Addiction
Part Deux
Red Velvet and Guns
Webster’s defines the
word fall as the following:
Fall verb \ˈfȯl\
: to come or go down quickly from a high place or position
: to come or go down suddenly from a standing position
: to let yourself come or go down to a lower position
The
house with the red velvet carpets, the high tin ceilings, the luminous and open
living room and the brass bed. I had Flannel penguin sheets courtesy of my
sister, Clothes in black bags, and bay windows overlooking the yard. My mom and
dad had a brass bed and on the first night we were there he got his head caught
in between the bars. He was pissed, angrier than a snake in a jar.
When someone
falls from grace, they say it’s to sin and get on the wrong side of god. When
my dad fell from grace I was 9, He fell from the pedestal I had placed him on.
My mom for the umpteenth time had started a fight with him, I really don’t
remember about what, but it was serious.
I had been watching my dad for the last few days as he came and went,
running in and then gone again in a flash. I knew what being high was. I had
heard my mom and sister talk about it; I could smell it on my mom and my brother.
I knew he was high. I could feel it.
How does
a 9 year old know when she is surrounded by addicts? When she realizes that she
is one as well. I fell from grace; I was no longer a child in god’s eyes. My
innocence had already been taken from me; I was living in hell and trying to
take a side. By this time I had already been introduced to Mein Kompf and
Ernest Hemingway. I knew I was different, and I don’t think I fought it. The
day came. This was the last day I would see my dad until I was 15, going 120 on
I-25 in Albuquerque in a Ford Taurus SHO driving him and his buddy around to
different bars.
My mom
sat me down, told me we needed to hurry, pack everything as quickly as I could.
Luckily my bags were already packed. Screw Gucci luggage, I was rocking the
black trash bag. She loaded the bags into a truck, A peach-ish Ford F150 single
cab truck. Maybe it was gold. I don’t remember. I remember my dad pulling up in
his candy apple Chevy. He was wearing a black wife beater and black adidas
jogging pants. He smelled of stale cigarettes and old spice. To this day, when
I smell this scent on a man, I am launched back in time to that day. And inside
I sigh.
Leggers.
That was his name for me, leggers. He knew it was coming, he knew and he didn’t
stop. This must have been the moment when a little girl realizes her dad; her
idol wasn’t the super hero she thought he was. This was when I realized my dad
was a fuck up. I sat on his lap, I didn’t want to, and I could see the look of
fear on my mom’s face, and what did she know that I didn’t. He pulled me close, and at that moment I
didn’t want him to touch me, he was disgusting. I knew he was high. He was high
and he was trying to hold me.
My mom
told him that we were leaving; she said my brother is waiting, and if I don’t
call him and let him know I’m safe, you’ll go away. Shannon, she said, let her
go. And like that, that would be the last time I saw my dad for a while. She
took me by the hand and led me to the truck, where our stuff was, where my
uncertain future was. Velvet carpets were a thing of the past. Uncertainty and
new adventures waited. That was the first time I ever saw true fear in my mom’s
eyes, the last time was right before she passed, and in our 30-something years together, those were the only 2 times.
Our
adventures to Texas brought us down a long highway, dark and menacing. We
arrived in Ft. Worth, which to this day I STILL do not know why we went through
Ft. Worth instead of cutting down through Lubbock, down the 84, through
Brownwood and Killeen. On the interstate in Ft. Worth, we happened to be
driving next to a limo, remember this is 1989, the height of the party century,
where disco and bad haircuts were the in thing, these kids were partying, and
all of a sudden my yelled, DUCK! And of course in my innocence, I popped up and
said where? I think I may have given my mom a heart attack, and for whatever
reason that was the most exciting part about my trip to Austin.
A Couple
of days later we arrived in Austin Texas, on my sister door step. Surprise,
your mother and sister have now followed you to Texas. I had a pretty normal
child hood at this point. I fucked off as much as I could. My mom thought it
would be cute to buy me Barbie’s, and of course I thought it was cute to burn,
cut, mark and destroy them. She was
never home, which was honestly no surprise to me, because growing up she was
never there.
I think
this was about the time I took up smoking. My dad had smoked camel non filters
most of my life, and my step grandfather had smoked pall mall non filters. I am
sure when I was 6 or 7 I picked one up and smoked it. I am sure I enjoyed the
buzz it game me, the light headedness and that euphoric feeling for 10 seconds.
I’m sure I did. I was 10. By this time I had moved to 4 different schools from
Albuquerque to Austin. I think this was the school that turned things around
for me and my mom.
She was
always away, and I was always into something. Reading, friending weird girls who thought quarters and garlic
would keep the hippies away, blinding little boys who grabbed me and attempting
to kill myself a 2nd time by mixing chemicals. I hated my school,
and more so hated my teachers. While everyone else was learning about the Dewey
decimal system I was busy locking myself in the bathrooms to read a new book.
Normalcy
in my life was restored for at least a year. Nothing really off the wall or
insane happened. And I think for once I felt like the rest of the kids my age.
Except my mom was a cocktail waitress, and I would dance on the dance floor of
the bar she worked at. I didn’t have many friends, and I was ok with this. I
had books and for this short time, books were my addiction.
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