Regardless, it didn't matter, we were free of his iron fist and merciless mental abuse, I mean many years later my brother Danny told me, “even the marines boot camp wasn't nearly as bad as the way that prick talked to us. Anyway back to where ...
Regardless, it didn't matter, we were free of his iron fist and merciless mental abuse, I mean many years later my brother Danny told me, “even the marines boot camp wasn't nearly as bad as the way that prick talked to us.
Anyway back to where I was, my mom had remarried to a drunken neighbor named Gary, she called him Gary Bear, pretty damn stupid nickname if you ask me. Gary had a third grade education and talked as though he had huffed way to much dust cleaner in his day. But boy oh boy he loved his alcohol, Pabst Blue Ribbon was on his menu everyday of the year, most people would prefer well rounded meals everyday, Gary preferred a well rounded dose of Pabst, skoal and daily fist poundings for us kids and my not so coherent mom.
By this point I had become an awkward 17 year old with long hair that had become so badly dreaded, that it just looked natural and right on me. By this point I had already began orchestrating an escape route from this crude suffering that had never felt as a home but a dreary overcast sky with constant rain and never a peak of sunshine. I don't mind a day like that here and there but damn I needed to feel a little warmth from time to time.
Ok, so I said I started “orchestrating” this plan of escape but realistically was more like a jumbled up ball of bailing twine in my brain that needed to be unknotted, one step at a time, like every great motivational speaker would say.
I had spent the summer working as a farmhand and various other odd jobs, painting houses, cutting lawns, you name it I did it. Doing all these odd jobs allowed me to save close to 1500 dollars that I kept in a coffee can tucked away in my moms unkept basement, nothing down there but brown recluse spiders and mice. The house we had lived in was over 100 years old and had served as a railroad depot during WW2. In fact we lived a short distance from the remnants of one of the largest munitions plants from that time, the whole area seemed cursed, judging from the odd behavior of the folks from those parts. The house had become deteriorated so badly throughout the years that it was collapsing into itself and to this day I never understood how it stood the test of time.
Now back to my coffee can full of cash, which I labeled as Jesus and Maxwell House Mornings, take that saying however you may want, but this money had really become my way of investing in myself. I wasn't saving it for a car of my own and I damn sure wasn't saving it for college. The thought of college repulsed me, it was the thought of more years wasted on other people using up my precious time. I mean didn't God intend for us to have our own purpose in this life and still have some kind of faith in him, which to this day I still very much do but not in the way you might or the next guy might. God or whatever you may call him is a personal thing to every individual and each individual perceives the concept in their own way, well I do anyway.
I occasionally went down in that old basement to count my money out, making sure it was all still there, which of course it always was, nobody ever ventured down to that crypt of a basement, a gateway to hell as my father always called it back in the day before he ran away to the internet babes. The money stayed down there and was always kept hidden in the maze of old bricks, waiting for me to make my bold move and to never return to the cold hell of the prison that I had called home.
That year winter’s bite came like it always seemed to in that little town that was by that good sized river, cold, snowy misery. During that winter I had devised my plan to leave somewhere far away and disappear into the wilderness of the unknown.