The Man, In the Van, Down by the River

The Man, In the Van, Down by the River. That was what Innuendo called me in 11th grade.

I "ran away" from "home" again. Actually, I just walked away. I got off the phone, looked at the bitch, thought better of it, grabbed my infamous blue coat, and walked out.

I camped out in the desert near the house for a bit. One night, on my reconnaissance run, I discovered my mother's car parked out front, the infamous Mustang...oh, the stories I have to tell! I crackered (jimmied is somewhat derogatory against African-Americans. i.e. jimmied, slim-jim, jimmy bar, jimmy rig, etc.) my way into the hatchback and snuck (WTF? it's saying "snuck" isn't a word!) inside. I fell asleep waiting.

My mother played it pretty smooth upon discovering me, keeping 'Risk in the loop but on the down low. We drove deep into the desert night. I didn't need to fill them in. My grandmother had told her story and they'd figured out the gist of the truth from it.

My sister didn't meet her dad until her sweet sixteenth. My grandfather was a stick in the mud toward the cancerous end we were unaware was cancerous. Thus, I was bestowed the honor of giving my sister away at her wedding. Then the urn dropped off the mantle, as I say.

Her father's family demanded that he take on the honor he never earned. Of course, my future brother-in-law being a former gang member didn't have room in his party for me to be a groom's man. I was demoted to usher. Fine, whatever.

So, my grandmother and I get into some tiff. She takes it better than usual. That should have clued me in. See, I had no car or license. My sister was getting married some 200 miles away. My c u next tuesday of a grandmother canceled my suit and left me without a way to get to the wedding.

Guess who took the pleasure of cluing me in. My Aunt. "Murky". So, I got off the phone, looked at the grandparents who now ate dinner without me at the table, and walked out without a word.

My mom was living in a tent hidden in the dead forest. She happened to need a part for the car, so we stopped by her old friends home/junkyard. She put me up there for the night. No offense to the guy, but his place was a junkyard inside and out. Cockroaches had to get around on dune buggies. Visitors were perpetual. I wonder why... I crashed on the crusty couch for the night. Better than sand but more bugs to bite.

The next day, I explored his property. Vast. Think of the guy as an obese Mufasa. At the outer edges of his property, I could just make out the image of a literal oasis. Way the hell out passed way the frig out in the desert on his property in B.F.E. were some trees tapping into an aquifer. Just over the hill from the trees was an old abandoned delivery van. My home for the next seven weeks. My mom brought me dehydrated supplies. The change we could all muster from pilfering and cans I used to buy non-perishables when I'd swing by school.

School meant either bathing with bottled water in a pot, or a midnight hike to the house to hose off. An unreliable wind-up alarm clock was replaced with a wrist-watch missing its straps. Almost 45 minutes walking to the bus stop by 6 am to ride another 45 minutes to my High School who thought it clever to start school at 6:58 am. The homework I'd collect I had to do before sundown.

Of course I stopped. Took a hiatus from school about 3 weeks into my latest adventure. I had this little single AAA battery powered radio I'd listen to for company. I heard Rammstein's "Du Hast" for the first time on those headphones. Then the battery died. After a while, I actually forgot my own name. I don't know; three, four weeks after my last visit to school, no one to talk to all that time. Stopped thinking in words, stopped using 'em. Huh! Funny...

I boarded up the vans windows, carved holes into the cupboard walls with Stinger to erect a clothes-hanger pole, pried out a few boards to hide my supplies from the guy's nosy brats, and rolled an oil drum up to the entrance for before-bedtime heat.

My understanding friend, upon learning of my latest adventure, referred not to his beloved scripture. But, rather, to Saturday Night Live. Chris Farley. The man, in the van, down by the river. Gotta love the guy.

Did it get better from there? Spurred on by the chill of winter, my mom scrounged up the condemned apartment that saw the Dark Time. Where Cruizer and I had our misunderstanding.

PENDING List

I promise to get back to these stories and explain A.S.A.P. Honest.

• infamous blue coat
• the infamous Mustang
• Brother-in-law through sister
• "Camp"
• Jerry's kids
  

Murky

Aunt Mercy had eyes the green of used, dirty money. Her hair shone like polished gold. She had a sly smile. Her size belied her movement, which flickered like the candles she burned throughout her home. When she hugged you - or made contact at all - it was always distracted. Not like it was forced, but like it was restrained.

She gave me my first Snickers bar; salty-sweet, delicious. I also tried potato-salad for the first time outside her home - gritty, awful. Her home. She'd grow frantic if you disturbed the tassels on her throw rugs. Everything smelled of incense, scented-candles, disinfectant. She smelled of beer, and of the hunt. Despite her alcohol-slurred speech she spoke in soothing tones - the better to con people with, her means of living. I don't mind potato salad these days. I don't really care for Snickers, though.

Grandpa's body finally caught up with his spirit and died. Aunt Mercy was there when it happened; she was the only one in the room. She said his suffering had finally come to an end. He had known about the cancer for three weeks. Everyone understood. She seized all the property. Grandma had a stroke and fell into Mercy's custody.

Perhaps she finally felt empowered, controlling the fate of the woman who controlled her. If not, then maybe when she took her mother's life too. I wonder sometimes, if she ever felt love, or if she ever will. I wonder, too, if she'll ever be strong enough to show love. I intend never to find out; I know enough about the darkness to identify those consumed by it.

Luna

Luna is a girl. A friend of my wife's. This girl is a bad ass. But she doesn't act like it. She's always got a sunny disposition. Nothing rocks her steadiness. And she's tougher than most men I know. Might be tougher than me! She dislocated her shoulder years ago. It was WAY worse than either of mine.

She got a shoulder surgery recently. All her ligaments had to be re-attached. Every last one. The surgeon was shocked. He thought it was going to be in and out. He'd never seen so much damage. Barely phased her. Back to work, lugging around her foster kids, pushing her uppity monstrosity of a puppy down to teach it not to jump on guests, moving furniture alone. Quite likely as tough as me, only she's nice. Got me beat, in spades.

She's cute, no doubt, but something about her transcends gender. Honest to God, most times I forget she's a she, and carry on just like she's one of the guys. She's the first girl I've ever known who that ability came naturally to. Some girls hang with the guys to get guys. Some girls are tom-boys 'cause they've got "something to prove".

Luna has nothing to prove. She deserves the mantle of a Cer.

Nina

Nina was bought to replace my "brother" and boy's best-friend, Ranger. Nina was half Lab, a quarter Husky, and a quarter German Shepherd.

Despite what you'd imagine, she was as white as the driven snow. She had a brown nose and brown lips, the bottom of which pouted pout, just like my sister's bottom lip. And just like my sister, she had brown eyes.

I suppose I needn't tell you that the dog who was to replace my dog became my sister's dog. She was my sister's dog, and no one else's. She would sometime jump in the air--straight up--to catch low flying birds which she would deposit at my sisters feet. If my sister and I were playing to rough, I could expect to get attacked. The same went for anyone who upset my sister in any way. My sister reciprocated, for the most part: she wouldn't let our grandparents hit Nina. She helped Nina birth her nine puppies. She concealed Nina from my discipline.

Nina was something else; she would "kickbox" when we'd play. She'd use all four paws, plus her teeth and tail to mount elaborate attacks. As if that weren't taxing enough on her intelligence, she learned how to open ALL types of doors and to climb all types of fences.

Her intelligence prevented us from keeping her locked within our property's borders. It also cost her her life.

Aquila

My sister. Between us and our mother, we are the last of the Mohicans. We are the only people who understand each other, who we can communicate with without words and with words be unfettered.

We are of different fathers, but make no mistake: there's nothing half about our bond. We were all each other had growing up.

She was given up for adoption to our grandparents when she was just two. I never gave in--I refused to let them adopt me. I often wonder if she would be less like my mother and like her more if she had been dragged around by mom like I had. She still holds a grudge: she believes mom loved me more, hence I wasn't left behind.

She's a professional chef in Arizona, living with her two sons beneath themselves in her ex-husband's parents' house. Grrrr.

Porcelain

Porcelain. Fragile looking, but deceptively strong.

She came down to Arizona from Washington. At first, we were all too intimidated by her beauty to approach her. In fact, if her mother-in-law hadn't told my girlfriend at the time that their friendship was inevitable, Glass would never have talked to her. But, intrigued by such a challenge in that statement, she spoke to Porcelain. They've been close friends ever since.

She's petite in size, blond-haired and blue-eyed, and has the features of a "Lord of the Rings" elf.

Up until our visit in Feb '08, I only liked her because she was my wife's friend. Our stay as guests in her and her husband's home enlightened me. It's funny how sometimes when you don't get along with someone, it's because you have a lot in common.

Pine and CedarElm

Pine is my other Real Life Role Model. He is serene, insightful, intuitive, calming, informative, spiritual. He's married to an overwhelmingly gorgeous and loving wife I have named CedarElm, or Celm for short.

Why he's a role model: He's has a long-lasting successful marriage. He was a missionary in Tonga for several years. He is a good husband, father, and friend. He raised three gentlemen (the youngest I call Gecko) and an exceptional lady.

He lives in a beautiful, yet modest home and owns a coffee franchise that has a one-up on Starbucks: drive-thru!

He and his wife are so warm and large in heart, most people (my wife included) refer to them as "Mom and Pop."

Mach

My horror of a grandmother.

She raised my aunt to be a homicidal psychotic and my mom to be a "daddy-issues" teen runaway. Then she adopted my mom's daughter, my sister "Aquila". Aquila ended up almost as screwed up as my mom.

My mom raised me on the streets and in the desert of Southern California and taught me love and fear of God. My grandmother taught me criticism, manipulation, that the anticipation of pain is usually worse than pain itself, make the pain worth the anticipation, and to hate and fear myself with my newly acquired skills.

I call her Mach because she was married to my grandfather, and they traveled the world in the Air Force. She never passed on a chance to mock and belittle someone, and her back-hand was faster than the viper she stole her eyes from.

Aflack

After Church came Aflack. His name was Donald, like the famous duck with the infamous temper. Not that Aflack had a terrible temper. I only mention his real name so you don't think I'm THAT much of a jerk when I tell his story.

I often refer to him as my step-dad. This is because he was the only man my mother had that was a provider. He had a house and several tough Dodge cars. A '69 Charger (think Dukes of Hazard) and a '70 Challenger. He was a grease-monkey. He LOVED working on his babies. Fact is, I don't remember him ever actually driving the Challenger. However, I did manage to convince him to install the CB antenna in the trunk, like Dukes of Hazard. He wouldn't give up the metal-flake green paint for orange though!

He over corrected on a hill going to work in a Toyota Cellica. The car launched off the hill. He, not wearing a seatbelt, launched through the windshield. His head landed on a rock over 100 feet from the car. The doctors removed an enormous chunk of his right frontal lobe.

By the time he woke from his 3 year coma, my mother had moved on. And moved, and moved, and moved.

Byrd

My mother's boyfriend after I moved to Arizona and beyond.

He was highly intelligent. Part of two different clubs for vain people with excessively high IQs. You know the two. He was a formidable swordsman too. Sounds like my mom finally picked a winner, no?

He'd been living with his mom for the last 25 years. Doing NOTHING for a living. You see, when he was fresh out of high school, with all the prestigious colleges jocking for him, he chose a girl instead. Shortly after their joyful marriage, she was murdered. He fell into a depression he never recovered from.

Decades later, my mom took him on as her latest fixer-upper. At the time, he was hooked on morphine. She nursed him off that, only to have him fall into alcoholism. The alcohol raced through his already ravaged body, sending him to the hospital with liver damage. Upon returning to his mother's house, he cashed in the alcohol for pills.

One night, Asterisk, feeling lonesome and sorry for himself, paid Byrd and my mother a visit. Byrd punched Risk (terrible idea) and Risk jumped in his truck and used it as a weapon.

Back from the hospital, Byrd added pain-killers back to his repertoire of addictions. He overdosed, leaving my mom to cart him back to the hospital for the umpteenth time. This time, doctors were more concerned than my mother. And Byrd's mother? She said: "I don't care if he dies."

I can understand her disappointment, but if you don't have the parenting skills to get the kids out and keep them out, even under his special circumstances, it's YOUR damn fault.

He took the message to his already fractured heart. He told my mom: "Sorry I put you through this, that I'm leaving you like this," before slipping into a three day coma and, ultimately, death.

That was October of '07. Right when I was reeling from having failed my midterms. The fact that I was 3,000 miles away from helping my heart-stricken mother started my own slide into the deepest depression I've personally ever experienced. Life got worse from there...

Asterisk (Risk)

I played this game once where there was this weapon that they called the asterisk. It was a Shuriken, a throwing star, that would blast apart into two stars at the push of an RC button. If you so chose, you could press The Button again, detonating the stars after they were embedded in your obstacles or enemies!

My favorite of all my mother's boyfriend's. Schizophrenic, unmannered, foul-tempered, prone to paranoia, Kenny was the best damn driver this side of the dirt. Despite his personality flaws, there were times he'd talk civilly to you. During those times, he'd somehow give a piece of advice you've never heard before or since that proves precious and true. His hard-earned life advice was more precious and rare than platinum-encrusted meteorites.

Most important of all, even though he was a black belt (like my father) and former varsity wrestler who, when I knew him, weighed around 300 lbs and was well over 6' tall, NEVER hit my mother. We went many rounds. He actually pinned me in such a way to where I could literally kiss my own ass after I destroyed his cigarettes...

His self-loathing and paranoia did him in with regards to their relationship. He's incarcerated somewhere now after running down Byrd with a truck.

Baguira and Raksha

My spiritual "uncle and aunt". After Torch and Lighthouse moved away, I continued my studies under their tutelage.

Quite a fascinating couple. He's African-American. Retired from Chrysler as a welder. Prior to that he worked in a hospital as a janitor--while he was illiterate! He learned to read from the Jehovah's Witnesses whom he studied the Bible with.

Raksha is a natural born leader-of-the-pack. The "black sheep" in her Italian family with it's former ties to the mafia. She did quite a few stints in the can due to her violent temper before succumbing to the advice to follow Christ's example.

They were an inter-racial couple back in the '60s. As if that wasn't hectic enough, her family threatened him, despite her violence against him--she even stabbed him!

They overcame all that to be one of the most devoted couples you could ever find.

Towels

I always find myself folding towels a certain way on laundry day: my grandmother's way. Fold the towel width-wise twice, then tri-fold to finish. I've never known anyone else to fold towels this way.

And it never fails. I always find myself folding them that way. But I hate her. I hate her memory. I long for when I can forget her. Either by joining her in Death, or by being freed by the loving-kindness of God.

Until then, I fold every towel twice. Once her way, then anyway but hers.