by Ace Bowers
I began thinking of excuses to tell Jordan to make him go home right away. Maybe if I told him I wasn’t feeling good, he would call his parents to pick him up. But I was too late; before I could even finish a thought, a door slammed. Soon after, the yelling began. My parents were in the hallway now. I told Jordan I’d be right back and ran out of my room into the hallway, closing the door behind me. I tried to say something to my parents—I tried to stop them—but they wouldn’t even acknowledge me. My sister, luckily, knew what was happening, and ushered Jordan to her bedroom near the back of the house. She was attempting to shield him from front row seats to the fight about to begin.
The fight quickly escalated and things became worse to the point where Jordan heard everything: the swearing, the crying, the shattering dishes. A few moments later, without understanding what had happened, I heard my brother yelling. I ran out into the hallway and realized that someone had punched a hole in the bedroom door. My dad and brother were now in a full-blown fist fight in the hallway. The next few minutes were a blur, but somehow my parents ended up in my bedroom fighting with each other. I remember crying hysterically, begging them to stop. I had a small Red Rider Daisy BB gun in my room, and in one final, desperate plea, I held it to my head and screamed that I was going to pull the trigger if they didn't stop. It didn't work. They didn't even notice me. Eventually, they left my room and kept fighting in the hallway. I sank to the floor in tears and just lay there in horror, knowing that Jordan could hear everything. I finally fell asleep right where I’d fallen.
The next morning, I was too afraid to leave my bedroom: what would I say to Jordan? I couldn't even look him in the eye. I cautiously stepped out my room and surveyed the house. There was a hole in my parents’ bedroom door, the refrigerator drawers were lying broken on the floor, the stand up clock in the living room had been shattered to pieces… and Jordan sat at the kitchen table eating pancakes. Pancakes. My mom had made us pancakes, as if nothing had happened the night before. As if no one had punched a hole in the door, as if no one had shattered the clock. We never spoke of that night again—not me, not my parents, not my sister, not even Jordan. No one ever uttered a word about it. And I’ve never told anyone until now. As you probably guessed, that was the last time I ever had anyone sleep over at my house.
I am incredibly thankful to have had my sister during this period. With her, I wasn’t alone during the times our parents were fighting, which seemed never-ending. It wasn’t as bad with my sister there. She always protected me and reassured me that everything would be fine. I would seek refuge in her room during the altercations, and she would comfort me and tell me not to listen to them. She always reminded me that it wasn’t our fault. Unfortunately, the fighting was worse after she left. We are five years apart in age, and she eventually went to college when she was eighteen. That left me home alone with my parents at thirteen. At around the same time, my dad sat me down for a talk. I think he could sense that the fighting was taking its toll on me. Maybe he felt guilty. And he told me a story.
My mom had been molested by her father when she was a child. When Nanny found out, she kicked him out and my mom hadn’t seen him since. I was immediately empathetic towards her and realized she had been dealing with her own horrible childhood memories. As a young girl, my mom did not have the support systems and outlets she might have had today, and I can only imagine how this was one of the contributing factors to my mom’s drinking; maybe she took some of the resentment she felt for her father out on my dad. After learning this family secret, it made sense why I’d never seen or heard of him. You know how in elementary school, they assign those family tree projects? Well, when I was in elementary school and had to make one, my dad (being the Navy vet and patriotic American that he was) always said, “Your other grandpa was a communist sympathizer, so he was killed.” And we never spoke of him again.
In high school, I was one of the popular kids, liked by almost everyone. I had a cute cheerleader girlfriend and played on my high school baseball team. Baseball acted as my saving grace as I grew up. It gave me an outlet and reprieve from the struggles at home. I enjoyed playing with my friends; it kept my mind occupied and kept me in shape.
On the outside, I looked like the typical All-American kid, but I never let anyone get too close. I always hid the real me and the reality of my life. My typical high school day consisted of going to class during the day and going to baseball practice in the evening. I began bussing tables at night when I was fourteen. The money I earned from this job, I used to live the life of a normal teenager. I used my money for school lunches, going to the movies, and date nights with my girlfriend. I also paid for my own clothes and school supplies. I used my income to take care of my basic needs and spent a little extra from time to time so I could get out of the house and away from my parents. My routine meant that I could leave my house at 7:30 in the morning and get home at around 11 p.m.: anything to avoid spending too much time at home.
The reality of my life, however, meant that when the end of senior year came around, I knew all my friends would be moving forward but I would remain standing still. I developed a victim mindset that would eventually set me up to fail. This mindset made it all too easy for me to transition into severe depression and anxiety as a young adult. All it took was graduating high school, losing my friends, quitting baseball, and having my girlfriend move on to college without me. All of this triggered a steady downhill regression: I was in grave danger of repeating the cycle my parents had set before me.
Chapter 2
Rock Bottom and a Mop Bucket
After graduating high school, many of my friends went on to college, but I remained stuck at home living with my parents. Like I mentioned, my parents never saved money for my college, and even if I could afford some of my tuition, they didn’t have a dollar to contribute. It’s a feeling that’s hard to describe for me: most everyone I knew was going out into the world for bigger and brighter adventures, but I was left behind. Like a recurring nightmare where everyone is clambering to catch a boat to escape a scary zombie island but not everyone makes it off, I felt trapped. I saw the rescue boat take off without me.
This is when many of my bad decisions sprang up. I would have to overcome all these mistakes later. I began smoking at sixteen; by the time I finished high school, I was smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. I wasn’t taking good care of my health or eating right. I didn’t eat consistent meals, and what I did eat was usually fast food. I felt like a failure, I was depressed. This behavior carried on for the next two years, but I wasn’t ready to give up on myself just yet. I had a part-time job at an insurance office answering phones and filing papers. I developed an interest in that particular field because I knew insurance agents could make really good money (as long as they passed an exam). During these two years, I attempted to take the exam twice but failed both times. I was frustrated and I could only watch as my dream of being a successful insurance agent faded to nothing. Without thinking, I quit my job at the insurance office. Now I was unemployed with no income. Naturally, it was the perfect time for me to land in debt.
My bank had given me a few credit cards, and of course I used them. I also had a recurring cell phone bill due each month, but I didn’t understand anything about credit or how important it was. I was not credit responsible—in fact, I was downright reckless. My parents hadn’t explained to me what credit was and how it could affect me long-term, and without a job to support me, I was unable to pay the minimum due on my credit cards. Eventually I stopped paying my cell phone bill too. I wasn’t even twenty years old and I was already researching bankruptcy.
With failed exams, no job, and piling debt, I was at the lowest of lows. I felt that life had chewed me up and spat me back out. There were days I couldn’t even leave my bedroom. I so badly wanted to quit. I didn’t even have my parents’ rundown car anymore. But here is where I’m certain God stepped in and sent people—angels—into my life. Everything would gradually begin to change
, though I wouldn’t see it just yet.
My aunt Cindi knew I needed some serious help, and fortunately, she had always been an angel in my life. She knew I needed to leave my parents’ house, so she bought a twenty-year-old Honda Civic for me and encouraged me to move out by offering an alternative: that I go to Oregon and live with her daughter, my younger cousin Brittany, who was going off to college. She wanted to give me a fresh start, and said I could live there rent-free for a few months while I searched for a job. I didn’t really want to go, but I knew there was nothing left for me at my parents’ house, and I welcomed the new opportunity. At this point, I literally had nothing left to lose!
I crammed the Honda with every last one of my belongings, and headed to a new city in a new state. I knew no one apart from my cousin. Here I was, an unemployed, overweight heavy smoker, with bad credit and depression. I searched everywhere for a job: online, in-person, and door-to-door, yet I couldn’t find anything. Many people weren’t hiring, and of the places that were, I never heard back from. I filled out application after application, but to no avail—until I saw an ad in the paper about a sales position.
I went down to speak with the manager about the job. He was friendly and proceeded to ask me some basic interview questions. I confessed that even though I didn’t have a sales background and very little work experience, I was a hard worker and a quick learner. The interview went well and he was open to giving me a chance, but his next statement had me frozen in my tracks: “Ok Ace, all we need to do now is perform a standard credit check.” I asked him why they would need to check my credit. Well, of course it was necessary: I would be helping people finance purchases that required them to apply for credit, and I would be dealing with their personal, sensitive information. He informed me that the company had a “minimum credit score requirement” for the sales associates. My palms were sweaty, and all I could do was stare at my shoes. My childhood embarrassments and recent mistakes of my early adulthood flashed before me like a giant billboard. They all lead to one, obvious conclusion: “FAILURE!”
Of course, a few moments after the check, he gave me a sympathetic look and told me he couldn’t hire me because my credit score was a 400. He reassured me that I seemed like a nice guy and that, if I could get my credit score up, I could return to apply again. When he rose to shake my hand, I was too embarrassed to look him in the eye. Swallowing back my twenty years of shame, I thanked him. I was angry: I was angry at him and at that stupid policy. How could I pay off my debt without a job? How could I get a job with debt on my credit? I was in a no-win situation, stuck on a hamster wheel, running in endless circles. But when I finally allowed myself to look at the bigger picture, I knew the truth. I had no one to blame but myself. I had no one to be angry at but myself.
It was then that I was finally served a hardcore dose of reality. Walking along the downtown streets of this college town, I became aware of the homeless people in the streets. I stared at them as I walked by, with their dogs, their blankets, and their garbage bags filled with what little they owned. On any other day, I would have judged them as bad people—as criminals and drug addicts who had done something wrong to end up on the streets. Today, however, I saw them differently. Maybe they were at their wits’ end, like I was. Maybe they had also sat through a shameful interview, like I had. Maybe they had finally decided to give up. I took a long, hard, honest look at them and told myself that any one of these individuals could have been me. Realistically, I wasn’t all that far from living on the streets either.
Not long after the homeless encounter, I passed a small motel with a “help wanted” sign in the window. It was for a janitor. Now, I can honestly say that being a janitor was the last thing on my mind. I would have rather been literally anything but a janitor. Keep in mind, though, I had just experienced a sobering wake-up call. At this point, I just wanted a job—even if it was a janitor. I was still in a tailspin and feeling rather low from being denied a job based on my credit score; I didn’t have a long resume of experience, and frankly, I had nothing else to offer but my hard work ethic. Why should I see myself as too good to be a janitor? I would be lucky if they gave me the position. I tucked my pride away, and went inside to inquire about the position.
The motel was a small, well-kept, inn-styled establishment that catered to out-of-towners who usually visited during the annual Shakespeare Festival. I went up to the front desk, mustered up a smile, and asked about the opening for a janitor. I was then directed to wait outside for the manager, a short, stocky guy with a pleasant demeanor. I introduced myself as we shook hands and began to inquire about the job. He stopped me before I could go on. The job would not be fun or easy, he explained. The position would involve cleaning up messes, vacuuming, scrubbing toilets, and other tedious tasks. I would be responsible for cleaning the motel—inside and out—and helping him with all maintenance and housekeeping tasks as needed, especially when the motel was understaffed. He reiterated the extent of cleaning and the mundanity of the job, and reminded me that the position paid minimum wage, which at the time was $6.00 per hour. When I told him that I understood and that I still wanted the position, the manager looked puzzled.
He had most certainly felt my desperation by the simple fact I was still standing there. He ended the interview with a simple question: “Why do you want the job?” But there was no simple answer. I couldn’t get a job anywhere else, my credit was bad, I lacked experience and a college education—but I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t let my utter desperation show. Instead, I explained that I had just relocated from California and was looking to start over in a new place. I admitted that I didn’t have much experience, but that I was a good person and a hard worker. I told him that I’d be the best janitor he’d ever had. He laughed and said, “All right Ace, I’m going to give you a chance – you start tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.”
So, there I was: still overweight, still smoking, and still depressed—only now I was making minimum wage; and here is where we find glimmers of the overcomer’s mindset I referred to earlier. There was still a long road ahead, but I had taken the first crucial steps in the right direction. In the meantime, I continued living at my aunt’s house with Brittany; the holidays were approaching and she was going home for Thanksgiving. I had to stay in Oregon partly because of work, but mostly because I couldn’t afford to put gas in my engine. Brittany had asked me to place an ad online looking for a roommate—my aunt had a vacant third bedroom in need of occupancy. I posted the ad and someone replied right away: a Japanese international student who wanted to view the room over the weekend.
We arranged for Yuka to visit later that week so that I could show her around, only the greater part of her visit was spent simply talking in the kitchen. We talked for hours, and spoke about anything and everything. Yuka had grown up in Nagano, Japan with a regular upbringing. Like me, she had a sister, but unlike me, her childhood had not been so rocky. When I eventually opened up to her about my upbringing, she was surprised but not scared off. In fact, she would eventually become the love of my life. I called her the next day and asked her out. To my surprise, she said yes.
When we first started dating, the thing that struck me right away was that Yuka didn't drink alcohol. Coming from my own childhood experiences, this was music to my ears. Since we didn't have a lot of money, our dating life wasn't extravagant. We would usually just rent movies and watch them at home, and sometimes we would go out to eat. She exposed (or rather, forced) me to try many new dishes, like Thai food and curry, among other international cuisines I had never tasted before. I would always immediately say, “No I don't like it,” and she would ask, “Have you ever tried it?” Of course I hadn’t; I was just scared to try something new. She really coaxed me out of my shell and expanded my views regarding other cultures and foods. What a shift from sandwich bread hot dogs and fast food!
I had no idea what Yuka saw in an overweight smoker who was clearly depressed and deeply in debt. She might have seen potential in me, a
nd I am so grateful that she did. She saw something in me that not even I could see. I needed her in my life and she arrived just in time; she loved me when I was at the lowest point in my life. Remember how, earlier in this narrative, I mentioned my certainty that God had stepped in and sent angels into my life? Yuka was another angel. By way of my aunt, God was lining up people who would forever change my life and my path.
With my new job and Yuka, things were finally beginning to look up for me. I wasn’t so alone anymore. For the first time in my life, I was out on my own and gained a small sense of independence that I’d never felt before. Yet, I didn’t feel happier. I was just a minimum wage janitor at a motel. I was over $8,000 in debt, and with a horrible credit score at that. I had no college degree. I drove a car that might as well have been a fossil, and lived paycheck to paycheck. Debt collectors were calling me on a daily basis and I only had $25 to my name. I was riddled with anxiety and depression. The love I felt for my girlfriend was overshadowed by the nagging thought that my life would never change.
It turns out that, in fantastic Ace fashion, my life was in fact about to get a bit more interesting. Surely by now you’ve grasped the fact I have some pretty snarky sarcasm about how life has treated me thus far. I lived in constant observation of Murphy’s law: anything that could go wrong for the dapper young lad known as Ace Bowers, would go wrong. Oh boy (literally!) oh boy, were things about to swerve and hit me with a left hook I never saw coming. You know I love baseball, so let’s put this portion of the story in a visual analogy to experience it the way I had.