Riding Standing Up

by Sparrow Spaulding

  I thought about sharing with Mustang that nothing had ever been stuck up in there but I was too embarrassed. I just went with it. Mustang showed me how my vagina would get wet when we made out and that it made it easier for him to stick his finger inside me. I really liked the way it felt and for some reason was embarrassed because I liked it. One time he tried to stick two fingers inside me and I let out a yelp.

  “Wow, girl, you’re so tight I can only use one finger. We should keep you that way.” I later realized that was his subtle way of saying he wasn’t going to take my virginity. I don’t think I would have gone there anyway, but I’m glad I didn’t face that temptation. Mustang was happy to keep it innocent. Maybe he had a sweet side after all? Or maybe he knew a bit about statutory rape.

  The night before I left to go back to New England Mustang stopped over to say goodbye. We were sitting outside on the curb in front of Dad’s place, talking and holding hands.

  “I’m so glad I met you this summer,” he said with a goofy grin. I was really glad too. Our clandestine meetings had added some much-needed spice to my life. I leaned over and gave him a hug.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” I heard someone bellow from behind me. Dad had woken up from his Barcalounger slumber and realized I was outside. There he was, standing in his blue, velvet monogrammed skirt, sans shirt, looking about eight months pregnant. Dad’s evening attire alternated between his Hugh Hefner smoking robe and his mail-order catalog monogrammed velvet wrap that Velcroed on one side. Of course he would be wearing the skirt. I didn’t even know they made skirts for men other than kilts until I saw Dad wearing one.

  “Dad, I’ll be right in. Give me five minutes.”

  Dad grumbled something as he turned around and went back in the house. I was grateful he didn’t try to introduce himself to Mustang since he was half-awake and reeked of Coors Light, and was wearing a skirt.

  “I guess this is goodbye,” Mustang said as we stood up. He gave me one last hug and a lingering kiss. I stood on the curb and waved as he drove away. I wasn’t the least bit sad that I would never see him again. Instead I was elated that I’d had an adventurous summer after all.

  That same year Mikey decided to live with Dad again. I thought it was a fabulous idea not only because there would be one less person using our only bathroom but also because Larry was growing more and more pissed at my brother. He couldn’t stand to even be in the same room and the arguing and fighting were getting worse by the day. I could see how Mikey could be unnerving, but Larry had no patience and took out all of his frustrations on him. Larry only worked six months out of the year, which meant he was mostly home for the other six, unless he was plowing snow, so there was little reprieve. He was constantly looking for chores for us to do and Mikey was having none of it. So he went back to Dad’s.

  At first, it was quiet. And almost livable. I picked up more of the slack and that sucked, but I could handle it if there was peace. No one calling me fat, no one constantly making fart noises or wiping boogers on every piece of furniture in the house. Mom was bereft that her only son was gone and she cried for him a lot, but Mom cried about stuff all the time anyway so really what did it matter?

  The reprieve was short-lived. I had overlooked one simple fact. Since Mikey was the one Larry took almost all of his frustrations out on and I was the oldest, second mouthiest kid, his ire would trickle down to me. Larry hyper-focused on me more and more and took an unhealthy interest in what I was doing. High school had introduced me to boys, booze and occasional bong hits. All of these things were readily available at my school so I was having the time of my life.

  I was away from home more and more and the endless list of chores wasn’t getting done on time. Larry wanted to put an abrupt stop to all of that, so I was grounded. A lot. I had taken a liking to talking back because it was my only defense mechanism. I became highly adept at arguing and learned how to cut deep with my words. That was a skill I only practiced with Mom a nd Larry but I felt like they totally deserved it.

  “Sparrow, you’re grounded!” Larry said once for God-knows-what.

  “Whatever, go fuck yourself.”

  “Now you’re grounded for a month!”

  “Great. Go fuck yourself.”

  “Make that three months!”

  “Awesome. Go fuck yourself.”

  “Six months!”

  “You can still go fuck yourself,”

  That was a fairly common occurrence. He would go on to ground me for twelve years and then realize how ridiculous he sounded which meant that I’d won. I became good at winning. I realized how ignorant and ridiculous my parents were and lost respect for them when I realized I was way more intelligent than both of them put together.

  Chapter 13

  As I got older and became more jaded the fighting intensified. My relationship with Mom was suffering because her anger and depression were growing worse day by day. After she lost a custody battle for Mikey she grew to resent me. It’s a long story and not really mine to tell but shortly after Mikey went to live with Dad he started complaining to Mom about how bad it was, so she did what any good Mom would do— she kidnapped her son back. One day she decided to fly to the Midwest where Dad was living, pick my brother up from school and bring him back home. The worst part was that Mikey really didn’t want to come back; he was just complaining to get attention. My parents went back to court and fought over my pawn of a brother.

  Right off the bat Mom had insisted I testify against my father so she could keep her son. She wanted me to tell the judge about Dad’s drinking and drug use. I refused. There was no way I was getting in the middle of any more of their arguing. They hadn’t been on good terms for years and they were always bashing each other, though Mom was worse about it.

  The day Mom came home from court after losing the custody battle she went for me, and when I say she went for me I mean she lunged at me full force and tried to strangle the life out of me.

  “You!” she screamed as she came charging toward me, arms outstretched. She attempted to grab my throat with both hands, screaming about how she’d lost her son and it was all my fault. Peg was there that day along with Larry and it took both of them to get Mom off me. Even though they stopped Mom from killing me they both blamed me too. I could tell from their looks and their body language that they thought I should have gone to court and testified against Dad. I knew in my soul staying out of it was the right thing. I could have had the ultimate revenge on Dad for stealing me all those years ago and nearly ruining my life, but I didn’t hate my father, and I thought Mikey was better off away from Larry.

  Mom was also envious of my high school years and that I had friends and boyfriends and a life. Mom was trapped in her home with her controlling husband and whiny children, her looks fading by the minute. I was coming out of my shell, going to parties and enjoying life. She was jealous.

  “You’re not going anywhere!” Mom screamed one night as I was leaving. “You’re outta control!”

  Sure I was living it up, but I was nowhere near out of control and I knew it. I saw many of my friends barfing in the bathroom at school after lunch, shagging every boy that came along and drinking beer in between classes. She didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “Why would I take any advice from you, you three-time loser?” I wholly expected her to yell back some horrendous obscenity but she didn’t. The look on her face contorted into sheer anguish, and she let out a wail like someone had just said the meanest thing on the planet to her, and then I realized that I just had. I stood there speechless as she turned, covered her face in shame and ran away. Technically I had won that round, but it didn’t feel like any kind of victory. Seeing Mom’s pained face pierced my heart and I realized I’d gone too far.

  We had never discussed the fact that she had children with three different men but I guess it weighed on her to some degree. I hadn’t planned that comment; it just came out. On some level I was ashamed of her. What woman marries t
hree losers? I was disappointed in her taste in men, especially since her choices affected me. I was sick of these assholes ruining my life in some way and I was rebelling.

  We never spoke of that fight and what I had said after that day, though she kept her distance for a while. I was okay with that even though I had some nagging guilt. I had officially crossed into total bitch territory and I wasn’t sure what that meant. I felt myself changing and growing more cynical, sarcastic, and brooding. I was becoming a master with words and hadn’t fully decided if I would use my powers for good or evil.

  * * *

  Going to Dad’s for the summer was becoming somewhat of an escape though I never knew what state he would be living in or what the climate of the household would be like. As I got older it became more bearable because Samantha relaxed quite a bit and we became close. Her daughters were older and off living their lives so perhaps it was easier for us to bond. I was older and taking better care of myself, so she no longer had to check me for lice or throw away all my clothes. We both loved shopping and would do it often though the woman could shop for eight hours straight without water or lunch. Sometimes I had to remind her that I might pass out if we didn’t leave soon and hydrate. She was a like a machine on a total mission: to find that one awesome deal. It could be a handbag, blouse or anything, really. No hanger was left untouched on the sale rack. Occasionally she would pay full price for something, like when she bought me my first Swatch watch at Bloomingdale’s. It was banana scented and I was so obsessed I sniffed my wrist for three weeks straight until the scent wore off.

  Things were calmer at their house overall and I loved the fact that it was clean and beautiful. Samantha had a knack for making every room look spectacular. I can’t recall one thing ever being out of place in their home. There wasn’t even a single junk drawer. I always wondered where they kept stray screws or the Krazy Glue but never bothered to ask. The only thing that ever got out of control was Dad’s drinking. He drank every day but normally it was beer and he handled it pretty well. His downfall was weekends when he went out with friends or when we went out to dinner as a family. Dad would have a drink before we left the house and several more at dinner. Martinis, Manhattans, wine, cordials—he was an all-out booze connoisseur. I was used to it except I became nervous when he got that glazed look in his eye knowing he would soon be behind the wheel attempting to drive us home. Every once in a while Samantha would convince him to let her drive, at which point he would pass out in the car with a lit cigarette and burn holes in the leather of whatever nice car they owned at the time. Oddly enough, she never bitched about it, at least not in my presence. She accepted Dad’s drinking as part of him, like a double-chin or third nipple— just a part of who he was.

  Even though Dad’s drinking occasionally made me pray to Jesus (only in the car, really) I didn’t experience much anger or frustration at their house, so I’m sure I came across as pleasant and maybe even sweet. I had buried all feelings about Dad kidnapping me and giving me a horrible start in life. Somehow the clothes, fun trips, sailboats, and so on obscured reality, but I hadn’t even begun to process what had happened so I was blind. It was fun to have a dad with some money since growing up with Mom was such an experience of deprivation. Even after she married Larry, who did fairly well, I still felt poor because he constantly reminded me I wasn’t his kid and he shouldn’t have to buy me anything.

  “Tell your rich dad to buy you shoes. He sure as hell doesn’t pay much child support.”

  More than once he took my light bulb for three straight days because I had accidentally forgotten to turn off the light when I left my room. Dad never pulled any of that crap. He would just say, “Turn off your goddamned light,” as if it were of no consequence but really he wouldn’t even say that because everything that went on in the house was Samantha’s responsibility. He was more like a guest there, to be waited on. Sure he would mow the grass on occasion but anything inside belonged to her. Her approach was stern but quiet. When I left dishes in the sink (her biggest pet peeve), instead of getting on to me she put them on my pillow so when I went to bed that night there they were, staring me in the face. I got the hint. I preferred that tactic to the yelling and screaming that Mom and Larry had become accustomed to. They had no reserve and certainly no desire to protect anyone’s dignity. I guess that’s why I attacked Mom’s dignity. I was learning to speak their language.

  Dad and Mikey yelled and fought often but for some reason it didn’t bother me as much as when Mikey and Larry argued. Dad was a little softer and I also rationalized that Mikey was his son and he had more leverage to discipline. Dad did whip Mikey a few times with a belt but I felt even that was less offensive than Larry’s total hatred and vitriol, which was getting progressively worse with each passing year. When Larry got mad he looked and sounded like the devil. His face would turn a deep reddish-purple which was like kryptonite to our little nervous systems.

  Usually Mikey got the brunt of Larry’s anger but when he wasn’t around I was on the receiving end of the spit-spewing rages. Once we took a trip to Long Island to see my grandparents. As usual the trip didn’t go well since Mom never got along with her parents after the kidnapping. They always ended up fighting. Grandpa complained about Mom’s smoking even though she did it outside. Grandma always found something to bitch about too. It was clear the only reason they still communicated was because of me. Mom ate a lot of shit sandwiches in order for me to have grandparents. I think she was also still looking for their love and acceptance—something she never did get from them.

  Mom had promised me that we would go to the local mall for new shoes while we were there. I was excited to shop at a fancy New York mall instead of the poor excuse for a local mall we had at home, which was still close to an hour away and only had a Kmart and JC Penney. I was thrilled to get some cool shoes that no one would have back at school and to see the latest styles. I had established my sense of style by that point and it was colorful and playful yet classy.

  My favorite shoes were hot-pink suede cowboy booties I wish I’d kept to this day because I’ve never been able to find anything remotely like them since. I wore them with the pencil-thin Gloria Vanderbilt dark-blue jeans Samantha bought me and my oversized fuchsia sweatshirt, which was belted and hung off the shoulder. I always had enormous earrings that were cool but too heavy and made my ears sag a little though I didn’t care one bit.

  Walking through the mall was a little embarrassing since we were a huge brood. Mom was the slowest walker on the planet and she was still breast-feeding so she thought nothing of stopping in the middle of the walkway and whipping out a boob to feed my sister. I often walked a little ahead of the clan hoping no one thought I was with them. I felt like they were the Munsters and I was Marilyn—the only normal one.

  This day was no different. I was always careful not to get too far ahead because Mom would yell “Sparrow, where are you?” as if I had been abducted all over again. But I was a little too excited about shoes and when I turned around to check for Mom I couldn’t find her. I went into a slight panic and walked back so I could locate her, when out of the blue two hands grabbed my shoulders and started shaking me violently.

  “DON’T YOU EVER WANDER OFF LIKE THAT AGAIN! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

  I was stunned and couldn’t speak. I tried to explain that I didn’t mean to get so far ahead, that I was just excited, but no words would form. I became dizzy and lightheaded and thought I was going to pass out, especially when I realized that every single person in the vicinity had stopped what they were doing and were staring at me. Larry kept shaking and scream-spitting in my face but I blacked out and have no idea what he said. The last I recall was walking through the mall zombie-like, in shell shock. Needless to say there were no new shoes.

  When Larry wasn’t screaming in my face or ordering me around he was checking me out. He disgusted me on a fairly regular basis with comments about my clothing like, “That’s a very sexy dress you are wearing,” and “D
o you have a bra on today?”

  When I took a shower he’d sometimes pick the lock and say he had to pee even though we lived on a wooded acre and he could have either held it or pissed on a tree out back. The sound of him pissing right next to me when I was in the shower made my skin crawl. Then he’d flush and I’d get a big dose of hot water. Once he stood there after going and said, “You know, I could pull this shower curtain back whenever I want.”

  I reached over and grabbed a shampoo bottle—the only weapon I could think of but I was fairly certain I could beat the shit out of him with it if I needed to. I also considered squirting shampoo in his eyes then tearing down the shower curtain on top of him and making a run for it. In a split second I had my plan. Luckily I never had to execute. After a minute that seemed like a year he turned around and walked out, leaving me alone with my adrenaline and attack plan.

  At night I moved my heavy dresser in front of my door so I felt safe when I slept. It took me more than a few minutes and I was screwed if I had to use the bathroom, but I did what I needed to in order to feel safe. I tried my best to shower when Larry was out of the house. I felt his eyes on me more and more and I had already been programmed to know what was coming. And it wasn’t good.

  Doug still came to visit from time to time and was always trying to hang out in my room. One time he sneaked in when I was still sleeping and crawled into bed with me.

  “What the fuck? Get out!” I screamed and punched him anywhere I could make contact.

  “Doug, come out of there,” Mom said as if she were telling Mikey to get out of the cookie jar. No one seemed to mind that the experience took another five years off my life. I heard them in the kitchen laughing like it was some childish prank. It somehow became the family joke that Doug was into me. When I finally sprouted those rosebuds Larry took notice and grabbed my left one and said, “Look, Sparrow’s growing boobs. Doug’s really gonna want you now.” Then he laughed as Mom looked away and went to find her cigarettes.