Des Moines, 1979

Chapter 1

The shoes in the corner smelled like iron.  Perhaps I compassionately sensed the last vestiges of slaughter from the tanned leather that was cloaked by some chemical, masking the blood of whatever beast that must’ve been placed on some conveyor belt and transmogrified into some happy commercial sweatshop product…. or maybe my mind was not psychologically right tonight.  I have got to learn to get those random neuron thoughts out of my brain when confronted with what is essentially an every-day item.

At least it was warm in here so I really didn’t earnestly care about the morality of flaying cows, but that thought certainly added to the mix of grubby aromas.  Mom’s polyester and who-knows-I’m guessing cotton-blend sweater retained her scent and felt itchy and comforting.  I had pulled her sweater from the hanger above an hour ago when I felt chilled.  The leather bowling ball bag actually conformed to the curve of my small frame as I lay hiding under the comforter in the back of the closet.  The coldness of the bowling ball itself actually seemed to regulate my body temperature.  The yelling had stopped hours ago.  I could now hear the creaks of the house as my mother was preparing dinner.  The voices were muted, but the tone had obviously switched back to business-as-usual.  The only thing that hadn’t gone back to normal was my mood.  Why did punishment have to be so random?

        I’d chosen a perfect hiding place.  I told myself I’d never come out of this hidey-hole for days.  I’d convinced myself no one would ever find me.  I guess I expected to disintegrate into some kind of unresolved martyrdom after the beating, that would somehow torture Dad’s soul in some joyous judicious moment where Jesus himself would ceremoniously comfort me in front the entire family.  But apparently, by the grace of God, or some other mocking angelic jurisprudent intermediary that had zero concern but a solemn impartial mien who could separate the psychological process of suppression that was taking place at that very moment from reality; I should have, in retrospect be thankful for hearing my heartbeat and feeling my breath bounce back at me as the panting slowly resolved and I became “one” with the darkness of the closet that was protecting me.

The fried chicken my mother was preparing smelled so good.  Maybe I could sneak upstairs and grab a sleeve of Saltines without anyone noticing.  I heard Mother ask, “Where is Michael?”  Her voice quite clearly resonating through the ventilation system in the house.  By some weird quirk of acoustics, everything from upstairs could be heard in the basement.

        My bedroom was in the basement.  I knew every nook and corner in that basement.  I was so excited when mom told me that my private room was down there.  It was a badge of honor. My sisters had to stay upstairs, but I could surreptitiously not only masturbate like all 14 year olds do without anyone hearing, but I could also hear the creaks of the Grand Staircase downstairs to the basement within seconds should anyone come down and discover that forbidden pleasure.

I also learned to track the movements of the family upstairs. The footsteps patterns of my father and mother and both my sisters were actually quite distinct.  My youngest sister Debbi had a rapid heavy step.  My other sister Donna had a shuffling step that was difficult to detect because she had a skinnier frame.  Mom and Dad also had a particular gait that was quite distinguishable. Dad’s step was actually lighter than Mom’s.  It took me a while to differentiate that.  Dad had a tiptoe kind of step that wasn’t heard, but it was “felt” because of his weight.  The planks and boards would creak with his steps, but you wouldn’t hear the actual steps.

I was piecing together sentences from upstairs that made it sound as if Mom and Dad and both my sisters were searching for me.  Although, it could’ve been wishful thinking. There was a second secret nook that I’d discovered a few weeks ago, that I can honestly say no one should’ve know about this. I could’ve been in this absolutely final hiding place for the rest of my life, but that was wishful thinking on my part.  I could crawl to the first floor of the house from the basement, through the laundry chute by climbing atop the washer and potentially scare anyone who may have been expecting privacy in the upstairs bathroom.  I’d discovered a missing plank in the laundry chute that essentially led to a crawlspace between the first floor and the basement. There was also a peephole that was in the bathroom door which was eventually filled with some kind of wood putty. 

After years and years of torturing my younger siblings by maneuvering a clothes hamper that was down the hall and placing the hamper in front of the door, climbing on top and peering through a peephole and giggling like a prepubescent school girl.   My younger sisters learned to take a small piece of toilet paper and twiddle it in their fingers and stuff it into the peephole.  Whomever created this hole in the door had perfectly angled it in such a way that it would frame whomever was squatting on the toilet.   But this story about the peephole is not meant to illustrate MY particular perversity….as much as it explains my personal cognitive dissonance of watching my own father, who created the damn thing in the first place, leer at my mother and my sisters on a regular basis and how it distorted my behavior in such a way that now, that I was approaching 14 years old, I guess I developed an apologetic attitude toward misogynistic perversities because they seemed normal….because who could be more normal than one’s own father?  And since it is difficult to explain the odd sense of exposure and vulnerability as I curled in my hiding place around the basement closet, because I felt that someone somewhere knew exactly where I was hiding.  Any moment Dad would peek his head in because, he knew exactly where I was, and he would mock my notion that I thought I’d somehow evaded him.

        What had started this chaos in the first place.  Why did I believe that I could be so bold as to confront my father at 14 years old?  His powers of manipulation surpassed my prepubescent mind immensely.  I did not plan this well.  Sweeping orchestral violins would sometimes fill my mind just like in the movies when emotional earthshattering moments are presented into a person’s life; but tonight, they simply did not swell or even squeak a sour note.  My only real memory was the gurgling bubbling look in my father’s eyes.  Was it a trick of the light?  I connected with the edge of comfort but was it disguised as evil?  His smile and the calm tone in his voice confirmed everything.  I was imagining this.  Dad was a master at the double entendre.  This was 7 years before I would even ingest my first hallucinogenic drug, but I knew then, that Dad was straddling the fires of Hell…...and was trying his best to grab my arm and pull me down with him.

I was not going to allow myself to succumb to the smell of savory fried chicken not when every bone and muscle and orifice in my body was so sore.  I must’ve been experiencing diarrhea…. or ate something that disagreed with me.  It was my way of coping with the abuse that may or may not be my imagination.  If it were happening, then someone would let me know.

Chapter 2

Oh, my God.  How did I even let it (this book and diatribe) get this far?  Suppression is a funny thing.  Doubting yourself at age 14 is normal…right?  When combined with peer pressure and prepubescent angst and junior high school and all that crap…. seriously; who would/could ever believe you?

I kid you not.  So many adults operate on the assumption that “kids” are not to be believed because their minds are not developed.  There was a huge rumor that I’d slit my wrists in Junior High School, but that is not what happened.  There was this kid in my English and Life Science classes who I can specifically remember only a few detailed things about.  He was a slimy jerk…and I beat the shit out of him when he managed to slam my hand into a locker.  Yeah, there was blood.  Yeah, a got a scar that is still visible today.  But, that’s not exactly what happened.

The doors to the classrooms of our Junior High School were sometimes propped open with these wooden wedges in between the time that the students were expected to stroll into the classrooms.  Not all the teachers used them, but a number of them used these wedges as a device to signal when it was okay to enter their domain.  Once all the kids were in the classroom, the teacher would walk over to the door and kick the wedge from the door; close the door and sometimes lock it; and begin the lesson.  Every once in a while a student would be locked out…..and the assumption was that….if a kid would bang on the door forlornly, they would be sent to the Principal’s Office…..or some other disciplinary type of fate.

Most kids figured out how to traipse the two minutes between their classes on time…but that really is not the point here.  My memory is foggy, but I seem to remember that it all started with this kid who for some reason singled me out as someone to fuck with.  He wasn’t a popular kid.  He was more of a weird awkward kid who would do odd things for attention……like flipping his pencil into the white tiles of the ceiling or slamming shut his textbook during class just to get a reaction.  Nothing serious.  But for some reason, he thought that I was somebody upon whom he could torment.  And so one day, this kid snuck up behind me and kicked the wedge from the heavy door of the Life Sciences classroom just as I was entering in such a fashion that my head hit the door.  And then it bounced upon the frame and bounced back and forth a couple of times…..and it hurt….and it pissed me off quite enormously.  He timed it perfectly, I’ll give him that, for the maximum impact.

I wouldn’t classify him as typical “bully”.  He just was an idiot who simply thought that tripping me in the corridor would somehow promote his social stature.  A typical junior high moron who thought he could hurt me and get away with it….I guess.  I didn’t expect it.  I managed to remain composed for a brief moment.  I turned to see the culprit who had caused this…..and I dropped my books and a dormant demon must have taken over my psyche. I charged this moron who tripped me.  It was not some half-hearted effort.  Whatever pent up angst that my 14 year old self must have been subconsciously going through….was being expressed at that very moment.  I pummeled this kid.  I was seeking blood.  How dare he fuck up my day in this fashion.

Of course the Life Sciences teacher, who saw the entire thing, leapt from her chair and pulled us apart.  After what must have been ten seconds, I was being held by some senior jock fifty pounds heavier than me and admiring the damage that I’d done to this idiot.  His shirt was splattered with blood.  A couple of kids were telling the teacher how they saw the whole thing….and had already begun the embellishing of the entire myth.  We were both taken to the principal’s office and we were both suspended from school for three days.  Mother was mortified.  Dad was proud that I’d stood my ground.  I was generally an “A” student, even in junior high, so the teachers allowed my mother to take any homework, etc.  I was quite mortified about the entire incident, but the “inside scoop” by a couple of my friends regarding the reaction of the kids back at school, gave me an odd sense of satisfaction.  Within two weeks, I’d had my first “girlfriend” (more about her later)……but the return to school had made an impression upon the student body.  Other students who were popular had come up to me and expressed their personal dislike of the “other” kid.  This incident had elevated me in unexpected ways.  I was actually becoming a part of the popular crowd.  I never considered myself “unattractive”….just rather shy and awkward.  My nemesis, the kid that tripped me, sensed my “rise” in Junior High School social standing as well.

After passing my nemesis in the hallway for a week with some serious provocative glances, he snuck up behind me as I was opening my locker.  Once again his timing was perfect.  (He probably became a drummer.)  The lockers of the Junior High School were designed in such a way that every student had to purchase a combination lock.  The combination lock was fitted through a hole in the hasp of the locker.  The hasp of the lock had a hook protrusion that clicked when the locker was closed.  It was rather pointed and sharp.  My nemesis approached me from my right side just when my left hand and arm were inside the locker.  I must have sensed him somewhat, because when he slammed the locker on my wrist, I did manage to get my arm out of the way…..but the pointed hasp of the locker sliced quite cleanly into my wrist.  What is funny about this entire incident, is that I believe that both myself and my nemesis were completely surprised by how much blood had splattered from my wrist when he slammed the locker.  It sprayed even more than that infamous Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Aykroyd where he portrayed Julia Childs.  And once again, my seemingly uncontrollable Junior High ego took control of the situation and I whipped myself around and tackled and throttled my nemesis by the throat.  This time it was quite special. I was bleeding quite profusely.  Blood was not only all over me; the locker, the floor, my books, my clothes…..but most importantly; blood was all over my nemesis and his clothes and all over his face.  Oddly enough, I felt no pain; only shear unadulterated joy.