World Affairs and Childhood Memories

Sorry. I am out of witty titles tonight. Frankly, I should just get the hell out of Dodge and go home. I spend too many hours in this office. If I weren't already pale, I'd have a "pallor".

This in turn makes me think of Michael Jackson, who apparently uses hydroquinolone to bleach his skin. Weird thing about the stuff is that it causes increased pigment in the fingernails. So Michael Jackson has these frightening-looking hands (as if the rest of him weren't scary enough).

So, when I logged on to this site tonight I had intentions of writing something of substance. I can't say that it would be "substantial" to the world. The world is a fairly horrible place right now, at least if one reads the paper, gets a glimpse at the news, or opens a web browser. This is the scariest the world has ever been.

When I was a little kid, we had these Air Raid Drills in the auditorium, where we'd put our heads down and cover our faces and necks, presumably in case we were nuked. That way our bone marrow and thyroids would fry to a crisp but at least we'd go out with the backs of our necks looking as good as could be expected. I was really young during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and almost don't remember Kennedy being shot. Of course my parents were republicans, so I don't think it registered much in my household anyway.

When I was around seven, my little brother and I went putzing around at the neighborhood park. There was a building called the Youth Center which was essentially this glass-fronted affair with a desk and on the desk was one of those "ring for service" bells.

My brother was a little terror sometimes. Of course for all I know, I was just a chickenshit and for all I know I put him up to running inside of that building and ringing the bell. It was your classic game of Doorbell Ditchem. We thought we were lawless. It seemed as if we did this several times, though I can't imagine getting away with it more than once, unless there was no one in the office to chase our pesky little asses off.

It seems I was behind my brother (but then again, maybe not--I was typically the "lookout", which is another way of saying "chickenshit who watches from a safe distance".) My brother--then about 5 1/2--ran to the counter one last time, tapped on that bell, and then ran, giggling from the building.

The only problem is that the door was closed.

The door, like the rest of the front of the building, was unreinforced plate glass. My brother ran right through that glass, and it sounded like--well, it sounded like a five year old kid had just burst through a window. Shards of glass sprayed everywhere.

Scared completely shitless, my brother and I ran like hell, across the street, and hid behind a car. I remember I was looking at him, and he was looking at me, and suddenly, his face began bleeding like a muthafucka. He had nearly severed his upper lip. Blood was everywhere. Some older girls came running across the street to assist my brother and someone else called an ambulance. I ran home to get my mother.

I am surprised my mom didn't die of a heart attack right then. I came bursting in the front door, crying and shouting that Vernon had just "gone through a glass window"....my mother initially thought he'd been hit by a car and had gone through a windshield. She had to have been hysterical; after all, my delivery wasn't exactly discreet. If my kid were to come tearing into the house the way I did, I know I'd probably faint.

We got back to the park, and one of the older girls was holding a cloth against my brother's face, with his head in her lap. He was crying softly. Then the ambulance arrived, and they loaded my little brother onto a stretcher and into the vehicle. Ambulances back then resembled a kind of hybrid between a station wagon, a hearse, and a police car. There were windows all around like a station wagon, but little curtains on the windows, like a hearse. The next door neighbor had come for me and we stood there watching as my brother was taken away to the hospital, my mother at his side.

I went to stay at the next door neighbor's house while my mom and brother were at the E.R. As I waited, I recall eating a Popsicle and watching the Gemini Space Capsule make its splashdown, and the victorious astronauts emerged from the tiny craft, were taken aboard a Coast Guard Cutter and were shuttled back to shore among great pomp and ceremony.

Later, my brother and mom returned home; my brother had sixteen visible sutures between his nose and the inside of his upper lip.

He got a fair amount of special attention--it was approaching Christmas, and he got extra gifts--including one from a family friend: a small driftwood tree with tiny presents tied to it, one to remove and unwrap for each day before Christmas. This seemed like an eternity, which became something of an annoyance, because I didn't want to have to go running through large plates of glass just for a few lousy toys.

For years afterward, insensitive, horrid kids would taunt my brother, calling him "scarface". This brought out the protective Older Sister in me, and I frequently found myself running down the street after some little shit who'd hurt my brother's feelings again. I managed to catch a couple of the little bastards, one of whom I distinctly recall holding by the neck of his T-shirt, which ripped as he attempted to run. His name was Jimmy Weld and his hair was towhead blonde, which was a nice contrast to his beet-red face, which I was just about ready to sock, when his sister, who was probably twice my size, came to his rescue.

I tended to let my brother handle situations like the one with Jimmy on his own after that. The scar was never really that bad--and as my brother grew older it faded. Then he grew a mustache, and you couldn't see a scar at all. The word "scarface", however, still gives me the chills to this day.

Several years later, I became reacquainted with Jimmy, who actually turned out to be an okay guy. He was really pretty funny, and bore little resemblence to the little puke whos teeth I was fixed to knock out when his sister persuaded me to reconsider my actions.

When I was about 30, I heard that Jimmy died of a heroin overdose.

When you're a kid and you live in a fucked-up household, you think your family is the only abnormal family in the world. You imagine all the other families, laughing and chatting around the dinner table while you eat in silence and hope Dad won't turn into a "mean drunk" tonight; maybe he'll just fall asleep watching television.

It didn't occur to me until well into adulthood that just about all the kids in my neighborhood lived in their own versions of fucked-up families. It seemed that everyone's parents worked for McDonnell-Douglas Aircraft....probably at least 2/3 of the city of Lakewood seemed to work there. The whole town seemed to be built around that place. As you drove in to the city, you were greeted by a sign which said, "Lakewood: Tomorrow's City Today" .

Strange that I can't remember where the hell I put the keys that were in my right hand just ten minutes ago, but I can remember scenes from my childhood like someone is playing an 8mm film on a sheet hung from the living room wall.
That's today's sermon. No real lesson, no hidden meaning; just a snapshot from kidhood.

current mood: Present and accounted for
current music: The Theme Song to Gumby--Artist Unknown