Porn King: The Autobiography of John C. Holmes

by Holmes, John

  Edward Holmes was average-sized man; around six feet tall, with dark hair and watery, red rimmed eyes, a poor excuse for a human being and even lower on the scales as a husband and father. He called himself a carpenter although he worked only when necessary, which meant when he was desperate for a drink. Whatever money he earned, every penny of it, slipped quickly through his fingers in Columbus’ bars and liquor stores. Beer, more than anything, was his passion. Memories of my father are hazy, mainly because his drinking, which was constant, but two things really stand out in my mind. My earliest remembrance is of an unshaven, sloppy and slobbery man with a horrible stench on his breath leaning over and kissing me. The other is that he secretly collected nudist magazines. One day, when I was no more than four or five, I came across a dog-eared issue of Sunshine and Health that he’d stuffed under an old cushion. By today’s standards, the photos inside, mainly shots of undressed adults and children wandering happily along wooded trails weren’t explicit, not even the shot of a bare-breasted girl posed artfully on a sandy dune. Seeing everyone totally exposed in the out-of-doors, and obviously enjoying themselves, must have been quite a revelation to me. No one in our family dared go anywhere without covering up, not even from room to room.

  The discovery was much too important to keep to myself. Mother was taking a nap on the couch. She’d come home early; she was not feeling well. Not wanting to awaken her, I tiptoed to the living room window and pressed the magazine, opened to the naked girl on the beach, against the glass. It wasn’t long before some of the neighborhood children began to gather, pointing fingers and snickering as they strained to see. The next thing I knew, Mother was awake and standing over me. “What are you doing, John?” she asked sternly.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. Until then, I hadn’t realized I was doing anything wrong. But Mother’s sudden presence, and the sharp tone of her voice, had me shaking.

  “We’ll see about that!” She snapped. Snatching the magazine from my hands, she quickly thumbed through it, her eyes growing wider with each passing page. Then she slammed it to the floor and grabbed my shoulders, holding firm. “Where did you get that trash?”

  I started to cry.

  “Tell me!” She demanded.

  Somehow, I managed to point across the room and say, feebly, “Over

  there.” That wasn’t good enough apparently, because I soon felt her hand whipping my butt. It was one of Mother’s rare outbursts, and one that discouraged me for a few years, at least, from making a spectacle of myself over a naked lady.

  Unfortunately, my experience had no effect whatsoever on my father, not that it really mattered. Leaving the old man behind was only one reason we looked forward to our weekly trips to the country. The biggest benefit by far was getting away from the crummy place we called home.

  Like all of America, Columbus, Ohio had been devastated by the Great Depression of the 1930s. Most of the country had rebounded by the start of World War II, but Columbus still counted vast numbers of indigents, many destitute, living in makeshift shacks and shanties around town. A number of the poor and homeless even took to sneaking into the basements of other peoples’ homes at night for shelter. The crime rate was staggering, and climbing. In seeking a solution to the problem, the city fathers decided to round up all the poor and contain them within the industrial section of town, where the slums were located. A cluster of three-story red brick buildings covering four city blocks were constructed, providing jobs for some of the unemployed, and “The Project” was born.

  From the outside, “The Project” looked like a prison: barren, cold, uninviting. It didn’t get any better on the inside. The rooms were minuscule, dreary little cubes with cardboard walls and squeaky wooden floors, insufficient lighting, and provide-your-own heating. In winter, temperatures within dropped so low that spilled milk froze before it could be mopped up. On hot summer days, the vile smell of uncollected garbage became so overpowering that even the flies wanted out.

  The first six years of my life were spent in a cramped two-bedroom “apartment” (for want of a better word) in The Project. Eddy, Ann, and I shared one bedroom. Mother and Father, whenever he showed up, shared the other. Being the oldest, and most responsible of the children, William was assigned his own private domain, a corner of the living room next to the kitchen partition. By concentrating the needy and homeless within a few square blocks, the city officials must have figured they could keep a closer watch on the troublemakers. It didn’t quite work out that way. Crime in the streets did drop, but incidents within the housing project began to mount. In effect, The Project became a war zone complete with race riots, stabbings, beatings, and occasional flying bodies tossed from upper floor windows. Human screams mixed with wailing sirens of police cars and ambulances, which arrived and departed, were heard with frightening regularity. There weren’t many quiet moments. Most of the trouble took place during day light hours when the adults were away, either at work, wandering around looking for work or, in my Father’s case, scrounging drinks. (Even the ones who had no ambition whatsoever had enough smarts to break away whenever possible.) From 8:00 in the morning until 6:00 at night, the entire Project was literally run and owned by children—gangs of rowdy, street-smart punks who’d rather crack heads than baseballs. One of their favorite pastimes was throwing darts—not at dartboards, but at other kids. When I was four years old they had me running through passageways and dodging darts until Eddy, who was then fifteen years old, came to my rescue. He got in a couple of good licks, which gave me time to get away, but he paid a price. They pummeled him so thoroughly that he was black and blue for a week.

  Mother had always been a very attractive woman. Not beautiful, but striking. She had a strong face, with high cheekbones, large eyes, and full, dark brows, framed by a mane of deep brown hair. Every time I see a Joan Crawford movie I think of my mother. It is to Mother’s credit that she maintained her good looks despite all she’d been through. Living with an alcoholic while raising four kids couldn’t have been easy on her. But there were added pressures. As Dad’s condition worsened, he began drinking away his earnings and the support of the family fell on Mom’s shoulders.

  Mother had worked before, but never had her situation been so desperate; never had so many people depended on her. She got a job in a small restaurant where she waited tables and worked the counter and cash register. We lived off her tips. Eventually, she was promoted to manager.

  Mother was at work when dad disappeared. I can’t recall his leaving, only that he was there one day and gone the next. He left without saying a word to anyone. Not even a good-bye. It took a few days to sink in that he was really gone; we were so used to his not being around. Mother cried a little; God knows why. I guess after all they’d been through together she couldn’t help but miss him. No one else did. From then on, for the next year anyway, it was just Mother, my brothers and sister, and I. Then, an astounding thing happened; astounding only because it came as such a surprise. Mother began seeing another man. She wouldn’t admit it, at first, but we knew. There were too many references to somebody named Harold.

  Mother dating? How did this person come into her life? She was home every evening and went to work every day. Where did they meet? It was heavy stuff for a six-year old to try and understand. William, Eddy, and Ann couldn’t come up with any answers, either. The most logical explanation, on which they all agreed, was that mother had met Harold at the restaurant, where, over lingering cups of coffee, their relationship began to gel. Still, we didn’t know for sure and Mother wasn’t talking.

  One evening, Mother arrived home following an eight-hour shift, looking as fresh and relaxed, and indeed, reborn. as if she really was Joan Crawford and had just come from makeup. She normally headed straight for bed, but this time was different. “Come on, kids,” she said, eagerly motioning us to her side. “Where do I begin?” She sighed, “How do I tell you about Harold?”

  I had a feeling this was going to be big. I looked at my brother and
sister, but they were concentrating on mother, waiting to hear more.

  “Let’s see,” she began slowly, “You remember hearing me mention Harold, don’t you?” Heads nodded. “Well, he’s a wonderful man, a very handsome man, as tall as Grandpa Barton but much bigger”—she held her hands out wide—“and so smart. He was a communications expert during the war and now he works for the telephone company. Harold has an excellent job and he makes good money. A lot of money, actually, but it hasn’t spoiled him. He’s very stable and sensible and down-to-earth. I know you’ll like him very much.”

  “What does that mean?” William asked.

  Mother smiled again, a coquettish smile I hadn’t ever seen her display before. “Well, it means he’s asked me to marry him,” she said, pacing her word, “and I’ve accepted.”

  “Marry him?” Ann repeated.

  “Yes, dear,” Mother said. “I hope you’re all happy for me.”

  “What about Daddy?” I piped up.

  “Your father’s gone,” she answered quickly, her expression turning icy.

  “But what if he comes back?”

  “He won’t be coming back because we’re no longer married. I told you that, John, don’t you remember?”

  I didn’t, not that it made any difference. At that age I wasn’t quite clear about divorce, let alone marriage. As it turned out, Mother wasn’t letting us in on her secret to gain our approval. It didn’t matter that Eddy supported her, which he did, or that William disapproved, which he did, or that Ann and I were confused, which we were. Mother had already made up her mind to marry Harold. She did find a way of gaining our full backing, however, by simply telling us that Harold had promised to buy her a house in the country, and that we’d be leaving The Project.

  Harold kept his word. He bought a beautiful, white two-story frame house in a farming community midway between my grandparent’s place and Columbus. It was one of the nicest homes in the area, and a big step up for Mother and her brood. Instead of being surrounded by brick and concrete, we had woods and creeks, open lands, and clean, sweet-smelling air.

  It didn’t take us long to adjust to our new outdoor way of living. Mother and Ann started a huge garden—we had an acre to play with— planting flowers, fruit trees, and endless rows of vegetables that would one day wind up as jams, jellies, and relishes. My brothers taught me to hunt. The woods and fields were alive with rabbits, squirrels, pheasants, and deer. I also learned how to set trap lines. In the wintertime, as I grew older, I set lines for mink, beaver, and possum. I’d often wake up at 2:00 a.m. to clear the traps, skin the animals, and salt and stretch the pelts before going to school. I’d run more lines in the afternoon on my way home.

  My brothers and I caught so much game that Harold had to buy a freezer. It was a massive thing, and so was the price tag that came with it. But Harold didn’t complain. He was everything that Mother had described him to be—and a little bit more. It was the “extras” that caused Harold’s stock to nose-dive in everyone’s eyes but Mother’s. Harold had misrepresented his finances. Either he wasn’t as well off as he’d claimed to be or he’d over extended himself with the move to the country, or both. One thing was certain—his income fell short of what he needed to pay off the big house and support a large, ready-made family. As a consequence, we were forced to fend for ourselves whenever we needed anything.

  “If you need new school clothes, or whatever,” Mother would mutter repeatedly, sounding like a tape recorded message, “then go out and earn them.”

  By the time Harold’s finances became a real concern, I was an old hand at running trap lines. The money I made from selling pelts came in handy but it never seemed to add up fast enough. So, between chores around the house and my schoolwork, I baled hay, collected maple syrup, and shoveled snow, depending on the season. For food, the family relied almost entirely on Mother’s garden and hunting. I’d learned to hunt as a sport, and then had to turn to it for survival. Now, if anyone asks me to go hunting, I refuse. I do not approve of killing and maiming animals for sport. And I find it impossible to understand how anyone who calls himself a sportsman can stop at a McDonald’s on the way to blowing off some poor animal’s head.

  Money, or the lack of it, was actually a minor problem in living with Harold. We’d managed on next to nothing before, thanks to Mother’s tenacity and boundless determination. The real problem was Harold himself. He had a dark side, an ugly sickness that no one suspected until it was too late. The first indication that Harold was “different” became apparent several months after he and Mother married, when he began to have trouble getting out of bed in the mornings. Physically, he appeared fine, but he no longer greeted each day with his characteristic burst of energy. He turned suddenly depressed and listless, almost impossible to budge. Mother was understandably concerned, and baffled. “I don’t know what to make of him,” she would moan. “He seems to have lost interest in everything.” Harold couldn’t explain the change in his behavior either; he didn’t even try to make excuses. He simply moved about the house like a sloth as he readied for work.

  He never missed a day on the job. Whatever possessed Harold didn’t affect his performance at work. He functioned normally, his co-workers confided in Mother, offering a glimmer of encouragement. But they should have seen him at home. Night after night, he returned from the office and promptly fell asleep in his easy chair. When any of us called him to dinner, he waved us away. He even ignored Mother.

  One evening, when everyone but Harold was seated for dinner, Mother announced that the meal had been served. Not getting a response, she called again. “Come, dear,” she said, “your food’s getting cold. We’re waiting.” Another moment of silence passed. “You must eat something, Harold,” she pleaded. Once again, he failed to answer. This time Mother pushed herself from the table and made for the living room. She found Harold’s chair empty. He had gone to bed. Just when it appeared that Harold would never snap out of his lethargy, his condition completely reversed itself. For months, sleep had been his ally; now it became his enemy. He’d go for days without shutting his eyes. He turned unpredictable and often violent, even showing signs of madness. Harold didn’t drink coffee or smoke anything, he wouldn’t touch alcohol and he didn’t take drugs. Nevertheless, he had all the symptoms of the worst junkie imaginable. Deprived of drugs, an addict will try to run over his best friend with a car, beat him with a club, strangle cats, and kill dogs. Harold was not only capable of doing those things, he did them. Once he even rammed his hand through a harvesting machine, cutting off his thumb and three of his fingers. When he woke up from surgery, he told mother, “I’ll never have to work again.” Harold was always gentle with Mother. He never raised a hand to her, but he sure beat the shit out of her kids. My older brothers and sister got the worst of it until they became of age and moved out, unable to take his abuse anymore. That left me as they only target around.

  One day, Harold kicked me in the spine when I failed to respond to his order to take out the trash. “I shouted your name ten times,” he roared. “John! John! John! Your name’s John, isn’t it?”

  “I guess I didn’t hear you, Harold,” I said earnestly. “I’m sorry…” Wham!

  Another time he threw me down a flight of twelve stairs to the concrete floor of the basement. I had my head rammed into heavy oak doors more times than I care to remember. I got slugged in the face and knocked over backward, then picked up by the ankles and spanked while airborne. If he was really angry he turned me around and slammed a fist into my stomach.

  It’s unfair to say that Harold had turned completely mad. For the first few years, he was up and down, alternating between manic and depressive states. We loved him when he was down because he was so harmless; he never even talked. But with the turnabout he became a horror. We could sense the switch coming. Watching Harold was like watching an animal before an earthquake. He grew restless and acted in a manner that was abnormal, even for him. Eventually, we were able to mark his changes b
y the calendar, as he’d go through exact six-month cycles.

  When I was nine, Mother gave birth to another son, David, and from that day on my life at home was never the same. As Harold’s flesh and blood, David could do no wrong. Anything David wanted was his, even if it didn’t belong to him. To make certain that David always got his way, Harold taught him to scream at the top of his powerful lungs, which brought Harold running. David was never satisfied with his own toys. He wanted what belonged to me, things I had bought with my hard-earned money. David wound up with them and I was left with bruises.

  “Why is Harold always hitting me?” I asked Mother one day as she pressed a cold cloth against my reddened cheek.

  “He doesn’t mean to, sweetheart. It’s just that he can’t help himself.”

  “Then why doesn’t he hit David? David can do anything and I get the blame.”

  “David’s just a baby.” She replied, “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Let’s not make trouble, darling. Let’s try to be nice to David and Harold too. Harold needs all our help and prayers.”

  Pray for Harold? Be nice to Harold? I couldn’t do that. It was much easier to hide whenever Harold was around. The dining room provided the perfect hideaway. We had a huge dining table, made of oak; that Mother always kept extended with three large leaves and covered with a heavy damask cloth that reached to the floor. The table was seldom used, except for holidays and the rare times we had company. We always ate in the kitchen. Every time I’d hear Harold’s car pulling into the driveway, I’d run for cover under the table. Some of my fondest memories are of listening to the family fighting, going crazy, while I lay peacefully on my back staring at its underside. Resurfacing without being seen took some planning. I always tried to wait until dinner time, when everyone was seated in the kitchen. At that point, Harold would inevitably bellow, “Where the fuck is that kid!?” With that I’d appear as if I’d just come in from outside. My luck held out for nearly two years. Then one day, for some reason, Harold looked under the table. I knew I was in trouble even before his big paw shot forward at me. “Damn you,” he roared. “I’ve been calling for ten minutes!” I felt myself being dragged out into the open by the seat of my pants, and the pounding began.