Please keep in mind, when stating that this doesn't make sense, that it is being written by a person with multiple TBI's.
My Great Grandma always saved the Wishbones,
for the Grand kids, when we came to visit.
And, out of all the toys we never had,
my most fun times were at her house.
We were so poor, the rats ate the soap,
and, the first words I ever read were,
“Minimum Speed Limit.”
I wore a Razor Strap, for my only pants or,
at least, it might as well have been,
It was covering my rear,
more than anything they made me wear.
Right about the time, I had a few names straight,
I’d been enrolled, in a new School, in a new town,
Where the Principal was told, to beat me, if he needed to.
They say you are what you eat.
Now, if that were true,
I’d be a potato pancake, that smells and tastes, like bacon.
And, if I’d known then, what I know now,
I’d have known what to wish for,
When we broke the Wishbones ,
When we were little.
Written by, Zachery S Polk
Introduction
My name is Zachery Scott Polk, a forty eight year old man, with hopes, dreams and aspirations.
Forty years, (I’d call that a majority), have been spent trying to rationally, comprehensively, and productively understand and accredit my acquaintances, and family members, for their efforts and sufferings, as well as, to do what I can do to make things resemble a closer version of a family, and the way I feel life could be for all of us.
It’s possible, that these familial contemplation's and heartaches, motivated my desire to want to be a Writer, and a Musician- coupled with memories of us gathering around the Television to watch, the “Lawrence Welk Show,” at my Grandma and Grandpa's house, in order to earn myself some of the attention that I felt I deserved but was not getting.
When I was three to four years old, my attention was a concentration. Grandma called me brooding because I was always in deep thought. Mostly, I was trying to figure out what, exactly, a boy could do without enduring the mistreatment that one gets when they cannot be heard or unseen.
Everyone I have ever talked with, studied or sought advice from, said the same thing: “Write about what you know”. Well, I only know what I have lived, and learned along the way. When I get to something that I know little about, I either, forget about it or start the research process, depending on my level of passion for the subject. Special interest groups, (a derogation term for the reasonably concerned), grant Security or, (tactfully termed), Consideration, to persons willing to focus on issues that are believed to be of great consequence or detriment to the Earth and Mankind.
Some people pursue these interests for the convenience of the funds provided. Others are sought out and baited with money to become involved, and only act when their needs and desires have been met.
You could call me a, Philanthropist, but I am not sure if anyone would see my humor in creating a special interest, using Nepotism to appoint myself the allocations, presenting myself with a statue or award for my solutions, all the while creating the actual problem or dreaming it up entirely.
Anyway, it was my own observations of the world, man, and certain family members, (both bad and good), that spurred my contemplation of, what I ascertained was, Right and Wrong... where it comes to understanding what being a man, husband, father, friend, and human actually is.
One of the things I had begun fantasizing about, when I was around nine years old, was proposing to a girl and starting my own familybecoming valuable in those respects. Only, while I occupied myself with hoping for my tomorrow, my today was evolving into an acute nightmare or so it seemed.
Escaping The Despondent Sea
Chapter 1
My senses were relieved. He was leaving, taking pieces of all of us with him that he had stolen, including, what I came to find out was, my half-brother and sister, as opposed to my full relation.
It came out that our “father” had left our mother for her brother, Uncle Gary’s, wife. (Uncle Gary happened to be one of my favorite people among all of my Uncles and Aunts.)
Our father had been, repeatedly, accusing our mother of going to bars, drinking, and flirting with the opposite sex, which is, exactly, what he had been doing.
Eventually, she started doing it, and naturally, it swept her up into a routine.
Mom didn’t understand or just feared being without him, and as a result, did not see that he was acting out as a result of his own guilt.
One thing I will never forget is, the pain I imagined she felt, and the words she said to me, while on the way to the hotel room that he claimed he needed in order to concentrate on the completion of his book, on the game of Golf.
The hotel room, and his book writing efforts, turned out to be a cover, extending as to accommodate for his going to bars, drinking, and playing around with women. He had been playing around after work at, the Red Shag Carpet Inn, that was located in Grandville. He had been messing around with Cocaine and Prostitutes. He had brought, a variety of minor sexually transmitted diseases, home to my mother.
One night, around the house, he had commented on running a load of cocaine for the lust of the quick, and easy, money. There was also the torn up coke fold pieces that didn’t get flushed down the toilet all the way. At the time I had no idea as to what these signs meant or that they were signs of anything but looking back now, it is all so very clear.
So, It was a bit of an accident that I stumbled onto the truth, only because he had, seemingly, forgotten about picking me up, at our driving range, when we closed it up at night. I was left stranded for a couple of hours before finally asking, Ed Rode, to take me to his room.
Ed had been helping him with the book, especially since he was a photographer, who worked for the Grand Rapids Press. He took photos at concerts, and other events, that were featured in the section of the press called, “Connections.”
After managing to get the manager to let me into the room I found a woman’s travel bag with intimate clothes articles in it. When I realized what that meant I panicked, and fled to the strip mall, where, MC Sporting Goods was located, on Plainfield Avenue.
The phone booth made a nice place to take refuge out of the cold wind, and is where I slept while waiting for my mom to come and pick me up, after getting out of work- over an hour and a half away, in Lansing, Michigan.
This was my first experience of being on the street with nowhere to go. I was 14 years old.
On the way to the hotel room, the next day, she told me that she hoped I never mistreated my wife in this way or dishonored my family, in the event that I should ever become married.
The few serious attempts at getting established to build a family or life for myself were wholehearted. Whether it was out of self-pity or concern for me that she said that, was never a question, but as I think about it now, I am quite sure it was both.
Mom always talked about, “the long run”. I never understood my mother and I to be close- what she calls, "tough love," are the scars left on her, transferred to me, from her own mother.
It’s possible, that her mother’s habit of working, as a barmaid, is where she was failed, only to bring her, now twisted, attitude and perspective home to the children. I can only love my mother for it, despite the pain I felt, that was a challenge to cope with- part of my inheritance.
It’s pretty ironical, to me, that schooling costs so much. The equivalent of some sort of degree, in Psychology, only cost me tears, and valuable pieces of relationships, before most kids finish Junior high school, which happened to be where I was... when my Stepfather left, in 1984 or so. And in, “the long run,” my mother and I finally became closer than we had ever been.
I didn’t drink milk, throwing my bottle from the crib, around one and a half years old. For the most part I never, voluntarily, drank milk again.
At every family gathering, holiday or special event, a spectacle was made, where I, most often, ended up beaten and humiliated by way of my step father, dragging me from the table, and taking me behind the garage, woodshed or out into the cornfield, out of view, and physically funneled, to put it mildly.
I was fourteen the last time this happened. It was Easter. I can’t help but wonder what my, Grandpa, thought especially since it was at his house in, Bay City. It seems like a great display of disrespect, to make it a point to beat a child at a family holiday gathering.
That year, 1984, I believe it was the day before Thanksgiving, when he finally left. I am confident that it was a Thursday. Was it a gift from my, deceased, Great Grandfather?
Needless to say, I still do not care for milk but the man I am, I, sometimes, force myself to drink it anyway by exhaling, holding my breath, and slamming it down... when there is a lack food.
The milk was a symbol- rejecting my mother’s rejection, and it was my first argument in life.
Although we were a Baptist family, it seemed that I was "protestant." And, to this day, I have remained the black sheep but not with that intention.
Rejection was something that I learned I needed to work at coping with, which was not unlike Coping Crown molding.
Recognizing, that I was allowing others to destroy me, by allowing my pains to govern my actions and ability, to constructively manage them, when I was, twenty-two years old, was very positive.
I told myself, that the best revenge was to succeed, and I quickly learned to move on.
Acceptance, forgiveness, self-discipline, and perseverance, should be clear to see in this stream of thoughts, though roiled with, what my Language arts teachers at Coopersville Junior High School would call, “run-on sentences.”
As I read over what I have shared, I ponder where to go next. I realize and appreciate these memories, however unpleasant, but I cannot recall what Christmas was like that year just as I can’t remember most of my childhood, which is a blessing. The majority of who I am is the result of the value found in what I do remember. Anything more would send me into a void where self-destruction is eminent.
My mother started drinking and actually doing all of those terrible things Rick had accused her of. The disharmony created by her desperation to maintain her emotional needs, and the family, resulted in my having to remove myself from the home the following winter. The place I found refuge in was Jim Clematis Junior's house, my only close friend, who happened to be only three months older than myself.
Jimmy and I started hanging out after his mom had brought him down to meet me, shortly after we moved in. It was 1980. We began spending time hunting in the woods and fishing, using the guns and equipment that his father had. His father, James, was a Veteran of the Korean War, and an avid outdoors man, as well as an alcoholic. My mother never liked Jimmy at all. And she didn’t hide the fact. She never liked any of the kids that came around the house to see me. Whenever they did come by, she’d put us all to work digging out tree stumps or what have you. They stopped coming by after a while, and Jimmy became aware that he wasn’t welcome around myself or our house and property.
Jimmy and I started meeting halfway between our homes, riding our bicycles. We would spend our days fishing the ponds and creek, and becoming acquainted with the forests, wildlife, and the trails in the area. As for me, since I had always had only nature for my playthings, I found myself quite comfortable and “happy”, if I could ever assume what that was.
We also started experimenting with his father’s cigarettes. The excuse for our smoking began as a way to combat bugs while we fished. Alcohol was also a curiosity, especially since it was always around the house. After we had consumed all the liquor that his mother kept in the cabinet we would steal beer from his father’s case of “Blatz” beer, replacing the ones we had taken with empty ones. It was usual practice for me to have to sneak around, so it was my idea to take empty cans and place them under the full ones in the very bottom of the case, making it look like the beer hadn’t been disturbed. This worked out excellent, especially since his father was in so much of a stupor as to never catch on.
It was common to see us with shotguns and twenty-two caliber rifles. My first gun was an Iver Johnson single-shot twelve-gauge shotgun. My stepfather had introduced me to it when I was twelve, when I shot it for the first time. When he left us it stayed behind. A shotgun is the property of the house and belongs to the man of the house, which, in this case, now happened to be myself. My marksmanship and love for shooting developed very quickly.
One winter day in 85, we got our hands on a John Deere JDX440 Snowmobile that his mother had gotten for him, eventually finding out exactly how much abuse it could take, and that we weren’t as good of mechanics as we needed to be to keep it going. We also got our hands on our share of dirt bikes, and had a Honda three wheeler for a while. That year marked the beginning of our experience with gasoline engines, aside from the lawnmower, leaving another indelible mark on my Serotonin receptors.
The issue causing me to stay at Jimmy’s was regarding my mom’s boyfriend and some “stuff” of his, which is what people call things when trying to minimize their existence. Jimmy was pretty much the only friend I had, and having low self esteem and always receiving the lame duck treatment at school, (being that I was only sublimely scarred, was what some may try calling my Water Lou or at least an indication of coming avoidable problems, which I am happy to say were not an overdose or an unbeatable STD; highly likely for affection starved people who have been stripped of their self esteem, that is to say, if it was ever nurtured at all).
The next generation of jokes may start a little something like this: “Sometime in the fall, a latchkey kid came home from school…” Whether I had put the Ray Charles Greatest Hits album on the record player or not, I do not remember but out of boredom I decided to give in to temptation and open a very curious looking briefcase, where I happened to find a very large amount of marijuana. Thanks to the Hudsonville Elementary School, and the Michigan State police showing it to us, (probably planting seeds for their job security and future) in the third or fourth grade, I knew what I was looking at.
[Someone should investigate to see if it was an operation to set up our youth.]
There may have been a pound or two, I don’t know but the physical look of the size was akin to a bag of cereal without the box. A few older kids, and a couple around my age, were always talking about things like drinking, cigarettes, music, girls and… weed.
Well, with me being a quick study, and having a void in my life that needed filling, it didn’t take long for me to see the opportunity… to be accepted, to have friends or at least people who would talk to me, if not think I was cool (every kids dream) even in the slightest sense of the word. I decided to bring a small amount to them the next day. Strange thing is, here I am in a situation that resembles the one of my youth, only today I am not in need of the camaraderie but I am readily available for substantial conversation, elaboration not included.
You may think it’s weird but I’ll say it anyway, (it never stopped me from sharing things before): though unlikely, I don’t believe it impossible that my Guardian Angels protected me from intoxication that day. I was only a boy in the woods, and among demons, the epitome’ of vulnerable. Only my name isn’t Hansel.
It goes without saying, that everyone without loved ones and selfesteem is vulnerable, but I am told that it’s wrong to assume that they’ll think the smell is perfume and I find myself having to sometimes cover up or explain my Marijuana garden.
Anyways, I didn’t care for the affects of the Marijuana at all, aside from the effect of having the Marijuana. It wasn’t until I became more mature and able to comprehend the immediate benefits, that I developed an appreciation for the herb. With a developing maturity, recognition of the need for self-preservation, and with aspirations of becoming something more altruistic, I quickly became aware of the usefulness of the “drug” and how to use it to my benefit. And not as a recreational intoxicant, which was the extent of it to me- nothing more than a tool.
The first step toward discipline pertaining to the use of marijuana as a tool, is to recognize and understand that knowledge of its possession attracts people and can create all the situations that are purely a distraction that undermine ambitions, desires, and commitments to something other than your true calling(s). “It’s not the sixties anymore. It’s time to weed out who your friends truly are, and recognize where an individual finds genuine confidence,” I said to myself. This was one of my more profound understandings, and was realized at the time of my twenty-first birthday.
Let's get some more filler-inner before the dinner- Let's go back to when I was a child...
My job was to Caddie. I was groomed to Caddie, since I was able to hold the pin. Some of my memories are of a golf course we lived on and ran. There was a guy on the corner of the property who lived in a trailer and had a couple pigs. I remember it being a bit of an issue to my stepfather. We had a pet rabbit that would bring it’s dish to your hand. I always thought that was pretty cool. One time my dad let me help put carts away. I jumped into one and grabbed the wheel, hitting the accelerator pedal and mowing down a fairly good length of plastic chain-link path marker. Yeah, I didn’t get to help for a while after that. We had an orange whip machine in the Pro Shop. I can’t recall if I liked them or not. I couldn’t stand Kit-Kat or M and M’s.
The inside of the house is hard to picture, maybe a stairwell railing. We were in Georgia. There were some bad storms sometimes. It could be that we were near the coast. There was always rain but we would be out there anyway, playing golf. There was once a preacher who was there, playing in a bit if a rain shower.
The preacher was struck by lightning and killed. It wasn’t long after that when we moved from there. I am not sure what happened to the golf course. Bank maybe got it. The year isn’t clear. Whether it was after we had the pizza place, I don’t know. But there were always golf courses. We lived near them and went to them often. I hated it. The bag of clubs was heavy and I was almost always cold. Before I could go to the course, I was steeped in golf. It was always on television or around the house. He would chip balls in the house. I would be placed at the end of the house in a chair with a roll of tape between my knees. He would hit them through it.
We moved around a great deal. There were so many different places that I can’t get them straight. From what I can tell I was born in Norfolk Virginia. We went from Virginia beach to Pennsylvania, then to Oklahoma, Tennessee, Georgia repeatedly, then back to Michigan where we moved from Bay City to Kalamazoo to Hudsonville, and finally to Marne where I spent ten years mostly until moving to various Grand rapids locations as an adult.
Jim Clematis was my only friend for the most part. We were always seen together and were much like brothers. As it was everyone thought we were both brothers. The area wood’s was our home. We knew every inch of it like it was our kingdom. We had shotguns and fishing gear and used it daily. We never had an accident of any type with any of it.
The one time Jim was injured in a freak Roman candle explosion was the only time anything serious had happened.
Jim went through various stages of shock and swore to never play with fireworks again. Of course he got over that in a few days. We always had bottle rockets and firecrackers. Jumping jacks were the best entertainment because they would zip right up off the ground and shoot off. We would hock all the empty beer cans in his house to get money for fireworks. The shop was a few miles away. We would ride our bicycles every couple days. We were crazed with them for a while but it soon changed to something else. That was dirt bikes and the local boys at Chips house where we started hanging out.
It was beer and cigarettes, weed and laughs. They would stand around Chip in his shop where he cut and welded steel up into weight equipment that he sold for cash. He makes a cut and they would drink, spray a bit of paint and light a smoke. He drank a beer, and laugh his laugh, then go to making another cut. He would fire up the arc welder and throw a spray of sparks high into the air as he laid a bead and cackled his laugh. The wood stove would steady kick out heat into the room.
We would bring our motorcycle to him with questions about repairs. He’d say, “Well, use your better Judgment.” If it sounded like there was pieces flying around broken inside, that meant you had to crack the case opened. He was a pretty smart guy and a great mechanic. He could do anything. But then again, we were fourteen or fifteen. He had an old Chevy pick-up truck that ended up parked for one reason or another but got an el Camino from Dale McKinnon.
It wasn’t long before Chip took the transmission from the Chevy truck and had it bolted to the el Camino motor- mostly.
The only thing about the el Camino was that the frame was broken on one side just in front of the rear axle. Every time you hit the gas the back end of the car would flex out and try to fold in half. Chip put a tack weld on it and ran it down the road.
There was that, and the fact that only a few of the bolts matched up to the holes for assembly. We ended up welding some old worn out vice grips in place and it was fine.
It wasn’t long before we realized that the gas tank was no good. We ended up with a five-gallon plastic can in the rear with the fuel line running to it.
None of these issues were real issues. The car was on it's last leg. The body revealed that- it looked like someone bondo'd the thing with a cement trowel- then painted it with house paint and a broom. It was the color blue- like you'd see of there were too many gasoline fumes in the room.
Every weekend that he got his unemployment check we would load the bicycles in the back and head out to Grand Haven to camp out and hang. The routine was to score some acid from… damn some guy with a gator in his basement. We would set up camp in Duncan’s woods and cruise the piers and strips tripping balls and drinking beers. But drinking beer wasn’t enough. We had to do beer bongs with a funnel.
We were all the way at the end, where it’s windy as hell but Chip wants to roll a joint and smoke so I go up behind the wall in the tower while he is standing there funneling another beer into himself. That’s when he say’s, “I think that Coast Guard saw us.” I lick and twist the joint in time to look up and see the boat getting up on its hydrofoils, coming right at us. We jump on our bikes and peddle in to the shore and all the people. I was scared shit-less.
Later that evening I would get frightened again when a cop tackles a guy who is sitting right near me smoking a joint. The musical fountain was beginning to display. Chip was passed out in the grass next to me. We would duck in and out of “Tip a Few Tavern” through out the day. Wet burritos and beer. Chip almost pissed on a pot plant that was growing outside. We pulled it and took it back up towards our camp, stopping at the park of the YMCA compound. Chip just started eating it. I managed to dry some near our fire later.
There was a guy with a dog who was talking to us on the stairs descending from the hills to the beach. A woman walked by as we talked and his dog bit her. She screamed and threatened him with a comment about dog bites being fifteen hundred dollars. We ended going back to his place and smoking. I don’t know what became of the dog bite. I never saw the guy again. This had to be around 86. I had no idea that Chip was struggling with cocaine addiction. He was using needles.
The guy upstairs was selling. That was Al. This was part of Chips going to the lake when he gets paid, to keep away from Al.
Chip made up for it in alcohol, which had a heyday with Chip’s already warped mind. He had a thing for young girls. There were always girls coming around to have him buy booze for them.
The girls from 9mile Auto were over one night, drinking. I started blowing in one of their ears and the next thing I know I am in the basement sitting on a bench press kissing. Somehow I was taped to the bench with duct tape. She was riding me however she pleased herself to. I was helpless. Chip laughed when he came down to find me as she had left me. They were trying to get him to give them a ride home but he wouldn’t do it.
Not long after that Chip had two girls over, Tina Wheeler, and a Seafloor girl. It was knowing these girls that got me out of a jamb when Chip went to jail for drunk driving. Tina’s mom and dad liked me enough to have me stay at their place. I soon got a job a Florentine’s, where their son John worked. I was seventeen. My mom was happy with that, seems she knew these people somehow. I started hanging out at the Pool hall with Tina and soon was regularly there.
I had worked at Pizza Hut for a week but quit. I worked at Bill Knapp’s for several months but quit. Then I got in at Florentine's where I washed dishes at night and bused tables during the day. I was making a ton of money. The waitresses tipped me out big.
Eventually there was a blowout fight about me between them. That was not a comfortable setting. The icing on the cake was when Mary Doyle, the salad girl, got into a fist fight with one of the servers.
Mary and Dee, our “D”eluxe sized breasted waitress at Florentine's, went at it in a fit of blinding rage. Jealousy was the catalyst. It was then that they asked me to quit.
I did but continued to see Mary. It was mostly in an attempt to get laid. Chief concern it was, being that I was just turning eighteen. I was so concerned with getting my own desires that I failed to see the signs that this was not a good idea. I just thought that they called her crazy as a general term. I didn’t realize it was clinical. Still, I was game. She had a child so I knew she gave up the goods. She offered the booze and that was it. I didn’t think nothing of her driving by every old boyfriend she knew existed, driving by their houses lamenting some sick thought.
The car is still novel to her. Her apartment was a clutter of attempts at decorating with accumulated junk. The laundry spilled from a separate room meant for handling large capacities. Having space in the living room to sit was in order. What did I care, that her laundry was backed up?
“Where‘s the drinks?” All I cared about was getting into her clothing, I’d pay for it later. After swearing upon everything that I was not trying to trick her to get her kid taken away from her, she finally gave in, and telling me of all the things her daddy did to her. It came out in buckets that this woman was close to gone. She became more and more paranoid. I was with her for a week before the fits of rage came out. I couldn’t go anywhere without being drilled for who what where’s.
She began to demand that I pull my pants down to smell of my genital area. She was insistent on my behavior constantly. She had told me of how she tried to masturbate her child when he was an infant and of how she has her nephew, Kenny suckle her breasts from time to time. She insisted that everyone thought she was crazy because of a letter she had written where she claimed to have had sex with the devil. She said it was just a story she was writing and that it meant nothing.
Her father was very ill with cancer. He insisted on dying at home, which he did. I was there that day. They had been taking turns swabbing his lips with wet lip mops. He turned to Mary and told her that I was a good one, to hold onto me. Then his face was awash with a smile and he was gone.
Not long into living with Mary, my mother introduced me to a plumber she knew, from the American Legion. She said he needed an apprentice so next thing I knew I was working for this old guy, Bob Bilgepump.
He was a plumber with two sons- one was unaware that he was about to get a new apprentice. Bill was quickly saddled with finding me things to do when Bob didn’t need to have me drive him around. He always said the same thing, “this guy owes me some money.”
He started off at the Wolf’s Den, then to the Legion, on and on until he was done or had a woman to take back to the hotel room he kept on Division and Fiftieth. I’ll never forget the girl he brought back there. I think her name was Jan.
“Jan” was hit by a train on Homecoming night. Her boyfriend died along with her child…? She needs an operation to be able to talk that costs something like five grand. It was very sad to sit with her while she communicated. She was prostituting herself and drinking her life away.
Bill and I became good friends pretty quickly. He was like a brother to me. I enjoyed hanging out at his place. Beers were a plenty and tunes were blasting. Little did I know that Bill had a cocaine and alcohol addiction and that he had just gotten out of rehab. I would have never guessed that, ever. In fact, I didn’t see a problem at all.
Outside of the things bill would tell me, I only saw the bachelor lifestyle. He said something that I never forgot; “I graduated high school and went to a party. Then I went to another and another until I got here where I am today, with the things I have to show for myself.
My buddy Mike got out went to work, bought a house. Now his house is paid for, he has a boat and toys, jet skis, motorcycles, and he’s married. All I got is what’s in the fridge. Is that the girl of your dreams? You’ve got to go out there and find the girl of your dreams. Live and work toward something big!”
It was soon after that that Mary became pregnant. I was so stupid to think I couldn’t have kids because of an injury to my scrotum. Just because we had been having unprotected sex for months and nothing would happen I thought, Hmm. Boy was I wrong. I should have taken it as a sign that I was to not become tied to this woman. But I am dense. It would take a pretty big sign.
The night she went into labor, I was working with Bill. Mary had spoke to me on the phone saying that she didn’t want me to come up to the hospital because she wanted to claim not knowing who the father is- influenced by her sister, Julie.
Julie seemed to have an angle for working the state. She had several kids all from different fathers, though she was married to a man the entire time who thought the kids were all his.
Ken got the shit end of the stick eventually from that woman. Little did I know, the hospital thing would later haunt me when she claimed how I refused to show up to sign the Birth Certificate. A bit more damage to my relationship with Sarah.
Mary started in with her delusions and paranoia about six months in to Sarah's life and tormented the home for coming months until I had no choice but to leave. She had accused me of having sex with the homosexual couple down the street, pulling a large knife from behind her- just like in the movies.
After she lunged at me with the knife, I wrestled her to the ground, causing her to lose grip of the knife. I kicked it down the steps and got up from her to clamber back a good distance. Seeing the opening to the staircase, I dodged for it and never went back that night. Instead, I went to meet a woman I had met at lunch, Mindy.
I had already decided that I was leaving Mary as soon as possible.
The main issue was transportation, and was solved this particular day because I had Paul’s truck. Earlier that day I had set it up to go out with Mindy. I hadn’t yet had a new place to live in mind or that I would need to find it tonight. Somehow being attacked with the knife changed all of that. When I left to go to Mindy’s house I had no idea what I would encounter, so I brought beer, wine, liquor, weed- and condoms.
That would not be enough, because when I got there I found out about mushrooms. We jumped right in the truck to get some. When I got back to their house, Mindy was laying in bed after having taken a Percocet, while listening to Sound garden- “I know what to do”. In my head was, “Day Tripper” by the Beatles. I figured she was a pill head because of the Percocet. Either way, she put her moves on me and we did it. She acted like she knew what she was doing. I would never believe she was just recently a virgin. By the time I realized we were finished I noticed my boots were still on. I never did figure out if I meant to leave them on or if it was the hypnosis.
Mariah’s little girl, Alexis, claimed that she saw a little boy sleeping on Mindy’s tummy. She said the boy lives in the house. It was understood that Alexis saw a ghost. Mindy was soon to discover that she was pregnant. I had asked her if it was all good even though I did have condoms. She was calculating by rhythm and miscounted. I was a bit relieved since she was now more or less acquired. I went right to work setting money aside to get our own place even though her aunt offered to get her an abortion and relocate her. Her father assumed the condom broke, sarcastically implying that no one really breaks a condom.
What ever story they were told, didn’t change the reaction from Judith, Mindy’s mom. She went on a tirade about this type of thing happening to other families, and that this family should never be having this sort of thing let alone with a Hick for the father that she has nothing in common with.
They had no idea that I was a skilled trade or anything of any value.
Before too long Mindy’s dad would have his hands in my financial affairs by way of doing my taxes. He was helping us get into a real home as well. It was not understood what the dynamic was between him and I where this home was involved. I later found out that we had been renting the house from him, that he had bought it, not us. Then he turns around and does the same thing to us at the second house in East Grand Rapids.
I really was shocked when I found out that the house was his, especially since I was going through the divorce with Mindy, and had thought if nothing else I have the house.
Not so. I had lost my business, my wife and kids, and my house. That was before Thanksgiving. By Christmas I had quit my job at Permalloy It was the only place in Grand Rapids that would hire me. Coincidentally it was Randy Marabou, Doug’s cousin.
My theory is that I was blackballed. I couldn’t take coming home to an empty house.
When Christmas bonuses came, it was like twenty five dollars or something like that. It was the last blow I could take. I went all out on a drinking binge and road the alleys with the crack scrounges. I had given up but I am not there yet.
Ironically, (boy, this seems to be a diet high in iron-y), it was around my having become of legal age to drink, when I realized it was time to eliminate using alcohol entirely- even mouthwash. My foremost concerns began the summer of my twenty-first birthday, when I realized what was a serious possibility at a family so, I prioritized a couple things to ensure it.
First, to continue developing as a skilled tradesman/finish carpenter, which was mostly made possible by way of my mentor and Master, Paul Valdamar Jensen, whom proved to be a true friend and remains to be to this day. If it had not been for his patience, (he’d laugh at that word), and ability to identify my potential, as well as the forces at work tempting to deny myself any amount of success at all, I would not be alive today to make the willful efforts at contributing to society that I have been motivated to make- however small or seemingly undeserved, second.
[Personally, I dream of reaching a multitude but reality and the ability to rationalize allows me to accept the possibility of going unheard or misinterpreted, though a single person would be a success.]
It was my trade that empowered me with an identity and provision. And just as those great cultural icons of the world whose careers and lives ended at twenty-seven years of age, so did mine seem to. It was the loss of my business as a Finish Carpenter when I was twentyseven years old that caused the devastating blow of destroying my household entirely. The trigger was fear. The fear I had of my wife put me on the road when I was:
A friend of mine needed an estimate for replacing the windows in his home but I needed to be home at a time dictated to me by Mindy. I left the job site early enough to go look at the window situation, and still be home for dinner. Well, thankfully for me, I did not have time to load up my tools or my head may have been crushed when I was stopped in traffic, only to become the primary victim of a triple collision- the definition of which is not that there were three vehicles involved but that I was hit three times.
There were, in fact, three vehicles involved. One was the semi that hit me, from the Grand Rapids Trucking Company, which happened to be traveling at fifty-five miles per hour. He was looking down blouses when he failed to observe that traffic had backed up to a complete stop near the 196/U.S.131 interchange.
The third vehicle was in front of me. It was also hit three times, secondary to the impact. It should be easy to deduce that I was hit six times. The only word I can use for the moment is “senseless” because I had no idea what had happened- only that I had somewhere to be and the man in front of me, not only wasn’t proceeding but was now getting out of his mini-van.
The driver and walked to the rear of his vehicle. I was so agitated and knocked so senseless that when my door refused to let me get out, forcefully springing back to slap me upside my head, I simply used the other door without a second thought. After all, there were two doors.
The explanation softens the blow but it absolutely crippled me with despondency, to say the least, especially after my wife began catting around in A.O.L. chat rooms, and then soon after, announcing to me that she wanted a divorce. I stated one simple question: “I guess you won’t mind me having a beer then?” It came out almost as if it invited an answer from her. At that point I think it was more of a dare or a challenge. It was a thinly veiled threat, a tactful yet passive way of saying, “I’ll kill you.”
I realize it would have been the easiest way out, and for that I will never get credit from man but the cynical human self-preservation defensive part of me that provides humor in the face of adversity couldn’t help but at least wonder, “what if ”, like Dr. Seuss.
While making my second twenty ounce cup of instant coffee, emptying my bladder and washing my hands, I briefly pondered a lesson meant for someone else in my cube but gifted it to myself. I imagined asking him what the difference was between the time God gives you on this planet, and the time man gives you in prison. The answer is, “Nothing, it’s what you do with the time”. I immediately thought of Danny, Dan DeRuiter, Danimal, S’Dan. And as I work on something I feel could be important to someone, I remind myself, “don’t ignore the message though the messenger is imperfect”.
Due to the fact that drinking was one of the more arbitrary things we did the most of. Even though we spent a lot of time drinking, we searched for, and found, substance and meaning in almost every minute together.
Trivia was merely a moment of rest, combined with comedy and appreciation for the arts. It recharged our creativity and our passions to be able to focus on the bigger picture, the one most people are too busy or selfish to see.
So, it was Danny that I gave credit to for my time in prison, away from my regular prison of my own existence. I recognize it as his test on my relationships, and other sailing vessels, and his value in, and of, my ability to have something to share- if not powerful. It was only up to me to decide when to get over my grief and focus. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it Dorothy?
So, I’m doing exactly what they say to do, no matter what you do. When someone writes abut something they don’t know or have no idea about, you will know. And even when I stumble on my topic I hope to have captured your interest enough to keep you reading regardless if I have ever sought compensation for my work. Rewards come from what you have done, your feats, not what you do. To me, you are rewarded for your efforts with support from those people that believe in you- embracing your loving heart for what it is.
Too often, lately, people get portrayed as heroes for fulfilling their job descriptions. Have we underachieved so grossly that anyone who does even the smallest thing is a hero these days?
Is it possible that the state of society is related to the travesty of the disservice we have done to our people, our children, the youththe future, for claiming Einstein was a genius for instance? Meaning nobody is smart enough to figure anything out unless they are? Boy, somebody really messed up for us! (SHHH, the game is on.)
Danny was one of my most intimate friends. It was because of meeting him in the spring of 1999 that I was able to get away from drugs, and trying to deliberately drink myself to death. It was at this moment in time that I became reunited with my dreams of being a musician, and finally finding a friend at a time in my life when I was totally lost.
We were far more than drinking buddies but when he died from “natural causes”, while exceeding his daily allowance of fun, I lost my drinking buddy, only gaining the perspective that I was next.
On the night of 6-6-06, I had a dream. My truck was in a shallow stretch of the Grand River, with the hood up and me under it. I was startled by a slender, muck covered being that swam up along side of me and popped out of the water. Frightened by the sudden appearance of it, I grabbed a long handled tool, bludgeoning it to death.
When I went to work the following day, my roommate came to the job to tell me that Danny was found dead that morning. The thing in my dream had all of the earmarks and character of Danny.
It had all of the indications of the state of my life, and I had killed him but I also killed the thing that was what I was becoming. A murder/suicide through my fear of what lay ahead.
The emotional strain caused some decisions to be made. The only one I had made with any clarity at all was that the drinking, drinking, drinking had to stop. And even though some great things happened, the worst or what would seem like the worst, was failing to recall that the job offer that followed was from someone that was never a friend, and who had caused a lot of problems for Danny and I out of his jealousy of us, and his Heroine addiction.
Now here’s where a friend or a family member would have come in handy. My decision to go to Florida for work was rationalized with the desire to put fear to rest with the Friend of the Court, buying time until my SSDI came through. It was not until one and a half years later that I could change the last statement that I made to my son, which was: “Cody, I am going to go to Florida to work for a few weeks. I need two thousand dollars for the court to keep from putting me in jail over child support again.”
It was only too late before I realized that I had been set up and robbed of my band equipment. Some of it was purchased from the guy offering me the work, and some of it I had inherited from Danny directly.
Have you ever heard of “the Key West move”?
Google it and see if anything comes up. I never have but I am willing to bet my Brazil nuts that something is there to illustrate what I am talking about. Anyway, I was clueless until I discovered myself abandoned on Key West without a single soul to help me with much of anything, (well, almost nothing). I did find help getting rid of my money and smokes.
The police arrested me repeatedly on a string of charges without any witnesses or evidence. And when I tried to defend myself I found that I had no real Defense council. It was myself against them, and I was playing on their turf with nothing but the words of the local police, and mine- a homeless person in the Florida Keys.
422 days were spent in the detention facility on Stock Island but I left with a lot of stories, and information, that under certain circumstances I could be killed for. Danny would exclaim, “Unbelievable!” Just when you get into it, and start enjoying the ups and downs, the speed changes, the screams of the fast drops, and the giggles of the climbs- it’s over. Just like life. I can only say two words: Actuate Yourself. I lived it, and I am writing it down to share with you.
[Sincerely, Zachery S. Polk Convicted Felon August 2011] This is some of the original manuscript, with some files added to help complete the the intentions. I am working at editing, currently, while entertaining those who may have an interest in publishing it.
My Great Grandma always saved the Wishbones,
for the Grand kids, when we came to visit.
And, out of all the toys we never had,
my most fun times were at her house.
We were so poor, the rats ate the soap,
and, the first words I ever read were,
“Minimum Speed Limit.”
I wore a Razor Strap, for my only pants or,
at least, it might as well have been,
It was covering my rear,
more than anything they made me wear.
Right about the time, I had a few names straight,
I’d been enrolled, in a new School, in a new town,
Where the Principal was told, to beat me, if he needed to.
They say you are what you eat.
Now, if that were true,
I’d be a potato pancake, that smells and tastes, like bacon.
And, if I’d known then, what I know now,
I’d have known what to wish for,
When we broke the Wishbones ,
When we were little.
Written by, Zachery S Polk
Introduction
My name is Zachery Scott Polk, a forty eight year old man, with hopes, dreams and aspirations.
Forty years, (I’d call that a majority), have been spent trying to rationally, comprehensively, and productively understand and accredit my acquaintances, and family members, for their efforts and sufferings, as well as, to do what I can do to make things resemble a closer version of a family, and the way I feel life could be for all of us.
It’s possible, that these familial contemplation's and heartaches, motivated my desire to want to be a Writer, and a Musician- coupled with memories of us gathering around the Television to watch, the “Lawrence Welk Show,” at my Grandma and Grandpa's house, in order to earn myself some of the attention that I felt I deserved but was not getting.
When I was three to four years old, my attention was a concentration. Grandma called me brooding because I was always in deep thought. Mostly, I was trying to figure out what, exactly, a boy could do without enduring the mistreatment that one gets when they cannot be heard or unseen.
Everyone I have ever talked with, studied or sought advice from, said the same thing: “Write about what you know”. Well, I only know what I have lived, and learned along the way. When I get to something that I know little about, I either, forget about it or start the research process, depending on my level of passion for the subject. Special interest groups, (a derogation term for the reasonably concerned), grant Security or, (tactfully termed), Consideration, to persons willing to focus on issues that are believed to be of great consequence or detriment to the Earth and Mankind.
Some people pursue these interests for the convenience of the funds provided. Others are sought out and baited with money to become involved, and only act when their needs and desires have been met.
You could call me a, Philanthropist, but I am not sure if anyone would see my humor in creating a special interest, using Nepotism to appoint myself the allocations, presenting myself with a statue or award for my solutions, all the while creating the actual problem or dreaming it up entirely.
Anyway, it was my own observations of the world, man, and certain family members, (both bad and good), that spurred my contemplation of, what I ascertained was, Right and Wrong... where it comes to understanding what being a man, husband, father, friend, and human actually is.
One of the things I had begun fantasizing about, when I was around nine years old, was proposing to a girl and starting my own familybecoming valuable in those respects. Only, while I occupied myself with hoping for my tomorrow, my today was evolving into an acute nightmare or so it seemed.
Escaping The Despondent Sea
Chapter 1
My senses were relieved. He was leaving, taking pieces of all of us with him that he had stolen, including, what I came to find out was, my half-brother and sister, as opposed to my full relation.
It came out that our “father” had left our mother for her brother, Uncle Gary’s, wife. (Uncle Gary happened to be one of my favorite people among all of my Uncles and Aunts.)
Our father had been, repeatedly, accusing our mother of going to bars, drinking, and flirting with the opposite sex, which is, exactly, what he had been doing.
Eventually, she started doing it, and naturally, it swept her up into a routine.
Mom didn’t understand or just feared being without him, and as a result, did not see that he was acting out as a result of his own guilt.
One thing I will never forget is, the pain I imagined she felt, and the words she said to me, while on the way to the hotel room that he claimed he needed in order to concentrate on the completion of his book, on the game of Golf.
The hotel room, and his book writing efforts, turned out to be a cover, extending as to accommodate for his going to bars, drinking, and playing around with women. He had been playing around after work at, the Red Shag Carpet Inn, that was located in Grandville. He had been messing around with Cocaine and Prostitutes. He had brought, a variety of minor sexually transmitted diseases, home to my mother.
One night, around the house, he had commented on running a load of cocaine for the lust of the quick, and easy, money. There was also the torn up coke fold pieces that didn’t get flushed down the toilet all the way. At the time I had no idea as to what these signs meant or that they were signs of anything but looking back now, it is all so very clear.
So, It was a bit of an accident that I stumbled onto the truth, only because he had, seemingly, forgotten about picking me up, at our driving range, when we closed it up at night. I was left stranded for a couple of hours before finally asking, Ed Rode, to take me to his room.
Ed had been helping him with the book, especially since he was a photographer, who worked for the Grand Rapids Press. He took photos at concerts, and other events, that were featured in the section of the press called, “Connections.”
After managing to get the manager to let me into the room I found a woman’s travel bag with intimate clothes articles in it. When I realized what that meant I panicked, and fled to the strip mall, where, MC Sporting Goods was located, on Plainfield Avenue.
The phone booth made a nice place to take refuge out of the cold wind, and is where I slept while waiting for my mom to come and pick me up, after getting out of work- over an hour and a half away, in Lansing, Michigan.
This was my first experience of being on the street with nowhere to go. I was 14 years old.
On the way to the hotel room, the next day, she told me that she hoped I never mistreated my wife in this way or dishonored my family, in the event that I should ever become married.
The few serious attempts at getting established to build a family or life for myself were wholehearted. Whether it was out of self-pity or concern for me that she said that, was never a question, but as I think about it now, I am quite sure it was both.
Mom always talked about, “the long run”. I never understood my mother and I to be close- what she calls, "tough love," are the scars left on her, transferred to me, from her own mother.
It’s possible, that her mother’s habit of working, as a barmaid, is where she was failed, only to bring her, now twisted, attitude and perspective home to the children. I can only love my mother for it, despite the pain I felt, that was a challenge to cope with- part of my inheritance.
It’s pretty ironical, to me, that schooling costs so much. The equivalent of some sort of degree, in Psychology, only cost me tears, and valuable pieces of relationships, before most kids finish Junior high school, which happened to be where I was... when my Stepfather left, in 1984 or so. And in, “the long run,” my mother and I finally became closer than we had ever been.
I didn’t drink milk, throwing my bottle from the crib, around one and a half years old. For the most part I never, voluntarily, drank milk again.
At every family gathering, holiday or special event, a spectacle was made, where I, most often, ended up beaten and humiliated by way of my step father, dragging me from the table, and taking me behind the garage, woodshed or out into the cornfield, out of view, and physically funneled, to put it mildly.
I was fourteen the last time this happened. It was Easter. I can’t help but wonder what my, Grandpa, thought especially since it was at his house in, Bay City. It seems like a great display of disrespect, to make it a point to beat a child at a family holiday gathering.
That year, 1984, I believe it was the day before Thanksgiving, when he finally left. I am confident that it was a Thursday. Was it a gift from my, deceased, Great Grandfather?
Needless to say, I still do not care for milk but the man I am, I, sometimes, force myself to drink it anyway by exhaling, holding my breath, and slamming it down... when there is a lack food.
The milk was a symbol- rejecting my mother’s rejection, and it was my first argument in life.
Although we were a Baptist family, it seemed that I was "protestant." And, to this day, I have remained the black sheep but not with that intention.
Rejection was something that I learned I needed to work at coping with, which was not unlike Coping Crown molding.
Recognizing, that I was allowing others to destroy me, by allowing my pains to govern my actions and ability, to constructively manage them, when I was, twenty-two years old, was very positive.
I told myself, that the best revenge was to succeed, and I quickly learned to move on.
Acceptance, forgiveness, self-discipline, and perseverance, should be clear to see in this stream of thoughts, though roiled with, what my Language arts teachers at Coopersville Junior High School would call, “run-on sentences.”
As I read over what I have shared, I ponder where to go next. I realize and appreciate these memories, however unpleasant, but I cannot recall what Christmas was like that year just as I can’t remember most of my childhood, which is a blessing. The majority of who I am is the result of the value found in what I do remember. Anything more would send me into a void where self-destruction is eminent.
My mother started drinking and actually doing all of those terrible things Rick had accused her of. The disharmony created by her desperation to maintain her emotional needs, and the family, resulted in my having to remove myself from the home the following winter. The place I found refuge in was Jim Clematis Junior's house, my only close friend, who happened to be only three months older than myself.
Jimmy and I started hanging out after his mom had brought him down to meet me, shortly after we moved in. It was 1980. We began spending time hunting in the woods and fishing, using the guns and equipment that his father had. His father, James, was a Veteran of the Korean War, and an avid outdoors man, as well as an alcoholic. My mother never liked Jimmy at all. And she didn’t hide the fact. She never liked any of the kids that came around the house to see me. Whenever they did come by, she’d put us all to work digging out tree stumps or what have you. They stopped coming by after a while, and Jimmy became aware that he wasn’t welcome around myself or our house and property.
Jimmy and I started meeting halfway between our homes, riding our bicycles. We would spend our days fishing the ponds and creek, and becoming acquainted with the forests, wildlife, and the trails in the area. As for me, since I had always had only nature for my playthings, I found myself quite comfortable and “happy”, if I could ever assume what that was.
We also started experimenting with his father’s cigarettes. The excuse for our smoking began as a way to combat bugs while we fished. Alcohol was also a curiosity, especially since it was always around the house. After we had consumed all the liquor that his mother kept in the cabinet we would steal beer from his father’s case of “Blatz” beer, replacing the ones we had taken with empty ones. It was usual practice for me to have to sneak around, so it was my idea to take empty cans and place them under the full ones in the very bottom of the case, making it look like the beer hadn’t been disturbed. This worked out excellent, especially since his father was in so much of a stupor as to never catch on.
It was common to see us with shotguns and twenty-two caliber rifles. My first gun was an Iver Johnson single-shot twelve-gauge shotgun. My stepfather had introduced me to it when I was twelve, when I shot it for the first time. When he left us it stayed behind. A shotgun is the property of the house and belongs to the man of the house, which, in this case, now happened to be myself. My marksmanship and love for shooting developed very quickly.
One winter day in 85, we got our hands on a John Deere JDX440 Snowmobile that his mother had gotten for him, eventually finding out exactly how much abuse it could take, and that we weren’t as good of mechanics as we needed to be to keep it going. We also got our hands on our share of dirt bikes, and had a Honda three wheeler for a while. That year marked the beginning of our experience with gasoline engines, aside from the lawnmower, leaving another indelible mark on my Serotonin receptors.
The issue causing me to stay at Jimmy’s was regarding my mom’s boyfriend and some “stuff” of his, which is what people call things when trying to minimize their existence. Jimmy was pretty much the only friend I had, and having low self esteem and always receiving the lame duck treatment at school, (being that I was only sublimely scarred, was what some may try calling my Water Lou or at least an indication of coming avoidable problems, which I am happy to say were not an overdose or an unbeatable STD; highly likely for affection starved people who have been stripped of their self esteem, that is to say, if it was ever nurtured at all).
The next generation of jokes may start a little something like this: “Sometime in the fall, a latchkey kid came home from school…” Whether I had put the Ray Charles Greatest Hits album on the record player or not, I do not remember but out of boredom I decided to give in to temptation and open a very curious looking briefcase, where I happened to find a very large amount of marijuana. Thanks to the Hudsonville Elementary School, and the Michigan State police showing it to us, (probably planting seeds for their job security and future) in the third or fourth grade, I knew what I was looking at.
[Someone should investigate to see if it was an operation to set up our youth.]
There may have been a pound or two, I don’t know but the physical look of the size was akin to a bag of cereal without the box. A few older kids, and a couple around my age, were always talking about things like drinking, cigarettes, music, girls and… weed.
Well, with me being a quick study, and having a void in my life that needed filling, it didn’t take long for me to see the opportunity… to be accepted, to have friends or at least people who would talk to me, if not think I was cool (every kids dream) even in the slightest sense of the word. I decided to bring a small amount to them the next day. Strange thing is, here I am in a situation that resembles the one of my youth, only today I am not in need of the camaraderie but I am readily available for substantial conversation, elaboration not included.
You may think it’s weird but I’ll say it anyway, (it never stopped me from sharing things before): though unlikely, I don’t believe it impossible that my Guardian Angels protected me from intoxication that day. I was only a boy in the woods, and among demons, the epitome’ of vulnerable. Only my name isn’t Hansel.
It goes without saying, that everyone without loved ones and selfesteem is vulnerable, but I am told that it’s wrong to assume that they’ll think the smell is perfume and I find myself having to sometimes cover up or explain my Marijuana garden.
Anyways, I didn’t care for the affects of the Marijuana at all, aside from the effect of having the Marijuana. It wasn’t until I became more mature and able to comprehend the immediate benefits, that I developed an appreciation for the herb. With a developing maturity, recognition of the need for self-preservation, and with aspirations of becoming something more altruistic, I quickly became aware of the usefulness of the “drug” and how to use it to my benefit. And not as a recreational intoxicant, which was the extent of it to me- nothing more than a tool.
The first step toward discipline pertaining to the use of marijuana as a tool, is to recognize and understand that knowledge of its possession attracts people and can create all the situations that are purely a distraction that undermine ambitions, desires, and commitments to something other than your true calling(s). “It’s not the sixties anymore. It’s time to weed out who your friends truly are, and recognize where an individual finds genuine confidence,” I said to myself. This was one of my more profound understandings, and was realized at the time of my twenty-first birthday.
Let's get some more filler-inner before the dinner- Let's go back to when I was a child...
My job was to Caddie. I was groomed to Caddie, since I was able to hold the pin. Some of my memories are of a golf course we lived on and ran. There was a guy on the corner of the property who lived in a trailer and had a couple pigs. I remember it being a bit of an issue to my stepfather. We had a pet rabbit that would bring it’s dish to your hand. I always thought that was pretty cool. One time my dad let me help put carts away. I jumped into one and grabbed the wheel, hitting the accelerator pedal and mowing down a fairly good length of plastic chain-link path marker. Yeah, I didn’t get to help for a while after that. We had an orange whip machine in the Pro Shop. I can’t recall if I liked them or not. I couldn’t stand Kit-Kat or M and M’s.
The inside of the house is hard to picture, maybe a stairwell railing. We were in Georgia. There were some bad storms sometimes. It could be that we were near the coast. There was always rain but we would be out there anyway, playing golf. There was once a preacher who was there, playing in a bit if a rain shower.
The preacher was struck by lightning and killed. It wasn’t long after that when we moved from there. I am not sure what happened to the golf course. Bank maybe got it. The year isn’t clear. Whether it was after we had the pizza place, I don’t know. But there were always golf courses. We lived near them and went to them often. I hated it. The bag of clubs was heavy and I was almost always cold. Before I could go to the course, I was steeped in golf. It was always on television or around the house. He would chip balls in the house. I would be placed at the end of the house in a chair with a roll of tape between my knees. He would hit them through it.
We moved around a great deal. There were so many different places that I can’t get them straight. From what I can tell I was born in Norfolk Virginia. We went from Virginia beach to Pennsylvania, then to Oklahoma, Tennessee, Georgia repeatedly, then back to Michigan where we moved from Bay City to Kalamazoo to Hudsonville, and finally to Marne where I spent ten years mostly until moving to various Grand rapids locations as an adult.
Jim Clematis was my only friend for the most part. We were always seen together and were much like brothers. As it was everyone thought we were both brothers. The area wood’s was our home. We knew every inch of it like it was our kingdom. We had shotguns and fishing gear and used it daily. We never had an accident of any type with any of it.
The one time Jim was injured in a freak Roman candle explosion was the only time anything serious had happened.
Jim went through various stages of shock and swore to never play with fireworks again. Of course he got over that in a few days. We always had bottle rockets and firecrackers. Jumping jacks were the best entertainment because they would zip right up off the ground and shoot off. We would hock all the empty beer cans in his house to get money for fireworks. The shop was a few miles away. We would ride our bicycles every couple days. We were crazed with them for a while but it soon changed to something else. That was dirt bikes and the local boys at Chips house where we started hanging out.
It was beer and cigarettes, weed and laughs. They would stand around Chip in his shop where he cut and welded steel up into weight equipment that he sold for cash. He makes a cut and they would drink, spray a bit of paint and light a smoke. He drank a beer, and laugh his laugh, then go to making another cut. He would fire up the arc welder and throw a spray of sparks high into the air as he laid a bead and cackled his laugh. The wood stove would steady kick out heat into the room.
We would bring our motorcycle to him with questions about repairs. He’d say, “Well, use your better Judgment.” If it sounded like there was pieces flying around broken inside, that meant you had to crack the case opened. He was a pretty smart guy and a great mechanic. He could do anything. But then again, we were fourteen or fifteen. He had an old Chevy pick-up truck that ended up parked for one reason or another but got an el Camino from Dale McKinnon.
It wasn’t long before Chip took the transmission from the Chevy truck and had it bolted to the el Camino motor- mostly.
The only thing about the el Camino was that the frame was broken on one side just in front of the rear axle. Every time you hit the gas the back end of the car would flex out and try to fold in half. Chip put a tack weld on it and ran it down the road.
There was that, and the fact that only a few of the bolts matched up to the holes for assembly. We ended up welding some old worn out vice grips in place and it was fine.
It wasn’t long before we realized that the gas tank was no good. We ended up with a five-gallon plastic can in the rear with the fuel line running to it.
None of these issues were real issues. The car was on it's last leg. The body revealed that- it looked like someone bondo'd the thing with a cement trowel- then painted it with house paint and a broom. It was the color blue- like you'd see of there were too many gasoline fumes in the room.
Every weekend that he got his unemployment check we would load the bicycles in the back and head out to Grand Haven to camp out and hang. The routine was to score some acid from… damn some guy with a gator in his basement. We would set up camp in Duncan’s woods and cruise the piers and strips tripping balls and drinking beers. But drinking beer wasn’t enough. We had to do beer bongs with a funnel.
We were all the way at the end, where it’s windy as hell but Chip wants to roll a joint and smoke so I go up behind the wall in the tower while he is standing there funneling another beer into himself. That’s when he say’s, “I think that Coast Guard saw us.” I lick and twist the joint in time to look up and see the boat getting up on its hydrofoils, coming right at us. We jump on our bikes and peddle in to the shore and all the people. I was scared shit-less.
Later that evening I would get frightened again when a cop tackles a guy who is sitting right near me smoking a joint. The musical fountain was beginning to display. Chip was passed out in the grass next to me. We would duck in and out of “Tip a Few Tavern” through out the day. Wet burritos and beer. Chip almost pissed on a pot plant that was growing outside. We pulled it and took it back up towards our camp, stopping at the park of the YMCA compound. Chip just started eating it. I managed to dry some near our fire later.
There was a guy with a dog who was talking to us on the stairs descending from the hills to the beach. A woman walked by as we talked and his dog bit her. She screamed and threatened him with a comment about dog bites being fifteen hundred dollars. We ended going back to his place and smoking. I don’t know what became of the dog bite. I never saw the guy again. This had to be around 86. I had no idea that Chip was struggling with cocaine addiction. He was using needles.
The guy upstairs was selling. That was Al. This was part of Chips going to the lake when he gets paid, to keep away from Al.
Chip made up for it in alcohol, which had a heyday with Chip’s already warped mind. He had a thing for young girls. There were always girls coming around to have him buy booze for them.
The girls from 9mile Auto were over one night, drinking. I started blowing in one of their ears and the next thing I know I am in the basement sitting on a bench press kissing. Somehow I was taped to the bench with duct tape. She was riding me however she pleased herself to. I was helpless. Chip laughed when he came down to find me as she had left me. They were trying to get him to give them a ride home but he wouldn’t do it.
Not long after that Chip had two girls over, Tina Wheeler, and a Seafloor girl. It was knowing these girls that got me out of a jamb when Chip went to jail for drunk driving. Tina’s mom and dad liked me enough to have me stay at their place. I soon got a job a Florentine’s, where their son John worked. I was seventeen. My mom was happy with that, seems she knew these people somehow. I started hanging out at the Pool hall with Tina and soon was regularly there.
I had worked at Pizza Hut for a week but quit. I worked at Bill Knapp’s for several months but quit. Then I got in at Florentine's where I washed dishes at night and bused tables during the day. I was making a ton of money. The waitresses tipped me out big.
Eventually there was a blowout fight about me between them. That was not a comfortable setting. The icing on the cake was when Mary Doyle, the salad girl, got into a fist fight with one of the servers.
Mary and Dee, our “D”eluxe sized breasted waitress at Florentine's, went at it in a fit of blinding rage. Jealousy was the catalyst. It was then that they asked me to quit.
I did but continued to see Mary. It was mostly in an attempt to get laid. Chief concern it was, being that I was just turning eighteen. I was so concerned with getting my own desires that I failed to see the signs that this was not a good idea. I just thought that they called her crazy as a general term. I didn’t realize it was clinical. Still, I was game. She had a child so I knew she gave up the goods. She offered the booze and that was it. I didn’t think nothing of her driving by every old boyfriend she knew existed, driving by their houses lamenting some sick thought.
The car is still novel to her. Her apartment was a clutter of attempts at decorating with accumulated junk. The laundry spilled from a separate room meant for handling large capacities. Having space in the living room to sit was in order. What did I care, that her laundry was backed up?
“Where‘s the drinks?” All I cared about was getting into her clothing, I’d pay for it later. After swearing upon everything that I was not trying to trick her to get her kid taken away from her, she finally gave in, and telling me of all the things her daddy did to her. It came out in buckets that this woman was close to gone. She became more and more paranoid. I was with her for a week before the fits of rage came out. I couldn’t go anywhere without being drilled for who what where’s.
She began to demand that I pull my pants down to smell of my genital area. She was insistent on my behavior constantly. She had told me of how she tried to masturbate her child when he was an infant and of how she has her nephew, Kenny suckle her breasts from time to time. She insisted that everyone thought she was crazy because of a letter she had written where she claimed to have had sex with the devil. She said it was just a story she was writing and that it meant nothing.
Her father was very ill with cancer. He insisted on dying at home, which he did. I was there that day. They had been taking turns swabbing his lips with wet lip mops. He turned to Mary and told her that I was a good one, to hold onto me. Then his face was awash with a smile and he was gone.
Not long into living with Mary, my mother introduced me to a plumber she knew, from the American Legion. She said he needed an apprentice so next thing I knew I was working for this old guy, Bob Bilgepump.
He was a plumber with two sons- one was unaware that he was about to get a new apprentice. Bill was quickly saddled with finding me things to do when Bob didn’t need to have me drive him around. He always said the same thing, “this guy owes me some money.”
He started off at the Wolf’s Den, then to the Legion, on and on until he was done or had a woman to take back to the hotel room he kept on Division and Fiftieth. I’ll never forget the girl he brought back there. I think her name was Jan.
“Jan” was hit by a train on Homecoming night. Her boyfriend died along with her child…? She needs an operation to be able to talk that costs something like five grand. It was very sad to sit with her while she communicated. She was prostituting herself and drinking her life away.
Bill and I became good friends pretty quickly. He was like a brother to me. I enjoyed hanging out at his place. Beers were a plenty and tunes were blasting. Little did I know that Bill had a cocaine and alcohol addiction and that he had just gotten out of rehab. I would have never guessed that, ever. In fact, I didn’t see a problem at all.
Outside of the things bill would tell me, I only saw the bachelor lifestyle. He said something that I never forgot; “I graduated high school and went to a party. Then I went to another and another until I got here where I am today, with the things I have to show for myself.
My buddy Mike got out went to work, bought a house. Now his house is paid for, he has a boat and toys, jet skis, motorcycles, and he’s married. All I got is what’s in the fridge. Is that the girl of your dreams? You’ve got to go out there and find the girl of your dreams. Live and work toward something big!”
It was soon after that that Mary became pregnant. I was so stupid to think I couldn’t have kids because of an injury to my scrotum. Just because we had been having unprotected sex for months and nothing would happen I thought, Hmm. Boy was I wrong. I should have taken it as a sign that I was to not become tied to this woman. But I am dense. It would take a pretty big sign.
The night she went into labor, I was working with Bill. Mary had spoke to me on the phone saying that she didn’t want me to come up to the hospital because she wanted to claim not knowing who the father is- influenced by her sister, Julie.
Julie seemed to have an angle for working the state. She had several kids all from different fathers, though she was married to a man the entire time who thought the kids were all his.
Ken got the shit end of the stick eventually from that woman. Little did I know, the hospital thing would later haunt me when she claimed how I refused to show up to sign the Birth Certificate. A bit more damage to my relationship with Sarah.
Mary started in with her delusions and paranoia about six months in to Sarah's life and tormented the home for coming months until I had no choice but to leave. She had accused me of having sex with the homosexual couple down the street, pulling a large knife from behind her- just like in the movies.
After she lunged at me with the knife, I wrestled her to the ground, causing her to lose grip of the knife. I kicked it down the steps and got up from her to clamber back a good distance. Seeing the opening to the staircase, I dodged for it and never went back that night. Instead, I went to meet a woman I had met at lunch, Mindy.
I had already decided that I was leaving Mary as soon as possible.
The main issue was transportation, and was solved this particular day because I had Paul’s truck. Earlier that day I had set it up to go out with Mindy. I hadn’t yet had a new place to live in mind or that I would need to find it tonight. Somehow being attacked with the knife changed all of that. When I left to go to Mindy’s house I had no idea what I would encounter, so I brought beer, wine, liquor, weed- and condoms.
That would not be enough, because when I got there I found out about mushrooms. We jumped right in the truck to get some. When I got back to their house, Mindy was laying in bed after having taken a Percocet, while listening to Sound garden- “I know what to do”. In my head was, “Day Tripper” by the Beatles. I figured she was a pill head because of the Percocet. Either way, she put her moves on me and we did it. She acted like she knew what she was doing. I would never believe she was just recently a virgin. By the time I realized we were finished I noticed my boots were still on. I never did figure out if I meant to leave them on or if it was the hypnosis.
Mariah’s little girl, Alexis, claimed that she saw a little boy sleeping on Mindy’s tummy. She said the boy lives in the house. It was understood that Alexis saw a ghost. Mindy was soon to discover that she was pregnant. I had asked her if it was all good even though I did have condoms. She was calculating by rhythm and miscounted. I was a bit relieved since she was now more or less acquired. I went right to work setting money aside to get our own place even though her aunt offered to get her an abortion and relocate her. Her father assumed the condom broke, sarcastically implying that no one really breaks a condom.
What ever story they were told, didn’t change the reaction from Judith, Mindy’s mom. She went on a tirade about this type of thing happening to other families, and that this family should never be having this sort of thing let alone with a Hick for the father that she has nothing in common with.
They had no idea that I was a skilled trade or anything of any value.
Before too long Mindy’s dad would have his hands in my financial affairs by way of doing my taxes. He was helping us get into a real home as well. It was not understood what the dynamic was between him and I where this home was involved. I later found out that we had been renting the house from him, that he had bought it, not us. Then he turns around and does the same thing to us at the second house in East Grand Rapids.
I really was shocked when I found out that the house was his, especially since I was going through the divorce with Mindy, and had thought if nothing else I have the house.
Not so. I had lost my business, my wife and kids, and my house. That was before Thanksgiving. By Christmas I had quit my job at Permalloy It was the only place in Grand Rapids that would hire me. Coincidentally it was Randy Marabou, Doug’s cousin.
My theory is that I was blackballed. I couldn’t take coming home to an empty house.
When Christmas bonuses came, it was like twenty five dollars or something like that. It was the last blow I could take. I went all out on a drinking binge and road the alleys with the crack scrounges. I had given up but I am not there yet.
Ironically, (boy, this seems to be a diet high in iron-y), it was around my having become of legal age to drink, when I realized it was time to eliminate using alcohol entirely- even mouthwash. My foremost concerns began the summer of my twenty-first birthday, when I realized what was a serious possibility at a family so, I prioritized a couple things to ensure it.
First, to continue developing as a skilled tradesman/finish carpenter, which was mostly made possible by way of my mentor and Master, Paul Valdamar Jensen, whom proved to be a true friend and remains to be to this day. If it had not been for his patience, (he’d laugh at that word), and ability to identify my potential, as well as the forces at work tempting to deny myself any amount of success at all, I would not be alive today to make the willful efforts at contributing to society that I have been motivated to make- however small or seemingly undeserved, second.
[Personally, I dream of reaching a multitude but reality and the ability to rationalize allows me to accept the possibility of going unheard or misinterpreted, though a single person would be a success.]
It was my trade that empowered me with an identity and provision. And just as those great cultural icons of the world whose careers and lives ended at twenty-seven years of age, so did mine seem to. It was the loss of my business as a Finish Carpenter when I was twentyseven years old that caused the devastating blow of destroying my household entirely. The trigger was fear. The fear I had of my wife put me on the road when I was:
A friend of mine needed an estimate for replacing the windows in his home but I needed to be home at a time dictated to me by Mindy. I left the job site early enough to go look at the window situation, and still be home for dinner. Well, thankfully for me, I did not have time to load up my tools or my head may have been crushed when I was stopped in traffic, only to become the primary victim of a triple collision- the definition of which is not that there were three vehicles involved but that I was hit three times.
There were, in fact, three vehicles involved. One was the semi that hit me, from the Grand Rapids Trucking Company, which happened to be traveling at fifty-five miles per hour. He was looking down blouses when he failed to observe that traffic had backed up to a complete stop near the 196/U.S.131 interchange.
The third vehicle was in front of me. It was also hit three times, secondary to the impact. It should be easy to deduce that I was hit six times. The only word I can use for the moment is “senseless” because I had no idea what had happened- only that I had somewhere to be and the man in front of me, not only wasn’t proceeding but was now getting out of his mini-van.
The driver and walked to the rear of his vehicle. I was so agitated and knocked so senseless that when my door refused to let me get out, forcefully springing back to slap me upside my head, I simply used the other door without a second thought. After all, there were two doors.
The explanation softens the blow but it absolutely crippled me with despondency, to say the least, especially after my wife began catting around in A.O.L. chat rooms, and then soon after, announcing to me that she wanted a divorce. I stated one simple question: “I guess you won’t mind me having a beer then?” It came out almost as if it invited an answer from her. At that point I think it was more of a dare or a challenge. It was a thinly veiled threat, a tactful yet passive way of saying, “I’ll kill you.”
I realize it would have been the easiest way out, and for that I will never get credit from man but the cynical human self-preservation defensive part of me that provides humor in the face of adversity couldn’t help but at least wonder, “what if ”, like Dr. Seuss.
While making my second twenty ounce cup of instant coffee, emptying my bladder and washing my hands, I briefly pondered a lesson meant for someone else in my cube but gifted it to myself. I imagined asking him what the difference was between the time God gives you on this planet, and the time man gives you in prison. The answer is, “Nothing, it’s what you do with the time”. I immediately thought of Danny, Dan DeRuiter, Danimal, S’Dan. And as I work on something I feel could be important to someone, I remind myself, “don’t ignore the message though the messenger is imperfect”.
Due to the fact that drinking was one of the more arbitrary things we did the most of. Even though we spent a lot of time drinking, we searched for, and found, substance and meaning in almost every minute together.
Trivia was merely a moment of rest, combined with comedy and appreciation for the arts. It recharged our creativity and our passions to be able to focus on the bigger picture, the one most people are too busy or selfish to see.
So, it was Danny that I gave credit to for my time in prison, away from my regular prison of my own existence. I recognize it as his test on my relationships, and other sailing vessels, and his value in, and of, my ability to have something to share- if not powerful. It was only up to me to decide when to get over my grief and focus. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it Dorothy?
So, I’m doing exactly what they say to do, no matter what you do. When someone writes abut something they don’t know or have no idea about, you will know. And even when I stumble on my topic I hope to have captured your interest enough to keep you reading regardless if I have ever sought compensation for my work. Rewards come from what you have done, your feats, not what you do. To me, you are rewarded for your efforts with support from those people that believe in you- embracing your loving heart for what it is.
Too often, lately, people get portrayed as heroes for fulfilling their job descriptions. Have we underachieved so grossly that anyone who does even the smallest thing is a hero these days?
Is it possible that the state of society is related to the travesty of the disservice we have done to our people, our children, the youththe future, for claiming Einstein was a genius for instance? Meaning nobody is smart enough to figure anything out unless they are? Boy, somebody really messed up for us! (SHHH, the game is on.)
Danny was one of my most intimate friends. It was because of meeting him in the spring of 1999 that I was able to get away from drugs, and trying to deliberately drink myself to death. It was at this moment in time that I became reunited with my dreams of being a musician, and finally finding a friend at a time in my life when I was totally lost.
We were far more than drinking buddies but when he died from “natural causes”, while exceeding his daily allowance of fun, I lost my drinking buddy, only gaining the perspective that I was next.
On the night of 6-6-06, I had a dream. My truck was in a shallow stretch of the Grand River, with the hood up and me under it. I was startled by a slender, muck covered being that swam up along side of me and popped out of the water. Frightened by the sudden appearance of it, I grabbed a long handled tool, bludgeoning it to death.
When I went to work the following day, my roommate came to the job to tell me that Danny was found dead that morning. The thing in my dream had all of the earmarks and character of Danny.
It had all of the indications of the state of my life, and I had killed him but I also killed the thing that was what I was becoming. A murder/suicide through my fear of what lay ahead.
The emotional strain caused some decisions to be made. The only one I had made with any clarity at all was that the drinking, drinking, drinking had to stop. And even though some great things happened, the worst or what would seem like the worst, was failing to recall that the job offer that followed was from someone that was never a friend, and who had caused a lot of problems for Danny and I out of his jealousy of us, and his Heroine addiction.
Now here’s where a friend or a family member would have come in handy. My decision to go to Florida for work was rationalized with the desire to put fear to rest with the Friend of the Court, buying time until my SSDI came through. It was not until one and a half years later that I could change the last statement that I made to my son, which was: “Cody, I am going to go to Florida to work for a few weeks. I need two thousand dollars for the court to keep from putting me in jail over child support again.”
It was only too late before I realized that I had been set up and robbed of my band equipment. Some of it was purchased from the guy offering me the work, and some of it I had inherited from Danny directly.
Have you ever heard of “the Key West move”?
Google it and see if anything comes up. I never have but I am willing to bet my Brazil nuts that something is there to illustrate what I am talking about. Anyway, I was clueless until I discovered myself abandoned on Key West without a single soul to help me with much of anything, (well, almost nothing). I did find help getting rid of my money and smokes.
The police arrested me repeatedly on a string of charges without any witnesses or evidence. And when I tried to defend myself I found that I had no real Defense council. It was myself against them, and I was playing on their turf with nothing but the words of the local police, and mine- a homeless person in the Florida Keys.
422 days were spent in the detention facility on Stock Island but I left with a lot of stories, and information, that under certain circumstances I could be killed for. Danny would exclaim, “Unbelievable!” Just when you get into it, and start enjoying the ups and downs, the speed changes, the screams of the fast drops, and the giggles of the climbs- it’s over. Just like life. I can only say two words: Actuate Yourself. I lived it, and I am writing it down to share with you.
[Sincerely, Zachery S. Polk Convicted Felon August 2011] This is some of the original manuscript, with some files added to help complete the the intentions. I am working at editing, currently, while entertaining those who may have an interest in publishing it.
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