Part 17 (end of 1A orlfxashnz.blogspot.com) "Escaping The Despondent Sea" a Novel by Zachery Polk

There was one day that I recall quite frequently because I have a separated shoulder to remind me of it. It was a day that I worked in his shop, at his house in Marne. This particular day was a Saturday and we were drinking beer, pretty much all day long, along with smoking weed as well. At one point, early in the late afternoon, he said, “Hey, let’s ride the dirt bikes.” The boys wanted to ride, since he had promised them earlier that they could take the Fat Cat and three-wheeler out on the trails. He climbed on the Yamaha IT 250 Enduro, and gave me the Honda 100 Enduro to ride. Naturally, I got on the bike while the boys followed us. 

There was a trailhead that was near the house. It went out and around a farmer’s fields. At one point Bob stopped and ordered me to ride the 250, taking the bike I was on for him self, saying, “Here. Ride this if you want to beat on something.” Well, I jumped on and took off, racing along through the gears. I think it was about six seconds, if it wasn’t eight, until I came up onto a sixteen or eighteen inch lump of earth in the trail resembling a small jump. When I hit, it was like I ran into a wall. The bike mule-kicked me straight up in the air to a height of, what seemed like one hundred feet but was closer to fifty, causing me to activate my wonder twin powers into the shape of a rocket- coming straight down from my ascension head first into the well packed earth. The bike flipped over the jump and continued flipping in an “endo” fashion all the way down the trail repeatedly, with quite a bit of velocity, as would be expected since I was at the end of the wick, and up to fourth gear. It flipped rear over front for approximately forty yards, if not fifty, judging by the amount of flips it did, hitting the ground twelve times at the least.

I wondered ever since then, if the house overlooking the crash site might have contained any witnesses since it had a clear shot. It had to be quite a sight to see.

Bob came up to me, only to run past the heap I made, towards the heap I had successfully made of his bike, exclaiming “My bike! Look what you did to my bike!” His childish concern for the bike, ignoring my physical health, especially in the presence of the adolescents, spoke volumes. The bike he was so worried about was an acquisition he made by taking advantage of people, running his own one-way pawn service. I was in a bit of shock and there was a dull sting in my shoulder. Along with that sensation was a message that told me it was just popped out of the socket so, I slammed my arm down into the ground several times, trying to pop it back in. The doctor would later say that it was separated, requiring me to come back in two weeks to “talk about it”. I have been around enough to know that I wouldn’t be having my arm repaired due to not having any insurance. I never went back to talk about it. My mother was the one who took me to the hospital that day. They all thought I exaggerated the story of what happened, saying that I was “overly animated”. I could have sued Bob for the medical expenses, especially in light of the fact that he made me pay for every single repair to that bike, using the most expensive bike shop in town, Shawmut Hills Honda. I never brought up the entire situation and story to his wife. It was just another episode where Bobby unfairly took out his stored up anger on me, the only person, other than his wife, to truly put effort into whatever kind of relationship we had.

Yes, I could have said no but who would deny a dirt bike ride, especially in Marne, just because they had been drinking? That’s blasphemous. It’s a requisite for dirt biking. Every Marnian knows that. But Bob knew of my head injury and the psychological conditions I was dealing with, not to mention my problem with alcohol, and all of my accidents in the past. He knew better than to offer me booze while at work, and he knew better than to put me on or give me the opportunity to ride his motorcycles, let alone force me to pay for the damage to the bike. It’s not like I asked to come and borrow it. I was there to make money. I’m not sure if it’s needless to say or not but come Monday I was right back at work, cutting parts and assembling a stained Oak staircase one handed,  and by myself- single handedly if you will.

(Wayside motel, to move in with Ron Groenlier soon)

 Bob and I were working on newly built houses for, Ancil Mitchell, who was a preacher for a church called, The Grand Valley Voice of the Pentecost. This man built simple homes and duplexes for financially disadvantaged people who wanted to get out of the city and away from the potential hazards that went along with life there. Knowing Ancil would have been extremely helpful after Mindy left, which happened to be when I found out that the house I had been living in wasn’t mine at all. Soon after our separation I would end up being thrown out by her father, Marc, when I could no longer pay him the rent, which was seven hundred and fifty dollars per month. Marc, along with Minderella’s sister, Amy, (so Mindy claims), packed up what was left after Minderella had her way with everything of any use or value despite the judge’s fifty-fifty ruling. Trash bags suited this procedure because that’s how they treated my belongings. Some of which were heirlooms that I had received, that were to be handed down to my children- heirlooms like their Great, Great Grandmother Lindner’s cookie jar.

My Great Grandma Lindner was always known as the cookie Grandma. After her death, since I was the oldest Great Grandchild, the cookie jar was presented to me. This particular jar was a mother Pelican with a small baby Pelican on her bill, which happened to be the lid. The baby made the handle. Minderella had already smashed it once, in the not so distant past, during one of her Infamous tantrums of Princess-like temper. I used my crafting skills, and wounded sentimentality, to glue it back together, filling in the missing areas with plaster to sculpt it back into wholeness while trying my best to hide the fact that it had once been destroyed. I should have stripped the familial reigns that I had placed trust in her to hold, from her hands that very day. Why I didn’t divorce her, for that alone, probably had a lot to do with the children and my Love for them- along with the great Hope that I had for her to one day embrace her role in our relationship, and become everything she was expected, and vowed, to become. The beloved cookie jar was an item synonymous with Cody and Scarlett's very dear Great, Great Grandmother Lindner but was now marred with the scars of what seemed, to me, to be a loveless marriage. The thought of it now, still aches my heart. When Cody was born we were five generations living. To my mother’s family as a whole, that was a pretty serious thing for our family history. We photographed the event.

Looking back, those mistakes were a dreadful thing. Or is it dreadful to see how the solutions were always overlooked, and so simple, leading to the most difficult situations and the most needless suffering? None of it had to be the way that it had been but when you are alone in life with no one, and nothing to count on, you are forced to make all of the mistakes that you could have learned from others having done them before you. But there are those who would rather you made them instead, out of spite. After all, it didn’t kill them.

 Oh well. I didn’t know Ancil at this trying time in my life but I did know Charles. And when I was out on the street he tried to help by taking me to the only place he knew of where I could find a bit of hope or just a room to stay in. One of those places was at Ronald Jackson’s apartment. This is the same place, where sometime after this, I would plan to take Selena as a somewhat of a safe haven but became interrupted that morning when we were attacked. And incidentally, it was not the right place for either of us to go. The drug issue was about to get worse because this guy was a daily crack cocaine user. It’s probable that I was taken there due to the fact that I had been using, and Ronald Jackson was a user who was always calling people for a little cash so he could score more. Sort of like the buddy system for drug user’s.

At one point, while living at one of Ronald Jackson’s apartments, I managed to find the Independent Living Services in the phone book so, I called them and spoke to a woman named Tina Tilney, who did come to speak with me. It was a desperate attempt, on my part, to get out of the environment after I realized how bad it truly was and is. She was clearly overwhelmed because she had never followed through with finding me a home for “highly functioning individuals”, as she had discussed with me. She also mentioned various jobs that she could get me involved in, and some therapies to learn how to cope with my injuries and state of duress. She took all of my files that I showed to her and just vanished.

Living at Ronald Jackson’s apartment was turning even more ugly as the drug use continued on by the minute. In a desperate attempt to change my environment, I went to Ron Vokes house in order to ask him to rent me a room. It just happened to be that Ron Groenlier showed up shortly after my arriving. After he mentioned that he was moving into a house owned by his Aunt, I explained that I was looking for a room to rent. He was quick to ask me to come and share his place. When I went there to start moving my stuff in I had ran into Salih, owner of Native American Builder’s, he offered me another job that lasted for a few months, eventually ending once again. Only this time it was because her problem was that I knew more about there marriage than she wanted me to. It was one more time that I had to call Bob for work.

One day Bob came to pick me up for work at his shop. We had been working through the week for Johnny Van Soest, who was building new homes in the Rockford area. There were a few projects going on in the shop where Bob was building a few items to go in his house. Things like a sow’s belly draw standing cabinet for potatoes and onions, and a small desk for the mail, keys, and charging packs for cellular phones.

As I was trying to keep going with the momentum that I was being pushed to maintain, I made a poor decision to use a small piece of scrap wood to cut a part from rather than an ample sized piece to work with. My thumb got cut on the table saw while trying to rip this board to size. It was a board that I knew was too short to cut on the table saw when I was doing it but out of my wanting to keep Bob happy by letting less material go in the pile for the wood stove I nearly lost one of my hands. And although I was a very highly skilled woodworker, my head was twisted up with the residual affects of the substances I had been using the night before.

The saw blade became pinched by the twist in the wood as the board became separated into two pieces, caused by the nature of the wood grain as it had grown around a knot. The blade yanked the board and the force I was using to push on it let the weight of that force fall forward into the area of the blade, catching a piece of one of my fingers on my right hand. Had my senses not been compromised by a hangover, I would have been able to achieve it, as I had become known to do the improbable routinely. As the board went flying, bouncing off of the wall, my hand was struck and vibrated with a high frequency vibration. My fingers felt hot from the blow. It was my first reaction to grab the struck hand with my other hand, and grip the fingers tightly as if to hold them together. The pressure applied was to stop the blood flow that I knew was there. It was also to hold the pieces together. Fearing the extent of the damage, I just kept squeezing until I could stomach to look at the wound.

Bob took me home shortly after. I grabbed a half pint of Seagram’s Seven and a couple of pain relievers. Having thought that it was minor, I realized that it was quite a bit worse, so I got on the telephone and called around for someone to take me to the hospital but no one was around to help. Then I go the big idea to call The Independent Living Association to see if Tina Tilney could help me, and continue our discussion about my life situation. The way I saw it was that she would see that I nearly cut my hand off and would then recognize that I truly needed the help of her organization.

Tina Tilney did come to the house and took me to the hospital to be treated. While we were there I told her about a story I had been writing and a few nightmares I had been having. She didn’t really listen to me, thinking that I was delusional or crazy.

There happened to be a friend of my ex-wife’s there with her husband but she never said a word to me, only to relay her observations back to Mindy shortly after she had left the Hospital. Later on in the coming months I would hear how Carrie was there with her son, and with the impression that I was out of my mind.

Within a few months weeks Bob would land Ron a job working for a friend of his who owned a heating and cooling business, as well as an auto-body and mechanic’s shop.  This time things would get bad around the house with Ron, especially since he had an income now. His drinking had gotten so bad that I would question my own. Eventually he would end up losing that job.

Update to manuscript- I recently tried to contact Tina Tilney, as my only hope to regain services in Kent County, per my medical needs. After searching my info sources, I located her Office!! I called the number but a man answered. After asking for her, I learned that this wonderful humanitarian, who worked on so many levels trying to give people in need some sort of relief, 
The told me she had passed away in 2014, i believe it was. Forgive me for my haphazardness. I am extremely busy right now. Editing isn't what's important at the moment. 
I am very sad to hear of Ms. Tilney's passing, and I wish for Blessing for her loved ones.
Thanks for reading my nonsense. 
Zachery Polk.