snakes, grey-brown heat warped landscapes that reminded me more of a post-apocalyptic movie than the green, rolling, breezy landscape that the name suggested.

My mother called the sacrosanct ‘Family Outing’. We were going. I had no say. Still, I could not bring myself to find anything even remotely enjoyable about a place where I had to display myself, naked, to the world . . . . in 120 degree heat, no less. I didn’t even look at myself in the bathroom mirror. That was just . . . wrong. I argued, yelled, gave every excuse to why I couldn’t go. None of it superseded Mothers ‘Family time’ order. I was screwed.

So, I was abducted . . . against my will . . . sentenced to spend the day in the company of . . . shudder . . . naked people. No way ‘IN HELL’ was I going to take off my clothes. NO WAY! “You don’t HAVE to,” my mother retorted to my grumbling banter. “You can just wear shorts. No one will mind.” Yeah, right. Wearing clothes at a nudist camp was akin to going to Prom in a Speedo.

So, off to camp we went. When we arrived, my mother drove our dodge into the compound, and parked near the pool. She opened the door, stepped out, disrobed from her clothes, and grabbed her things. My sister did the same thing from the passenger’s side. My mother pushed the seat forward for me to step out.

“I’m not going,” I grunted; folding my arms and looking away. “I will NOT go out there, naked or otherwise” I would not do it, I would not do it, I would NOT do it!

My mother sighed, let the seat drop back. “Ok,” she said, resigned. “Stay here, but if you get too hot, the house right there has water and drinks.” She pointed to the building behind where we parked. I didn’t look. I was not getting out, and that was that. She bounded off with my sister to do whatever those without clothes do.

The Dodge charger had dark brown leather seats. The windows were rolled down, but it was 115 degrees out (or so). Within minutes, the temperature soared and sweat poured through my T-shirt and cutoffs. Within hours (well, okay, maybe it wasn’t ‘hours’, but it sure seemed like it!), the heat became unbearable. Still, I WOULD not get out. NO, no, no. I would die first.

The pool, about 20 yards away, teamed with life as kids jumped in and splashed around, frolicked and played games. The inviting water seemed a cool oasis in the hell that was the backseat of the Dodge. I was melting. Maybe I could just jump in the water, cool off, and then come back. It wouldn’t take that long, and it was sooo inviting! Once I thought it, I couldn’t think of anything else. I gave it another ‘pretend’ minute of defiance, then practically leaped through the back window to bound towards the pool.

I came to within 5 yards in an instant. Surprisingly, the naked fat guy under the umbrella near the north end was quicker. He blew a whistle and yelled at me, stopping me in my tracks before I made a GLOURIOUS leap into the wonderful wetness. “HEY!” He yelled. Seeing that I had stopped, he said, “NO clothes in the pool! Gotta take ‘em off!”

Now, there comes a time in everyone life when they are forced into making decisions where there is no good outcome. For me, at that instant, I had a choice. Turn around, run back to the Dodge, jump in to a vehicle two times hotter than one of the hottest days of the summer and finish the job of completely melting into the leather interior, OR . . . simply disrobing out of my cutoffs and T-shirt and saving myself by jumping into the pool. Not that I thought about it longer than about 2 milliseconds, but, I wasn’t happy about it either. I quickly jumped out of my clothes and slipped into the water. NEVER in my life, was there a more rapturous feeling in my entire body. The cool water enveloped me, soaking into pours as if replenishing the sweat that poured out of them.

I quickly moved to the corner of the pool and faced it. I felt good, relaxed. A sated look of satisfaction, not unlike the look one gets after a heavy bout of good sex, washed over my face. I could think clearly now, and praised my judgment for not turning back. Here, I decided, I would stay until time to go. Here, like this . . . naked . . . in the pool, was ok. No one bothered me or noticed me. I could do this.

So there I waded. Content and a little sunburned around the shoulders, I watched, and even greeted people walking by (that was ok. Better sunburned than melted. Of course, I wouldn’t say that the next day). After a while, a group of girls . . . my age . . . came frolicking by and all jumped in the pool. I was starting to like this place! Maybe a place where girls, running around naked wasn’t so bad! I grinned . . . and I grew.

Shit.

That was a problem.

Suddenly, the pool was a smaller place. The girls jumped in, I turned and faced the corner, trying to act casual. One of the girls asked me if I wanted to play water volleyball with them, I graciously declined, feigning a need to relax after a pretty arduous hike (GOD! I hoped they hiked around here!). They soon forgot about me and went to their game. I watched them, craning my head and neck around as much as I could while still keeping my body . . . and my stiffy . . . facing the corner.

After a while, I realized that my ‘problem’ wasn’t going to go away. The girls continued playing and I tried to ignore them. Apparently, not all of me could ignore them, though and after an hour or so, I remained at attention up to the time my Sister and Mother came back from wherever they had gone off to.

“Oh! I see you found the pool,” she said, grinning. “C’mon, pack up, were getting ready to go,” she said.

“Um,” I said, realizing that getting out of the pool at that moment was NOT in my best interest. “I think I’ll stay here a while and cool off.”

“WoohOAOH,” My mother exclaimed, “Look who’s suddenly liking this place now!” She grinned from ear to ear and walked off.

I laid my forehead against the head of the pool and let out a very long, very sad sigh. After a moment, I looked up and yelled back at my mother, “UH, COULD YOU BRING ME SOME SUNSCREEN?”

2010-08-24T22:58:00.001-07:00

When I was in 7th grade, I went to my first dance.

I was rather excited . . . and scared at the same time. There was a girl I liked then. Her name was Kari. She had been new to the school, and was one of the few whom didn't think I was an idiot and even talked to me as we walked home from school at times. Of course, I lived in the opposite direction, and had about a 2 mile walk to circle back around . . . . Every day . . . but I didn't mind. It was nice to have someone to talk to that didn't think that I was a moron, or dumb, or stupid.

Unfortunately, I was branded by many of my classmates as a 'not so bright guy' to put it in the most kindest, most optimistic way I can think of . . . What they actually mostly called me was Moron, . . . idiot, . . . stupid, . . . big dork, Etc, etc., etc., all because I had attended classes for learning disabilities. They never called me these things directly, but I’ve caught them on more than one occasion talking ‘about’ me, using these words.

But Kari, the new girl I um, sorta walked home from school with, didn't know me at all. She just started the 7th grade at this school and didn't know anyone yet. She treated me with respect, and courtesy. She was happy to have a friend to walk home with, and I loved her for it.

The night of the dance, I remember dressing up in my bell-bottom slacks, silk shirt (that I've never worn because I never really had a reason to). I put on some aftershave, but maybe I put too much on, because it was a bit strong. I had heeled shoes, that actually made me an inch taller than I already was, which basically made me VERY tall . . . I was already many inches above my classmates. The silk shirt was buttoned down maybe a button too much, I buttoned it up . . . then un-buttoned it . . . then buttoned it back. I guess I eventually decided I'd play that one by ear . . . I had never been out to a 'dance' before, so I didn't know how to dress appropriately.

My School was about a mile and a half away, I rode my bike there, a sears special that had been my trusty companion for a few years to this time. I had combed my hair till it was just right, but the wind kept messing it up. I had straight, Dutch boy style hair, and no matter what I did, it would just plop down . . . best not to mess with it.

I rode to school; it was getting dark, but I could see enough for me to get there. I’d have to deal with the dark when I left, but that was later, and I’d deal with it then. I was excited. I parked my bike in the bike locks, locked it up, and jaunted to the dance.

‘Seventh Grade Dance’ . . .

I think there was theme to it, but who really cared about those things. It was a chance to hang out with the guys . . . or, er . . . maybe some girls too. Kari would be there. Maybe we could dance some . . . never mind that I couldn’t dance, nor even knew how to ask a girl to dance. Still . . . the prospect was enticing. It was new, exciting, and scary at the same time.

I went by the other groups of guys, said hi to some I knew . . . kinda floated from group to group. I never really stayed in once place too long. I didn’t feel comfortable around people who really didn’t want me around them. None of them were really my friends. Actually they were more ‘Luke-warm’ friends at best. Those are friends that don’t really like you, don’t really want to have anything to do with you, but they would never say so to your face. They just smile, listen to whatever you have to say, and mentally blast you with their Psionic powers until you are eventually pushed away . . . FAR away.

I had some juice, a cookie or two . . . I think they are the exact same at every grade school dance. It’s what the teachers say to entice unsuspecting kids into doing something outside their comfort zone . . . “There’ll be cookies! C’mon! You’ll love it! We have Punch!”

I did the circuit again . . . I had it down, that if I just walked around all night, kind of just meandering close to a group, standing around by myself for a couple minutes, then meandering off, no one (and by ‘one’ I mean, no ‘teacher’) would ask me if I was ‘Alone’, or ‘You should ask a girl to dance’. No kid likes to be forced into doing something that isn’t well within their comfort zone. Tricked? Yes. But not forced.

Kari was there, in a Fort Knox gaggle of girls. It would be difficult at best to get to talk to her. Still . . .

No one really paid me any attention, no one noticed. I was for all purposes . . . invisible. It wouldn’t be for a couple years yet, before I would figure out that that was a bad thing at school dances.

Eventually, couples started dancing, either through force, or osmosis, I don’t know. Just suddenly, there were people dancing. Not really sure how it worked, and it wasn’t part of my agenda, so I didn’t care . . . Not that I was really all too sure what MY agenda was . . . just that it was comforting saying to myself that ‘I had an agenda’.

I orbited around the Fort Knox gaggle for several dances, casually moving closer and closer . . . meandering, and stopping for a time near a group of guys that I didn’t know every once in a while so as not to arouse suspicion.

I kept getting closer, and closer to the group with Kari . . . I was almost there (not that I would have known what to do when I got there, but I figured, first: Get there, Second: Figure out what I am going to do once I got there. I was a goal-oriented kid.

“Wanna dance with me?” It was Sandy ‘Whastername’, a short girl with curly blond hair. She was shy and in some of my classes. I never really noticed her. She never really noticed me. In fact, we were sorta invisible to each other. Up until this moment, I don’t think I even knew what her voice sounded like. And here she was, asking me to dance?

“Um”, I said . . . remember, I have NEVER danced before, didn’t know how . . . didn’t even want to. “Well, er . . . ok”. So we danced . . . a SLLLOOOOOWWWW dance. Well, at least I could do it, so it wasn’t that bad . . . just turning slowly is all it is. In fact, I was quite enjoying it. And it made me take a closer look at Sandy ‘Whastername’. She was a little short and stubby, sure, but not all that unpleasant to hold. She didn’t smile much, but then again, neither did I. We didn’t talk, nor even look at each other, really. But I was feeling more confident in myself. Yeah! This could really work! I could dance! AND talk to girls! I was an ok guy . . .

The song, at a crescendo, wasn’t even half way over, before Sandy ‘Whatsername’ dropped her arms and stopped dancing. Without pausing, nor running, she just walked over to the cookie table, got a cookie, and walked back to her group of friends that were busy in some sort of ‘girl’ conversation.

It had happened so suddenly, that I was left, holding the dance, so to speak. I was dancing, and then I wasn’t. She left, and I was still there . . . awkward. Moreover, she never said a word, nor even nodded to me other than her first sentence. Come to think of it, this was my first and last ever contact with Sandy ‘whatsername’, the first girl I ever danced with at a school dance.

I stayed there for a few moments, getting bumped and low growled at by other couples on the dance floor. As I stood there, a teacher announced that that dance was the last one. Time to go home. It was over.

It was too late to say ‘hi’ to Kari. The doors were closed on that; she was now back in the corner in a bigger gaggle of girls. Fort Knox had grown. It was Time to know when I was licked and should give up, which is exactly what I did.

I quickly slipped out. I just wanted to go home. The dance was a bust, and a girl I did’t even know, ‘dissed’ me on the dance floor. I headed down the pathway, past the 1st grade rooms, through the monkey bars, into the flock of spring-loaded wobbly ridy thingys, and . . .

BAMM!

One split second, I’m sauntering towards the bike racks, hands in pockets, head down, and the next, pain . . . oh, and I’m on my side. Oh! And there is a wild, crazy, guy on top of me, wailing his fists into my head and kicking me in my stomach. I was dizzy, and it was a few moments before I realized the full extent of what was happening to me.

I was getting beat up.

Evidently, I had been waylaid from the side by a wiry guy slightly shorter than me with a butch haircut. This guy, had a fire in his eye, and he kept screaming “YOU HIT ME, YOU HIT ME!” Which was very odd, since it was in fact, HE who hit ME and not the other way around. Still, he screamed it over and over. He was unrelenting.

My head hurt very much. I had hit it on one of the spring-loaded wobbly ridy thingys (which was evidenced by the fact that it was still wobbling what seemed minutes after I hit it). More than that, though . . . My hand hurt. More particularly, my pinky hurt on my left hand. It hurt VERY much. When I put my (left) hand up to ward his punches, I confirmed that my hand WAS hurt badly. It hurt even more now. I curled up into a ball.

In my potato bug defense, I didn’t hurt as much. Well, my finger hurt, and my head was still very woozy, but I was comfortable. Time seemed to slow a bit, and I tuned the screaming out somewhat. It seemed like I had a lot of time on my hands suddenly, and I could ponder the evening. So I did.

Eventually, someone pulled him off, with, “He’s had enough, ‘garbled name here’. You should leave him alone.” To which the guy screamed, “HE HIT ME,” and jumped on me and kicked me some more before being pulled off a second time. This time, two people held him some, telling him to calm down and talking to him. One was Wally Crumpler, the other was Wally’s best friend, another name I couldn’t (can’t) remember . . . but it gave a clue to the kid who was (still) screaming at me. It was Wally’s best friends brother.

Slowly, I started to uncurl from my position, still holding my finger that hurt A LOT. I would find out later that it was broken. I focused on my finger, saying ‘ow’ a lot. My knee was also bleeding, but I didn’t see that before. My head still hurt, but I could at least think a little. I stumbled up on my feet, and almost fell down again. Jack, Jason, Jimmy, lunged at me again, but was held back. I didn’t flinch . . .but that was mostly because I didn’t see him lunge. Most likely, I would have yelped like a little girl and crawled back into the fetal position.

I heard someone in crowd say “Let him kick the SPED’s ASS!” and someone else say “Shutup”. A familiar voice had said “SPED? Whats that”. A snort and then someone answered, “A Special ED student. He came from the Idiot classroom.”

I was oblivious to all around me. All I knew was that this dance SUCKED. I was called names, a girl I didn’t know, dissed me on the dance floor . . . and I got beat up. . . AND my whole body hurt. I don’t know why JUST at that time, my eyes started to tear up, but it was uncontrollable. I couldn’t stop them, and I tried with all my might. NO! Not now I cried inwardly.

I saw Kari in the crowd just as someone next to her said, “aww, the SPED’s gonna cry!” She was looking at me, and at the other kid. She was the one that had asked the question about what a SPED was. She looked at me for a few moments, and then some other girls pulled her away. “C’mon Kari, my dad’s here”

Everyone saw me tear up. Expressionless, my face began streaming water. All were watching me as my shame and humiliation came to bear full fruit. The more I told myself, ‘DO NOT CRY’, the more water came plummeting down my face.

I vaguely heard Wally’s best friend asked his brother what I did to him.

“He HIT ME!” the nameless kid said. “HE hit me with a ball!” That confused me, I hadn’t thrown a ball in months, much less ‘at’ someone. Still the tears streamed unbidden. I stood there, not moving, almost hoping that the more motionless I became, the more people would forget that I was there and walk away. It didn’t work.

Still, Wally’s best friend questioned his brother on why he jumped on me and beat me up. It came out, that Wally’s best friend’s bother had been in Special ED too. Was STILL in special ED, and had ALWAYS been in Special ED. Wally’s best friends brother had been playing at recess one noonday, and one of those BIG rubber balls (and I mean those HUGE planet sized ones that it takes several people to push up) had come out of nowhere when he wasn’t looking and had beaned him (literally) into the ground. The ‘when’ was a little fuzzier, and, after a little cajoling, it came out that it had been a YEAR and a HALF earlier, when I had . . . supposedly . . . hit him with this ball. Talk about memory like an Elephant!

Anyways, I didn’t recall the actual issue he was referring to, until it popped into my head weeks later. I had been out playing with some of the Special ED friends, and we did have one of those balls. Wally’s best friends’ brother wanted to play, but the others weren’t hearing him, and kept passing it around to each other. When it came to me, I had decided to toss it to Wally’s best friends’ brother, who, unbeknownst to me at that time, had given up, and started walking away . . . just to get beaned in the head. All the teachers ran over and took care of him, and the bell had rung, so I just went in, thinking it was handled.

. . . A year and a half, he held that grudge. I didn’t even know who he was.

The crowd dispersed. Eventually, I limped to my bike. No adults showed up. No other kids helped me or asked me how I was.

I rode my Sears Special home in the dark, crying the entire way. . . and yes, my finger was still broken.

Wally . . . The next day . . .

2010-08-23T17:40:00.001-07:00

I had more to my story from yesterday that I thought I'd share. I shared it in another post, but I thought I would put it here just to make the story from yesterday more complete:

The next day, after the 'Wally' confrontation, I went to school as normal. As I sat on the bike racks..., trying to put my lock around the front tire, Wally came up and sat down next to me. He sat there as I ignored him while I put the lock on. Strangely, it was as if he were a friend, just waiting for me to finish so we could go play, I had no anxiety, and was completely comfortable with him sitting next to me, our jeans touching as I worked. When I was finished, I sat up on the bike rack, but otherwise didn't move. I turned to look at him.

"You’re not the only ones that can stick people with knives!" he said, fumbling in his right pocket for something. He pulled out a smallish, inch and a half card-shaped thing that appeared to have folding blades. Well, to be fair, one looked like scissors . . . And maybe a nail file. He opened the one that looked like a tiny knife.

My brow furrowed, but it did not alarm me at all. I mean, what he was going to do. STICK me w . . .

. . . He stuck me with it . . . it slightly wobbled from the point where it stuck in the upper thigh.

About an inch 'in', I'd say. There it stood, stuck into me, card hilt sticking up. I could see the scissors very neatly folded into he side.

"FUCK" he said, letting go of the blade and letting it dangle 'in' me. I made no reaction, no movement, just studied the blade with curiosity. It didn't really hurt.

Wally jumped up, saying "oh, my God! I actually stuck him! I didn't mean it!" he yelled, looking around for teachers to see how much trouble he was 'in'. He didn't see any, but he decided to dash away before he was caught. In a second, he was out of site.

I stayed there and looked at the knife sticking 'in' me. It was an odd thing to be sticking out of a leg, I thought.

A moment later, Wally came bounding quickly back, pulled the knife from my leg, then ran off again. . . That was odd in itself.

I just went calmly to the nurse, got a band aid, and then went to class.

2010-08-23T17:21:00.000-07:00

Hello All,

I'm still going through some issues with myself. My heart is very heavy and I guess I will just have to deal with it for a little bit longer. But, as always, it got me to start thinking about things of my Childhood . . . and especially some of my friends and why I thought of them as my friends.

First off, let me point out that I have NEVER been particularly adept at making friends or being social at all. I can keep up a conversation, hold my own at sports events, even drink someone under the table at a bar (well, ok, that last one would be more like 'drink someone the fastest to two beers now . . . my drinking binge days are WAY behind me). But . . . I have never really had the qualities that are needed to have, and maintain, too many friends.

First off, let me define what MY version of 'best' friend is. To me, A 'best' friend is not the top of the list friend that you like the most out of all your other friends. You can have more than one best friend. A best friend is merely a 'type' of friend. Some of you may have TONS of best friends; others may not have any . . . . Some of you may agree or disagree with me on that, but this is my story so THERE. But, to explain Best friends better, I guess I have to go through my whole concept of friends and friendship.

To 'splain . . . (remember, this is MY definition of friendship)

BEST friends are the ones that really and truly understand you. More than that, they act as if they have an investment in you and don't dismiss you summarily over 'little' things. When you call a 'best' friend up and tell them you are sad, they will rush right over to dance like a clown in front of you. If you tell them that you were hurt by someone, they demand their address so they can go give them a piece of their mind. Never mind that it was your fault, never mind that it was an accident, or a fluke. Best friends can't stand to see each other suffer. Another issue about best friends is they won't leave you when you fuck up, or do something so incredibly stupid. Instead, the best friend is there to see you through your dark times, to help you get back on your feet . . . because, unlike any other friend, a 'Best' friend is with you through thick and thin. You feel comfortable telling them ANYTHING, and often do.

Regular friends are the ones that will console you when you are sad, sick, depressed . . . but always from a slight distance, as if on the outside looking in, always with that look of 'My God, it really sucks to be you right now'. But they will be there to drink with you, do stuff . . . they will listen to your tales of woe, and patiently wait for you to finish. They will be sad for you and tell you they are sorry and wish you the best in your speedy recovery. They are living hallmark cards, and they are VERY good at helping you to feel better when you need it, but there is a personal line between you that they and you, do not dare cross. You can confide in them, just don't expect them to jump on your bandwagon.

Casual friends are similar to regular friends, in that you can talk to them, and if you are sad, they will listen to you . . . for maybe a short while, maybe not. there is a very short time limit with casual friends. If you pass that time limit, then you are boring them and they don't want to be around you much. They may not act like it in front of you, but inside, they are not listening to you, instead, they are thinking how they can quietly slip away as you rant . . . on whatever you are ranting about this time. But they are your friend primarily because of the fun stuff you bring to the table . . . the FUN side of you is what they want. If you aren't fun, then you are, in a sense, 'dead' to them, and they make excuses not to be around you if you bore them. Casual friends don’t truly care about the real you. They care about the functional you and how you enhance them as a whole. There is very little effort put into a casual friendship. That’s why we all may have lots and lots of 'casual' friends.

Epic Friends . . . Now, I just made this one up . . . I guess, I made it up because, in your life, there is always ONE person, one 'special' person that should get the 'medal of honor' of friendship. These are the friends that have done something so selfless, so epic . . . that you remember their sacrifice always. Sure, maybe they move out of the 'Epic friends' slot later in life and maybe become more casual, or regular friends, but there is always that one moment . . . and even if you don't talk anymore, and they have said 'You are Dead to me' and walked away . . . they still have that award, for they've done the deed, and should always be remembered in the 'EPIC' category. Epic friends are for those who have literally, or figuratively 'taken the bullet' for you at sometime in your life. You will remember them always.

So . . . Now that I explained my concept of friendship . . . I wanted to tell a story of friendship from my childhood. I have many stories of friendship, but this one is probably the fondest memory I have and I wanted to share.

Dan has been my friend forever. I would put in in the category of 'EPIC' friends because he has literally saved my life on many occasions. He lived just a few houses down the street and I don't remember the first time we met because we were very small. There were other kids in the neighborhood, but Dan, for some reason, became my friend at the time, and we remained so throughout our childhoods. While other friends came and went, Dan was always there in the picture as I was growing up. Sure, there were some rocky times, but we always remained friends.

Dan, in 2nd grade, (well, we called him Danny back then) was moved up to 3rd grade. it was because of his age, or something like that. basically a logistical thing . . . but Dan, he told us all it was because he could tie his own tie . . . I was amazed . . . Tying a tie seemed literally 'impossible' to me at that age, so I can certainly understand bumping him a grade for it. It made me jealous. I only had a clip-on. I felt dumb.

In 5th grade, Dan was my only friend, but at that moment, he was probably more in just the 'casual' friend stage. Still, he was really my only friend, and when one is starving for friendship, a casual friend is better than a kick in the nut sack. I was having problems . . . at school socially. I didn’t' talk to people, didn't really want to get to know them. Truly, I didn't want to speak to anyone at all, for any reason. When it came to participating in schoolwork, I did so, but when asked questions in class, I would just nod, or shake my head . . . even if it was an open-ended question. The teachers thought I was 'emotionally' handicapped, and requested that I be tested for possibly going to a 'special' school.

I was tested, over and over, and over again . . . I saw a psychologist to determine why I was always afraid, always not talking, and always trying not to answer anything. Truly, I do not now know the answer to those questions. I can only surmise that my life just plain sucked, and i didn't really feel that there was anything I could to do make it better. My grades were average, I just didn't communicate effectively with others, I guess. Enough for them to stamp me as 'Mentally Handicapped'.

So, they shipped me off to another school, a 'Special' school for handicapped kids. I was upset at first. I mean, how degrading, do be labeled 'dumb' and shipped off. I was angry, mad, upset . . . and more than VERY embarrassed. All I could think of is how everyone at school, everyone who called me names, everyone that called me dumb, or an idiot . . . They were all justified now. I could no longer use the retort, "No I'm not dumb!"

But, I made the best of it . . . I got over it, and actually GREW to love the classes I was in. I mean, they were VERY easy, and I instantly because the smartest kid in class. The other kids looked up to me for the most part, and all asked me to help them. I LOVED that I was needed, and always helped them as much as I could. the material was so easy, I could have instructed the classes myself.

The school had other plans, however, and they thought I wasn't being challenged enough (which was very true), so they moved me up a grade. Now I'm in 7th grade, special ed . . . THAT was so simple, I fell right back into my 'I'm the smartest man ALIVE' role and even jokingly referred to myself as 'Dr. Steve' at times. I was in heaven. I was loved by all, I had power to help people, it was great. Still, though, the school was not impressed with my advancement, and was determined to challenge me in whatever way they could. So they moved me up again . . . Now I'm taking 8th grade Special ED . . . then 9th grade Special ED . . . I even went to Special Olympics as the captain of the volleyball team (I wasn't physically able to compete against anyone there, so they thought they'd give me the 'honorary' title so I could feel part of something. At least I got a Gold Medal). Eventually, they determined that I was really too smart for special classes and that I should be moved back into regular school. Saddest day of my life.

The next year, I went to the same school, but I was put into regular, normal classes. It was 6th grade, so, in the scheme of things, I was a year behind those I started kindergarten with. I was promised a move up to 7th if I did well in my classes, but, the truth of the matter was, they felt that being a grade behind, would make me more socially acceptable, since that seemed to be the issue I was dealing with. So I started normal 6th grade. I was bigger than everyone here, and no one talked to me . . . mostly because they were afraid of me (look at it from their side: Here comes this Very tall silent guy into your class, that is rumored to have been kicked out of the special ED program. Rumors are rampant.). So, I was left alone to my own devices. I didn't get moved up . . . I went normally into 7th grade along with everyone else. But I was okay with that.

7th grade, though, is where people started to notice me more. Wally Crumpler, a very short, stubby, blond kid with freckles would ask me on occasion, "Did you ever beat anyone up in Special ED?", or "I bet if people picked on you, you'd just POUND them once and they'd go into the ground". Wally, it seems, was a casual friend that feared me, in some way.

However, I wasn't a person that should have been feared. In fact, I was the exact opposite. I was a wimpy kid that was afraid of everything and everyone. I never tried to burst Wally's bubble, because I felt it lent me some personal safety. If everyone found that I couldn't hurt a fly, I would be like an overly tall slab of aging meat out in the Serengeti, baking in the sun, just waiting for the prides to gather.

It wasn't long after than Wally’s 'feeler' questions told him the truth of the matter and he figured out I was nothing to be feared. Wally became my worst nightmare . . . him, and his cronies that were, surprisingly, even shorter than Wally. He'd walk around with them and casually mention how he could beat the crap out of the biggest guy in our class if he wanted to (me).

So . . . Getting back to friendship . . . and Dan (Danny): Dan and I hung out more and more. After all, my school was a bit farther away, so I didn't really have any school friends in my neighborhood. There was only Dan to hang out with. We hung out more and more, and he became a closer friend over those years.

We LOVED to ride bikes around; it was our thing to do. Dan had his Schwinn, I had my Montgomery Wards special . . . they were pretty sucky bikes, but they worked fine for us, and we loved the fact that it allowed us the ability to explore and become more mobile in our lives. It allowed us to open up our ever-increasing universe, just a little bit more. It allowed for Dan and I to really bond in a way that I had never bonded with anyone. Sure, he had been my friend since childhood, and we had already bonded in many ways before, but we had also grown apart over the previous few years . . . Now we were together again . . . 'Double Lightning' we called ourselves (we even made a logo for it!). We did everything together.

One time, we rode our bikes over to my new school. Several of my classes were in a classroom area with an atrium in the middle. Dan and I went over to one of the alcoves so I could show him which classes I took, and what the atrium itself looked like. Nothing big, just showing him around some.

As we turned to leave the alcove that went into the locked atrium, Wally Crumpler, and his band of midget cronies were there. . . About 12 or so, standing at the entrance to the alcove. Dan and I, standing next to our bikes, staring at them were taken aback a little. Wally looked angry and maybe even a little evil. His cronies, in an attempt to look similar, just made the whole thing look rather comical. I focused on Wally, so I wouldn't crack a smile, and give him the wrong impression. I wasn't really afraid, I mean, after all, Dan and I were larger, and Dan, I thought, knew how to fight. . . but . . .

. . . At least, I ASSUMED Dan knew how to fight. He would, at times, talk about how he stood up to this guy, or tht person, or whatever . . . in his stories, he was always the hero, and he never backed down. It gave me confidence to know that Dan was there. Still I was very nervous. These kids were like little piranhas, ready to whittle our meat down to the bone.

Wally looked at us and then spit on the ground at our feet. He looked up, one of his evil eyes attempting to pierce my face.

"He can go," he said in a low, gravelly voice, that . . . in itself almost made me laugh. He pointed at Dan, while maintaining his evil Witch Eye stare at me. He paused for extremely effective dramatic effect. His other hand came up slowly, to point at me as he said, "But You Stay."

There were a couple snickers in the back of the Wally crowd, followed by several 'Shhs's' . . . reminiscent of an old Monty Python skit. I didn't say anything. Cripes! What could I say? Dan, however spoke first.

"Ok, I'll go," he said, pushing his bike forward through the crowd. Nothing else, just 'I'll go'. I was shocked. The Oompa Loompa gang parted for him, and swallowed the entrance back up when he was through. He was no longer their concern. Now it was me they wanted . . . and me, which every eye was lusting to hurt in some unimaginable way.

"Listen I said," trying not to sound desperate, but realizing, that this is exactly how I was sounding, but I couldn't help myself. Dan's leaving said volumes and I had never felt so alone, so vulnerable . . . and weak. Still, I didn't want to get beat up, "We're just looking around, we don't want any trouble here". I was betrayed by a gulp that showed everyone how scared I was.

There were some snickers, some chuckles, even a guffaw somewhere in the back. They all moved in closer; as if to even try to blot out any light between me, and the outside of the alcove. It was a move meant to intimidate, and it worked very well.

Wally stood in front, and punched his fist in his hand. "You can't get out of this ass kicking. We’ve been waiting a long time." He took a step closer.

From the back of the crowd, we heard Dan's voice, VERY loud, and very clear. "Either HE goes . . .” He was standing next to his bike. Held in his hand up and away from him, was a small black object with silver tips and a black button that his thumb rested on. As he paused . . . for dramatic effect . . . he pressed the button on the object. A 'snick', and then a small three inch blade instantly appeared at the top of the knife. The tiny gang collectively awed and gasped at the same time. Dan continued, "Or NOBODY goes!" He maintained his dramatic pose with the knife held high, as if a lantern warding off evil spirits.

"Fuck", said Wally backing away as they made a hole for me to leave. Some of the kids ran straight out, but not too far . . . they didn't want to be near the knife wielding guy. In fact, there were a lot of 'Fucks' mumbled by many of them as all gave us a wide berth. I got to Dan, smiled. He said, "You ready to go?" . . . I said I sure was, and we got on our bikes and rode out. Behind us, there were shouts of "Yeah, you better run!" but they seemed to be ready to sprint as fast as they could in another direction, should we turn our bikes around.

That was the coolest experience I've ever had, and it ingrained Dan into the halls of 'Epic' friend. We've been friends ever since . . . with only one falling out my senior year in high school, but we are very good friends again, and I am all the better for it.

Dan, you are an EPIC friend, and I am glad you have been there for me.

Steve

Friends

2010-08-22T08:12:00.000-07:00

Hello All,

I've still going through some issues with myself. My heart is very heavy and I guess I will just have to deal with it for a little bit longer. But, as always, it got me to start thinking about things of my Childhood . . . and especially friends and why they were my friends.

First off, let me point out that I have NEVER been particularly adept at making friends or being social at all. I can keep up a conversation, hold my own at sports events, even drink someone under the table at a bar (well, ok, that last one would be more like 'drink someone the fastest to two beers now . . . my drinking binge days are WAY behind me). But . . . I have never really had the qualities that are needed to have, and mantian too many friends.

First,let me define my vesion of 'best' friend. A 'best' friend is not the top of the list friend that you like the most. You can have more than one best friend. A best friend is mereley a 'type' of friend. Some of you may have TONS of best friends, others may not have any . . . . some of you may agree or dissagree with me on that, but this is my story so THERE. But, to explain Best friends better, I guess I have to go through my whole concept of friends and friendship.

To 'splain . . . (remember, this is MY defenition of friendship)

BEST friends are the ones that really and truly understand you. More than that, they act as if they have an investment in you and don't dismiss you summarily over 'little' things. When you call a 'best' friend up and tell them you are sad, they will rush right over to dance like a clown in front of you. If you tell them that you were hurt by someone, they demand their address so they can go give them a peice of their mind. Never mind that it was your fault, never mind that it was an accident, or a fluke. Best friends can't stand to see each other suffer. another issue about best friends is they won't leave you when you fuck up, or do something so incredibly stupid. Instead, the best friend is there to see you through your dark times, to help you get back on your feet . . . because, unlike any other friend, a 'Best' friend is with you through thick and thin. You feel comfortable telling them ANYTHING, and often do.

Regular friends are the ones that will console you when you are sad, sick, depressed . . . but always from a slight distance, as if on the outside looking in, always with that look of 'My God, it really sucks to be you right now'. But they will be there to drink with you, do stuff . . . they will listen to your tales of woe, and patiently wait for you to finish. They will be sad for you and tell you they are sorry and wish you the best in your speedy recovery. They are living hallmark cards, and they are VERY good at helping you to feel better when you need it, but there is a personal line between you that they and you, do not dare cross. You can confide in them, just don't expect them to jump on your bandwagon.

Casual friends are similar to regular friends, in that you can talk to them, and if you are sad, they will listen to you . . . for maybe a short while, maybe not. there is a very short time limit with casual friends. if you pass that time limit, then you are boring them and they don't want to be around you much. They may not act like it in front of you, but inside, they are not listening to you, instead, they are thinking how they can quietly slip away as you rant . . . on whatever you are ranting about this time. But they are your friend primarily because of the fun stuff you bring to the table. . . the FUN side of you is what they want. If you aren't fun, then you are, in a sense, 'dead' to them, and they make excuses not to be around you if you bore them. Casual friends dont truly care about the real you. They care about the functional you and how you enhance them as a whole. There is very little effort put into a casual friendship. Thats why we all may have lots and lots of 'casual' friends.

Epic Friends . . . Now, I just made this one up . . . I guess, I made it up because, in your life, there is always ONE person, one 'special' person that should get the 'medal of honor' of friendship. These are the friends that have done something so selfless, so epic . . . that you remember their sacrifice always. Sure, maybe they move out of the 'Epic friends' slot later in life and mabye become more casual, or regular friends, but there is always that one moment . . . and even if you don't talk anymore, and they have said 'You are Dead to me' and walked away . . . they still have that award, for they've done the deed, and should always be remembered in the 'EPIC' category. Epic friends are for those who have lierrally, or figuratively 'taken the bullet' for you at sometime in your life. You will remember them always.

So . . . Now that I explained my concept of friendship . . . I wanted to tell a story of friendship from my childhood. I have many stories of friendship, but this one is probably the most fondest memory I have and I wanted to share.

Dan has been my friend forever. I would put in in the category of 'EPIC' friends because he has literrally saved my life on many occasions. He lived just a few houses down the street and I don't remember the first time we met because we were very small. There were other kids in the neighborhood, but Dan, for somereason, became my friend at the time, and we remained so throughout our childhoods. While other friends came and went, Dan was always there in the picture as I was growing up. Sure, there were some rocky times, but we always remained friends.

Dan, in 2nd grade, (well, we called him Danny back then) was moved up to 3rd grade. it was because of his age, or something like that. basically a logistical thing . . . but Dan, he told us all it was because he could tie his own tie . . . I was amazed . . . Tying a tie seemed litterally 'impossible' to me at that age, so I can certainly understand bumping him a grade for it. It made me jealous. I only had a clip-on. I felt dumb.

In 5th grade, Dan was my only friend, but at that moment, he was probably more in just the 'casual' friend stage. Still, he was really my only friend, and when one is starving for friendship, a casual friend is better than a kick in the nutsack. I was having problems . . . at school socially. I didnt' talk to people, didn't really want to get to know them. Truly, I didn't want to speak to anyone at all, for any reason. When it came to participating in schoolwork, I did so, but when asked questions in class, I would just nod, or shake my head . . . even if it was an open-ended question. The teachers thought I was 'emotionally' handicapped, and requested that I be tested for possibly going to a 'special' school.

I was tested, over and over, and over again . . . I saw a psychologist to determine why I was always afraid, always not talking, and always trying not to answer anything. Truly, I do not now know the answer to those questions. I can only surmize that my life just plained sucked, and i didn't really feel that there was anything I could to do make it better. My grades were average, I just didn't communicate effectively withothers, I guess. Enough for them to stamp me as 'Mentally Handicaped'.

So, they shipped me off to another school, a 'Special' school for handicapped kids. I was upset at first. I mean, how degrading, do be labled 'dumb' and shipped off. I was angry, mad, upset . . . and more than VERY embarassed. All I could think of is how everyone at school, everyone who called me names, everyone that called me dumb, or an idiot . . . They were all justified now. I could no longer use the retort, "No I'm not dumb!"

But, I made the best of it . . . I got over it, and actually GREW to love the classes I was in. I mean, they were VERY easy, and I instantly because the smartest kid in class. The other kids looked up to me for the most part, and all asked me to help them. I LOVED that I was needed, and always helped them as much as I could. the material was so easy, I could have instructed the classes my self.

The school had other plans, however, and they thought I wasn't being challenged enough (which was very true), so they moved me up a grade. Now I'm in 7th grade, special ed . . . THAT was so simple, I fell right back into my 'I'm the smartest man ALIVE' role and even jokingly referred to myself as 'Dr. Steve' at times. I was in heaven. I was loved by all, I had power to help people, it was great. Stil, though, the school was not impressed with my advancment, and was determined to challenge me in whatever way they could. So they moved me up again . . . Now I'm taking 8th grade special ed . . . then 9th grade special ed . . . I even went to special olympics as the captain of the volleyball team (I wasn't physically able to compete against anyone there, so they thought they'd give me the 'honorary' title so I could feel part of something). Eventually, they determined that I was really too smart for special classes, and that I should be moved back into regular school. Saddest day of my life.

The next year, I went to the same school, but I was put into regular, normal classes. It was 6th grade, so, in the scheme of things, I was a year behind those I started kindergarten with. I was promised a move up to 7th if I did well in my classes, but, the truth of the matter was, they felt that being a grade behind, would make me more socially acceptable,since that seemed to be the issue I was dealing with. So I started normal 6th grade. I was bigger than everyone here, and no one talked to me . . . mostly becasue they were afraid of me (look at it from their side: Here comes this Very tall silent guy into your class, that is rumored to have been kicked out of the special ED program. Rumors are rampant.). So, I was left alone to my own devices. I didn't get moved up . . . I went normally into 7th grade along with everyone else. But I was okay with that.

7th grade, though, is where people started to notice me more. Wally Crumpler, a very short, stubby, blond kid with freckles would ask me on occasion, "Did you ever beat anyone up in Special Ed?", or "I bet if people picked on you, you'd just POUND them once and they'd go into the ground". Wally, it seems, was a casual friend that feared me, in some way.

However, I wasn't a person that should have been feared. In fact, I was the exact opposite. I was a wimpy kid that was afraid of everything and everyone. I never tried to burst Wally's bubble, because I felt it lent me some personall safety. If everyone found that I couldn't hurt a fly, I would be like an overly tall slab of aging meat out in the serengetti, baking in the sun, just waiting for the prides to gather.

It wasn't long after than Wallies 'feeler' questions told him the truth of the matter and he figured out I was nothing to be feared. Wally became my worst nightmare . . . him, and his cronies that were, surprisingly, even shorter than Wally. He'd walk around with them and casually mention how he could beat the crap out of the biggest guy in our class if he wanted to (me).

So . . . Getting back to friendship . . . and Dan (Danny). Dan and I hung out more and more. After all, My school was a bit farther away, so I didn't really have any school friends in my neigborhood. There was only Dan to hang out with. We hung out more and more, and he became a closer friend over those years.

We LOVED to ride bikes around, it was our thing to do. Dan had his Schwin, I had my Mongomery Wards special . . . they were pretty sucky bikes, but they worked fine for us, and we loved the fact that it allowed us the ability to explore and becmoe more mobile in our lives. It allowed us to open up our ever-increasing universe, just a little bit more. It allowed for Dan and I to really bond in a way that I had never bonded with anyone. Sure, he had been my friend since childhood, and we had already bonded in many ways before, but we had also grown apart over the previous few years . . . Now we were together again . . . 'Double Lightning' we called ourselves (we even made a logo for it!). We did everything together.

One time, we rode our bikes over to my new school. Several of my classes were in a classrooom area with an atrium in the middle. Dan and I went over to one of the alcoves so I could show him which classes I took, and what the atrium itself looked like. Nothing big, just showing him around some.

As we turned to leave the alcove that went into the locked atrium, Wally Crumpler, and his band of midget chronies were there. . . About 12 or so, standing at the entrance to the alcove. Dan and I, standing next to our bikes, staring at them were taken aback a little. Wally looked angry and . . . even a little evil. His chronies, in an attempt to look similar, just made the whole thing look rather comical. I focused on Wally, soI wouldn't crack a smile, and give him the wrong impression. I wasn't really afraid, I mean, after all, Dan and I were larger, and Dan, I thought, knew how to fight. . . but . . .

. . . At least, I ASSUMED Dan knew how to fight. He would, at times, talk about how he stood up to this guy, or tht person, or whatever . . . in his stories, he was always the hero, and he never backed down. It gave me confidence to know that Dan was there. Still I was very nervous. These kids were like little pirhanas, ready to whittle our meat down to the bone.

Wally looked at us, then spit on the ground at our feet. He looked up, one of his evil eyes attempting to peirce my face.

"He can go," he said in a low, gravely voice, that . . . in itself almost made me laugh. He pointed at Dan, while maintaining his evil Witch Eye stare at me. He paused for extremely effective dramatic effect. His other hand came up slowly, to point at me as he said, "But You Stay."

There was a couple snickers in the back of the Wally crowd, followed by several 'Shhs's' . . . remeniscant of an old monty python skit. I didn't say anything. Cripes! What could I say? Dan, however spoke first.

"Ok, I'll go," he said, pushing his bike forward through the crowd. Nothing else. just 'I'll go'. I was shocked. The oompa loompa gang parted for him, and swalloed the entrance back up when he was through. He was no longer their concern. Now it was me they wanted . . . and me, that every eye was lusting to hurt in some unimaginable way.

"Listen I said," trying not to sound desperate, but realizing, that this is exaclty how I was sounding, but I couldn't help myself. Dan's leaving said volumes and I had never felt so alone, so vulnerable . . . and weak. Still, I didn't want to get beat up, "We're just looking around, we don't want any trouble here". I was betrayed by a gulp that showed everyone how scared I was.

There were some snickers, some chuckles, even a guffaw somewhere in the back. They all moved in closer, as if to even try to blot out any light between me, and the outside of the alcove. It was a move meant to initmidate, and it worked very well.

Wally stood in front, and punched his fist in his hand. "You can't get out of this ass kicking. Weve been waiting a long time." He took a step closer.

From the back of the crowd, we heard Dan's voice, VERY loud, and very clear. "Either HE goes . . . " He was standing next to his bike. Held in his hand up and away from him, was a small black object with silver tips and a black button that his thumb rested on. As he paused . . . for dramatic effect . . . he pressed the button on the object. A 'snick', and then a small three inch blade instantly appeared at the top of the knife. The tiny gang collectivley awed and gasped at the same time. Dan continued, "Or NOBODY goes!" He maintained his dramatic pose with the knife held high, as if a lantern warding off evil spirits.

"Fuck", said Wally backing away as they made a hole for me to leave. Some of the kids ran straight out, but not too far . . . they didn't want to be near the knife weilding guy. In fact, there were a lot of 'Fucks' mumbled by many of them as all gave us a wide berth. I got to Dan, smiled. He said, "You ready to go?" . . . I said I sure was, and we got on our bikes and rode out. Behind us, there were shouts of "Yeah, you better run!" but they seemed to be ready to sprint as fast as they could in another direction, should we turn our bikes around.

That was the coolest experience I've ever had, and it ingrained Dan into the halls of 'Epic' friend. We've been friends ever since . . . with only one falling out my senior year in highschool, but we are very good friends again, and I am all the better for it.

Dan, you are an EPIC friend, and I am glad you have been there for me.

Steve

"Tumbleweeds"

2010-08-21T07:57:00.001-07:00

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.