Parched

My father all but abandoned me to run a construction site with nearly a hundred employees. At the time we had a crew of ten laborers, twenty framers, thirty vinyl siders, and twenty or more craftsmen doing a variety of other miscellaneous tasks. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming.

It was the first time in my life that I was called "Boss." Suddenly my friends and erstwhile coworkers looked at me different, some with suspicion, some fawning like schoolgirls with a crush. Never have I felt so alone as I did then. My office was a stream of people with a variety of sad stories, begging for advances or time off. I hired a secretary to help with the payroll, which was a desperate situation every week, struggling to get paid by the general contractor for completed work in order to cover the paychecks we wrote. Even she began to get cozy, once bringing her daughter into work for me to meet. She was a poor single mother, abandoned by some quick draw McGraw to raise his child without any support.

Being an RA in college was similar in many aspects. Whenever I stopped into a dorm room to say hello, the conversations were normally terse, especially if the faint aroma of pot lingered in the air. Or the opposite, where my every utterance was met with gales of laughter, as if I were Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy rolled into one.

The corner room at the end of my hall was a suite, which was a common area containing a television, refridgerator and couches, surrounded by four bedrooms and a bathroom. Basically these were the party palaces, where the din of loud music and voices erupted on weekends.

I caught people walking to and from the suite with gargantuan beer cups several times on the first occasion, so I pulled their leader into my room the next day.

"Mark, I couldn't help but notice that you guys had a keg party last night."

He looked at me sheepishly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Man, didn't you hear anything I said at our meeting?" He looked down at the floor. "I don't care if you are partying or not, but sneaking a keg into your room and then parading in the hallways with thirsty-two ouncer cups is being a little obvious, don't you think?"

"Yeah, well, I tried to talk the guys out of it, but they won't listen."

"Listen, stop with the keg parties and stick with a coolers and half cases. You're going to get caught and I'm going to be in a spot."

"Ok."

But the next week it was the same thing.

I walked into the party and stood like Clint Eastwood in a gunfight. Somebody killed the music and everyone turned to stare at me, their smiles slowly melting from their faces. Waiting.

I felt like the terminator as possible next-things-to-say scrolled through my mind. I wanted to do a good job while balancing the peace, but this group wasn't going to play along. I was forced to make a choice.

"It's been a really long day people," I said slowly, "and I could really use a beer."

Interior Decorating

My mom was in the car business all her adult life, beginning her career as a salesman then moving to finance. For many years after she left my father and moved to Houston she remained single, as was the tendency of all my father's ex-wives. As a result, many of the men she introduced me to wore polyester pants, ten gallon cowboy hats, alligator skin boots, had voices slick as Texas tea and were always trying to charm my mother's only son as a tactical maneuver towards the bedroom.

I lived with my dad all my life, and would visit mom on summer vacation. When I turned seventeen, my dad got me a beat up, navy blue Chevy Nova, the most welcomed and amazing gift I had ever received. It was quirky, and developed rust holes in the floorboards through which you could put your feet and drive Flintstones style. It had an awful backfire; if you let off the gas too quickly it sounded off like a firing squad, or the finale of a fourth of July celebration. But there weren't too many cars in town that could outrun it; she could do the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.

Mom came to see my high school graduation, bless her heart. It must have been some shock to come from the land of consumerism, big houses and new cars to no-man's-land Alaska and take up guest accommodations in our shanty trailer. My car must have been the deal breaker, because when I started at college, she told me to get myself down to Houston, because she was sending me home in a new car.

It was a Chevy Cavalier, replete with a strange odor that I had never experienced without a fancy air freshener: new car smell. But that as it turned out would be fleeting.

I gathered a couple of my friends for the road trip back to Washington where I was attending college. We rolled a few joints for the trip and agreed to take shifts and drive straight through. I drove to College Station, home of the Aggies, to pick them up. On the way, a little rock flew into my windshield and created a spider web crack, my first ding, and I cursed the heavens, steaming all the way.

We set out for Washington and I drove for as long as I could take it, and turned the wheel over to Alan, or Tex as everybody called him. I met him in Alaska, and it was by sheerest coincidence that he moved near my mother in Texas. His accent was thick, which earned him his incredibly inventive nickname, and aside from being unemployed, he had every bit of the car salesman personality. He had long blonde hair and fair, feminine features, and was smash hit with the ladies, a great ice breaker at parties.

I decided to get some sleep, so I showed him the map and told him where to go, and he said, "Yeah yeah," in a dismissive tone. When I woke up, we were on a farm road a distance north of where we should have been, and nearly ran into a cow sleeping in the road. I had to get out and shoo him away.

Tex pulled out one of our joints, and after a few pulls, the mood was once again serene as we flew down the highway, once again on track, somewhere in the middle of rural Texas.

"Look," said Tex, pointing ahead to the side of the road, "a deer."

Most people would have slowed down, but he kept on going, happy as you please at eight five. As we approached, the deer decided that it needed to be on the other side of the highway, and shot in front of us in a single bound, and there was nothing we could do. It was in the midst of a jump when we collided, which pushed it's legs forward, spinning the deer a three quarter rotation before it shattered our windshield; it exploded like a water balloon and double layered the interior and everything in it with blood, excrement and liquid the color of wheat grass, and fell into a formless heap onto Tex's lap.

He screamed like a B movie actress and forgot to drive the car, which flew in auto pilot, thankfully straight.

"Tex!" I panicked. "Do not panic! Step on the brake and stop the car."

He looked at me uncomprehendingly and yelled, "What?!"

"Stop the car!"

"Oh my god! I can't hear anything." He put his fingers to his ears and pulled out clumps of green, undigested grass. His face was starting to bleed from a hundred tiny glass cuts, but his eyes registered relief as he realized that he was not deaf after all. He looked at the deer and his panic heightened again.

"Tex just stop the car god dammit," but he picked up the deer instead with two hands and threw it in my lap. I recoiled in disgust and kicked it into the floor boards and jumped up on my seat, every bit as panicked as he was moments before. Tex got control of the car and brought it to a stop.

We realized that the deers head and right front leg had been severed, so out of morbid curiosity I walked back the surprisingly short distance to where the rest was laying alongside the road. It's jaws were lying beside the mouth like a set of dentures.

Eventually an elderly couple stopped to give us a hand. The car had a new interior and a gaping wound through the windshield on the drivers side. They had a large supply of water, as they were coming back from a camping trip, so we each took turns washing the glass and body juices off us. They also gave us three or four old sheets to cover the seats with.

We drove the car to the nearest town and found a Chevy dealership. By now the car smelled like a slaughter house. The head mechanic, with a white patch on his breast that said 'Earl', sporting a lump of Copenhagen between his cheek and gum, took a long appraising look at the damage.

He turned to one of his men and laughed sadistically, "Better call in Billy on this one, he's low man on the totem pole."

A Load of Bull

My cousin Fess was a cowboy in every sense of the word, and even Conway Twitty -- may he rest in peace -- who lamented, "don't call him a cowboy until you've seen him ride," would have agreed. His bull riding buddies were a breed apart, sculpted from the rock of our eastern Washington canyons, living their lives from one rodeo to the next.

One of his friends, Crazy Joe, I met at an overnight campout before the Winthrop Rodeo, where, to quote David Allan Coe, "the bikers stare at cowboys, who are laughing at the hippies, who are praying they get out of here alive." The town was a juxtaposition of Harleys and pickup trucks, "Mom" tattoos and oversized belt buckles. Crazy Joe was the quintessential bull rider, full of bravado and afraid of no man. Around the camp fire, he told the story of how he managed to evade the long arm of the law.

"The cop tells me to put my hands on the hood of the car and starts pattin' me down, so I bashed my fuckin' face like three times until I'm black and blue and blood is gushing from mouth and nose."

"Holy shit," I was stunned.

"Yeah, and the cop is yellin' at me to stop, and I'm yellin' stop hurtin' me, and people was drivin' by starin' and all."

"So he let you go?"

"Had no fuckin' choice."

Fess, sitting with me, laughed, "That's why they call him Crazy Joe."

Another of his friends, John, was a short and squat bulldog of a man, whose anger spit fumes like sauna rocks. Nobody ever said an unkind word to his face and walked away with theirs as originally arranged. He was a zen buddhist of attitude adjustment, and I've seen him back off men twice his size.

I saw a drunk once in the stands of another rodeo, popping off at everyone that walked by, spoiling for a fight. After a half hour of not finding any takers, he wandered back to where the bull riders were preparing, and started his flap with John. He stumbled back out of the chutes holding onto his nose like that little boy with his thumb in the dike.

All of Fess' friends had similar stories. But for all their grit and steel, they were the best people to be around, full of fun and good times, and as welcoming and considerate as you would please.

At this particular rodeo, Fess had finally convinced me to give it a crack. He was pleased with the bull that I had drawn. When my turn came to ride, the bull was fairly sedate in the chute. Fess coached me on what to do. I put a glove on my left hand, which had some kind of resin on it for grip. The bull had a loop at the base of it's neck through which I could barely slip my hand, and I feared that it would never come back out. The bull was furious but still, it's heaving breath sounded like a steam engine. Fess raised his right arm and slugged the bull in the nose, and the bull roared and tried to crawl out of the chute and nearly smashed me flat into the ceiling.

"What the fuck are you doing Fess?!"

"Getting him angry! He's too calm, you'll never score any points if he doesn't try to throw you."

Several cowboys jumped up and ushered him back down into the chute, but I was nearly spent. What courage I had mustered was quickly failing me, but I got back on.

What happened next might as well have been a dream. I nodded my head, which was the ready signal, but from behind myself, like I was a spectator at my own execution. The bull shot out and I fell off, simple as that. Fess took a picture and my long lanky body was already half way to the ground. The bull kicked up his back legs and landed in front of my chest by a few inches, then was ran off by rodeo clowns. Aside from the dirt sandwhich, I was fine, and feeling quite satisfied that I had tried.

But in neglect of conventional wisdom, I did not try try again.

Intercourse Discourse

"It seems like everybody has had sex but me," I told John G. We were standing on the second floor of our high school at the intersection of two hallways. Around us our fellow students toiled between classes, animated in their own discussions, solving the problems of our tiny world on the capital island of Alaska.

Like my mother, I have always tended to reveal too much too soon, and the effect on people is either disarming or alarming. John took a consipiratorial survey of our personal space, his eyes darted left, then right. Satisfied, he leaned closer and whispered, "I haven't either."

"No way!" I whispered back. "There is hope then." We both laughed. "I wouldn't dare tell Eric; he would have me for lunch. I'd never hear the end of it."

John grinned, that evil Chesire Cat grin that connects the ears.

"What?" I said, my mouth hung open because I forgot to close it. "You know something don't you?"

John nodded his head, but his eyes kept mine locked.

"Oh come on, don't make me beg!"

"Let's just say, that I've had this very same conversation with Eric last weekend."

"And he's a virgin?!"

John held out his hand and made a peace sign. "The big V."

"Oh man, this is unbelievable," I said too loudly, but we both had forgotten the world around us. Eric was a football star, and was in the top eschelon of guys in our school. The girls that John and I wouldn't dream of approaching were friends of Erics, so naturally we looked up to him. This development was nothing short of a miracle.

John had told me this for a reason. While it is true that we looked up to Eric, we were jealous too. Add to this that Eric was incredibly confident, arrogant even, and seemingly never made a mistake. To make it worse, Eric was intolerant of the mistakes of others, and because of his competitive nature, was always exploiting his chances to smear it in your face. Thus, when the rare opportunity presented itself for payback, it had to be cherished like a rare and expensive wine. John and I were smelling the cork.

"Ok, this is good. This is real good." I rubbed my hands together; he saw the wheels turning in my head and waited patiently. "Ok, I'll handle this. Don't tell him that I know."

John watched me skip away, probably feeling a warm glow, like a boy scout that just earned a merit badge.

My dad in those days was a house builder. Eric and I would always buy a "half-rack" of Miller and drive to whatever house dad was in the process of building, get suitably buzzed, then continue to wherever the action was happening that night. And yes, we were driving drunk, and yes, it was very irresponsible, and yes, we could have killed somone, and no, we didn't. The cops were different back then. They just expected you were driving drunk on friday and saturday night, because as Sam Kinison once said, there was no other way to get your car back to the bleeping house. Ironically, Sam was killed by a drunk driver -- but I digress.

Tonight we drank our beers in a rough framed house; the roof was shingled and the outside walls were covered in plywood; the windows, as yet uninstalled, leaned against their empty openings, allowing the night free reign. We sat on the second story floor that was lightly peppered with sawdust, which danced in tiny whorls from the cool night breeze that carried the sweet smell of new lumber.

"Eric, we never really talk about all the girls that we have been with, do we?"

He looked instantly uncomfortable. Steee-rrrike one! "Uhh, yeah."

"Well, do tell! You must have stories, and you are not one to miss an opportunity to brag."

He reminded me of Rodney Dangerfield, who always pulls on his collar like it is suddenly too tight. I had Eric on the ropes.

"Why don't you start," he dodged. "Who have you ever been with?"

"Heather," I said simply.

"When!?" Slap! "I didn't know about that, you never said."

"I'm not a bragging man Eric, I leave that to you. Actually, it was more than once; she couldn't get enough. Once she got a taste, well, you know what I mean."

He was squirming. "So, how about you then?"

"Just once." He was such a bad liar.

"Reeeeeealllly? With whom may I ask?"

"Just some girl I met last summer, you wouldn't know her."

"Juneau is a small town Eric, and I know a lot of people. " His head was starting to lilt. "Why don't you indulge me on this one, hmmm?"

"Oh, all right. I lied."

"What was that, I couldn't hear you?"

"I lied, I've never been with a girl before."

Strike two!

"I can't believe that you could just sit there and fill me with your lies Eric. I thought you were my friend!"

He shook his head helplessly, "I.. uhhh.."

I know that most people would let it end with that, maybe rub it in for a while, relish the victory for as long as possible. But to Eric, losing to a friend, losing to anybody, was the most unsavory morsel to chew. Like a comic bad guy, I wanted Super Eric to know that I got him.

"That's ok Eric, I lied about Heather."

"What the..." His shock was total. "You lied to me, I can't..."

Strike three, and you're out!

Always Check the Oil

Three years of all play and no work might not have made me a dull boy, but in college it finally caught up to me. I had a student loan from the state of Alaska, which had a minimum grade point requirement to maintain. The semester previous I had skated by a thin margin, and were it not for a successful plea to my Spanish teacher to raise my D to a C, I would have gone home earlier.

My good friend that year was a Japanese Hawaiian called Roach. I don't know how he earned his nickname, but he was a delightful person. He had long black hair and was a tough guy through and through, hardened by the tough streets of the big island. He had a Commodore 64, which at the time was the best game system available. We were very competitive, playing at the Summer Olympics deep into the night.

Roach held me on an elevated platform, and thought I was the roughest, toughest example of a haole from the mainland. I enjoyed his reverence, which had a contagious effect on most of the people on our dormitory floor. Before long, I was wildly popular in our little community. Though I hadn't earned my reputation, I strived to live up to it.

The arm wrestling champion of the floor was Steve, a stocky, medium height bookworm who never missed an opportunity to rub it in our faces. He would hold up his arm and flex his bicep or turn his fist forward and show the bulge of his forearm, then mimic the motion of his arm slamming yours on the table.

My luck and money ran out that year, and everybody from the floor came back the next year without me for a neighbor. That summer my dad bought a farm in northern Washington, not far from Pullman, from whence I took my hiatus.

My dad was like Harrison Ford's character in Mosquito Coast, as our sojourn into the Colville Indian Reservation territory was a similar story. Both involved leaving civilized society behind, forced cohabitation with violent people, and a reclusive mad scientist father. Dad had promised me since I was a little boy that one day we would own a ranch and have horses, live off the land and build a log house. He made good on all accounts.

At first, life in the country, the real country, was novel and fun. We planted forty acres of alfalfa, and cut it down with a rickety old swather that dad somehow got running. The field was dry and the dust was so thick I had to wear a bandanna over my nose and mouth to breath. I don't know where the picture is any more, but I looked like Al Jolson when I was done.

We helped the local farmers pick up their hay, in exchange for help with ours. Even though the neighbors lived miles apart, the community was close and friendly.

We hired a lumberjack to cut down thirty trees for our log house, which was about thirty trees short of what we needed. I had watched him closely, and even took turns with the chainsaw in order to learn the art of felling a tree. It might have been a financial decision, but when I pleaded my case, dad let me cut the balance of what we needed.

Dad found a twenty foot section of metal culvert, which he buried upright in the ground in the middle of our foundation. He stuck a log straight down into it and built a homemade crane. We bought a winch from Sears, and a whole length of cable from an old boom truck at a junkyard. As impossible as it sounds, it really worked, and we raised a 40 x 40, two story log home in less than two months.

It all turned bad the day we found out that one of the local Indians shot our two dogs that were running deer in the woods. The whole community supported the move, as it was the responsibility of the owner to keep dogs within their property boundaries. This didn't sit well with any of us, and tensions sparked at the local pub, which was the only entertainment for anyone for a hundred miles. I won't go into details here, I'll save it for another time. But suffice to say I was happy the day we moved away.

Physically, I was completely transformed at the end of the summer. My arms were two pistons and my forearms rock, from logging, swinging a hammer and bucking bales of hay. When the new school year started, I decided to pay a visit to my old friends in the dorm. Kip, who lived with us that summer, loaned me his motorcycle for the trip.

The usual suspects had all returned, along with some new faces. Roach introduced me around, informing everyone that I was not to be fucked with. We were just opening the first of our beers when Steve walked in the room with that same cocky look on his face. I had a long sleeve flannel shirt on, which was a good thing, because he immediately did his signature arm wrestling pantomime, and I jumped up a little too eagerly, which seemed to get past Steve, who was looking forward to humiliating me once again for all the newbies on the floor.

"Stevey boy, I'm going to crush you like a little baby!"

He looked at me with a quizzical expression, the doubt was already worming through his brain. "Have you been... working out or something?"

"Take a look at these guns." I pulled off my shirt and the guys in the room started to roar. Roach patted Steve on the back bid him farewell. "Well, Steve, it was nice knowing you!"

"Ladies first," I said, pointing to the desk.

A commotion was stirring in the hall as doors were pounded and announcements were made. The room was soon filled to capacity, with guys covering the floor and beds like a hoard of ants. I was all smiles as he put his hand out and I seized it in an iron grip.

"I'm going to lose, aren't I?"

"Don't ruin this for me ok? I've been waiting a whole summer for this."

One tug and it was over, and the mighty Stevey struck out. My reputation was intact, and my popularity bigger than ever. We went to a dance that night where I hooked up with one of the girls from the floor upstairs. We went for a ride on the motorcycle across campus where no cars were allowed to go. On a sidewalk between buildings, we bumped smack into the campus police, so I turned to run the other way when the motorcycle quit. Were were about fifty yards from the hill crest, so we got off and pushed as the policeman got out of his car and gave chase on foot. We cleared the hill and coasted all the way back to the dorm and scrambled up to her room, where I spent the rest of the night.

Don't worry about her reputation, I was a perfect gentleman. Ahem.

The bike started the next morning so I set out for home. Half way, in the middle of Palouse county, the engine seized.

Then it hit me, the words my father had told me as I was leaving, "Don't forget to check the oil."

"Oh shit."

I checked it now and sure enough, it was dry as the Sahara. My dad picked me up, and we took the bike to our garage. When dad, by the grace of God, went inside, I grabbed a couple quarts of oil and filled it to capacity. He came back out, and sure enough, he checked it. The stick came out and dripped oil the color of light herbal tea, not the jet black of the old and used. He scrutinized my expression for a crack, but I maintained my composure. After an eternity of blinkless staring, he let it drop with a squinty, Seth Bullock leer that had a slight tint of bemusement.

Whew, dodged another one.

Off to College

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Joy Ride

I'm forty years old, and still afraid to tell my dad what I'm about to tell you.

First, a little background. If you've read my blog so far, you've probably noticed a theme of underlying sadness, and may conclude that my life, at least in my estimation, has been one sorrow to the next. It's true that I yearned for a normal life, but in between the bad times there were some incredible moments that sometimes stretched for months, even years.

My dad. My incredible, adventurous, fearless, reckless, defiant and rebellious dad. Rules were for other men, and nothing was too immoral. His mind was like a prism that refracted life in all it's glorious color. There was nothing he couldn't do, and nothing he was afraid to try. For all the carnage he left in his wake, he made me the man I am today. He won't author any bestselling parenting books, but the man taught me to fly.

Mostly by reverse example. I credit a lucrative career and a wonderful marriage to a lifetime of eating Top Ramen and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, sleeping in the back of pickup trucks under leaky tarps, and playing Name That Step-mother.

But sometimes the old man was a lot of fun. When I was eleven, he called me from a bar in Hayden Lake, Idaho. Apparently there had been a police raid and he was twelve beers over his limit. He needed me to come get him. Dad had recently come into some money, and true to form, when dad had money, everybody had money or toys or both. He came home with a motorcycle trailer loaded with new bikes for myself, my six year old brother, and my step-mother Lorrie. His was a Suzuki 250, a very loud and very fast bike that I had been eyeballing for some time, but dad wouldn't let me touch.

"Now listen to me," he said, "you have to ride my motorcycle, because it's equipped for the road."

"You're kidding," I screamed.

"Now hold on a minute," he warned, "I'm absofuckinlutely serious here, so listen up!"

"Ok," I said meekly, but the excitement bubbling and he knew it.

"You drive the speed limit and don't attract any attention to yourself. Do you understand me?"

"No problem dad, speed limit, no attention. Got it. Be right there."

He paused. "I'm serious..."

"Ok," I said, feigning exasperation.

The bike was in the garage. I stepped onto the left peg and kicked my right leg over and sat down on the seat. Neither foot could reach the ground at the same time as the other. I turned the key on and kicked started the engine. One kick and it roared to life. I pulled the clutch and shifted it into first, then rocked the bike until it stood almost upright and let it rip. I flew out of the garage like I was shot from a cannon, leaned left and turned onto the street and opened it up, full throttle. What a rush.

Dad loves to tell the story today -- with grand embellishments, of course. Sure he was mad that he could hear me coming for blocks, or that I kicked up gravel in the parking lot as I skidded to a stop, but he was also proud of his boy, with a distinctly familiar irrespressible spirit.

So, back to the raison d'être. Jeez.

When I was fifteen, I was aching to drive a car. My dad had an old style Voltswagon Beetle, dark blue like a festering bruise. It was a small car and had a manual transmission, which I reasoned would not be unlike shifting a motorcycle. One night, when dad had been drinking and was definitely passed out for good, I decided to take it for a ride. It was probably one or two in the morning, and most of the world was comfortably numb. In those days, Juneau only had a few cops, and they weren't hard core like they are today, but still, even they would have found some fault in what I was doing, so I was scared to get caught for more than one reason.

I put the car in neutral and pushed it down the street a ways, fearing that dad would wake up to the distintive cough of old reliable's engine. I drove up the highway towards the Mendenhall Glacier. I was doing good for a while, until I turned too sharply and scraped the entire passenger side on a stop sign (that appeared out of nowhere, I swear!), clipping off the door handle and denting the rear tire well.

This is one of those times in life that I really wished I was dreaming, and for a moment I actually considered that it might be true. There were only two things certain in life, imminent death and taxes. Like Arnold Swartzeneger in Terminator, possible excuses were scrolling through my mind, but unlike Arny, I was shooting blanks. There wasn't anything more for me to do now but go home and meet my maker.

I acquired a full head of steam, turned the car off and coasted it in neutral for half a block and into my driveway. I snuck into my room and tried to sleep, which seemed like an eternity in the making.

"God dammit!" I bolted awake. Dad was having the expected reaction. Any minute now my bedroom door would implode. I only prayed that my death would come quickly. "Somebody wrecked the f$#^& car!"

The storm was collecting and the cloud was about to burst over my head, when there came a knock on the front door.

I ran to my bedroom door and put an ear to it. A woman who lived in the apartment across from us introduced herself, and said that she knew what happened to the car. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I'm so dead.

Then, the most amazing, most miraculous words came from her mouth. "Last night, I heard a car screeching in the driveway, and a loud crashing noise. I heard someone cussing, the slamming of a car door, then the squeal of tires. I ran to my window just in time to see a green station wagon fish-tailing out of the driveway and onto the street. I came out and saw the dents on your car."

I don't know if you believe in God, but that night, an angel arrived upon the Chinook wind and delivered me from the beating of a lifetime.

Ode to Mom

June 4th was my mother's birthday, and for the first time since her death I forgot to call my maternal grandmother to reminisce. Death does funny things to a family. Suddenly everyone was very close to the deceased, and as such deserves a "little" piece for posterity.

My mom was unhappy for most of her life. If I had to sum up what was most important to her in one word, I would say men. Like most parents, it's hard to see them clearly until you gather the perspective of all that know them. As a child you are told nothing of value, only non-statements such as, "You're mom is a damn good woman," or "She did what she thought was best for you." Uh, yeah, ok. Mom always took care of mom first, and gave me what was left over.

When I was three or four, my dad went to work like any other day, but came home to an empty apartment. Some man helped us load the UHaul truck, someone I knew from around the apartment complex. Mom told me that dad was meeting us where we were going. I don't remember when or how she finally told the truth. Funny, I remember a lot of things, but that one detail escapes me.

We lived with my Grandma for a while. My Grandpa took the training wheels from my bike and watched me ride it alone for the first time. Incidentally, I rode it on the street. Back then it didn't matter where you rode as long as you looked both ways. My how the world has changed since then.

How many times did I cry for my dad? Did I even speak to him on the phone?

Mom told me to go to my room, so I plugged my record player into an extension chord and bit the connection. My eyes saw static, the kind you see when the channel isn't available. When I pulled the chords apart, an tiny egg shaped depression had burnt into my upper lip. I told my mom what I did and she sent me back to my room. Her eyes never left the TV set.

Who was I to her back then? A nuisance, a mistake that could have been prevented by wearing a condom god damnit. Heads up to you parents out there, kids know, and they know early.

She told me one day that she was sending me to live with my father. I screamed for joy and bounced up and down on her bed. I never thought in my childish mind what that did to her, it wasn't intended to hurt.

My father's mother picked me up to drive me. Perhaps dad couldn't rely on his self restraint. Only then did I realize that I was leaving mom forever, and when the tears came I couldn't speak or think. I watched the receding figure of my mom in the rear window. Her face might as well have been a likeness on Mt. Rushmore. My grandma still tells me about that day, and how bad she felt for me. If I let go I can still be moved.

When I was old enough to drive, and visiting during summer breaks, the same old mom didn't have any time to spend with me, but she had cool cars, and a different one every year. She had no compunctions about giving me the keys and enough money to enjoy. Not every kid drove a Z-28, unless of course they were rich. Maybe mom was buying me off, as one of my step mothers felt inclined to suggest, but I was in no mood to question her methods. I was a poor kid living with my dad. I wore the same old corduroy pants that ripped in several lines from the foot to the knee. Every day before school I would go to one of the classrooms and tape it from behind with masking tape. I didn't even know how to bathe until Shawna in ninth grade told me I stunk. Then I took one every day whether I needed it or not. I always wondered why other guys got on so well with the girls, but I couldn't get the time of day. But when I visited with mom, the first stop was the mall to get a whole summer wardrobe. I felt almost human when I came home from fantasyland, back into the real world of poverty, despair and disheveled hair.

Mom killed herself, not in the literal sense, but with cigarettes and vodka. Her ex-husband, a "rehabilitated" ex-con, was there with me to witness her final moment. Her crystal blue eyes opened wide in shock, then the lights went out but the eyes still shone, staring sightless to heaven where I hope she is waiting for me today. I loved her, and yet I was so disappointed in her too, for not loving me, not holding me or making me the priority that an only son should be. The nurses in the ICU stared at me, anticipating a big show of tears. Her ex was straddled on top of her, kissing her and mumbling incoherently, but I stood there looking at her, my face next to hers on that far away Dakotan monument. I lay my head on her chest and said goodbye, but to me, a body, ruined, riddled with cancer throughout most of her internal organs, was all that remained. My mother was somewhere else.

I feel like I need to apologize to her, but if she were here she would tell me that she understands. She was just that way, a realist that didn't have the same secrets that most of us have. Her secrets were much darker, so normal secrets were just insignificant.

Wait for me mom. But first, I have some children to raise, love, respect, and never, ever, let go.