Larry continued to leer at me and Doug continued to defile me with his eyes, hands and tongue. More than once he walked past me when I was on the couch reading and grabbed me, holding me down and trying to kiss me. If I turned my head he would shove his tongue in my ear. I discovered a way to be numb to it all yet still have ninja-like reflexes and never hesitated to punch, kick, or slap anyone who entered my personal space bubble. I still have those reflexes today and have to be careful not to accidentally hit or punch anyone who gets too close to me or says something horribly offensive. I’m not always successful.
At some point I realized it would be better to be sexual with the boys at school in case my crazy family didn’t leave me alone and I lost my virginity to my fat, disgusting step-uncle or worse my ignorant, mean bastard of a step-dad. I didn’t know who the lucky guy would be; I just knew the longer I held onto my virginity the more likely someone horrible would take it. I saw how incest had affected Mom and some deep instinct told me to beware. It’s one thing to have Disgusting Doug shove his tongue in your ear. It’s another thing entirely for him to be shoving even bigger parts into harder to reach places. I knew if that happened I would be a goner—either completely crazy or in jail for homicide.
One of my classmates who lived down the street went to jail for shooting his step-dad with a .22. He got off the bus one day, walked into his trailer and blew the guy to bits. I was shocked but felt vindicated when I heard the news. I had experienced many fantasies of offing Larry, but I have never been a gun person. My daydreams involved drugging him with Mom’s ground up prescription pills, tying him to a chair and torturing him in various ways, my favorite being sticking needles in his eyeballs. I knew that Richard’s step dad deserved what he got as Richard was quiet, nice and never hurt a fly. I was only sad that he went to jail and wasn’t coming out for a long time.
Mom and Larry were not an affectionate couple. I rarely saw them hug or kiss one another after the first year or so together. Sometimes they hung out on the same couch and watched a movie, but they never cuddled. Every once in a while they rubbed a “knot” out of each other’s backs but it wasn’t a lovey-dovey rub, it was always a perfunctory rub.
One of the most intimate exchanges I witnessed between the lovebirds was in the bathroom and quite by happenstance. The door was slightly ajar so I pushed it open, convinced no one was in there. I was wrong. Mom was on her knees perched on top of the toilet seat with her pants (and panties) at her ankles. There, under the fluorescent light was Mom’s large, white ass right out in the open. The truth is it had gone from large to enormous after Doodie was born and it was saggy and peppered with cellulite. I hadn’t seen Mom’s naked ass in years and the sight of it is still etched in my psyche. What was even worse was the fact that Larry was on his knees too with his face up in Mom’s full moon. At first I thought this was some bizarre sex act that would scar my eyeballs forever but then I realized what he was up to—he was popping a zit on Mom’s fat pooper. Well, attempting to, anyway. “I don’t see a head,” I heard him say as I closed the door and fled from the most disgusting sight I had ever witnessed. There was never a more perfect time to swipe one of Mom’s cigarettes and head out the back door to smoke and collect myself.
I skipped dinner that night, in part because I didn’t want to look at either of them and in part because they had taken away my appetite. I thought for sure Mom would have said something later on, but as luck would have it they never even knew I was there. I certainly wasn’t going to enlighten them.
The other intimate encounter I recall between Mom and Larry was another walk-in moment, but this time they were, in fact, shagging. It was one Saturday morning and my friend Dana had spent the night. We were hanging out at the breakfast bar in our pajamas when Mom came up to put some coffee on. She happened to be in a good mood, smiling and making jokes, which was odd because she hadn’t even smoked or taken her meds yet.
“I’m gonna make breakfast, kids,” she said as she headed back down the stairs to her bedroom. Mom only made breakfast two or three times a year so I was excited. Pancakes? French toast? I couldn’t wait to have something other than the Total cereal Larry made us eat. He wouldn’t even buy the kind with raisins because he thought it was too sugary. Gone were the days of Lucky Charms and Fruity Pebbles that we scarfed when we were on our own.
I waited and waited for Mom to come back upstairs but she never did. I finally decided to go check on her and see what was taking so long. Her bedroom door was open so I barged right in.
“Mom, what’s for break...” I slammed the door and raced up the stairs. I didn’t stop running until I reached my bedroom. Dana came running in after me.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“My parents are getting it on!” I said, my head buried under a pillow.
“Eww. What did you see?”
I described how Larry was on top completely naked going at my mother like a jackhammer. I couldn’t get his albino ass going up and down at a speed of one hundred miles an hour out of my head. I had no idea people shagged that way. It looked like something you would see in a wildlife documentary about hyenas or jackrabbits. It definitely didn’t seem human.
A few minutes later Mom entered my room, all smiles. “Jeez, Sparrow, you almost ruined it.” She laughed out loud.
Wow, so they kept going.
“Larry is embarrassed and won’t come upstairs,” she added.
I couldn’t believe that I had seen part of him naked. Now I had seen both of their bare assess. It felt like a cruel joke from the universe. Why don’t these people close doors? And lock them, too?
“I’m gonna make breakfast now,” Mom said.
“Are you still hungry?” I asked Dana.
“Of course,” she replied, unfazed. “Let’s ask your Mom to make sausage,” she added, and we both rolled on the floor in a total fit of hysterics.
Chapter 14
My tenth grade year was pretty uneventful at first. I was still getting grounded for my “smart mouth” so I spent a lot of time at home. I was shocked, however, when Mom said I could go with my friend Karen to see her relatives in Canada over winter break. Karen already had her license and we would drive on our own to stay with her grandmother in New Brunswick. That time of year was cold and snowy and we would be driving for eight hours but Mom didn’t seem to mind. She knew Karen and trusted her. Perhaps she thought if I spent more time with her I would be more like her—respectful and accomplished.
Karen was an A+ student who won awards for everything and had a fan club made up of teachers and parents. She received preferential treatment from nearly everyone, and people felt sorry for her because her mom had died of a brain aneurysm a few years before. It was indeed a tragedy.
Karen was an enticing person to spend time with, but not for the reason everyone was thinking. Karen was fun, like super fun. Karen was a druggie. She was also a Deadhead, and the two usually went hand in hand in my school. Every time I got in the car with Karen she lit up. She smoked cigarettes too, but I’m talking weed and her favorite—hashish. I’m not sure where Karen got her drugs but she always had them and never seemed to be ashamed about it. She had nearly every Dead bootleg and told me which show and which generation we were listening to. She quickly converted me and I spent lots of time alternating between Jerry Garcia and Robert Smith because I couldn’t completely abandon my mod roots.
Karen dressed in flowing skirts, which hid her hairy legs. I couldn’t figure out why she couldn’t be one of those Deadheads that shaved but I thought it rude to ask. I became the stylish Deadhead, with my tight-fitting tie-dye t-shirts and sexy jeans with holes. I hated wearing flats but I found a few pairs I could get by with. I couldn’t forgo makeup like Karen and her friends but I went for the understated look with muted tones that were a shift from the purple and green eye shadows I had grown fond of. I tried to stay away from blues since they didn’t do much for me but I rocked purple mascara in those days, just not when I was with K
aren. I kind of liked having a new style to gravitate toward and had found a lovely long, brown paisley skirt with giant pockets on each side I wore frequently, if for no other reason than I could fit a beer in each pocket, kind of like Frank and his motorcycle boots.
“I can’t believe my mom is letting me go with you,” I told Karen one day at school. “We’re going to have a blast!” She reminded me that many people spoke French up there and that I should brush up. Her family was French so she was pretty fluent, but I was only in my second year so I needed to practice. That wasn’t a problem because I was in love with the French language and culture and I wanted nothing more than to be French myself. And the good news was I was great at it. I picked up the language quickly and it was my only A in school, mainly because it was the only class I did the homework in and studied for. I didn’t see history or geometry as skills for the future but I knew French would be.
I also loved French literature and just because I wasn’t reading about the Civil War doesn’t mean I wasn’t reading. I loved books. Actually, I worshiped books. I read constantly and when I was able to start reading in French I was all the more excited. Mom went to the library sales and bought me the old, worn classics they were getting rid of. I had cut my teeth on the likes of Freud, Adler and other experts in the field of psychology after Mom would read them for school and now I had worked my way up to the French authors like Camus and Sartre.
I found a home in existentialism. I had frequent daydreams of one day moving to Paris, wearing black cashmere turtlenecks with three-quarter length sleeves, and eloquently discussing Huis Clos as I sipped tea and smoked cigarettes in a long cigarette holder like Audrey Hepburn. Of course I would be sporting a black beret and cherry red lips, like any stylish French girl. But it wasn’t just about the clothes for me. It was the way of life. French people were passionate, intelligent and beautiful. They were sophisticated and I’m sure no French girl had to live with a giant sign in her front yard that said FREE PUPIES because her step-father didn’t know how to spell the word puppies correctly.
I fell in love with the existentialist movement and philosophy— that you are born alone and die alone. Many might find it somber but for me it was liberating. Since I couldn’t count on anyone in my family anyway, I decided to revel in my solitude and create my own reality. My plan was to move to Paris as soon as I graduated college and get a job so I could pay for all the café time and cigarettes I’d be smoking there. It seemed brilliant.
In the meantime I was okay with wearing tie-dyes so I could spend time with Karen. I was never going to trip on acid or do the new concert drug X she raved about, but I still loved being with her. She represented a freedom to me that was appealing in that it was possible to live out loud and still have your shit together, at least somewhat. I was taking notes.
Mom sent me off to Canada with a hundred dollars and a surprise hug. “Have fun touring all the basilicas,” she called out as she waved us off. She was being unusually supportive and I wondered if perhaps Dr. Robertson had changed her meds. Karen had told her that we were going to Montreal to do some sight-seeing and she seemed excited for us. I wonder if she had thought back to her own honeymoon there, but I didn’t ask. No sense throwing Mom off a cliff for no good reason.
Karen did all the driving because I didn’t even have a permit at that time. Back then you could get a driver’s license at fifteen and she was one of the first in our class to have one. We drove and toked and listened to hours and hours of the Dead. “This album is called Terrapin Station, and it’s my favorite,” she said. She knew so much and I took it all in. She educated me on Jerry, Bob, Phil, Pigpen and I can’t remember who else. I decided I liked Jerry’s voice the most, and “Uncle John’s Band” became my favorite Dead tune. It spoke to me in the first verse, because the first days were my hardest days too. I also related to a verse later in the song since my motto had been “don’t tread on me” for as long as I could remember. It felt like my anthem. I asked Karen to play it over and over until she told me it was driving her bananas so we switched tapes.
Grandma’s house was tiny and quaint, with dainty floral wallpaper and light-blue carpet. I could tell it hadn’t been updated in years but that made it all the more charming. Our room was upstairs which was nice because it gave us some privacy and our own bathroom. Granny didn’t speak a word of English but I was able to exchange pleasantries with my beginner’s French. She seemed excited to have us there, but she was old and didn’t get around well, so she didn’t spend much time with us.
We turned in early the night we got there and by the next day we were ready to go. Karen took me all around her stomping grounds; Edmundston, New Brunswick. We didn’t tour any basilicas but I met a few of her cousins and we all hung out and drank Alpine beer, which Karen said was better than Labatt, the other popular Canadian beer. I was crushing on her older cousin Andre. He was about twenty-three and had thick, black hair, big muscles and a smile that reminded me of a glacier. He wasn’t at all interested in me, which was indeed unfortunate because he was the most exotic man I had ever laid eyes on.
Later that night we decided to go to our first discotheque— a supposedly cool out-of-the-way place called L’arc en Ciel, which means The Rainbow. I asked if it was wise because it was a Sunday night and I had a feeling clubs were lame on Sundays, but Karen’s cousin Alana insisted it would still be fun. She was also a sophomore and shared her brother Andre’s dark, wavy hair. She was the only cousin who wanted to go dancing with us.
The club really was out of the way— we’re talking dirt road. I was getting nervous, thinking it was going to be some local hole in the wall, but I was pleasantly surprised when we walked in. It was modern, with giant TV screens and a dance floor complete with the standard disco ball. No one checked IDs since we were seriously underage and the bouncer told us we were in for a real treat. He spoke in French and Karen had to translate for me but we still had no idea what that meant.
“Perhaps drinks are two for one,” I said, trying to be positive. Things were more expensive in Canada and I wanted to make sure my hundred dollars lasted the entire week.
We found a table and the three of us sat down. We all ordered Alpine beers and engaged in your average girl talk. Karen and I were single but Alana was kind of dating someone she really liked, so she wasn’t looking to meet boys. There weren’t many people in the club but it was early and I was hoping it would pick up. Cartoons were playing on the big screens and the music was good, mostly eighties mod like Erasure and New Order. I was happy.
As the night wore on more people showed up. I couldn’t believe how many good-looking guys were in this club. Where did they come from? Most of them looked like GQ models. We were taking in the eye candy when I noticed two men across the bar making out like crazy.
“Oh my God, Karen, look!” I tugged her shirt to get her attention.
“What the hell?” She was stunned. We had a good look around, and noticed we were the only three girls in the club. We were completely engulfed by gay men.
“Alana! You took us to a gay bar!” Karen said to her cousin.
“I swear this isn’t typically a gay bar,” she responded, shocked.
I had developed a pretty good relationship with our waiter since Karen had suggested I flirt with him to get free drinks. His name was Daniel and he didn’t speak English but it was okay because after several drinks my French improved. He was twenty-five (I asked) and was wearing a three-piece suit with a thin aqua tie. He had brown hair and a mustache that made me think of Jimmy Buffet’s song “Pencil Thin Mustache” though his was thick, unlike the song. I wasn’t really into mustaches but he had stopped charging us for drinks so I was fine with leading him on.
I asked him if it was a gay club and he said only on Sundays. Of course that was my luck. My first disco experience and the boys want to dance with each other. Daniel told me not to worry because there was a big surprise coming. What the hell is this surprise? I wondered. I was getting impatient.
By this time the Alpines were kicking in along with the tequila shots Daniel brought us and I full-on made out with our waiter. Truthfully I wasn’t really hot for him but I wanted to be the hero of the night and score free drinks. I decided I liked having that kind of power. Was it really that easy?
Before I knew it the surprise came. A few men went over to the corner and pulled a giant stage out of the wall. It was kind of like a Murphy bed only it was a stage. It happened to be directly in front of our table, so we had front row seats. Just then the music changed and I noticed they were no longer playing cartoons on the big screens. It had switched over to porn. Very. Gay. Porn. The men at the other tables were yelling and whistling like they knew what was coming. It was like being at the circus, waiting for the next act, having no idea if it would be lions, tigers, bears or elephants.
What is this all about? It took longer than it should have to figure it out. Out of nowhere a policeman got on stage and began dancing. At first, I was nervous since we were underage and I was afraid of cops to begin with. What if we get busted in a foreign country? Would Granny know how to bail us out? These thoughts and more were racing through my head. It took me more than a minute to realize he wasn’t an actual police officer, just playing one on stage. A very naughty police officer, who was taking his uniform off piece by piece.
“What the fuck?” I whispered loudly in Karen’s ear. My horror quickly turned to laughter when I caught Karen’s eye and saw her face. We both cracked up, not just from the alcohol but also due to the fact that we had gotten ourselves into a pile of shit.
Our naughty police officer turned criminal when he flung his G-string across the room at one of the tables filled with drooling men, a table that included Alana’s history teacher.
Riding Standing Up Page 12