When Patsy’s dad came to the door I collapsed inside myself like the beginnings of a black hole. I felt small and dark. To be fair he was a kind, jovial fellow who probably thought I was some troubled kid and he was doing a good deed for me by forcing me to hang out with him and his horse-faced daughter so I could see what a real family was like. Lucky me.
We went over to Patsy’s house and I just sat there, quiet. She didn’t know what to do either, because she knew she had started the whole mess. I was polite to her parents, yet solemn. There was no way I was going to be her friend. Luckily I was only there for about an hour or so, but it definitely seemed a lot longer. When they dropped me off at the house I raced to the front door without stopping to say goodbye. I knew I would never put myself through that again. How can these people not realize how important justice is to me after everything I had been through in my short life? Just more validation that the only one looking out for me was me.
* * *
One thing about living in the middle of nowhere is that you get creative with outdoor play. Mikey, Punky and I spent countless hours outside building forts, lighting fires (Mikey), vandalizing (Mikey again), catching toads and turtles, you name it. My brother and his friends would have poop contests in the backyard to see who could lay the biggest brick. They would drop their drawers one by one and line up right next to each other. I don’t recall who won but I do remember Mom bitching about her missing paper towels. More than once our dog Snoopy broke his chain and came and ate all the turds, then chased us around the yard as we ran screaming at the thought of Snoopy trying to lick us with his turd breath.
Daddy Frank hated cops, which he called “pigs,” and for some reason they came to our house often so he had Snoopy chained up in the front yard not far from our front door. I always felt bad for Snoopy. He was large and intimidating, part German shepherd, part wolf. His fur was mostly black with a little brown mixed in and was thick as hell. He would have devoured anyone who came near him if not part of the family. He had a sad junkyard doghouse made of plywood that looked like it took exactly eight minutes to nail together. Snoopy was never walked or loved very much, so every once in a while he broke his chain and tore through the neighborhood and nearby woods. Mom always gave us a bag of deli ham and said, “Go catch Snoopy.” We spent hours chasing after him and he always came home. I don’t think it was for the ham. He loved us and was part of the family; he just needed his moments to run wild.
As much as we loved the outdoors we were addicted to Saturday morning cartoons. We had exactly two channels, three if you counted PBS (we didn’t). We didn’t watch much during the week but we were all about Saturday mornings. One Saturday we were sitting on the floor in front of our 19” color Zenith eating Fruity Pebbles and watching Bugs Bunny when there was a knock at the door. Mom was in the dining room smoking a cigarette and having her coffee. Frank had gone to the dump to either drop off trash or look for treasures. Mom went to the door and the man knocking stepped inside and explained he was with the rental place and was there to collect the television since no payments had been made. Mom was normally passive with strangers but I saw her face change and she looked angry.
“You mean to tell me you’re gonna take this television away from my three kids?” Mom looked over at us and as if on cue we all started crying.
“Please, mister, don’t take our TV!” I wailed. My brother went into one of his full-blown ear-piercing meltdowns which I now realize probably put him on the spectrum, though no one talked about that in those days. Even little Punky who couldn’t have been more than three or four joined in. The repo-man looked devastated.
“Okay fine lady, keep your TV,” he muttered as he turned and bolted out the door. I’m sure he sprinted past Snoopy. I’m shocked he even made it to the front door in the first place.
After he left we all cheered and high-fived. Mom seemed very pleased with herself and us. The one time she was glad we were all having tantrums. Normally, when one of us cried she would freak out and say “You kids are killing me!” But not this day. She was proud of her little monsters. Mom said she never heard back from the rental company. We were able to keep our 19” Zenith color TV.
Growing up poor didn’t bother me much at first. I guess I didn’t know the difference. I thought all kids got on their knees and prayed to Jesus for milk and eggs. I was a good little prayer too. I used to throw in requests for Lucky Charms, Orange Crush and anything else I could think of. Usually our prayers were answered. It wasn’t until I got a little older that I realized Jesus always blessed Mom with cigarettes and Pepsi. Mom would sit at the dining room table puffing away and say, “Kids, go pray that the Lord brings us food this week.” We used to kneel in front of that plastic-covered loveseat and pray our hungry little hearts out. I knew that if Jesus got Mom her smokes he wouldn’t begrudge me milk and eggs.
Mom also got food from our church on occasion. Around the time I was eight or so Mom joined a local Evangelical church. It was fun at first. We went Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings and Wednesday evenings too. They had programs for kids, and we got to run around and play a lot. Our cars often broke down so more than once people came from the church to pick us up. I guess they really wanted to make sure we didn’t miss out. Mom seemed to like all the attention. They doted on her at first but it didn’t take long before they tried to change her. With her heavy makeup, painted fingernails, sleeveless tops, and cigarettes I think they saw her as a Jezebel in the flesh and a challenge to convert. I’m sure they saw us kids as heathens since we were wild and mouthy as ever.
One Sunday the pastor told us we had to bring in our secular music for a church burning. I was pissed. So was Frank. Mom made him bring in all of his Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin albums. I had to bring my little 45 of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” That was a sad day. Unfortunately it didn’t stop there. That same Sunday, Pastor Ken asked if anyone in the congregation was suffering from any afflictions that needed prayer. That happened often and usually there would be one or two parishioners who asked for redemption for their alcohol or cigarette addiction. The pastor asked them to come to the pulpit for hands-on prayer and deliverance. It wasn’t at all uncommon to see them fall to the ground and convulse like they were having an epileptic seizure. The best part was when the pastor hovered over them holding a Bible in the air, speaking in some foreign language that Mom said was called tongues. When I asked more detailed questions she really couldn’t answer except to say it was a holy language. I never comprehended what the point of a holy language was if we couldn’t understand it.
One Sunday Mom dragged me to the pulpit because Pastor Ken told everyone who wanted the gift of tongues to come to the front. Mom must have thought since I asked so many questions I was a good candidate, so she had the associate pastor Lou pray over me. He prayed and prayed in his holy language with his hand on my head and it was awkward because he was waiting for me to speak this tongues language only I was secretly singing “Another One Bites the Dust” in my head. When I finally couldn’t take the pressure anymore I made up my own holy language which was “Another One Bites the Dust” said backwards and everyone thought I was blessed with the spirit. I was so relieved to have him move onto the next victim that I didn’t care that I had turned into a total fraud.
What was worse was that same day Pastor Ken kept calling out to the congregation that there was someone afflicted with a horrible addiction and that person should reveal himself to be saved. There was a hush that pervaded the room but that didn’t stop Pastor Ken. “Come on, I know you’re out there. Stop hiding,” he said with conviction.
Out of nowhere my friend Terry’s dad stood up.
“It’s me, Pastor. I have a terrible addiction.”
“What is it, son? How has Satan gotten a-hold of you?”
“I’m addicted to...Pac-Man!” Terry’s dad said as he broke into sobs. I was shocked that Mr. Black would think playing Pac-Man was such a bad thing. I had played on more than one occasion a
nd I thought it was fantastic. Pure genius, actually. I didn’t see the problem or why Mr. Black had to create such drama. He eagerly went running to the front and Pastor Ken laid hands on him, eventually pushing him to the ground, so he could do that convulsing thing and burn off the calories he had consumed from eating that morning’s church donuts. Poor Terry. He must have been mortified, but even worse; he would probably never get to play another game of Pac-Man ever again.
Mom really got into this religion thing. She had always talked about God before, here and there but now she was full-on obsessed with Jesus and the Bible, which is probably why she also became obsessed with televangelists. Every weekend when it was show time she got her coffee and cigarettes and nestled into the couch to watch Praise the Lord (PTL) with Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. When Mom sat on the couch to watch TV we kids would all fight to see who would get Mom’s leg. Mom would curl up on the armrest and bend her legs in underneath her so the side of her leg would be available. Mom had a very round ass and it made for a comfortable pillow, and sometimes she would play with our hair. Mikey and I would battle it out but we usually got equal time. Then little Punky would crawl somewhere in between which we never minded because she was tiny and cute and didn’t make a peep. We cherished this time because it was the only time Mom was affectionate. Mom wasn’t big on hugs anymore and often if we tried to hug her she would push us off and say, “Stop hanging on me!” But if the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter was aligned with Mars she would let us cuddle up on her leg and not push us off. It was blissful.
In addition to PTL Mom also watched Jimmy Swaggart. Sometimes I would watch too and wonder why he yelled so loud and sweated so much. He would get so excited and flail his Bible in the air and soon the sweat beads on his forehead would start pouring down his face like an afternoon thundershower. He talked a lot about sin, and he scared me more than Jim Bakker, although Tammy Faye’s eyelashes gave me nightmares, especially when she cried and the mascara ran down her face and made it look like she cried black tears just like Mom on the day she got me back. I think she and Mom shared makeup tips, and I was sure Tammy Faye used Mary Kay, just like Mom.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if Mom just watched these shows for inspiration, but she also sent them money. She called the pledge line frequently and sent twenty dollars at a time on a fairly regular basis. I couldn’t quite figure out why we were praying for food if Mom was sending Tammy Faye the twenty dollars that would buy us milk, eggs and Sno Balls. It just didn’t make sense. Tammy was dressed so nice and wore lots of jewelry so how could she need our money? Not to mention she was always praying, so I’m sure Jesus kept her pantry stocked with all things Hostess.
* * *
After the whole Letter People incident things became more and more difficult for me at school. I didn’t fit in with the other kids and felt like such an outsider. Even though I was in the advanced group I still didn’t have many friends. I felt invisible.
One day I came up with a brilliant plan. I was standing outside waiting for the school bus and a sense of dread washed over me. I would rather be anywhere except at that weird-smelling school. On a whim I dove into the bushes when I heard the bus make the turn onto my street. I peeked through the branches and watched it pass by. I waited about five minutes until it went to the end of the street and passed back again, then when it was out of sight I strolled back in the house as if nothing was wrong. Mom was furious.
“Sparrow! Why didn’t you get on the bus?” At first, I would come up with what I thought were clever excuses. “I forgot my lunch box” or “I had to pee.” After a while I just laughed and ran around the living room as Mom chased me. Sometimes she caught me by the hair, wrapping it around her hand several times and pulling kind of hard at the base of my neck. I can’t say I blame her. It was over thirty miles to school and she never took me because I think she was too afraid the car would break down.
One time she tried to hold me accountable and told Frank to take me. He was happy to oblige, but once we got in the car he said we had to make a pit stop. We stopped at his good friend George’s house so they could have an early morning cold one. I sat on the couch watching TV as they drank and laughed and gossiped like women at the kitchen table. I kept asking when we were leaving. “In a minute, Sparrow, calm down,” Frank said.
After several hours I decided to call Mom. “Mom, I’m at George’s house and Frank’s drinking.”
“Put him on the phone,” she said.
Frank never once got pissed at me, but he looked a bit defeated as he grabbed the phone. I could hear Mom yelling on the other end. She told him to bring my ass to school.
“Too bad, Sparrow, you could have had a day off,” he said, slowly shaking his head. He reeked of beer but at age eight I was a pretty good judge of drunk people and I deemed him safe to drive. Funnily enough we never made it to school because a few miles down the road one of the wheels fell right off the car. I think it was the front left one. Back to George’s house we went.
Chapter 9
During the spring of my ninth year Frank scored some extra money and went to the local department store to get us all bikes. Brand new bikes! This was a big deal because Frank had pretty much stopped working at this point. I still don’t know if he quit or was fired from his jobs but I do know he was showing up to work reeking of booze. Frank’s morning routine was to get up, drive down to the Little Mountain Store about a mile down the road, and buy two cans of Colt 45. He was able to hide a can in each Harley-Davidson motorcycle boot and when he came back into the house he went straight to the bathroom. I would hear the door lock, then I’d hear the first pop top. He must have downed the first beer quickly because I’d hear the second pop top not long after. Then he would open the window, throw the cans out, belch loudly, close the window and rejoin the family. He was ready to start the day.
He had brought Mikey to the local department store with him so Mikey got to pick out his own bike. Frank went ahead and chose Punky’s bike and my bike too. When they got home Frank came into the house calling for Mom.
“Joanie, we gotta talk. Mikey insisted on a pink bike.” Mom was surprised at first but didn’t really see the harm in it. Frank persisted. “Joanie, I can’t let him ride that bike up and down the block. He’s gonna get the shit beat out of him.” Mom insisted he’d be fine.
Frank tried to convince Mikey one more time to exchange the bike for a boy’s BMX, but he was crazy about the pink Huffy. Frank got Punky a yellow bike with a huge banana seat and a decal that said “Country Sunshine” on the side. My bike was tan and dark brown and looked like a grownup’s bike, so I was excited but also a little disappointed that the colors looked like something you would find in a litter box.
Frank put mine together last and I was ready to go. He didn’t really own tools, so he used a butter knife. I was shocked at what you could accomplish with a little know-how and a butter knife and I took note. I didn’t know how to ride a bike, but I was convinced I could ace it no sweat. I tried to get on but it was so big and heavy that every time I tried the bike and I fell over. Frank started laughing.
“Looks like this bike is pretty big. Here I’ll help you.” Frank set his beer down and held the bike steady so I could get on. Success! I sat on the seat but my feet didn’t reach the pedals. “I can’t adjust the seat any more Sparrow, it’s already all the way down.”
At first I felt deflated, but seeing my brother and sister getting comfortable on their bikes I was determined. Frank said he would help. I figured out I could pedal the bike as long as I was standing. And if Frank held onto the back and jogged beside me I was good.
It became obvious pretty quickly that Frank had never taught a kid how to ride a bike before. His idea of helping was to run alongside me then give a big push and let me fly solo. “It’s the only way you’ll learn, Sparrow.”
The first few times I crashed and burned pretty fast. Even though I was on a women’s three speed bicycle the bars can still attack you in
your nether regions and cause intense pain. But I wasn’t giving up. This was before helmets, knee pads and the like, so I was pretty scraped up from head to toe, but by the end of the day I knew how to ride that bike. I just had to ride standing up. My bike was ugly and too big but I owned it. I mastered that thing and made it mine.
Mikey, on the other hand, had second thoughts about his bike. After riding through our neighborhood a few times he came home and threw his Huffy down on the ground. “I hate this bike!” he wailed. It seems a few boys tore him to shreds about his pink Huffy.
“You picked it out, Mikey, you have to ride it,” Frank had decided. Mikey ultimately embraced his bike and the boys in the neighborhood eventually stopped teasing him. I even caught a few of them riding it from time to time. I, on the other hand, never touched that pink bike. It was too girly and riding it seemed too easy.
* * *
School continued to get worse and worse. At home I was comfortable being me. I was also one of the oldest kids on the block, so I was the ringleader. But school was a different story. I was a year younger than everyone else and still painfully shy. I didn’t feel like I belonged.
Mom didn’t help me get ready in the mornings and I began noticing the other girls at school had clothes that weren’t stained or wrinkled, and their hair always looked nice with braids, pony tails, and fancy barrettes. One girl always had little alligators on her shirts. She wore plaid skirts with knee socks and never once did I see a hair out of place. In fifth grade she sat a few seats up from me in the row to my left and I would catch myself staring at her. Kristen Harris. Never had I ever wanted to be anyone in my life but I wanted to be her.
Riding Standing Up Page 5