Josh came running into the house, red curls bouncing- crying.
He was very frightened- eyes wide in terror, while trying to tell me, through the gasps for breath, about a great ball of fire that had come out of the thin air- hitting him.
It isn't clear how, "dad" got involved- whether he was called and came rushing home or, if he had coincidentally arrived back to the cell-block after the incident- from his job at "Alloy-Tech" in Grandville Michigan. Either way, "dad" labeled me as the culprit for his "number one son" becoming hit and burned by this mysterious ball of fire.
The funny part was that he had several kids- thirteen maybe, and multiple sons- of which, I was the oldest in this "home" of ours- strip-son more appropriately, but son just the same. Years later, but not many, I would learn, finally, that he was not my father at all. I should have guessed.
Anyway, dad conducted the investigation- finding a container in the yard, with matches inside and around the container- a container that he had brought home from work and had used to illegally cart gasoline home because he was too cheap to buy a can when he needed money for Green-fees at the various golf-courses he frequented.
He beat my ass for it pretty well. Pretty well, that is, if only he had been punishing himself for being so careless. That could have been the second death of a son that he would have experienced in his life at that point. The first one died of an antibiotic poisoning after an incident on Halloween, where the boy, "Ricky," had to be rushed to a hospital- possibly a Naval Hospital in Virginia, coincidentally, where I was born- Norfolk.
Forgive me if I am wrong (literature professors). There's a paper trail I do not have time to trace, and it's unimportant for the moment.
I'll get back on track. I was twelve years old- a gangly, "scrawny," nutrient starved boy- stripped, like the bark of a dead Elm tree, of all confidence and self-esteem. I can't work hard enough for anyone, for any reason, to this day- and it sucks- and, makes me incurably thirsty.
So, he gave me another one of his man-sized whooping's as if it were me that had hurt Joshua by playing with matches, and, an almost completely empty "gas can" that he, himself, had put gasoline in, leaving it out in the yard.
Why was Josh dropping the matches in the can?
Funny we should all wonder. I still have no idea, and, have yet to ask him about it. That was almost forty years ago...
After sleeping on it, while here, in the Charlevoix jail, one more time due to my delinquent now ex-girl/care-giver, I recall our dad doing somethings with gasoline, matches, and his ego-suit, that he was extremely careful to have pressed and not to wrinkle. I think it was Izod-
He took an empty coffee can, and a small drizzle of fuel, rolled the can around, in order to wick the fuel up the sides of the can, which created a lot of fumes, flipped it upside-down, placing it on a board, so that the edge of the can hung off the side a slight amount- much like lighting an old lantern. Placing a match under the lip that hung over the edge of the board- "POP!" The can shoots up into the air- due to a force called COMBUSTION, exactly like a piston in a gasoline motor/engine.
He would take matches and wrap them tightly in tin-foil (I'll say Reynold's wrap aluminum foil if they sponsor me), rub the edge of the match on a hard surface, laying it on the stove top burner grate, and applying the flame from the burner to the head, so that it would combust- flying, from the pressure created in the wrapping of the head. The force would cause it to smack into the ceiling or other.
I guess Josh was just imitating his dad's stunts or, "physics lessons". That wasn't the only thing he applied matches too- Remember, this is a story about me. Who the heck am I? Right. I will tell you in a while.
I remember him doing this- well... for our entertainment I suppose, but now that I think about it, that's not a very good thing to share with prepubescent children, especially BOYS. I was ten, and Josh was going to be 5, later that year. I wouldn't have dared try to do it because everything was a trap around our house. The liquor bottle had a mark on it. The matches were numbered. The cupboards were booby-trapped, with things that would indicate that they were opened. Nothing was left to chance. Anything he could jump on my back for. The salt was numbered- and the pepper needed the fly shit sorted out of it, which was my job. I had to taste each piece! Yeah- you think I am kidding, but just enough to take the edge off; Only about the pepper.
Consequently, that was about the only thing I dared touch to my lips, aside from what he shoved past them. I didn't dare reach for anything at the table, and, to this day, I hate eating because it's always been a bad thing. Kids didn't ask to be here- and what we need to remember, when we are punishing those around us, is that we are all someone's kids.
All was normal and routine at home. And, that was why I went to school- to get away from home. I thought that was what school was for, and, why all of us kids went- to get away to a safe place for a while each day. Boy, was I wrong. Maybe, if I would have had a clue, that we weren't all growing up like that, I would have realized that there was something wrong with going to school smelling like the piss I woke up in every morning until he had finally left with my mother's brother's wife- Uncle Gary; He was my favorite until he blamed me for that one. And, up until Rick finally left, I pretty much kept going to school until I left home altogether. Class of 88 cum 91 when I went back- clean, and got my Diploma, after dropping out in 86. I am still educating myself to this breath. And you should be too.
Escaping The Despondent Sea is available on Amazon Kindle Unlimited, and is receiving 5 star reviews on Goodreads.com
It isn't clear how, "dad" got involved- whether he was called and came rushing home or, if he had coincidentally arrived back to the cell-block after the incident- from his job at "Alloy-Tech" in Grandville Michigan. Either way, "dad" labeled me as the culprit for his "number one son" becoming hit and burned by this mysterious ball of fire.
The funny part was that he had several kids- thirteen maybe, and multiple sons- of which, I was the oldest in this "home" of ours- strip-son more appropriately, but son just the same. Years later, but not many, I would learn, finally, that he was not my father at all. I should have guessed.
Anyway, dad conducted the investigation- finding a container in the yard, with matches inside and around the container- a container that he had brought home from work and had used to illegally cart gasoline home because he was too cheap to buy a can when he needed money for Green-fees at the various golf-courses he frequented.
He beat my ass for it pretty well. Pretty well, that is, if only he had been punishing himself for being so careless. That could have been the second death of a son that he would have experienced in his life at that point. The first one died of an antibiotic poisoning after an incident on Halloween, where the boy, "Ricky," had to be rushed to a hospital- possibly a Naval Hospital in Virginia, coincidentally, where I was born- Norfolk.
Forgive me if I am wrong (literature professors). There's a paper trail I do not have time to trace, and it's unimportant for the moment.
I'll get back on track. I was twelve years old- a gangly, "scrawny," nutrient starved boy- stripped, like the bark of a dead Elm tree, of all confidence and self-esteem. I can't work hard enough for anyone, for any reason, to this day- and it sucks- and, makes me incurably thirsty.
So, he gave me another one of his man-sized whooping's as if it were me that had hurt Joshua by playing with matches, and, an almost completely empty "gas can" that he, himself, had put gasoline in, leaving it out in the yard.
Why was Josh dropping the matches in the can?
Funny we should all wonder. I still have no idea, and, have yet to ask him about it. That was almost forty years ago...
After sleeping on it, while here, in the Charlevoix jail, one more time due to my delinquent now ex-girl/care-giver, I recall our dad doing somethings with gasoline, matches, and his ego-suit, that he was extremely careful to have pressed and not to wrinkle. I think it was Izod-
He took an empty coffee can, and a small drizzle of fuel, rolled the can around, in order to wick the fuel up the sides of the can, which created a lot of fumes, flipped it upside-down, placing it on a board, so that the edge of the can hung off the side a slight amount- much like lighting an old lantern. Placing a match under the lip that hung over the edge of the board- "POP!" The can shoots up into the air- due to a force called COMBUSTION, exactly like a piston in a gasoline motor/engine.
He would take matches and wrap them tightly in tin-foil (I'll say Reynold's wrap aluminum foil if they sponsor me), rub the edge of the match on a hard surface, laying it on the stove top burner grate, and applying the flame from the burner to the head, so that it would combust- flying, from the pressure created in the wrapping of the head. The force would cause it to smack into the ceiling or other.
I guess Josh was just imitating his dad's stunts or, "physics lessons". That wasn't the only thing he applied matches too- Remember, this is a story about me. Who the heck am I? Right. I will tell you in a while.
I remember him doing this- well... for our entertainment I suppose, but now that I think about it, that's not a very good thing to share with prepubescent children, especially BOYS. I was ten, and Josh was going to be 5, later that year. I wouldn't have dared try to do it because everything was a trap around our house. The liquor bottle had a mark on it. The matches were numbered. The cupboards were booby-trapped, with things that would indicate that they were opened. Nothing was left to chance. Anything he could jump on my back for. The salt was numbered- and the pepper needed the fly shit sorted out of it, which was my job. I had to taste each piece! Yeah- you think I am kidding, but just enough to take the edge off; Only about the pepper.
Consequently, that was about the only thing I dared touch to my lips, aside from what he shoved past them. I didn't dare reach for anything at the table, and, to this day, I hate eating because it's always been a bad thing. Kids didn't ask to be here- and what we need to remember, when we are punishing those around us, is that we are all someone's kids.
All was normal and routine at home. And, that was why I went to school- to get away from home. I thought that was what school was for, and, why all of us kids went- to get away to a safe place for a while each day. Boy, was I wrong. Maybe, if I would have had a clue, that we weren't all growing up like that, I would have realized that there was something wrong with going to school smelling like the piss I woke up in every morning until he had finally left with my mother's brother's wife- Uncle Gary; He was my favorite until he blamed me for that one. And, up until Rick finally left, I pretty much kept going to school until I left home altogether. Class of 88 cum 91 when I went back- clean, and got my Diploma, after dropping out in 86. I am still educating myself to this breath. And you should be too.
Escaping The Despondent Sea is available on Amazon Kindle Unlimited, and is receiving 5 star reviews on Goodreads.com
