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.