“No!” he yelled. But he was too late. I stomped that pile of shit with all my might, burying my shoe. Pawpaw laughed as he cleaned it with the garden hose. Some children would have gotten their ass whipped for such behavior, but I never had to shoulder that burden. I heard them tell that story at least a hundred times over the years.
At about the same age, I discovered Pawpaw would keep my secrets. Mom had to take Memaw to the store, leaving me alone with him. As soon as her car left the driveway, I stood on his lap, grabbed him by the collar, and said, “You God damn, son of a bitch! I’ll whip your ass!”
“Wha…You will?”
“That’s right, you son of a bitch.”
He endured my verbal assault until Mom’s car pulled back into the driveway. I sat down, looking somber.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked.
“My mom don’t know I talk like that. You’re not gonna tell her, are ya, Pawpaw?”
“It’ll be our little secret.” I hugged his neck. He always had the clean smell of Aqua Velva.
Memaw and Pawpaw’s house was always fun and relaxing. One of my favorite pastimes was to prank them. My grandparent’s bedroom had two beds, a queen-sized bed and a single on the other side of the room. I made Memaw use the single bed so I could sleep next to Pawpaw. One night, I placed a pillow under the sheets to look as if I was already asleep and crawled under the bed. When he approached it, I reached out and grabbed his ankle, startling the shit out of him. I’m glad I didn’t give him a heart attack.
I replaced the bar of soap in their bathtub with a fake one. It looked and smelled like soap but was made of wax. After his bath, I heard Pawpaw say, “Maw, don’t buy that brand of soap anymore. I couldn’t get it to lather up.”
My love of incessant pranks came from the time I spent with Memaw and Pawpaw. My mom, however, was my favorite victim. Once I placed a realistic rubber hand in our microwave oven. That night, I heard Mom scream when she opened it.
Of all my pranks, my favorite occurred when I wasn’t there to witness it, which made it even more hilarious. I opened a large, yellow salt shaker and replaced the salt with a spring snake. The lid would barely close, but I managed to screw it on tight. I placed the shaker back on the stove and forgot about it.
Several days later, as I pranced through the door after school, Mom told me she needed to speak to me. She said she had stayed up the night before and slept late that morning. Half asleep, she slowly shuffled into the kitchen in her slippers and nightgown and cooked a couple of eggs. With a spatula, she carefully placed them on a plate and attempted to salt them. That’s odd. The shaker feels full, but no salt will come out. So, she opened it.
As I write these words, I’m laughing out loud. Every time I imagine that snake leaping out of the salt shaker at my unsuspecting mom, the thought always amuses me. She also said had I been home when she opened it, I wouldn’t have lived to see the next day. She was just kidding. I think.
Whenever Mom took me to the 7-11 near our neighborhood, I would purchase several packs of Hubba Bubba bubble gum. Once I got home, I carefully disassembled the package, removed the gum from the wrappers, and cut a small opening in each piece with a razor blade, spiking them with garlic, cigarette ashes and cayenne pepper. Then, I reassembled the packaging, sealing it with a glue gun, and placed them throughout our house. After my parents had learned never to chew gum they found at home, I had to find new victims. I took several packs back to the 7-11 and placed them on the shelf. (What is the statute of limitations for product tampering?) I laughed myself to tears thinking about what was going to happen when someone purchased the gum. Witnessing the unsuspecting victim chewing it wasn’t funny. Imagining them doing it was. Of course, using a mask of innocence to hide my culpability was thrilling as well, a common theme throughout my life.
My favorite time with Memaw and Pawpaw was the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. My grandparents were the thread that bound our family together. Thus, I would see relatives that time of year I never saw any other time. Of these people, my favorite was Mom’s sister, Dorothy, her husband, Harwell, and their two children, Mike and Patty.
Harwell was an interesting character; I could never tell if he was joking because he never cracked a smile. I now know he was always joking. On one of their visits, he approached me, excited about an idea. He called it “canned pussy.” I was young, so I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Plus, he looked so damn serious, I thought he was contemplating a new business venture. “You take your canned pussy,” Harwell explained, “pull the lid off, and there ya’ go. You can sniff it, lick it, dip it, whatever you want.”
I didn’t always enjoy Harwell’s odd sense of humor. One summer, my parents made me pull Bahia grass from our front and back yard. The work was tedious and boring, and I did a mediocre job at best. Dorothy arrived at Memaw’s house near the end of the summer and told me she had a present from Harwell. I was excited about getting a gift months before Christmas. So, what was my special gift? It was a plastic bag filled with Bahia grass. Written on the bag was the caption,
Fun Fun Fun
Damn That Fun
At the time, I didn’t think the joke was funny; although now, I think it’s hilarious.
The holidays also brought out Mom’s brother Rex, his wife, Joyce, and their children. My grandparent’s house had numerous pictures of Rex when he was in school, some of them in his football uniform. Those days were gone. I believe people put pictures of themselves and others in places they live to remind them of how grand and attractive they used to be.
Every Christmas Eve, my family would gather at Memaw and Pawpaw’s house for a party, a chance to visit and exchange gifts. One year, Rex arrived drunk and got into a physical fight with his son, Lawayne, who fled the party in tears. The entire incident ruined what was meant to be a happy occasion. At the time, if I had to assign a literary device to Rex, it would have been an antagonist. But he was actually foreshadowing.
We exchanged gifts near the end of the evening, and every year he gave me white tube socks. Who the fuck gives a child socks for Christmas? That’s what your mom buys you before school starts. And every year, Mom made me thank him for the gift.
Which leads us to….
Shit I Know To Be True
1. Don’t give tube socks to children for Christmas… EVER
The time I spent with Memaw and Pawpaw was the most special period of my life, a fact I couldn’t appreciate then. Nor could I recognize what wonderful and remarkable people they were. I had no frame of reference to compare this part of my life to. But once my youth was over, and the static of life overwhelmed me, the richness of those days became painfully apparent. I look back now and wish we could spend one last moment together, so I could tell them how much they meant to me. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?
Pawpaw died on April 5, 1993. He lived to see my son, Devin, but never saw my daughter, Jordan. I saw Memaw crying in the hallway of the hospital the day he died. “How am I going to live without him?” After 57 years of marriage, that was a valid question. I made sure Devin, Jordan, and I visited her on a regular basis. As I drove home from what would be my last visit with her, I listened to the following song. To this day, I have a hard time listening to it, but the song told me what Memaw felt.
Asleep
by
The Smiths
Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
I’m tired and I
I want to go to bed
Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
And then leave me alone
Don’t try to wake me in the morning
Cause I will be gone
Don’t feel bad for me
I want you to know
Deep in the cell of my heart
I will feel so glad to go
Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
I don’t want to wake up
On my own anymore
&n
bsp; Sing to me
Sing to me
I don’t want to wake up
On my own anymore
Don’t feel bad for me
I want you to know
Deep in the cell of my heart
I really want to go
There is another world
There is a better world
Well, there must be
Well, there must be
Well, there must be
Well, there must be
Well….
By the time I got home, Memaw had passed away. She died on July 30, 2001. I spoke at her funeral, recalling the fun days we spent together. When I was young, I thought life would always be that wonderful. But I was wrong.
Neither George nor Callie lived to see the man I would become. And for that, I am truly grateful.
And after their passing, I never saw any of my relatives again.
Bea
Beatrice, who I called Bea, and Jack were my father’s parents. By the time I was born, they were divorced, and she was married to an AT&T executive, named Russell, who I called Pappy. When I was young, I didn’t quite understand how Jack fit into the picture, but every year I got an extra Christmas gift from him, so I didn’t lose sleep over it. Children think that way.
Russell was an intelligent man who did something for me no one else would or could; he answered my questions. By that I mean, he satisfied my curiosity with a level of technical detail I never heard from anyone else.
For example, while at an airport, I asked him, “How can an airplane fly when they’re so big and heavy?”
Instead of saying, “It’s magic” or “I don’t know,” he explained how the shape of the wing creates a difference in pressure, which pushes the airplane up.
People sometimes think children can’t understand complex ideas or are not aware of what’s going on around them. Nothing could be further from the truth. My fascination with physics, engineering, and mechanics stems from Russell taking a few extra seconds to answer my questions in detail.
Jack was a private man. He was a veteran of World War II and participated in the invasion of Omaha beach. In case you’re rusty on your history, that battle was a particularly nasty one, in which the Allies sustained a tremendous number of casualties. My birth is a miracle. Jack was always cordial when he visited but never stayed long. As I got older and could somewhat appreciate what he experienced during the war, I understood why he was so reserved. I wanted to talk to him about it but never had the courage to ask.
Jack died on October 8, 2008. Robert and I were feuding at the time, and he forbade me from attending the funeral. In death, as in life, he remains a mystery to me.
As close as Mom’s family was, Robert’s was equally distant and aloof. Except for Bea, I never spent time with any of his relatives. I was close to his grandmother, but she died when I was very young. Another peculiar characteristic of his family was they didn’t have terms of endearment for me to call them. Unlike Memaw and Pawpaw, I’ve always called my father, “Robert” and my grandparents, “Bea” and “Jack.” I called Russell, “Pappy,” but he wasn’t a blood relative. I don’t know what that means if anything at all.
Bea was a petite, elegantly beautiful woman with an innate sense of culture. She called me her “little darling” and hung on every word I said. Every time we were together, she asked me, “What’s my favorite color?”
“Blue,” I always replied.
“And why is blue my favorite color?
“Because my eyes are blue.”
Bea and Russell lived in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida in a high-rise condominium. I spent two weeks there every summer. During the 70’s, young children could fly without an adult as long as they wore a sign indicating such. A child abductor’s dream. Every summer, I boarded an airplane wearing a cardboard picture of a cartoon cowboy with a caption that read, “Howdy Partner. I’m a lone little doggie.” The pride of traveling without my parents overshadowed any shame I felt over the silly sign hanging around my neck.
Upon arriving at their apartment, I found a pile of wrapped presents in the living room. After ripping through those, I did pretty much anything I wanted. The condo was inhabited by retired people, so I was the only child in the building. Most children would get lonely, but I always worked well alone.
A typical day at Bea’s started with four packs of cinnamon sugar oatmeal with butter. Next, a trip to the swimming pool. Afterward, we watched an episode of Days of Our Lives, which I usually slept through. The afternoon was spent shopping, and the evening was spent at a restaurant of a quality I couldn’t appreciate at my young age. The entire time, I fired questions at Russell, and he seemed genuinely happy to answer. Without the distraction of other children, my natural inquisitiveness blossomed, which resulted in a skill that positively impacted my life more than I could have ever imagined at the time.
Robert exhaustively tried to steer me into creative and productive interests. For example, pocket calculators first became available during the 70s. Although I was only eight years old, I wanted one. Unlike today’s calculators, which are the same size, depth and weight as a credit card, solar powered with a liquid crystal display, and virtually free; the first commercially available ones weighed one and a half lbs., were powered by a 9-volt battery, utilized a red diode display and cost over $100. Despite the high price, Robert bought one for me.
He paid for guitar lessons, which I abandoned after a year. The problem was I had to practice songs like “Camptown Races” and “Yellow Rose of Texas” instead of ones I liked. He also purchased a piano and paid for lessons. He once offered me $300 if I played and sung “Empty Garden” by Elton John. The song was beyond my ability, but after a month of practice, I successfully performed it. And he kept his word.
Robert is astute at seeing future trends, which is a redundant statement since seeing past trends requires no skill. I was twelve years old when he bought the first computer I ever owned, a Commodore VIC-20.
Some legacy information is required at this point. In 1979, the internet was still 10 years away. No one had a computer in their home, except for enthusiasts, nor could anyone conceive of any reason why they would want one. The VIC-20 cost $300, which is equivalent to $1,800 today. Despite the exorbitant price, Robert purchased it for me. Although he had no idea how computers worked or how ubiquitous they would eventually become, he somehow knew this was a sound investment.
Now let’s take a short break for….
Information Not Pertinent to the Story
To appreciate how far technology has progressed since 1979, let’s compare the VIC-20 with a modern computer.
Speed
The VIC-20 had a 1 Megahertz MOS 6502 processor. The speed, 1 megahertz, means the computer can perform one million decisions every second.
In comparison, a modern processor, like the Intel Core i7, runs up to 3 gigahertz, which means it can perform 3 billion decisions every second. It also has 4 cores, which are separate processors. Thus, theoretically, up to 12 billion decisions can be made every second.
Memory
Memory, or RAM, is measured in bytes, a basic piece of information. The VIC-20 had 20 kilobytes of RAM, which equals 20,000 bytes. The machine also lacked a memory manager; when the 20,000 memory registers were full, the computer crashed and had to be restarted.
In comparison, a modern PC can have up to 128 gigabytes of RAM, which is roughly 128 billion bytes. And memory managers are standard; modern computers never throw “out of memory” errors.
Storage
All modern computers store information using an internal hard drive. The VIC-20, however, didn’t have one. The machine didn’t even have a floppy drive. Instead, it utilized a cassette drive. And when I say cassette, I mean an actual audio cassette. It took five minutes to load 20,000 bytes of information, and every third time a load was attempted, the machine would throw an error, requiring the user to rewind the tape and start over.
Today, hard drives can store up to
6 terabytes, that’s 6 trillion bytes, of information. When the Microsoft Word icon is clicked, the base program, which is a little over 1 billion bytes, loads in two to four seconds. This process hardly ever fails.
Price
As stated earlier, the VIC-20 cost $1,800. Today, a powerful computer will set you back about $500, unless you own an Apple, which means you spent too much money on a toy. That’s 12,000 times the performance for 1/3 the price. The next time any of your left-wing, Occupy Wall Street, Bernie Sanders supporting friends denounce capitalism, just have them read this section or simply point to the phone in their hand.
Anyway, back to the story. Sorry for the rant.
One summer, I decided to take my computer with me to Ft. Lauderdale. I just got it a few months earlier and would have a considerable amount of spare time. As it turned out, that decision was a fateful one.
I had a few cassettes with some games and utilities but quickly got bored. I noticed a thick manual in the VIC-20 box, emblazoned with the title, “BASIC Programing Guide.” I thought the word, “BASIC” meant “rudimentary” or “for beginners.” But it’s actually a programming language. All applications are designed with one. And BASIC is an acronym, which stands for Basic All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code.
By the time I left Ft. Lauderdale, I was designing simple programs and saving them to an empty audio cassette. By the end of that summer, I was creating a video game. Unfortunately, I used all 20 kilobytes of RAM the computer had available. So, Robert took me to the store to purchase a 32-kilobyte memory expansion cartridge. The clerk placed a rectangular shaped piece of plastic on the counter and said, “That’ll be $200, please.”
American Drug Addict: a memoir Page 2