...and I haven't written an ending because I forgot I started this story. Not gonna stop me from posting though....
Uncle Mervis was married to my mama's step-sister Janine, one of a large clan that my mama referred to as the "red-headed step-children". He was red-faced and gaunt, his strawberry blond hair in a permanent cowlick. I'm sure that Uncle Mervis had been gainfully employed at some point in time, maybe when he was a young man living in Lake Whitney, revving the engine of his Camaro to impress Aunt Janine when he picked her up for the drive-in movie. I really couldn't say. All I know for sure is that by the time I got to know him, his only major occupation was drinking beer.
I spent most of my summers at Aunt Janine and Uncle Mervis's trailer because their oldest girl Darla was my best friend, and Aunt Janine shared her pot with us, and taught us how to make a pipe from aluminum foil in case of emergency. She worked as a waitress to support their large family, and made ends meet with the help of food stamps.
Uncle Mervis woke every morning at 5 am to sit and watch Aunt Janine get ready for work. When she left, he would slick his unruly hair down with a comb, and make a pot of coffee. When Darla and I stumbled into the living room, he would be sitting in one of the aluminum dining chairs, cradling his enormous mug of coffee, blinking owlishly, confused by his sobriety. We would help him make breakfast, and afterwards, he led us through the daily chores and chainsmoked Doral full-flavors.
When chores were completed, Darla and I were put in charge of the three little ones, Charlotte, Lindsay, and the middle girl that was called “Whopper” for reasons that are lost to the mists of time. Uncle Mervis used his free time to pursue his passion. Armed with a 12-pack of whatever the cheapest beer had been the night before (usually Meisterbrau or Pearl) , he commenced to drinkin', and he really put his back into it. On nice days, he sat in a lawn chair on the rotting front porch, draining the cans and crushing them in his fists. He pissed off the side of the porch and watched us play, occasionally offered us advice.
“Now, gawdamnit, that ain’t the way you spray paint a bus girls. You gotta shake and spray if you wanna get good coverage.”
“Whopper, don’t be pokin’ that goat with a stick. He’s fixin’ to rear back and bite the piss out of you.”
Occasionally, he would feel adventurous, like the day he found out I had never eaten frog legs.
“What? You ain’t never ate a frog leg? We gonna put a stop to that bullshit. You watch the girls, me and Bubba’s gonna gig us some gawdamned FROGS!”
He returned two hours later, significantly drunker, holding a pointed stick above his head. There were six fat, lumpy frogs impaled on it.
“Girls, we is about to feast!”
We followed him into the kitchen, where he gave us a detailed demonstration of the proper way to clean and cook frogs, punctuated with his hearty belches. When he got to the part about cutting the tendon behind the knee to prevent them from “hopping” out of the pan, he danced the legs across the kitchen table. He battered and deep-fried the frogs and served them on grease-spotted paper plates with a side of home fries and puddle of ketchup. The texture reminded me of fish, but tasted like chicken. I haven’t eaten them since.
Showing posts with label the white trash family tales of rebel s. nerd. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the white trash family tales of rebel s. nerd. Show all posts
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Sorry Mama, but this bladder is closed
I think I was fourteen the night my cousins Bobby and Bubba taught me to smoke pot. We planned it in the afternoon, and as scheduled, they knocked on my bedroom window at midnight. I let them in through the utility room door and we sat at the foot of my bed and smoked Bubba's skunky weed out of the toilet paper roll pipe I'd watched Bobby make.
"Alright Reb, you're gonna take a hit like you're smoking a cigarette, but you wanna hold it in your lungs as long as you can," Bubba instructed.
"Show her how to put her finger over the carb so she gets a good hit," Bobby said.
"How do I know this shit is working?"
"You'll know," they agreed.
An hour later we were laying across my bed laughing about the fog I swore had just rolled across the hallway from my bathroom and engulfed the bedroom .
"Man, I fucking love smoking weed with you guys. And you know what the best part is? My mama can't sell my pee to Aunt Carolyn anymore."
Bubba looked at me, his eyes bugging out. "What the fuck is Aunt Carolyn doing with your pee?"
"She has to take a piss test every month, but she won't stop shooting speed, so Mama makes me pee in a Tupperware container, and she trades it for dope."
"That is FUCKED up," Bobby said.
"Well, I ain't doin' that shit no more. Ya'll wanna come back tomorrow night?"
A week into my new infatuation with pot, Mama paid me a visit, pee container in hand.
"Reb, I need you to pee for me again."
"Nope, I'm not doin' it."
"Yes you are. We need to help Aunt Carolyn."
"Well Mama, if you sell MY pee to Aunt Carolyn, she's gonna be pretty fuckin' mad at you. Would you like more information?"
"Not really."
"Why don't you sell her some of your pee, Mama? Oh that's right, you can't sell yours either."
"Rebel, shut your smart-ass mouth."
I felt pretty good about derailing Mama's black market pee sales until I heard my seven year old sister in the bathroom.
"But why do I hafta pee in a bowl Mama? I don't want to."
"Just do what I say."
Mama swears none of these things happened, and says that me and my sister live to tell lies about her. In retrospect, she's really lucky that I didn't hit her more often.
"Alright Reb, you're gonna take a hit like you're smoking a cigarette, but you wanna hold it in your lungs as long as you can," Bubba instructed.
"Show her how to put her finger over the carb so she gets a good hit," Bobby said.
"How do I know this shit is working?"
"You'll know," they agreed.
An hour later we were laying across my bed laughing about the fog I swore had just rolled across the hallway from my bathroom and engulfed the bedroom .
"Man, I fucking love smoking weed with you guys. And you know what the best part is? My mama can't sell my pee to Aunt Carolyn anymore."
Bubba looked at me, his eyes bugging out. "What the fuck is Aunt Carolyn doing with your pee?"
"She has to take a piss test every month, but she won't stop shooting speed, so Mama makes me pee in a Tupperware container, and she trades it for dope."
"That is FUCKED up," Bobby said.
"Well, I ain't doin' that shit no more. Ya'll wanna come back tomorrow night?"
A week into my new infatuation with pot, Mama paid me a visit, pee container in hand.
"Reb, I need you to pee for me again."
"Nope, I'm not doin' it."
"Yes you are. We need to help Aunt Carolyn."
"Well Mama, if you sell MY pee to Aunt Carolyn, she's gonna be pretty fuckin' mad at you. Would you like more information?"
"Not really."
"Why don't you sell her some of your pee, Mama? Oh that's right, you can't sell yours either."
"Rebel, shut your smart-ass mouth."
I felt pretty good about derailing Mama's black market pee sales until I heard my seven year old sister in the bathroom.
"But why do I hafta pee in a bowl Mama? I don't want to."
"Just do what I say."
Mama swears none of these things happened, and says that me and my sister live to tell lies about her. In retrospect, she's really lucky that I didn't hit her more often.
This one's for Hip and Dad, but ya'll can read it too
I was digging through some papers, and I found this letter, written by my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather (an interesting side note, he was the one to start the tradition of naming girls Rebel) He is writing home to his wife during the midst of the War of Yankee Aggression, or the Civil War as yankees like to call it.
Columbus Ky., Jany 18th 1862
(Thursday)
My Dear wife,
Your letter of the 11th (written Saturday night and received Tuesday morning after I had just finished one to send by Isaac Parker) was read with a great deal of pleasure by me. I read and reread it and every time could not restrain a laugh at the manner you ridiculed my culinary skill. You want me to send you a bite of my molasses custards so that you can enjoy a hearty guffaw at my expense and even hint by way of irony that you women, after the war, will surrender your prerogative in the kitchen to us men. In other words that you will secede and have us duly installed as "chief cooks and bottle washers," while you sit back in your easy chairs and with your native dignity and grace, pronounce our dainty meals to your company, as not fit to eat, when you know it is better than they are used to at home. This you will do to extort their encomiums, and then you will glide into the kitchen to tell us how this lady and that one praised our custards and how Mrs. ______, whom all the men admire, said, "They were the nicest she ever ate." With this kind of finesse, (soft solder), you expect to secure our continued services as your cooks, for you well know that if a woman's smile will make us fools, her compliments will make us slaves forever. But, my Dear, there is one serious obstacle in our being cooks after the war. We know how expert you ladies' are with the broom-handle and will dread its power upon our craniums. Have I again slandered your sex? If so, assemble a jury of the prettiest you can find, to try my case. I shall object to any sour, vinegar-faced Old Maid, who has lived just long enough in disappointment to despise the men. Read your charges of slander to such a fair Jury as this, and read, if you wish, this very intelligible letter to them, (for my admiration of one of their number has caused me to take much pains in its preparation,) and whatever their verdict may be, I will cheerfully submit to it. Perhaps, you would not be willing to risk me in the hands of such a Jury, but would prefer trying me yourself. In that event, I know that your partialities and affection will favor me, and that I will come off fully acquitted. Thus assured, I feel impatient to hear the sentence that you as my pretty little Judge, will pronounce against me. Let me hear it.
(Friday) Just here, I have had two interruptions to my letter writing, the last of which has changed my facetiousness into something more serious that I fear I cannot get into the strain again. I was busy preparing the above yesterday, intending it to contain my defense against your charge of slander, when "Company came in." This was the case last night, (Thursday night) as my visitors stayed all night. An old gentleman by the name of Chrisman was my bedfellow, and a very restless one at that. He was taken sick in the night, and rolled and turned about so much on my narrow bed, that he allowed me but very little room for sleeping. In addition to this, (I will say more of Chrisman after awhile.), I was aroused at 4 o'clock with orders to have the company ready at 8 in the morning with one day's (24 hours) rations for a march, which order was for the whole regiment. Of course it occasioned much surmise in the whole Reg't as to what route we would take and the general opinion prevailed that we were to be sent after a body of yankeys who were reported to be in our vicinity and that we would certainly have a brush with them today. No time to sit down then, to write a hurried note and inform you of what was going on or even to bid you any advice, but commending you and my precious family to God's protecting care, preparations were busily made for our mysterious and sudden march. I am truly glad now that the time was not afforded me to finish my letter, as it would have caused you very much uneasiness and anxiety about me, and besides I have just returned from our long and weary tramp through the snow, mud and slush, and in the same letter give you all the particulars of what we saw and did, and also that I am neither killed, wounded nor missing, but sitting safe and sound, by my cozy little fire, engaged in writing to my sweet wife and children, the pleasantness of the task more than counter-balancing the fatigue I have endured and now feel from a 12 mile walk. Captain White was sick and the command of the company devolved on me, and C,,A, being on picket duty, ours being not in order had to lead off at the head of our column. Our departure attracted much attention and gave rise to the prediction that the yanks would cut out (vamose) when the 4th Reg't is sent after them and there would be no fighting. This has usually been the case and was fully verified at Belmont and again today.
After marching 6 miles, nearly to Elliott's Mills, we were informed by those living on the road that the yanks had left a few hours before, apparently very much frightened, and stealing their horses and mules to ride; and taking some of the citizens back with them as prisoners. Our calvary (4 companies) were sent 4 miles further on and ascertained that the enemy had made it in double quick to Blandville, 20 miles from here, where they had several thousand men and 12 cannon. Our force comprised only one Reg't and Col. Mark's (LA) Battalion-14 companies- together with the four cavalry Cos and no artillery. In all, scarcely 1200 men, and besides we only had rations for today and positive orders from Polk to return in 24 hours, whereas it would have taken at least another day to have gone to Blandville, whipped them out, and return to Columbus. I say confidently, whipped them out, because they were so much alarmed, that, not knowing our real strength, could easily have been stampeded. But under all these circumstances we took up the line of march back to camp, where I now have the pleasure of being comfortably quartered instead of spending the night in the rain upon the wet ground, as we expected to do. Many of the men gave out and stopped on the wayside to rest, but my indomitable perseverance and will bore me up without flagging in the least, though tonight I have been troubled with an acute pain on my left shoulder, caused by loss of sleep last night, and standing on the snow and the mud today waiting for the cavalry to reconsider. This was the most disagreeable part of our trip, for we were much heated by the walk, packing our arms, overcoats, blankets, provisions and etc. And, with wet feet, we soon became chilled when we stopped. But since I have been writing, the pain of which I complained has entirely left me. The warm fire has dried my feet, and but for the loss of sleep last night and fatigue today I would finish my letter tonight. But it is now late, all asleep but myself, and I must beg your kind indulgence until tomorrow (Saturday) when I may think of something fresh to day. My letter will bear date tomorrow but you must understand that it was commenced Thursday and my tramp was on Friday, which I fear you may hear something about before getting this. Hence my anxiety to be ready for next mail. But good night it is now past 10 o'clock.
(Saturday morning)
Rained hard all night and pouring down this morning. Kitchen leaked badly, the stove pipe and stove full of water. Like most housekeepers wake up in a fret (no slander intended) at the poor prospect for breakfast. Did not scold, because I could not do the subject justice. John Nelson coughed, groaned, hawked and spit all night disturbing my slumber. No provisions to cook - all out - no fire to cook - the stove wet - and to add insult to injury the rain spattering on my paper while sitting by the window trying to write this particular sort of letter, which I wished to make plain enough for all to read, besides that Jury of fair ladies who are to try my case for slander before you as Judge.
Mr. Chrisman was an old acquaintance of Pa's and knew all his relations - his brothers and nephews and etc. Did you get the letter I sent by Mrs. Elder- If so, did you give Allen's passport to him and what has become of him. If you have not sent by Bradshaw yet for sugar and molasses, do not do so, as I will write to Wash to buy them for you. Bradshaw will want commission for his trouble or will charge some profit. Let me hear immediately so I can write to Wash or you write yourself inclosing $25 to him and ask him to send you bill. I received a letter from him and will and must answer it soon. Collect the notes on Love, Richardson, and Simmons and keep the money for further instructions. The Paymaster is to pay us Monday next, when I will send you four hundred dollars more to keep for me. I want to pay off some debts with this money but will not do so at present for a special reason. It may be necessary at sometime to remove you all to some place of greater security, should the enemy ever succeed in passing us, and I wish to be provided against every contingency. I am in that such a contingency may never arise - will sacrifice my life to prevent it - and if it never does, the money will be subject to my debts. But my family's safety is my first consideration, and all that I make - all that I do shall be sacredly devoted to that object. Remember your own safety and that of our children may someday depend upon it. You may all be fugitives for God only knows when and how the war may end, and the greater the means you have the less difficulty in your fight. No Yankee hireling must invade the sanctity of my home and my family subject to their mercy - for mercy they have none and neither do they respect age nor sex.
Adieu my dear wife, may God's blessing ever attend you and my beloved children. You have at all times my warmest affection and prayers.
Your Affectionate Husband,
A.S. Currey
Columbus Ky., Jany 18th 1862
(Thursday)
My Dear wife,
Your letter of the 11th (written Saturday night and received Tuesday morning after I had just finished one to send by Isaac Parker) was read with a great deal of pleasure by me. I read and reread it and every time could not restrain a laugh at the manner you ridiculed my culinary skill. You want me to send you a bite of my molasses custards so that you can enjoy a hearty guffaw at my expense and even hint by way of irony that you women, after the war, will surrender your prerogative in the kitchen to us men. In other words that you will secede and have us duly installed as "chief cooks and bottle washers," while you sit back in your easy chairs and with your native dignity and grace, pronounce our dainty meals to your company, as not fit to eat, when you know it is better than they are used to at home. This you will do to extort their encomiums, and then you will glide into the kitchen to tell us how this lady and that one praised our custards and how Mrs. ______, whom all the men admire, said, "They were the nicest she ever ate." With this kind of finesse, (soft solder), you expect to secure our continued services as your cooks, for you well know that if a woman's smile will make us fools, her compliments will make us slaves forever. But, my Dear, there is one serious obstacle in our being cooks after the war. We know how expert you ladies' are with the broom-handle and will dread its power upon our craniums. Have I again slandered your sex? If so, assemble a jury of the prettiest you can find, to try my case. I shall object to any sour, vinegar-faced Old Maid, who has lived just long enough in disappointment to despise the men. Read your charges of slander to such a fair Jury as this, and read, if you wish, this very intelligible letter to them, (for my admiration of one of their number has caused me to take much pains in its preparation,) and whatever their verdict may be, I will cheerfully submit to it. Perhaps, you would not be willing to risk me in the hands of such a Jury, but would prefer trying me yourself. In that event, I know that your partialities and affection will favor me, and that I will come off fully acquitted. Thus assured, I feel impatient to hear the sentence that you as my pretty little Judge, will pronounce against me. Let me hear it.
(Friday) Just here, I have had two interruptions to my letter writing, the last of which has changed my facetiousness into something more serious that I fear I cannot get into the strain again. I was busy preparing the above yesterday, intending it to contain my defense against your charge of slander, when "Company came in." This was the case last night, (Thursday night) as my visitors stayed all night. An old gentleman by the name of Chrisman was my bedfellow, and a very restless one at that. He was taken sick in the night, and rolled and turned about so much on my narrow bed, that he allowed me but very little room for sleeping. In addition to this, (I will say more of Chrisman after awhile.), I was aroused at 4 o'clock with orders to have the company ready at 8 in the morning with one day's (24 hours) rations for a march, which order was for the whole regiment. Of course it occasioned much surmise in the whole Reg't as to what route we would take and the general opinion prevailed that we were to be sent after a body of yankeys who were reported to be in our vicinity and that we would certainly have a brush with them today. No time to sit down then, to write a hurried note and inform you of what was going on or even to bid you any advice, but commending you and my precious family to God's protecting care, preparations were busily made for our mysterious and sudden march. I am truly glad now that the time was not afforded me to finish my letter, as it would have caused you very much uneasiness and anxiety about me, and besides I have just returned from our long and weary tramp through the snow, mud and slush, and in the same letter give you all the particulars of what we saw and did, and also that I am neither killed, wounded nor missing, but sitting safe and sound, by my cozy little fire, engaged in writing to my sweet wife and children, the pleasantness of the task more than counter-balancing the fatigue I have endured and now feel from a 12 mile walk. Captain White was sick and the command of the company devolved on me, and C,,A, being on picket duty, ours being not in order had to lead off at the head of our column. Our departure attracted much attention and gave rise to the prediction that the yanks would cut out (vamose) when the 4th Reg't is sent after them and there would be no fighting. This has usually been the case and was fully verified at Belmont and again today.
After marching 6 miles, nearly to Elliott's Mills, we were informed by those living on the road that the yanks had left a few hours before, apparently very much frightened, and stealing their horses and mules to ride; and taking some of the citizens back with them as prisoners. Our calvary (4 companies) were sent 4 miles further on and ascertained that the enemy had made it in double quick to Blandville, 20 miles from here, where they had several thousand men and 12 cannon. Our force comprised only one Reg't and Col. Mark's (LA) Battalion-14 companies- together with the four cavalry Cos and no artillery. In all, scarcely 1200 men, and besides we only had rations for today and positive orders from Polk to return in 24 hours, whereas it would have taken at least another day to have gone to Blandville, whipped them out, and return to Columbus. I say confidently, whipped them out, because they were so much alarmed, that, not knowing our real strength, could easily have been stampeded. But under all these circumstances we took up the line of march back to camp, where I now have the pleasure of being comfortably quartered instead of spending the night in the rain upon the wet ground, as we expected to do. Many of the men gave out and stopped on the wayside to rest, but my indomitable perseverance and will bore me up without flagging in the least, though tonight I have been troubled with an acute pain on my left shoulder, caused by loss of sleep last night, and standing on the snow and the mud today waiting for the cavalry to reconsider. This was the most disagreeable part of our trip, for we were much heated by the walk, packing our arms, overcoats, blankets, provisions and etc. And, with wet feet, we soon became chilled when we stopped. But since I have been writing, the pain of which I complained has entirely left me. The warm fire has dried my feet, and but for the loss of sleep last night and fatigue today I would finish my letter tonight. But it is now late, all asleep but myself, and I must beg your kind indulgence until tomorrow (Saturday) when I may think of something fresh to day. My letter will bear date tomorrow but you must understand that it was commenced Thursday and my tramp was on Friday, which I fear you may hear something about before getting this. Hence my anxiety to be ready for next mail. But good night it is now past 10 o'clock.
(Saturday morning)
Rained hard all night and pouring down this morning. Kitchen leaked badly, the stove pipe and stove full of water. Like most housekeepers wake up in a fret (no slander intended) at the poor prospect for breakfast. Did not scold, because I could not do the subject justice. John Nelson coughed, groaned, hawked and spit all night disturbing my slumber. No provisions to cook - all out - no fire to cook - the stove wet - and to add insult to injury the rain spattering on my paper while sitting by the window trying to write this particular sort of letter, which I wished to make plain enough for all to read, besides that Jury of fair ladies who are to try my case for slander before you as Judge.
Mr. Chrisman was an old acquaintance of Pa's and knew all his relations - his brothers and nephews and etc. Did you get the letter I sent by Mrs. Elder- If so, did you give Allen's passport to him and what has become of him. If you have not sent by Bradshaw yet for sugar and molasses, do not do so, as I will write to Wash to buy them for you. Bradshaw will want commission for his trouble or will charge some profit. Let me hear immediately so I can write to Wash or you write yourself inclosing $25 to him and ask him to send you bill. I received a letter from him and will and must answer it soon. Collect the notes on Love, Richardson, and Simmons and keep the money for further instructions. The Paymaster is to pay us Monday next, when I will send you four hundred dollars more to keep for me. I want to pay off some debts with this money but will not do so at present for a special reason. It may be necessary at sometime to remove you all to some place of greater security, should the enemy ever succeed in passing us, and I wish to be provided against every contingency. I am in that such a contingency may never arise - will sacrifice my life to prevent it - and if it never does, the money will be subject to my debts. But my family's safety is my first consideration, and all that I make - all that I do shall be sacredly devoted to that object. Remember your own safety and that of our children may someday depend upon it. You may all be fugitives for God only knows when and how the war may end, and the greater the means you have the less difficulty in your fight. No Yankee hireling must invade the sanctity of my home and my family subject to their mercy - for mercy they have none and neither do they respect age nor sex.
Adieu my dear wife, may God's blessing ever attend you and my beloved children. You have at all times my warmest affection and prayers.
Your Affectionate Husband,
A.S. Currey
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Wish I'd Known He Died, I Woulda Stood Up and Said
We are here today to say goodbye to our brother Thomas Diggs. Despite what the preacher mighta said, Thomas was not a good man, or a family man, but he was most certainly a drunk man. Didn't matter to Thomas if it was daybreak or quittin' time, Natural Light was a beverage to be appreciated at any hour. And fuck combin' your hair or puttin' on a clean shirt, weren't no cause for it since you were just gonna drop cigarettes on it later. I hate it that they put him in a suit and slicked his hair over. He looks goofy.
Hey! Ya'll 'member that time that old Thomas got so shit faced that Aunt Carolyn, cold-hearted bitch that she was, took his keys away from him and told him to bed down on the couch across from my mama? My sister said once Thomas laid down, they didn't get no sleep, cause he kep' hollerin', "Alene! Alene! Wake up! Are you my friend? If you're my friend, you'll wake up and let me make sweet love to ya. I just wanna be your friend." Mama told him to fuck hisself, but he did not give up, because Thomas Diggs was certainly a pathetic man.
Didn't matter though. We loved that dumb sloppy sumbitch, cause he was there that time we caught those police fuckin' on the hood of that police cruiser down in the gravel pits, and he threw empty beer cans at their flabby asses. And he was there when I turned sixteen to help me drink the two cases of beer he bought me as a present, and he helped me set that Christmas tree on fire and roll it down Hall Hill despite the fact that he was so drunk that he pissed his pants in the backseat of Bubba's T-Top Mustang, and he couldn't walk quite upright no more. And when Bubba shot that big ass raccoon and threw it in the back of his Jeep with me and Thomas without verifying the raccoon's untimely demise, Thomas beat it to death with a tire iron when it tried to get feisty with me. Then, he tucked that coon tail under his cap while we drank Wild Irish Rose around the campfire.
Them was good times. And Thomas Diggs was a bad motherfucker.
Rebel S. Nerd
Hey! Ya'll 'member that time that old Thomas got so shit faced that Aunt Carolyn, cold-hearted bitch that she was, took his keys away from him and told him to bed down on the couch across from my mama? My sister said once Thomas laid down, they didn't get no sleep, cause he kep' hollerin', "Alene! Alene! Wake up! Are you my friend? If you're my friend, you'll wake up and let me make sweet love to ya. I just wanna be your friend." Mama told him to fuck hisself, but he did not give up, because Thomas Diggs was certainly a pathetic man.
Didn't matter though. We loved that dumb sloppy sumbitch, cause he was there that time we caught those police fuckin' on the hood of that police cruiser down in the gravel pits, and he threw empty beer cans at their flabby asses. And he was there when I turned sixteen to help me drink the two cases of beer he bought me as a present, and he helped me set that Christmas tree on fire and roll it down Hall Hill despite the fact that he was so drunk that he pissed his pants in the backseat of Bubba's T-Top Mustang, and he couldn't walk quite upright no more. And when Bubba shot that big ass raccoon and threw it in the back of his Jeep with me and Thomas without verifying the raccoon's untimely demise, Thomas beat it to death with a tire iron when it tried to get feisty with me. Then, he tucked that coon tail under his cap while we drank Wild Irish Rose around the campfire.
Them was good times. And Thomas Diggs was a bad motherfucker.
Rebel S. Nerd
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Crack. That shit will get you really high.
Eight months after Puger, my second step-dad, died, Mom's loneliness got the best of her and she told her friend, Timmy, she needed a man. Timmy was a meth-head that served time with Puger in Dallas County, and they continued their friendship in the real world. Timmy felt bad because Mom was so lonely without Puger, and vowed to help her find the right man. The next week, Timmy was picked up for outstanding warrants. He told his cell-mate, David, about Mom, decided that they were perfect for each other, and set them up.
David, a crackhead thief with a history of violence, began his seduction of my mom via telephone from the Ellis County jail. He told her that he was going to be released soon, and he'd like to take her to see Bonnie Raitt. When I talked to Mom about the impending blind date, she was very excited. She always loved to get drunk and sing along with Bonnie Raitt. I told her that I wasn't sure that dating a crackhead fresh out of jail was a good decision.
"Rebel, Timmy says he's a real nice guy, and David is a sweetheart on the phone."
"Mom, Timmy is a retarded meth-head, and nice guys do not rob little old ladies. Is he calling you collect?"
"I am a big girl, Rebel. I know what I'm doing."
Turns out, "sweetheart" lied. He didn't really have Bonnie Raitt tickets. He just had crack, and a trailer to smoke it in. Big girl decided that she would leave the relative sobriety of the methadone program (10 years clean), and jump headlong into the world of crackheadery.
Mom didn't call anymore, and I only heard from my sister Holly. She said that Mom stopped going to work, ignored her dog, and spent all of her time hiding from imaginary spooks. She had spectacular fistfights with her boyfriend in the apartment parking lot. It didn't take long for her to get fired, and the eviction notice arrived soon after. They stayed in the apartment for another three months, until they received a court order from the apartment manager, stating that the police would forcibly remove her from the apartment, and all her property would be seized if she did not vacate the premises by the following afternoon.
Holly was called to help her move. She said Mom spent the day asking her for money, cigarettes, or money for cigarettes. Holly told her that she didn't have money to give her. When my sister asked Mom if she could have the cast iron bull that was supposed to be my inheritance, my mom sold it to her.
"Hey Reb, Mom sold me your inheritance bull for ten bucks. I'll bring it to you the next time I come visit. I figgered if I didn't buy it from her, we'd never see it again."
***
Taking Red-Neck Crackhead to New Heights
Mom and David didn't have anywhere to go but my grandma's house. Mama Hall would not let them sleep inside the house, because they weren't married. They slept on the covered front porch instead.
They borrowed Mama Hall's car to get back and forth to the methadone clinic, and to buy crack. Holly kept me informed of the developments.
"Uncle Lowell saw Mom drivin' Mama Hall's car, and she had a black guy in the car. He said he knew she was headed over to the Flatts to buy crack, so he came over to Mama Hall's house and threatened to beat her ass if he caught her with a nigger in the car again."
"Mom called me last week, said she wanted to leave that fucking crackhead. Told me he was mean to her all the time, and she was tired of it. I told her she could come stay with me, but she wasn't gonna smoke that shit if she lived here. She didn't say anything else, and I ain't heard from her in three days."
"Your Mama got arrested. They picked her up over in Wilmer, and they were supposed to transfer her over to Seagoville, 'cause she's got warrants there. David told Mama Hall that she had to bail Mom out because she was gonna die in jail if she didn't get her methadone. Told Mama Hall she'd have a heart attack and die. Mama Hall called me, and I told her that was bullshit, she just needed to keep her money, and let Mom sit that shit out. Mama Hall didn't bail her out, but Seagoville never came to get her, so Wilmer just let her go. She called me, and I went to pick her up at the Conoco in Wilmer. I got there, and her face was all purple and swollen, and she didn't have no shoelaces. I said 'Mama, what the hell happened to you?' She said 'The fucking cops wouldn't give me my shoelaces back, and this bitch hit me in the face in there. She walked up when I was eating and told me to give her MY sandwich. I told her "fuck you bitch" then she punched me in the face.' She looks sick, Reb. She probably weighs eighty pounds. You can see all of her bones."
"I saw that motherfucker Timmy at the grocery store, and I told him I oughta kick his ass for hooking my mama up with that fucking crackhead. I asked him how it felt to know that he ruined my mama's life. I told him if I ever saw him again, I'd stab him."
"Mom called me. She wanted to know why I never let her see the baby, and I told her it's 'cause she's a crackhead, and I don't like that motherfucker she's shacked up with, and until she's straight, I don't want her around. She wanted me to tell you that she's still your mother, and she loves you, and you can call her anytime. Do you want the number?"
I did not. That is not to say that I didn't feel guilty about not calling my Mama, or worried that I might miss my chance to talk to her one last time before her inevitable death from excess. I didn't call because I knew that the conversation would end with a plea for money, and I do not like to hear my mom beg.
My sister relieved the large part of my guilt when she called last week.
"Well, we're probably never gonna hear from Mom again. Her and David took Mama Hall's car to the methadone clinic, but it broke down on the way there. They called Mama Hall and told her it was on the side of the road, and they were stuck in Pleasant Grove. She didn't hear from them for a week. When they finally called back, they told her the car had blown a head-gasket, and there wudn't nothin' they could do about it. The next day, Mama Hall got a letter from the bank saying that she was seven hundred dollars overdrawn, and all of her checks bounced. Your Mama stole one of her check books, and wrote checks all over town. Uncle Lowell says he's gonna shoot David. Carla and Wayne-Gene are pissed too. They packed up all her shit, and Mama Hall is supposed to call the cops if she steps on the property."
David, a crackhead thief with a history of violence, began his seduction of my mom via telephone from the Ellis County jail. He told her that he was going to be released soon, and he'd like to take her to see Bonnie Raitt. When I talked to Mom about the impending blind date, she was very excited. She always loved to get drunk and sing along with Bonnie Raitt. I told her that I wasn't sure that dating a crackhead fresh out of jail was a good decision.
"Rebel, Timmy says he's a real nice guy, and David is a sweetheart on the phone."
"Mom, Timmy is a retarded meth-head, and nice guys do not rob little old ladies. Is he calling you collect?"
"I am a big girl, Rebel. I know what I'm doing."
Turns out, "sweetheart" lied. He didn't really have Bonnie Raitt tickets. He just had crack, and a trailer to smoke it in. Big girl decided that she would leave the relative sobriety of the methadone program (10 years clean), and jump headlong into the world of crackheadery.
Mom didn't call anymore, and I only heard from my sister Holly. She said that Mom stopped going to work, ignored her dog, and spent all of her time hiding from imaginary spooks. She had spectacular fistfights with her boyfriend in the apartment parking lot. It didn't take long for her to get fired, and the eviction notice arrived soon after. They stayed in the apartment for another three months, until they received a court order from the apartment manager, stating that the police would forcibly remove her from the apartment, and all her property would be seized if she did not vacate the premises by the following afternoon.
Holly was called to help her move. She said Mom spent the day asking her for money, cigarettes, or money for cigarettes. Holly told her that she didn't have money to give her. When my sister asked Mom if she could have the cast iron bull that was supposed to be my inheritance, my mom sold it to her.
"Hey Reb, Mom sold me your inheritance bull for ten bucks. I'll bring it to you the next time I come visit. I figgered if I didn't buy it from her, we'd never see it again."
***
Taking Red-Neck Crackhead to New Heights
Mom and David didn't have anywhere to go but my grandma's house. Mama Hall would not let them sleep inside the house, because they weren't married. They slept on the covered front porch instead.
They borrowed Mama Hall's car to get back and forth to the methadone clinic, and to buy crack. Holly kept me informed of the developments.
"Uncle Lowell saw Mom drivin' Mama Hall's car, and she had a black guy in the car. He said he knew she was headed over to the Flatts to buy crack, so he came over to Mama Hall's house and threatened to beat her ass if he caught her with a nigger in the car again."
"Mom called me last week, said she wanted to leave that fucking crackhead. Told me he was mean to her all the time, and she was tired of it. I told her she could come stay with me, but she wasn't gonna smoke that shit if she lived here. She didn't say anything else, and I ain't heard from her in three days."
"Your Mama got arrested. They picked her up over in Wilmer, and they were supposed to transfer her over to Seagoville, 'cause she's got warrants there. David told Mama Hall that she had to bail Mom out because she was gonna die in jail if she didn't get her methadone. Told Mama Hall she'd have a heart attack and die. Mama Hall called me, and I told her that was bullshit, she just needed to keep her money, and let Mom sit that shit out. Mama Hall didn't bail her out, but Seagoville never came to get her, so Wilmer just let her go. She called me, and I went to pick her up at the Conoco in Wilmer. I got there, and her face was all purple and swollen, and she didn't have no shoelaces. I said 'Mama, what the hell happened to you?' She said 'The fucking cops wouldn't give me my shoelaces back, and this bitch hit me in the face in there. She walked up when I was eating and told me to give her MY sandwich. I told her "fuck you bitch" then she punched me in the face.' She looks sick, Reb. She probably weighs eighty pounds. You can see all of her bones."
"I saw that motherfucker Timmy at the grocery store, and I told him I oughta kick his ass for hooking my mama up with that fucking crackhead. I asked him how it felt to know that he ruined my mama's life. I told him if I ever saw him again, I'd stab him."
"Mom called me. She wanted to know why I never let her see the baby, and I told her it's 'cause she's a crackhead, and I don't like that motherfucker she's shacked up with, and until she's straight, I don't want her around. She wanted me to tell you that she's still your mother, and she loves you, and you can call her anytime. Do you want the number?"
I did not. That is not to say that I didn't feel guilty about not calling my Mama, or worried that I might miss my chance to talk to her one last time before her inevitable death from excess. I didn't call because I knew that the conversation would end with a plea for money, and I do not like to hear my mom beg.
My sister relieved the large part of my guilt when she called last week.
"Well, we're probably never gonna hear from Mom again. Her and David took Mama Hall's car to the methadone clinic, but it broke down on the way there. They called Mama Hall and told her it was on the side of the road, and they were stuck in Pleasant Grove. She didn't hear from them for a week. When they finally called back, they told her the car had blown a head-gasket, and there wudn't nothin' they could do about it. The next day, Mama Hall got a letter from the bank saying that she was seven hundred dollars overdrawn, and all of her checks bounced. Your Mama stole one of her check books, and wrote checks all over town. Uncle Lowell says he's gonna shoot David. Carla and Wayne-Gene are pissed too. They packed up all her shit, and Mama Hall is supposed to call the cops if she steps on the property."
Daddy Takes HIs Visitation
My momma is from the sort of redneck family that eat what they hit with the truck (that's how I ate armadillo), but my daddy came from the sort of middle-class life depicted in Leave It To Beaver. He was raised with three square meals a day, regular visits to the doctor, and a stay-at-home mom that baked cookies and ironed creases into his slacks. From a long line of intelligent, artistic stock, Daddy had a genius level IQ and a love of chemistry.
When Daddy was 16, he met my uncle Wolfman, and fell in love with the trashier side of life. He started smoking pot and riding Harley's, and generally doing what he could to disappoint his family. When he was 19, he swept my 14 year old Momma off her feet, deposited his seed inside her, and nine months later, I was born. Aside from picking my name, Rebel Star, Daddy wasn't very interested in me or Momma, so he spent his money on guitars and motorcycles.
When Momma left, she told Daddy that he would have to support me if he wanted visitation. Daddy explained that he had just put a down payment on a new Harley, so he would just "catch up with me later". Momma shacked up with a new man. Since I was only two, she just let me exist under the impression that the new man was my Daddy. In her defense, I didn't even notice until I was 6. That was the year I was re-introduced to my "real" Daddy.
I was at my grandparent's house for Thanksgiving dinner. I was in the game room, playing Clue with my cousin Stephen, when my Nana entered, dragging a hippy behind her.
"Rebel, this is your real daddy, Paul."
"Hi, Rebel, I brought you a present."
He handed me a Cover Girl eyeshadow kit.
"I thought you might like to put makeup on."
I just stared at him. I didn't even know that I had a "real daddy", and I certainly had no idea that he looked like John Lennon.
Shortly after our awkward reunion, Daddy was sent to prison for using his chemistry knowledge to manufacture methamphetamines. I started receiving letters from him, promising that he would shower me with gifts upon his parole, and pay for me to attend Southern Methodist University if I was interested in going. The letters came weekly until he was released, then he disappeared for two years.
When I was 8, Momma got a call from Daddy's new wife, Glenda. She explained that Daddy had a new family, was settled down, and he would like to take his visitation. Momma agreed.
Daddy and Glenda came to pick me up on a Friday night. I met my new brother and sister in the car. Nelson was 1 and Staley was 3 months old. Daddy was blasting Hank Williams Jr.'s "Attitude Adjustment."
"I really like this song, Rebel. I identify with it, because I want to hit people in the head with a hammer too."
We were going to Daddy's double-wide trailer, in a seedy part of the outskirts of Dallas. The first thing I saw when we got to the house was waterbeds. Instead of a couch, there was a king-size waterbed in the living room.
"Why don't you have a couch Daddy?"
"Because a waterbed is better. This is a waveless waterbed, top of the line."
I wandered from room to room and found a waterbed in every one.
"Why do you have so many waterbeds?"
"People like to trade with me, so I traded for all these waterbeds."
When I reached the dining room, I found a shelf that was packed with Commodore 64 computers.
"Daddy, where did all these computers come from? Can I have one?"(I had been dying for a Commodore since I'd learned to write programs for them in gifted & talented.)
"I traded for those too. Pick out which one you want, and Glenda will pack it up for you."
Every where I looked, there were multiples of expensive electronics, crammed on shelves and collecting dust. I counted 12 VCRs. We couldn't even afford one VCR at my house.
We ate dinner, and Daddy explained that Glenda would take me to Wal-Mart the next day, where I would be allowed to buy anything that I wanted. The idea of shopping without limitations was very exciting, because my parents never let me buy anything.
True to their word, the next morning, Glenda and I went to Wal-Mart. She gave me a shopping cart.
"Fill it up with whatever you want."
"Do you have enough money for that?"
"Don't worry about it, Rebel. Pick out whatever you want."
I filled my basket with lip gloss, Lee Press-On Nails, mathematics workbooks, and 45's. No matter what I crammed into the cart, she never raised an eyebrow. If she saw me lingering by an item that I was too shy to get, she would put them in the cart and say, "Get anything you want."
We walked the aisles of Wal-Mart for hours before I got my fill. When we checked out, our total was $385. I was sure I was in trouble, but Glenda just pulled a thick roll of hundred dollar bills from her purse and handed four to the cashier.
After Wal-Mart, Glenda took me to the video store, where I was allowed to rent 8 movies of my choice. She explained that Daddy could use the VCRs to make copies of the videos.
"I don't have a VCR," I said.
"We have plenty, you can just take one of ours."
I never actually spent any time with my Daddy that weekend, because he spent the whole time on the phone, but I came home in a car full of gadgets and treasures. I couldn't wait to tell my Momma about my shopping trip.
"Momma, they let me buy whatever I want, and I got a VCR, and Daddy has a waterbed in every room, and Glenda has more money in her purse than they have at the bank!"
Momma looked at my step-dad and said, "He's still cooking speed."
I kept expecting Daddy to come back, but that was his one and only visitation. I still see him every five years or so, and he always has a reason why things turned out the way they did. His reasons range from my Momma's inability to make a good pot roast, to the "man's" continued harassment of chemists.
When Daddy was 16, he met my uncle Wolfman, and fell in love with the trashier side of life. He started smoking pot and riding Harley's, and generally doing what he could to disappoint his family. When he was 19, he swept my 14 year old Momma off her feet, deposited his seed inside her, and nine months later, I was born. Aside from picking my name, Rebel Star, Daddy wasn't very interested in me or Momma, so he spent his money on guitars and motorcycles.
When Momma left, she told Daddy that he would have to support me if he wanted visitation. Daddy explained that he had just put a down payment on a new Harley, so he would just "catch up with me later". Momma shacked up with a new man. Since I was only two, she just let me exist under the impression that the new man was my Daddy. In her defense, I didn't even notice until I was 6. That was the year I was re-introduced to my "real" Daddy.
I was at my grandparent's house for Thanksgiving dinner. I was in the game room, playing Clue with my cousin Stephen, when my Nana entered, dragging a hippy behind her.
"Rebel, this is your real daddy, Paul."
"Hi, Rebel, I brought you a present."
He handed me a Cover Girl eyeshadow kit.
"I thought you might like to put makeup on."
I just stared at him. I didn't even know that I had a "real daddy", and I certainly had no idea that he looked like John Lennon.
Shortly after our awkward reunion, Daddy was sent to prison for using his chemistry knowledge to manufacture methamphetamines. I started receiving letters from him, promising that he would shower me with gifts upon his parole, and pay for me to attend Southern Methodist University if I was interested in going. The letters came weekly until he was released, then he disappeared for two years.
When I was 8, Momma got a call from Daddy's new wife, Glenda. She explained that Daddy had a new family, was settled down, and he would like to take his visitation. Momma agreed.
Daddy and Glenda came to pick me up on a Friday night. I met my new brother and sister in the car. Nelson was 1 and Staley was 3 months old. Daddy was blasting Hank Williams Jr.'s "Attitude Adjustment."
"I really like this song, Rebel. I identify with it, because I want to hit people in the head with a hammer too."
We were going to Daddy's double-wide trailer, in a seedy part of the outskirts of Dallas. The first thing I saw when we got to the house was waterbeds. Instead of a couch, there was a king-size waterbed in the living room.
"Why don't you have a couch Daddy?"
"Because a waterbed is better. This is a waveless waterbed, top of the line."
I wandered from room to room and found a waterbed in every one.
"Why do you have so many waterbeds?"
"People like to trade with me, so I traded for all these waterbeds."
When I reached the dining room, I found a shelf that was packed with Commodore 64 computers.
"Daddy, where did all these computers come from? Can I have one?"(I had been dying for a Commodore since I'd learned to write programs for them in gifted & talented.)
"I traded for those too. Pick out which one you want, and Glenda will pack it up for you."
Every where I looked, there were multiples of expensive electronics, crammed on shelves and collecting dust. I counted 12 VCRs. We couldn't even afford one VCR at my house.
We ate dinner, and Daddy explained that Glenda would take me to Wal-Mart the next day, where I would be allowed to buy anything that I wanted. The idea of shopping without limitations was very exciting, because my parents never let me buy anything.
True to their word, the next morning, Glenda and I went to Wal-Mart. She gave me a shopping cart.
"Fill it up with whatever you want."
"Do you have enough money for that?"
"Don't worry about it, Rebel. Pick out whatever you want."
I filled my basket with lip gloss, Lee Press-On Nails, mathematics workbooks, and 45's. No matter what I crammed into the cart, she never raised an eyebrow. If she saw me lingering by an item that I was too shy to get, she would put them in the cart and say, "Get anything you want."
We walked the aisles of Wal-Mart for hours before I got my fill. When we checked out, our total was $385. I was sure I was in trouble, but Glenda just pulled a thick roll of hundred dollar bills from her purse and handed four to the cashier.
After Wal-Mart, Glenda took me to the video store, where I was allowed to rent 8 movies of my choice. She explained that Daddy could use the VCRs to make copies of the videos.
"I don't have a VCR," I said.
"We have plenty, you can just take one of ours."
I never actually spent any time with my Daddy that weekend, because he spent the whole time on the phone, but I came home in a car full of gadgets and treasures. I couldn't wait to tell my Momma about my shopping trip.
"Momma, they let me buy whatever I want, and I got a VCR, and Daddy has a waterbed in every room, and Glenda has more money in her purse than they have at the bank!"
Momma looked at my step-dad and said, "He's still cooking speed."
I kept expecting Daddy to come back, but that was his one and only visitation. I still see him every five years or so, and he always has a reason why things turned out the way they did. His reasons range from my Momma's inability to make a good pot roast, to the "man's" continued harassment of chemists.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Yep
I grew up in a trailer, scrappy, hungry and poor. I talked with a Texas twang, and went barefoot in the summer. I drank Kool-Aid bought with foodstamps, until my mom started selling the foodstamps for heroin. I lived without benefit of electricity, running water, or parental supervision. I was mocked, brutalized and tortured, mostly by the middle-class kids that attended the hell we called a middle-school. They let me know that I was white-trash, and that's all I would ever be.
I decided to prove them wrong. I read every book I could get my hands on, and plotted my escape and re-invention in a new town. I practiced talking without an accent.
I was 17 when I escaped. I moved to the suburbs of Ft. Worth and tried to forget about my white-trash holocaust. I pretended that I had grown up in a house with a manicured lawn, with regular visits to the orthodontist, and more than two outfits to wear.
I started a family (too early, because teen pregnancy is the bane of the white-trash existence), and worked hard to make sure my daughter never went to bed hungry. She had every toy she wanted, and her closet over-flowed. Most importantly, she had parents that paid attention to what she was doing.
Three years ago, I realized that I was on track to raise one of the assholes that tormented me in school. I was teaching her to love things, not people. While my childhood as working-class trash was terrible, I learned to earn every thing that I had, and to fight to keep it. I wanted to know that my daughter would have the strength to kick back when she gets kicked.
We moved back to the country. I stopped being ashamed of who I am.
So, I work too hard and my hands are callused. I drink cheap beer, and I sing along with Hank Williams. I like sushi, but I love Frito pie. I can watch a Fellini film, but it's not as much fun as watching Friday the 13th. I like fishing and shooting my guns. I've been known to watch wrestling (or buy ringside seats to a wrestling match). I don't wear designer clothes, and I don't have any desire to. I don't care what my car looks like, and I don't have a credit card. My savings account doesn't exist. I read and write, and I do it with vigor. I'm self-educated, and smarter than most of the college graduates I know. I'm working on getting my accent back.
They were right. I'm white-trash and I always will be. I just finally learned that there ain't a fucking thing wrong with it.
I decided to prove them wrong. I read every book I could get my hands on, and plotted my escape and re-invention in a new town. I practiced talking without an accent.
I was 17 when I escaped. I moved to the suburbs of Ft. Worth and tried to forget about my white-trash holocaust. I pretended that I had grown up in a house with a manicured lawn, with regular visits to the orthodontist, and more than two outfits to wear.
I started a family (too early, because teen pregnancy is the bane of the white-trash existence), and worked hard to make sure my daughter never went to bed hungry. She had every toy she wanted, and her closet over-flowed. Most importantly, she had parents that paid attention to what she was doing.
Three years ago, I realized that I was on track to raise one of the assholes that tormented me in school. I was teaching her to love things, not people. While my childhood as working-class trash was terrible, I learned to earn every thing that I had, and to fight to keep it. I wanted to know that my daughter would have the strength to kick back when she gets kicked.
We moved back to the country. I stopped being ashamed of who I am.
So, I work too hard and my hands are callused. I drink cheap beer, and I sing along with Hank Williams. I like sushi, but I love Frito pie. I can watch a Fellini film, but it's not as much fun as watching Friday the 13th. I like fishing and shooting my guns. I've been known to watch wrestling (or buy ringside seats to a wrestling match). I don't wear designer clothes, and I don't have any desire to. I don't care what my car looks like, and I don't have a credit card. My savings account doesn't exist. I read and write, and I do it with vigor. I'm self-educated, and smarter than most of the college graduates I know. I'm working on getting my accent back.
They were right. I'm white-trash and I always will be. I just finally learned that there ain't a fucking thing wrong with it.
Monday, November 10, 2008
10 reasons my family is cooler than yours
1. My mom is a crackhead who lives on my grandma's front porch.
2. One of my uncles lives in a trailer with a dirt floor & his utility closet is full of chickens. He doesn't have running water, so he bathes in my grandpa's catfish pond.
3. My grandma lives in a one-room shack, pees in a bucket at night, & makes people re-use paper plates.
4. One of my cousins had to take my mom with him to the DPS when he got his driver's license. He needed her to tell him how to spell his name. I guess the month he had to study beforehand was not enough.
5. A different cousin got 2 different girls pregnant at the same time, while wearing a halo for his broken neck. Say what you will, you must have some sort of skills to knock up 2 girls with a huge medical appliance screwed into your skull.
6. My 400lb. aunt pulled out her tit to show my 3 year old daughter her tasmanian devil tattoo. My daughter cried, & my husband almost did.
7. A different aunt stabbed my grandpa with a pair of scissors & ran away from home. She became a truck stop prostitute at age 15.
8. My truckdriver uncle used to make pill runs to Mexico. He gave me an allowance of 5 Valium per run. I was 16.
9. My speed freak uncle stole cars to support his habit. One time he showed up to our house in a stolen cop car. The red & blue lights were still on.
10. My one-legged uncle only had 1 leg because he pulled a prank on his brother that scared him so badly that he shot him through the front door.
I swear that it's true
My Aunt Carolyn was a heroin dealer that had horrible taste in men. After stabbing my grandpa with scissors & becoming a prostitute, she married a guy who set her on fire while she was sleeping. When she woke up & extinguished herself, she stabbed him with a butcher knife. She drove to someone's house(I don't know who's) to escape, but crazy husband was clinging to the undercarriage of her car. They had a battle to the death, with Carolyn emerging victorious.
After another husband, unremarkable save for the fact that he went by the name Hoot Owl, she married a lunatic named James. James had a thick mat of chest hair & Charles Manson eyes. They spent most of their time at the lake, Carolyn in a crocheted bikini with pubic hair escaping the sides, James in short denim cut-offs. They lived in a single wide trailer with a room built on to hold their pool table.
One day, my uncle dropped by to visit Carolyn. He found only James at home, naked and covered with red paint. James had broken all the glass, painted 666 on all the walls and the full size pool table was flipped over. As my uncle entered the house, James was furiously jerking off & screaming "Jesus saves" over & over. Seeing that James was occupied, my uncle backed out of the house & called 911. James was taken away in a straight-jacket. He received shock treatments & was released after 6 months of rehabilitation. He came back to visit once, & made sure to tell everyone that my mom had the sweetest pussy he had ever seen. I was unsure of what response he was looking for, so I said "Sounds great, James!"
Unrelated side story: When I was 7, I had to pee in a cup so Carolyn could pass her parole required drug tests. In exchange for my urine, Carolyn gave my mom speed & heroin. This ended when I was 12 & discovered pot. My mom was pissed. Then she got my sister to do it.
Little Edie And Me
The first time I heard about Little Edie was from my friend Vanessa. Vanessa was from Georgia, and had German immigrant parents. This combination somehow created one of the strangest persons I have known, complete with a slow, southern drawl. Our conversations centered on pornography, Taco Bell, travel, or strange films we had seen.
"Last night I saw this documentary that I think you'll luuuuv." she said.
"Was it good?"
"No, I didn't really like it, but it was about Jackie O's crazy aunt and cousin that live in a dilapidated house infested with racoons that they feed dogfood."
I rented Grey Gardens 2 days later. I was so excited about seeing the film. From Vanessa's description, I convinced myself that it was going to be like seeing a real-life Miss Havisham. I saw the movie, and thought it was boring. I went to sleep, thinking the documentary about Rumspringa a much more interesting story,
When I woke up the next morning, my first thought was
"Did that crazy lady have eyebrows? Why did she use a terry-cloth towel as a scarf & pin it with a diamond brooch? Is her skirt upside down? Why did she & her mother constantly argue & break into song? Why in the fuck would she feed those racoons busting through the walls? Why feed them Wonder bread & Alpo? What was the deal with Big Edie & and Brooks the accompianist?"
This warranted a second viewing. I understood more of the dialogue the second time. They said the strangest things in the most eloquent ways. Little Edie wore couture of her own making. They had a dozen cats and when Little Edie fed them, she shouted "Kitties, luncheon is ready." They lived in the filthiest mansion I had ever seen.
My obsession had started. I spent my free time imagining what had happened to create these women.
I wore a scarf on my head everyday for a year and a half in tribute to Little Edie. I watched the movie every night when going to bed. For Halloween, I decided to be Little Edie. I commited to be as accurate as possible, so I shaved my head completely bald with a Bic Daisy razor. I pinned a skirt upside down and wore brooches. No one at the party knew who I was, but I didn't mind, because it gave me the opportunity to spread the gospel of the Edies.
I wasn't sure why I identified with this bizarre woman (other than the fact that I love eccentrics) until last week. I finally realized that I was white trash Little Edie. I too had lived in a filthy, dilapidated house with a sagging floor. My house was also infested with unwelcome visitors (rats in my case) and I had spent entire weeks screaming at my mother with my fancy vocabulary (but my mom wasn't a singer, just a heroin addict). I dressed in ill fitting, mis-matched outfits that I made look fantastic by sheer force of will and mis-guided confidence in my artistry.
I am Little Edie, and she is me. I can't wait until I meet her in the afterlife. We will spend all day dressing in outlandish costumes and co-ordinating dance routines, reciting poetry and singing in slightly off-key voices. Then I will know that heaven is real.
"Last night I saw this documentary that I think you'll luuuuv." she said.
"Was it good?"
"No, I didn't really like it, but it was about Jackie O's crazy aunt and cousin that live in a dilapidated house infested with racoons that they feed dogfood."
I rented Grey Gardens 2 days later. I was so excited about seeing the film. From Vanessa's description, I convinced myself that it was going to be like seeing a real-life Miss Havisham. I saw the movie, and thought it was boring. I went to sleep, thinking the documentary about Rumspringa a much more interesting story,
When I woke up the next morning, my first thought was
"Did that crazy lady have eyebrows? Why did she use a terry-cloth towel as a scarf & pin it with a diamond brooch? Is her skirt upside down? Why did she & her mother constantly argue & break into song? Why in the fuck would she feed those racoons busting through the walls? Why feed them Wonder bread & Alpo? What was the deal with Big Edie & and Brooks the accompianist?"
This warranted a second viewing. I understood more of the dialogue the second time. They said the strangest things in the most eloquent ways. Little Edie wore couture of her own making. They had a dozen cats and when Little Edie fed them, she shouted "Kitties, luncheon is ready." They lived in the filthiest mansion I had ever seen.
My obsession had started. I spent my free time imagining what had happened to create these women.
I wore a scarf on my head everyday for a year and a half in tribute to Little Edie. I watched the movie every night when going to bed. For Halloween, I decided to be Little Edie. I commited to be as accurate as possible, so I shaved my head completely bald with a Bic Daisy razor. I pinned a skirt upside down and wore brooches. No one at the party knew who I was, but I didn't mind, because it gave me the opportunity to spread the gospel of the Edies.
I wasn't sure why I identified with this bizarre woman (other than the fact that I love eccentrics) until last week. I finally realized that I was white trash Little Edie. I too had lived in a filthy, dilapidated house with a sagging floor. My house was also infested with unwelcome visitors (rats in my case) and I had spent entire weeks screaming at my mother with my fancy vocabulary (but my mom wasn't a singer, just a heroin addict). I dressed in ill fitting, mis-matched outfits that I made look fantastic by sheer force of will and mis-guided confidence in my artistry.
I am Little Edie, and she is me. I can't wait until I meet her in the afterlife. We will spend all day dressing in outlandish costumes and co-ordinating dance routines, reciting poetry and singing in slightly off-key voices. Then I will know that heaven is real.
My Mom Is A Dirty Drunken Slut!
I was 6 when I realized my mom was a dirty, drunken slut. Unlike my friend's moms, who attended PTA meetings and made brownies, my mom was more likely to drink a twelve pack and fuck a stranger on a pool table.
Mom got drunk for the first time at age 8. I don't think she's missed a single opportunity to get piss drunk in the 40 years since. I have seen her drunk at weddings, funerals, baptisms, and most of my school functions. When I gave birth to my daughter, she was in the hospital parking lot, chugging Natural Light.
The only piece of advice she has ever given me is "don't drink and drive, or have unprotected sex". I have never seen her operate a motor vehicle when she was NOT completely wasted. Drinking and driving is her favorite passtime. When the open container laws went into effect, she was enraged. She briefly considered registering to vote, but ultimately, she discounted that as pointless. She opted, instead, to invest in a magnet that looked like a Pepsi can (on closer inspection, it said Pipse) to wrap around her beer. For mornings that called for something stronger, there was a 64 oz. travel mug she would fill with tequila sunrises. You know, for the morning commute. During the summer, I often went to work with her, to watch her drive and jab her in the ribs when she fell asleep.
When my mom doesn't have beer money, she is not above jimmying open my sister's back door to steal the beer out of the fridge.
When I was 13, she left my step-dad, and had already moved in with a man two days later. For reasons still unclear to me, this man was called Pooger. We moved into a house with Pooger immediately.
The following weekend, Pooger left town for a construction job. Mom decided we would have a girl's day out. She, and my cousin Kim, took me to Beach Fest. Beach Fest was a radio station sponsored event that boasted 2 tons of sand, "beach" volleyball, and a bill of generic bands playing Kansas and Skynyrd covers. I was only 13, but as part of the mother/daughter bonding, I was allowed to drink before we got to the event.
By the time we got there, mom was trashed. As we walked past the bleachers full of drunks in bathing suits, a burly, shirtless man with a walrus mustache yelled "Show us your tits!" To my horror, mom was happy to oblige him. Feeling encouraged, mustache guy joined our party and introduced himself as Wayne. Wayne was very generous, and bought Mom as much beer as she could drink.
She would not stop flashing the crowd, so my cousin decided it was time to leave the Fest. Mom brought Wayne with us. We were in a compact car, so mom sat in Wayne's lap, next to me in the backseat. They were engaging in heavy foreplay, so I yelled "Mom, stop fucking dry-humping this guy in front of me!"
Wayne looked up and said "Oh, is this your daughter?" and returned to his previous work of pinching her nipples, without waiting for an answer.
When we got home, they headed straight to the bedroom. Wayne banged my mom, loudly, for three hours while she repeatedly screamed the wrong name.
Wayne didn't have a way home, so Pooger had to take him back to Dallas the next day. I'm sure it was an uncomfortable ride.
Mom got drunk for the first time at age 8. I don't think she's missed a single opportunity to get piss drunk in the 40 years since. I have seen her drunk at weddings, funerals, baptisms, and most of my school functions. When I gave birth to my daughter, she was in the hospital parking lot, chugging Natural Light.
The only piece of advice she has ever given me is "don't drink and drive, or have unprotected sex". I have never seen her operate a motor vehicle when she was NOT completely wasted. Drinking and driving is her favorite passtime. When the open container laws went into effect, she was enraged. She briefly considered registering to vote, but ultimately, she discounted that as pointless. She opted, instead, to invest in a magnet that looked like a Pepsi can (on closer inspection, it said Pipse) to wrap around her beer. For mornings that called for something stronger, there was a 64 oz. travel mug she would fill with tequila sunrises. You know, for the morning commute. During the summer, I often went to work with her, to watch her drive and jab her in the ribs when she fell asleep.
When my mom doesn't have beer money, she is not above jimmying open my sister's back door to steal the beer out of the fridge.
When I was 13, she left my step-dad, and had already moved in with a man two days later. For reasons still unclear to me, this man was called Pooger. We moved into a house with Pooger immediately.
The following weekend, Pooger left town for a construction job. Mom decided we would have a girl's day out. She, and my cousin Kim, took me to Beach Fest. Beach Fest was a radio station sponsored event that boasted 2 tons of sand, "beach" volleyball, and a bill of generic bands playing Kansas and Skynyrd covers. I was only 13, but as part of the mother/daughter bonding, I was allowed to drink before we got to the event.
By the time we got there, mom was trashed. As we walked past the bleachers full of drunks in bathing suits, a burly, shirtless man with a walrus mustache yelled "Show us your tits!" To my horror, mom was happy to oblige him. Feeling encouraged, mustache guy joined our party and introduced himself as Wayne. Wayne was very generous, and bought Mom as much beer as she could drink.
She would not stop flashing the crowd, so my cousin decided it was time to leave the Fest. Mom brought Wayne with us. We were in a compact car, so mom sat in Wayne's lap, next to me in the backseat. They were engaging in heavy foreplay, so I yelled "Mom, stop fucking dry-humping this guy in front of me!"
Wayne looked up and said "Oh, is this your daughter?" and returned to his previous work of pinching her nipples, without waiting for an answer.
When we got home, they headed straight to the bedroom. Wayne banged my mom, loudly, for three hours while she repeatedly screamed the wrong name.
Wayne didn't have a way home, so Pooger had to take him back to Dallas the next day. I'm sure it was an uncomfortable ride.
I Growed Up In Bars
Scene 1: My family owns 50 acres of scrubby land, known as Hall Hill. When I was little more than a toddler, a bar called Spider's was nestled at the foot of the Hill. With most of my relatives in walking distance, Spider's did a brisk business. When Mama Hall, my grandma, got off work, she would take me to the bar. She played dominos and guzzled beer, & I would bum quarters from the elderly patrons so I could play "Celebrate" by Kool & The Gang.. I played the song over and over, writhing on the floor in my best impersonation of a Solid Gold dancer. This is my earliest memory.
Scene 2: When i was 13 years old (maybe 12), my mom decided that I had suffered sobriety long enough. To remedy the problem, she took me to the only bar in town, The One More. She recommended margaritas (cocktail of choice in Tejas!), and set about getting me hammered. I sat at the bar for hours, drinking and singing along with Lynyrd Skynyrd and George Strait, thoroughly enjoying myself. Eventually, mom got bored with me, and started flirting with a swarthy barfly. I ran out of margarita, and tried to get her attention. She ignored me. I decided the best way to get her attention was to throw ice cubes at her flapping mouth and chant "Bitch, I want a drink," over and over. This did not go well, so she took me home to sleep it off, and returned to The One More, alone.
Scene 3: By the time I was 14, I was at the bar every weekend. One night, I arrived to find my despised step-father, Pooger, with his tongue down a stranger's throat,and his hand up her shirt. Confident that I wouldn't have to live with him much longer, I strode up to him and announced,
"Oooh, motherfucker, you fucked up! I'm gonna tell my mama."
It was very satisfying to watch him go pale. When my mom got there, I ran up to tell her the news. She rushed to confront them.
While I was not rewarded with the divorce I longed for, I did get to see my mom beat a bar skank's ass.
Scene 2: When i was 13 years old (maybe 12), my mom decided that I had suffered sobriety long enough. To remedy the problem, she took me to the only bar in town, The One More. She recommended margaritas (cocktail of choice in Tejas!), and set about getting me hammered. I sat at the bar for hours, drinking and singing along with Lynyrd Skynyrd and George Strait, thoroughly enjoying myself. Eventually, mom got bored with me, and started flirting with a swarthy barfly. I ran out of margarita, and tried to get her attention. She ignored me. I decided the best way to get her attention was to throw ice cubes at her flapping mouth and chant "Bitch, I want a drink," over and over. This did not go well, so she took me home to sleep it off, and returned to The One More, alone.
Scene 3: By the time I was 14, I was at the bar every weekend. One night, I arrived to find my despised step-father, Pooger, with his tongue down a stranger's throat,and his hand up her shirt. Confident that I wouldn't have to live with him much longer, I strode up to him and announced,
"Oooh, motherfucker, you fucked up! I'm gonna tell my mama."
It was very satisfying to watch him go pale. When my mom got there, I ran up to tell her the news. She rushed to confront them.
While I was not rewarded with the divorce I longed for, I did get to see my mom beat a bar skank's ass.
I Got A One-Legged Meth Head Uncle
Uncle Jerry wouldn't use a prostethic leg, preferring to use crutches or hop around on his remaining leg. Fond of cut-off denim shorts, and sporting a huge, scraggly beard from which sprouted a continuously burning Doral, left-eye squinted against the smoke.
When I was elementary school, Jerry split with his wife Barbara. She was also an unrepentant meth head that somehow managed to weigh 400 lbs. They had a retarded son named Jerry Glenn. Jerry Glenn was named after Jerry because he was born during their marriage, but was not actually his son. That honor goes to mentally deficient glue-sniffer by the name of Clifford, and was the direct cause of Jerry and Barb's split.
Jerry had no where else to go, so my Aunt Carolyn, the heroin dealer, let him move in. He became her constant companion and personal slave. He cooked, cleaned, and ran penniless dope fiends off the land with the aid of a rifle. In exchange, she kept him in constant supply of heroin and Coca-Cola, which he consumed at the rate of twelve a day. His unhealthy habits go a long way towards explaining his excessive sweatiness.
They lived together, swapping pulp horror novels, shooting dope and watching B horror movies.
Carolyn got busted for passing fake percocet prescriptions, and decided to hide out at our trailer on Hall Hill until things cooled down. I woke one morning to find Carolyn and Jerry climbing out our tiny bathroom window. Seconds later, police surrounded the trailer. As Carolyn belly crawled through the high grass of our back field, Jerry was hot on her heels.
Unfortunately, a sobbing, hysterical, one-legged man in a cow pasture is very easy to find. Carolyn was apprehended from a decrepit dog house nearby.
When I was elementary school, Jerry split with his wife Barbara. She was also an unrepentant meth head that somehow managed to weigh 400 lbs. They had a retarded son named Jerry Glenn. Jerry Glenn was named after Jerry because he was born during their marriage, but was not actually his son. That honor goes to mentally deficient glue-sniffer by the name of Clifford, and was the direct cause of Jerry and Barb's split.
Jerry had no where else to go, so my Aunt Carolyn, the heroin dealer, let him move in. He became her constant companion and personal slave. He cooked, cleaned, and ran penniless dope fiends off the land with the aid of a rifle. In exchange, she kept him in constant supply of heroin and Coca-Cola, which he consumed at the rate of twelve a day. His unhealthy habits go a long way towards explaining his excessive sweatiness.
They lived together, swapping pulp horror novels, shooting dope and watching B horror movies.
Carolyn got busted for passing fake percocet prescriptions, and decided to hide out at our trailer on Hall Hill until things cooled down. I woke one morning to find Carolyn and Jerry climbing out our tiny bathroom window. Seconds later, police surrounded the trailer. As Carolyn belly crawled through the high grass of our back field, Jerry was hot on her heels.
Unfortunately, a sobbing, hysterical, one-legged man in a cow pasture is very easy to find. Carolyn was apprehended from a decrepit dog house nearby.
Jerry, one-legged uncle part 2 In which I am incredibly cruel to a fat woman
Carolyn was sentenced to five years in federal prison, and Jerry was left adrift, no one to tell him what to do. Barbara, his 400lb., estranged wife, heard that Carolyn was gone, and rushed to make up with Jerry. He took her back, and they resumed business as usual. Business in their case was hustling for cigarettes and dope. I was a bored teenager that was also always hustling for smokes, so I was enlisted as their helper.
My duties included begging Lupe, our neighbor, for pills, or my mom for a hit of speed. They split any cigarettes or pot with me, and I usually pocketed a few pills. Everyone was happy. Me because I was constantly high, and them, because they didn't have to leave the sweaty confines of their room.
The constant togetherness began to wear on Jerry and Barb. Barb was so enormously fat that she was unable to leave her bed, and Jerry had to hold her bed pan and scrub her folds with a rag, chores that he did not relish. They began to argue more. During one argument, Jerry stormed out of the house and peeled out of the drive-way, taking his disability check with him. Barbara quickly realized that he was going to buy dope without her, and went completely insane. She looked at the ceiling , pulling her hair and screaming her rage. I watched, amazed at the power of her bellowing.
When she had collected herself, she insisted that I help her into her wheelchair and push her next door to my grandma's one-room shack. It was raining heavily, and our front yard was deeply rutted and divided by rail-road ties. The difficult terrain combined with the torrential downpour made it especially hard to manuveur her bulk, so it took me 20 minutes to push her 21 feet.
When we made it inside, Barb demanded that Mama Hall (that's what we called my grandma) let her borrow the car. Mama Hall responded by pulling her check book out of her purse. She began chanting dates and loan amounts. This took several minutes. At the conclusion, Mama Hall looked up and screeched, "When do you plan to start paying back this $10,000 Barbara?"
"Take me out of this house Rebel! Right now!"
When we got outside, she ordered me to wheel her to Lupe's house. The rain was still pounding, and had turned our field into a soupy mess. I pushed for 15 minutes, but the clay grabbed at the wheels, and made our progress agonizingly slow. Barb contributed by screaming at me to hurry, and push harder. After several more minutes of pushing, and still only halfway to our destination, I realized the wheelchair was stuck. I told Barbara, and she berated me, telling me that I wasn't trying hard enough.
I listened to her for a minute, before I decided "fuck this, I'm leaving". I turned on my heels, and left her alone and helpless in the neighbor's yard. On my way home, I stopped by her room and stole her cigarettes. I sat in my bedroom window and watched her flail and scream in the rain, while I smoked her entire pack.
When Jerry came home, he was followed by Barb's sister. They packed Barbara's meager belongings and headed to parts unknown. When Jerry heard what I did, hey said "Good job kiddo" and gave me a pack of smokes from his carton.
My duties included begging Lupe, our neighbor, for pills, or my mom for a hit of speed. They split any cigarettes or pot with me, and I usually pocketed a few pills. Everyone was happy. Me because I was constantly high, and them, because they didn't have to leave the sweaty confines of their room.
The constant togetherness began to wear on Jerry and Barb. Barb was so enormously fat that she was unable to leave her bed, and Jerry had to hold her bed pan and scrub her folds with a rag, chores that he did not relish. They began to argue more. During one argument, Jerry stormed out of the house and peeled out of the drive-way, taking his disability check with him. Barbara quickly realized that he was going to buy dope without her, and went completely insane. She looked at the ceiling , pulling her hair and screaming her rage. I watched, amazed at the power of her bellowing.
When she had collected herself, she insisted that I help her into her wheelchair and push her next door to my grandma's one-room shack. It was raining heavily, and our front yard was deeply rutted and divided by rail-road ties. The difficult terrain combined with the torrential downpour made it especially hard to manuveur her bulk, so it took me 20 minutes to push her 21 feet.
When we made it inside, Barb demanded that Mama Hall (that's what we called my grandma) let her borrow the car. Mama Hall responded by pulling her check book out of her purse. She began chanting dates and loan amounts. This took several minutes. At the conclusion, Mama Hall looked up and screeched, "When do you plan to start paying back this $10,000 Barbara?"
"Take me out of this house Rebel! Right now!"
When we got outside, she ordered me to wheel her to Lupe's house. The rain was still pounding, and had turned our field into a soupy mess. I pushed for 15 minutes, but the clay grabbed at the wheels, and made our progress agonizingly slow. Barb contributed by screaming at me to hurry, and push harder. After several more minutes of pushing, and still only halfway to our destination, I realized the wheelchair was stuck. I told Barbara, and she berated me, telling me that I wasn't trying hard enough.
I listened to her for a minute, before I decided "fuck this, I'm leaving". I turned on my heels, and left her alone and helpless in the neighbor's yard. On my way home, I stopped by her room and stole her cigarettes. I sat in my bedroom window and watched her flail and scream in the rain, while I smoked her entire pack.
When Jerry came home, he was followed by Barb's sister. They packed Barbara's meager belongings and headed to parts unknown. When Jerry heard what I did, hey said "Good job kiddo" and gave me a pack of smokes from his carton.
A Vomit Story
My kindergarten class was divided into two smaller classrooms that would unite for snacktime and playtime. My teacher, Ms. Grimmer, was mousy and sweet. She read me books and acted out the different voices. I loved her. The other teacher, Mrs. Necessary, was beautiful, with black hair and high cheekbones. She reminded me of the wicked queen from Snow White. She was harsh and mean, and I hated her.
One of the chief joys of my childhood (and to be honest, my adulthood) was to buy a fancy new outfit. The day of the incident, I was sporting a new high-waisted sundress dress of cornflower blue and a pattern of pink flowers. My Nana had taken me to Sears to purchase it with my Papa's employee discount. I was also allowed to buy new sandals and a necklace/bracelet set to match. When I put my new outfit on that morning, I felt like a fairy princess. To express my joy, I twirled several times in front of the full length mirror in my bathroom. I headed to school, my head in the clouds.
Upon my arrival, Ms. Grimmer commented on my pretty new dress. I beamed with pride.
The school day progressed as normal. First, art corner, where we were gluing beans to paper. I was very careful with the glue, because I did not want to soil my fancy frock. We progressed to reading corner, where we read my favorite, the Three Bears. Ms. Grimmer's papa bear voice was the best.
After storytime, the classes combined for playtime. As usual, we played house, and I was the mommy. That meant that I got to wear the apron and cook pretend macaroni at the kitchen center. Sherry, one of my pretend children and best friends, complained that she didn't feel well. I gave her imaginary 7-Up for her tummy, a magical cure that my mommy always gave me.
"Children," Mrs. Necessary called out, "it is time to form a line for the cafeteria. It is snacktime."
We lined up, and were marched single-file to the stage in the cafeteria. Because we were in half-day kindergarten, we were not allowed to mingle with the other, older children. We had snacktime behind the stage curtain, among the dusty props and extra tables. Mrs. Necessary waited until we were seated to call for special helpers. Nathan and Sean were selected, and set about passing out the cartons of white milk and tiny boxes of peanuts and raisins.
I was not a fan of white milk, peanuts or raisins, but we were required to eat them. "It will make you strong and healthy" they told us. We sat and chewed obediently. When the allotted 15 minutes were up, Mrs. Necessary clapped her hands to get our attention.
"Children, it is time to line up so that we may return to class. Please pick up your empty containers and deposit them in the trash can."
We lined up, and just as Mrs. Necessary was explaining the importance of silence in the hallway, Sherry vomited a mix of milk, raisins, and peanuts down my back. It puddled in my sandals, and splashed onto Mrs. Necessary's high heels. When I realized the indignity of my situation, I began to howl.
"Sherry threw up on my dress," I screamed. "Call my mommy."
Mrs. Necessary's eye's got very big.
"Rebel, calm yourself. You are not the only one that was soiled. You will be fine. Use these papertowels to clean yourself."
"I can't" I sobbed, "it's all over me. I stink. I need to go home."
"You will be fine for the rest of the day. Stop that crying this instant."
She forced me to return to class. My hair smelled of vomit, and my wet dress clung to my back. No one wanted to sit by me during shape centers. The bell for the end of day took forever to ring.
Because of this torture, I did not allow myself to vomit for over 15 years.
Mrs. Necessary, I still fucking hate you.
One of the chief joys of my childhood (and to be honest, my adulthood) was to buy a fancy new outfit. The day of the incident, I was sporting a new high-waisted sundress dress of cornflower blue and a pattern of pink flowers. My Nana had taken me to Sears to purchase it with my Papa's employee discount. I was also allowed to buy new sandals and a necklace/bracelet set to match. When I put my new outfit on that morning, I felt like a fairy princess. To express my joy, I twirled several times in front of the full length mirror in my bathroom. I headed to school, my head in the clouds.
Upon my arrival, Ms. Grimmer commented on my pretty new dress. I beamed with pride.
The school day progressed as normal. First, art corner, where we were gluing beans to paper. I was very careful with the glue, because I did not want to soil my fancy frock. We progressed to reading corner, where we read my favorite, the Three Bears. Ms. Grimmer's papa bear voice was the best.
After storytime, the classes combined for playtime. As usual, we played house, and I was the mommy. That meant that I got to wear the apron and cook pretend macaroni at the kitchen center. Sherry, one of my pretend children and best friends, complained that she didn't feel well. I gave her imaginary 7-Up for her tummy, a magical cure that my mommy always gave me.
"Children," Mrs. Necessary called out, "it is time to form a line for the cafeteria. It is snacktime."
We lined up, and were marched single-file to the stage in the cafeteria. Because we were in half-day kindergarten, we were not allowed to mingle with the other, older children. We had snacktime behind the stage curtain, among the dusty props and extra tables. Mrs. Necessary waited until we were seated to call for special helpers. Nathan and Sean were selected, and set about passing out the cartons of white milk and tiny boxes of peanuts and raisins.
I was not a fan of white milk, peanuts or raisins, but we were required to eat them. "It will make you strong and healthy" they told us. We sat and chewed obediently. When the allotted 15 minutes were up, Mrs. Necessary clapped her hands to get our attention.
"Children, it is time to line up so that we may return to class. Please pick up your empty containers and deposit them in the trash can."
We lined up, and just as Mrs. Necessary was explaining the importance of silence in the hallway, Sherry vomited a mix of milk, raisins, and peanuts down my back. It puddled in my sandals, and splashed onto Mrs. Necessary's high heels. When I realized the indignity of my situation, I began to howl.
"Sherry threw up on my dress," I screamed. "Call my mommy."
Mrs. Necessary's eye's got very big.
"Rebel, calm yourself. You are not the only one that was soiled. You will be fine. Use these papertowels to clean yourself."
"I can't" I sobbed, "it's all over me. I stink. I need to go home."
"You will be fine for the rest of the day. Stop that crying this instant."
She forced me to return to class. My hair smelled of vomit, and my wet dress clung to my back. No one wanted to sit by me during shape centers. The bell for the end of day took forever to ring.
Because of this torture, I did not allow myself to vomit for over 15 years.
Mrs. Necessary, I still fucking hate you.
It’s A Miracle
In honor of the birth of my sister's first baby, I present the miraculous story of my birth, and my early infancy....
The day before I was born, my mom woke up with labor pains. She began timing them. When the pains came closer together, she decided it was time to get my dad involved.
"Paul, wake up. The baby's coming."
"Are you sure," he asked. "Can't it wait until the morning?"
After convincing him that it could not, in fact, wait, they loaded her overnight bag into the car and headed to the hospital.
After a thorough examination, the doctors advised my mom that what she was experiencing was false labor.
"Go home and rest," they told her, "come back when your water breaks."
On the way out of the hospital, dad refused to carry mom's overnight bag.
"You do it," he hissed. "You've completely embarrassed me Alene. I cannot believe you pulled this shit."
That night, mom awoke with a fierce pain and the realization that the bed beneath her was soaked.
"Did you piss the fucking bed," dad asked.
"No Paul, my water broke. The baby is coming. We need to go back to the hospital."
"Well, you need to call your momma, because it's the middle of the night, and you're not going to embarrass me again."
With that, he rolled over and went back to sleep.
I was born on April 11th, 1977 to a fifteen year old hillbilly girl and a nineteen year old middle class boy. My mother was kicked out of school in the 8th grade, due to her scandalous pregnant condition. My dad's IQ tested in the genius range, but he was more interested in being the white world's answer to Jimi Hendrix.
I was unwilling to leave the womb of my own violition, so the doctor used forceps to pull me out. He stuck them in my left eye, blacking it and damaging my vision.
I was injured in the very first second of my independent life. I think this was the world's way of warning me about what was in store.
My mom loved to tell me the story of my birth after she had been drinking (which I have already established, was always). She always ended the story with, "you were the ugliest baby I've ever seen. But I still loved you." Photographic evidence does back up this ugliest baby claim.
When asked about my infancy, she would say, "You had colic, and all you did was scream. You never wanted to lay down. I would spend hours rocking you to sleep, and as soon as I laid you down, you would wake up and scream some more. I had to hold you constantly. That's why your head is nice and round. I used to stand on the balcony and think about throwing you off, just to get you to shut up."
When I was 5 months old, I was put on a pallet in the floor and left unsupervised while mom cooked dinner. She came in to check on me and found my face covered with blood and my mouth crammed full of Christmas tree needles. She panicked, removed the bloody needles from my mouth, and rushed downstairs to get help from a neighbor. The neighbor advised her to "cool out and drink this beer". Mom says I coughed blood for a day and a half, but received no permanent injury.
When I was nine months old, I was placed in a walker while mom made dinner. She left me alone in the living room for "one minute". When she returned, she found a lethargic baby and her newly opened Budweiser tall boy, completely drained.
It is a complete wonder to me that I survived my infancy at all.
Nerd girl gets a come-uppance.
I was twelve years old the night my mom's second marriage imploded. Mom, Holly and I were in the drive-thru at Wendy's. We had just finished ordering our hamburgers, when I heard the roar of a motorcycle beside us.
"You fucking cunt! You think I don't know what you're doing? Trying to steal my daughter? I'll fucking kill you first!"
"Charlie," mom yelled back "what the fuck are you talking about? I came to buy some fucking hamburgers for dinner. Go home you stupid bastard!"
They argued for what felt like hours, cursing and spitting at one another. Charlie finally sped off, leaving me to dread the confrontation that awaited us at home.
The teen girl working the drive-thru stared, mouth gaping, the greasy bag of hamburgers in her hand forgotten. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and I tried to push myself as far into the floorboard as possible. Mom looked at me, hiding from the shame.
"Rebel, get out of the floor. We're going to leave Charlie, and I need your help. Can you do that?"
I nodded my agreement. I had seen this coming. Charlie's behavior had become increasingly paranoid and violent. He accused my mother of telling me about shadowy adult secrets that I could not comprehend. He thought the phone was tapped and someone was peeping through our windows.Everyone thought his stint in rehab would fix him, but he had come back with eyes that were even wilder than before. It was clear that we needed to go.
The following Friday, we smuggled our essential belongings out of the house.We were only allowed to take what we could fit inside a backback. Mom did not want to arouse any suspicion. My stomach flip-flopped as she kissed Charlie good-bye. He was going to know what we were doing. Even when the house had long disappeared from the rear-view mirror, I kept watch to make sure he didn't follow us. My mom deposited me at my grandmother's house. I'm not sure where she took my sister Holly.
"I'll be back to get you Sunday," she said.
When she came to pick me up, she had Pooger. She had been dating him since she was 13 years old, but I had never met him. I hated him instantly. He was ugly, loud and brutish. Mom explained that Pooger had helped us establish a new residence, and he would be living with us. I had assumed that we would stay in the same town. I was wrong. She had already rented a house in another town, 50 miles away. Unable to deal with the complete destruction of everything I knew over the course of a weekend, I rebelled.
"Bitch, I'm not moving to a new school with six weeks left. I have a solo in the choir concert. I'm not leaving."
"Rebel, you can't stay with Charlie. He's not even your real dad," she told me.
"I don't care. I'm not leaving."
After much debate, it was decided that I could stay with Charlie until the end of the school year. This arrangement lasted four weeks. Charlie was so heart-broken that he could only sit around the house in his underwear, crying, playing guitar, and writing awful poetry in a battered spiral notebook. I read it once, and it was as if he had ripped out his insides and smeared them on the page. He forgot to eat, or buy food. I had to prod him into taking care of our basic needs. I created menu plans, and cooked elaborate meals that he pushed around his plate before discarding them, uneaten. He forgot my 13th birthday. I took a perverse pleasure in this, because it made me feel like the character Sam, from the movie 16 Candles. When I told him at the end of the day, he cried, but mostly for himself.
Four weeks into the experiment, mom came to visit. When she saw the complete lack of food in the house and heard the birthday incident, she made me leave with her. That was the first time I tried to punch my mom, but there would be later, more successful attempts.
The move was not an easy one for me. I had always been a nerd, but never really noticed it. My junior high had 1200 students and I blended in because I wasn't hideously ugly, and I had the kids in my gifted and talented class to hang out with. I was also 5' 11", and therefore an unsuitable target for bullys.
My new school was a completely different story. The tiny town we moved to had a population of 1201 people, 75 of which attended my junior high. 2 of those people were my cousins Jason and Jereme. They were popular due to their disruptive behavior and complete lack of respect for authority. They had never liked me due to my perceived "snottiness", and straight A record. On my first day at Ferris Junior High, they made it clear that I would be sacrificed like a lamb on their altar of cool.
As I entered the cafeteria for lunch, Jereme saw me and motioned for me to join him. Relieved to have a place to sit, I headed toward him with my sack lunch. When I got close to the table, Jereme stuck his leg out to trip me. I fell to the floor, a chorus of hooting accompanying me to the floor. Jereme stood up, stomped my lunch and yelled "NERD!". I finished the lunch period in a bathroom stall, crying.
When I boarded the bus home that afternoon, I was a broken and defeated 13 year old girl. No one would talk to me, I just heard them discussing the nerd incident as I passed in the halls. When I sat on the bus, not even the elementary students would sit beside me. I could hear them whispering, and feel their eyes burning the back of my neck.
My cousin Jason was the last to get on the bus. He headed to the back, where the last seat had been reserved for him, the alpha dog of bus 23.
"Where did this lunch come from," I heard Jason ask.
"I don't know," an anonymous voice responded "it's been in the bus for a week."
"It's a bologna sandwich," Jason said, "it fuckin' stinks."
The bus got very quiet, excluding the whispers and giggles in the back seats. I could feel something horrible looming on my horizon. Then, the bus sprang back to life and I was left alone to stare out the window and fantasize about returning to MY school. I had been lulled into a false sense of security.
When we were a quarter of a mile from my house, I heard Jason calling me.
"Rebel." Quietly. "Rebel" Louder. I would not turn around, because my gut told me something so bad was about to happen to me. "Rebel"..."REBEL, I'M FUCKING CALLING YOUR NAME. YOU BETTER FUCKING LOOK AT ME"
This made me incredibly angry, because, goddammit I had had enough of this. I turned around.
"You stupid mot..."
It was at that point that a perfectly aimmed, slimy piece of bologna hit me in the face. It clung to my cheek, a visible badge of my shame. The chorus of "NERD" was absolutely deafening.
Ruby, This One’s For You Sister, A*K*A one-legged uncle part 3
I left off with Barbara being evicted from the house..
Barbara was evicted because Jerry had received word that Aunt Carolyn was soon to be paroled. She sent Jerry a letter detailing what preparations she wanted before her release, and number one on the list was "get that fat bitch out of my house".
When Carolyn got home, Jerry actually wept with joy. I am sure this had less to do with an emotional connection, and everything to do with the heroin gravy-train that he got to board. They began to re-establish their client base immediately. They got a room-mate named Betty. Betty was a narcoleptic AND a heroin addict, and was ,therefore, never conscious. She would wake long enough to pay for another hit, and drift into dreamland. They holed up in their room, nodding out and burning holes in everything, and taking visits from customers.
They lived together for three more years, until Carolyn went to the doctor for stomach pain. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer, prescribed Oxycontin for the pain, and sent home to die. She woke up to go to the bathroom, and broke her hip when she stepped out of bed. She was taken to the hospital, and died there several days later. I was over-joyed, because I felt she was the catalyst that caused my entire family to be junkies.
Jerry and my mom rushed to get her prescription filled before someone alerted the pharmacist of Carolyn's death. They locked themselves in a room and fought over the drugs, only emerging (glassy-eyed) for the funeral. I came home from Ft. Worth to gloat over the body, and Eric was introduced to my family. He almost cried from the terror he experienced. There were no hymns played in the church, only Rod Stewart songs. We went back to Carolyn's house after the ceremony. The pharmacist called to verify information on the refill that my mom stole, and my cousin Jereme told him "Carolyn died before that was filled. My fuckin' dope fiend daddy and trashy aunt stole it".
Mom & Jerry, afraid that they were now wanted by the feds, jumped in the car and began a life on the run. They skipped from place to place for two years. I would see them occasionally. I worked at a gas station, and my mom would come there to steal gas. To her credit, she always called to make sure I wouldn't get fired before she did it. I would not give them any money, but I always let them fill up. Sometimes I would give them disgusting gas station sandwiches to eat.
When mom would come to my house to visit my daughter Jerry would never come inside. He preferred to sit in the hot car, chain-smoking Dorals and reading pulp horror novels. Mom would take him cans of Dr. Pepper, and he would wait there for hours.
Eventually, mom and Jerry parted ways, and he teamed up with Barb again. They moved into a lop-sided shack, and continued their drug addiction in earnest. Jerry refused to leave the house more than once a week, so Barb had to hustle for their dope. She ran social security scams and worked odd jobs. They both received disability checks and foodstamps, so they scraped by. Eventually, Jerry only left the house every few months, and then, not at all. His health began to deteriorate. He wouldn't go to the doctor, because that meant leaving the house. When Barb finally convinced him, he left for the last time, dying in the hospital 2 days after he was checked in.
In Honor Of My Broken Toe
Some of you know that I broke a toe on my broken foot. Anyone that knows me well is not surprised by this. While I am made of heartier stuff than many people, I am extremely accident prone. So, in honor of my broken toe, I continue the story of my myriad injuries.
-When I was four years old, I went to lake with my parents, Uncle Bud, and my cousin Belinda. Belinda was 13, and impossibly glamorous. We splashed together in the waves, and I was delirious with happiness that Belinda was playing with me. I ignored a sharp pain in my foot in order to continue frolicking. My mother called us out of the water to eat lunch, and I walked onto the shore, trailing bloody footprints behind me. "Who is bleeding," my mom asked. "I don't know, mommy," though I suspected it was me. "Look at your feet. See if you're bleeding." I looked at my foot, and found my toe had been cut, and was dangling by a flap of skin. "It's not me mommy," I said, but something in my face gave away my lie. "Let me look at your foot," she demanded. I didn't get to play with Belinda anymore, because they put a sock on my foot to hold my toe on, and I was rushed to the emergency room to have it reattached. My toe still won't bend.
-When I was 13, I was at my cousin Audra's house. I was standing on the couch, searching a high shelf for pot and watching Days Of Our Lives. As I approached the end of the shelf, something exciting happened on my show. I took a step forward, and turned to look at the television. My progress was impeded when the metal ceiling fan connected with my skull. I stepped back, and blood shot from my forehead like a geyser. Audra took me to my grandmother's house, and while we waited for a ride to the emergency room, Nana gave me birthday presents to open. I did my best to tear open the packages using one hand (the other was trying to staunch the flow of blood from my head). I received laundry advice from the doctor while he stitched my head back together. He did a good job. The scar on my forehead is barely visible, and the blood stains came out of my shirt.
-I was hanging out with my cousin Jereme on a Friday night, lamenting the fact that we didn't have beer or pot. He suggested that we take shots of Nyquil. I thought that was a really stupid idea. I did it anyway. Later reports say that I drank the entire bottle, save one shot that Jereme took. I do not remember walking home. The next thing I do remember is Jereme standing over me, shouting "What the fuck? Are you gonna sleep forever?" It was Sunday, and the lingering traces of Nyquil in my system were still making me logy. I do not believe that I sustained any brain damage, and for that I am extremely grateful. Who knows what stupid shit I would do if I had brain damage.
-When I was four years old, I went to lake with my parents, Uncle Bud, and my cousin Belinda. Belinda was 13, and impossibly glamorous. We splashed together in the waves, and I was delirious with happiness that Belinda was playing with me. I ignored a sharp pain in my foot in order to continue frolicking. My mother called us out of the water to eat lunch, and I walked onto the shore, trailing bloody footprints behind me. "Who is bleeding," my mom asked. "I don't know, mommy," though I suspected it was me. "Look at your feet. See if you're bleeding." I looked at my foot, and found my toe had been cut, and was dangling by a flap of skin. "It's not me mommy," I said, but something in my face gave away my lie. "Let me look at your foot," she demanded. I didn't get to play with Belinda anymore, because they put a sock on my foot to hold my toe on, and I was rushed to the emergency room to have it reattached. My toe still won't bend.
-When I was 13, I was at my cousin Audra's house. I was standing on the couch, searching a high shelf for pot and watching Days Of Our Lives. As I approached the end of the shelf, something exciting happened on my show. I took a step forward, and turned to look at the television. My progress was impeded when the metal ceiling fan connected with my skull. I stepped back, and blood shot from my forehead like a geyser. Audra took me to my grandmother's house, and while we waited for a ride to the emergency room, Nana gave me birthday presents to open. I did my best to tear open the packages using one hand (the other was trying to staunch the flow of blood from my head). I received laundry advice from the doctor while he stitched my head back together. He did a good job. The scar on my forehead is barely visible, and the blood stains came out of my shirt.
-I was hanging out with my cousin Jereme on a Friday night, lamenting the fact that we didn't have beer or pot. He suggested that we take shots of Nyquil. I thought that was a really stupid idea. I did it anyway. Later reports say that I drank the entire bottle, save one shot that Jereme took. I do not remember walking home. The next thing I do remember is Jereme standing over me, shouting "What the fuck? Are you gonna sleep forever?" It was Sunday, and the lingering traces of Nyquil in my system were still making me logy. I do not believe that I sustained any brain damage, and for that I am extremely grateful. Who knows what stupid shit I would do if I had brain damage.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I Was A Teenage Pioneer
Some People Should Not Have Children (I'm Looking At You Britney)
I was 14 when our electricity was disconnected. I assumed it would come back on, until I heard my mom on the phone, and realized she hadn't paid the bill in two years. I'm not sure why they didn't cut it off sooner, but once they made the decision, they weren't turning back.
Instead of getting a job, mom ran an extension cord from my aunt's house, and hooked up a fan and a television. At night, I read by candle light, a white trash Laura Ingalls. The summer nights were sweltering, so I laid naked in my bed with a bucket of ice and prayed for a gust of wind. During the winter, my breath made steam clouds in front of my face as I snuggled with my sister in an attempt to avoid frost-bite.
Our refrigerator could no longer be used for it's intended purpose. It didn't matter anyway, because my mom sold our food stamps for heroin. The fridge became a pantry to store the out-of-date Hostess snack cakes that mom salvaged from the garbage at the Twinkie factory. We ate snack cakes for dinner every night. When we ran out of Twinkies, we ate toast. A lot of toast.
We didn't have toiletries, so I got a job cleaning house for an elderly couple, and used my money to buy soap and shampoo, which I hid from the rest of the household. I stole toilet paper from the truckstop. I caught my mom using my shampoo, and I hit her in the chest. Poverty made me an animal.
To escape the horror of my day to day existence, I huffed gas, and had "relationships" with a number of idiots not worthy of my attention. The brain damage sustained during this time was not permanent, and I didn't get pregnant. I am eternally grateful.
When I was 17, mom overloaded the extension cord, and a short caused our dilapidated trailer to catch on fire. All that remained was a burned out shell. Mom took my little sister to a motel for the night, and left me to fend for myself. Reluctant to leave my 10 year old sister to care for herself, I had delayed my escape, but as I listened to the field mice frolic in the dark, I decided it was time to go. I packed my things and left the next day. It was the wisest decision I ever made.
______________________________________________________________
As an adult, I revel in the ability to turn on every appliance in the house. I realize this is wasteful, but I don't do it often. I feel I conserved enough as a teenager to allow me to celebrate in this way. My pantry is stocked with enough to food to survive the apocalypse, and the variety of toiletries in my cabinet is breath-taking. Many circumstances leave a permanent mark. These aren't so bad. I can live with them.
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