My Book Project
"Every gun that is made, every battleship that is built, every missile that is launched, is a direct theft from the people who are hungry and starving in this world"
Eisenhower
Below here are some excerpts from a book I am working on. The working title is "Waiting for Vince"
Forward
Finding humor in the horrible. Finding delight in the dismay. Finding a hair in your food. “Gay people are so funny, they find humor in the strangest places”, a friend of mine said as she picked up one of my stories. General coping skills I guess. Therapy I call it. This project I’m working on I suppose re-tells a lot of horrible things that have happened to me in my short forty some odd years. Well, horrible is very subjective, it could have always been much worse; I could have been born in Kosovo or Bangladesh or Baghdad. I am not a comedian and I believe it’s true that real comedians who have had hard lives are far more humorous than those who’ve had it easy. It’s difficult to be humorous about your heroin years when you’ve not had heroin years for example. Were it not for my growing up around cows I suppose I would not have funny stories about cows. In that, I guess you could say that cows are my heroin. If any of this is funny, it’s not because I’m a funny person it’s because the heroin I grew up with had four legs and farted a lot.
If you are reading this and you are related to me or you think you know me well then I apologize if any of my words hurt you in any way. My mother read a chapter once and I could see her immediately slip into the “I’m a bad mother, how could I let this happen to my son” mode. Well, I love my life and I love everything that went into making my life what it is today. There is no blame to be placed or ill will toward anyone for any reason…this is not my “Mommy Dearest”. A good portion of my younger years were spent on a ranch in the middle of flippin-nowhere where my dad was ranch foreman. I talk a lot like it was bad being out there but the truth is, a lot of my imagination was borne there. To this day I can picture the rolling hills, sheer cliffs, sunrises and sunsets, a night sky that most city people will never know, the amazing beauty of it. Sure there was hard work and it was gritty but it’s in my head now and if it weren’t for it, I wouldn’t be me. So read on dear reader.
View From A Dumpster
November 19th, 1977. I suppose its my fault I wound up in the dumpster in the first place. I was, after all, queer and from what I had been taught, it was a “choice” I must have made at some point in my long eleven-year existence. In a way then, I must have chosen to be thrown in there face-down with the banana peels, rotting leaves, and squishy things too frightening and too fragrant to be named. It’s not unconceivable, I suppose, that a newly eleven year old kid would “decide” to be queer so he could be pitched unceremoniously into a dumpster. I’m sure many famous queer people have been thrown in dumpster's as well. Surely Liberace spent some time in a sequined, fur lined dumpster and it’s not a stretch to imagine that Richard Simmons conceived of the “Deal a Meal” diet program whilst whiling away the hours in a dumpster of his own amongst some used kitty-litter and discarded tampons. If I hadn’t been so terrified, I probably would have climbed out right away but I would swear that I could still here the thugs outside the giant army-green plastic can. Perhaps more disabling than the fact that they might be out there was the fact that I was going to have to flop out of this can much taller than me and tumble to the ground in order to free myself. Who might see me? What would the people of the neighborhood think? Would they think I climbed in myself? Would they think I was homeless? Would they think I was digging through their trash looking for discarded goodies? Perhaps dumpster diving for half eaten Twinkies (my favorite snack cake of the time)?
Quite the birthday present that dumpster was for me. Yes, it was my birthday. Weeks of anticipation and waiting for what my 11th birthday would bring and this was it. It was the fault of the birthday that lead me to take the quickest route home. My mother had planned a birthday party for me with my best friend Kelly and I wanted to get home and help her with the cake. I loved to cook with my mother. I was so excited! Of course, the quickest route home was also the route that was peopled by two of my grade school classmates who just happened to be part-time terrorists. Well, not actually terrorists, I suppose they, like me, and most boys our age, were just severely misunderstood. The thugs were actually brothers. One brother was tall and blond and built like a giant seventh grader complete with body hair and the first signs of the mysterious and exciting disease people call puberty (he had been held back so he seemed to tower above the other kids). The other, younger brother was not much bigger than me, which is the same as saying that under normal circumstances, he would be as intimidating as a titmouse. Through the magical and mysterious rules of bullydom, this titmouse by just being in the presence of his towering sibling was able to absorb and project his brother’s vastly more powerful intimidation rays. Just the close proximity to the hulking tower of frightfulness, this little guy became as terrifying as a one-eyed angry, ruffled, pit bull.
The whole thing started just two weeks earlier on the playground (where so many of these things start). Several nerdy friends and I were out playing with an actual ball, one of those red smelly rubber balls that they used to make us throw at each other during Physical Education class, I believe they called that form of torture “Bombardment”. Anyway, we had one of those balls and we were kicking it back and fourth like only the athletically “challenged” kids can. The following unspeakable thing then happened in slow motion; Kelly kicked the ball hard launching it into the air and sending it right over my head with a slow arcing spin. I pushed off the ground as hard as my pasty white twig legs could push, fighting the very gravity that was keeping me attached to the cold ground but even with both my arms fully stretched high above my head, my thin little fingers just barely glanced the ball. It bounced once on the ground then with a hollow “thwonk” once again off the back of the greasy head of the largest bully in the school. Darin was his name. Of course, when Darin turned around, there was one obvious perpetrator to the crime that was inflicted to his noggin. The “perp” was me and with arms a flailing and stored momentum, I was headed right for him before I realized I was about to be killed. It really didn’t matter that it was an accident. The wheels had been set in motion and Darin was seeing red, weapons were charged and someone had to die.
I believe the first words spoken, or rather yelled, were “STERLIN, I’M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU FUCKIN FAG”. Of course it makes no difference what he said, the end result was the same. He had been disgraced. In front of all his friends he had been bonked in the back of his little head by one of the nerdyist and effeminate kids in the class. Before I had time to calculate my departure angle there was a fist slamming through my stomach to the back of my spine. The wind left me and like a rock I dropped to the damp ground. With one foot on my chest, standing above me in a sweat-stained, food splotched dirty white t-shirt and no coat, Darin extolled the time and date of my execution. I was told to “meet” just off the school property where he killed most of his victims. This was usually the case with school beatings, one quick punch on the playground before the teacher on parole noticed and then an arranged disembowelment off school property where they could legally beat you to death without interference but with a nice audience of your friends and classmates. The rule was that I was supposed to “fight” him at 2:45 and word was quickly spread. I, of course, had no intention of meeting him anywhere and thus began my weeks of avoiding Darin and his evil hench-brother.
Days in the dumpster passed… Well perhaps it was minutes but it felt like days. Any excitement of my forthcoming birthday party now replaced with dread. My face was stinging where the tears had recently been, my cloths cold and wet were covered in stink, filth, and maggots both real and imagined. My self-esteem, (what there had been) was gone, long gone. While waiting in the dumpster for the torment to be over I was lambasted with every “gay” label in the book. How did they find me out? How did they know I was gay when I hardly understood my feelings myself? How could they not! Perhaps it was my pronounced sibilant “Sssss”es, or the limp-wristed style in which I did everything. Perhaps they noticed the wide rubber-band I wore around my wrist. You see, I had recently seen this television special about how scientists could cure gay men with negative stimulus. Some group of scientists had figured out that if you strap a gay man to a chair and show him random photos all the while administering a little electric shock to his genitals every time an erotic male image is on the screen eventually his brain would associate the male image with pain thus ending his unnatural attraction to the same sex. I came up with this clever portable version… Every time I spoke with a sibilant “sss”, I would snap my wrist with the rubber-band. Every time I would look at another boy or a picture of a man I would snap my wrist. Every time I would catch myself with my arms up and wrists down, I would snap my wrist. Every time I would have what I felt was a gay feeling, I would snap my wrist. Perhaps that or the red marks from all the snapping are what tipped them off. Not that the reason made any difference, I knew I was different and kids can tell. Eventually the sounds of shouting outside the dumpster grew distant. I supposed Darin and his brother felt that I was dead enough or at least I was dead to them, tossed out, buried. They knew they had won a victory for their side and I knew what they told me. I was a fag, a nelly, a nancy-boy, a homo, a queer. I was in the trash, because I was trash and I knew it to be true.
Now the most difficult part for me had come, almost worse than being thrown in the dumpster, I had to get out, walk the six blocks to my house, open the door and face my family. My pants were soaked all kinds of fluids from the trash, my hands were covered with filth, my hair was matted with coffee grounds and eggshells and I smelled disgusting. I wriggled around in the dumpster, got my feet underneath me and was able to stand and push the lid up, allowing the bright November afternoon light to stream in. There was no sign of the other boys and thankfully, no sign of life anywhere outside on the neighborhood street. I removed my backpack while letting the dumpster lid rest on my head and pitched it over the side. With my pack off, I was able to pull myself up and flop out of the can and onto the muddy ground. No one had seen me, thank you god. I was out and it was over. As I pulled myself, clothing, and backpack together, I began to think about how I could get in the house and up the stairs to my bedroom without being seen. I could clean up and no one would know! I could pretend it never happened! Of course it would be all over school the next day but I might be able to keep my family from finding out. So, I began the long walk home down one of the most beautiful streets in town, beauty that was lost and the eleven-year-old boy with blonde hair and tear-stained brown eyes today. I turned right on my street just as my stepfather was pulling into the driveway beside the house. I knew that if I ran I could make it into the front door and up the stairs before he came in the back door and into the kitchen. Mom would find it strange that I went up to my room before I greeted her in the kitchen but I would just tell her that I had to go to the bathroom. So run I did, his car disappeared behind the house as I began to climb the six steps up the front porch. I quietly crossed the porch and opened the door. My plan was over before it began. Standing in the living room waiting to greet me was my Grandma Jackson. She had come over for my birthday party and immediately she knew that something was terribly wrong with me. Normally I would have gone directly to her and thrown my arms around her for a big hug but I was covered in muck so I just stood there dumbstruck and stinking.
Tears welled and my throat closed. Without so much as a “howdy”, I headed quickly for the staircase to my bedroom. My mind was reeling; I had just dissed my grandmother she would be telling my mom about my condition as soon as she could get to the kitchen. My stepfather was on the way in the house and I knew that all hell was going to break loose. It was my damn birthday! Mom entered my room moments later just as I knew she would. She wore look of concern and curiosity on her face. Through tears and catches of breath I extolled the story of being thrown in the dumpster leaving out all mention of any gay slanders. She listened intently to the story and I’m sure she was angry or upset. Honestly, I can’t recall what she said or if her face or words gave any indication of what was to come next. She told me to get cleaned up and to come down when I was ready. As she made her way down the stairs, I stripped off the smelly damp and disgusting cloths and began filling the bathtub and lowered myself into the warmth. I had just shut off the water when I heard the shouting from downstairs, it was Al my stepfather apparently my mother had filled him in on my afternoon of fun. “GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH…NO SPINE…MOTHER HIM SO MUCH…WEAK…NO SON OF MINE…I’LL TEACH HIM TO…GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH!” Then, heavy, angry footfalls on the stairs heading toward my room. There were sixteen stairs from the main floor to the landing that connected my room to my sisters. I knew each stair intimately, which ones squeaked, which ones didn’t. From the time it took him to go from the bottom step to the sixteenth step I had flown out of the tub, toweled off and on one foot then the other,, I scooted into a pair of clean brown corduroy pants. He would not see me naked, not now, not ever, no way, yuck. He entered the room just as I pulled on my favorite Atari T-shirt.
It’s difficult for me to describe to you my stepfather. He was and I suppose, still is an imposing man whose baseline mode of operation is anger. He had graying brown hair, piercing grey eyes, large in build. Each year that passed, I became more and more frightened and intimidated by him, as he seemed to become more and more frightening. As he entered my room, his lips were drawn in a tight pucker over clenched teeth. He was as mad as I had ever seen him. I immediately sat on the edge of my bed and fixed my eyes on my bare toes, my jaw clenched tightly, waiting for his words.
The questions and comments came in rapid fire “What in the hell were you thinking” Did you hit them? Did you kick them? You need to fight back! You need to be strong! Don’t be such a wimp! Stop your crying! Next time put a god damn rock in a god damn sock and smack em’ in the head! Don’t let them push you around! Do you want them to think you’re weak? What are you going to do when your mother’s not around”?
And then, “get in the car, we are going to visit this…Ass-hole Darin”
More to come....
