Good Bad Memory
I remember one evening my older sister Kim came over to my friends, Ryan and Brent's house. She told me that my step-dad Tom wanted me home now, because it was getting dark.
I really didn't want to come home, because we weren't done recapping the events of the afternoon. We really didn't like this guy, Shawn. Well, I really didn't like him, because he always made fun of me when I was playing baseball in the park with the other kids. Granted, if I was the me I am now back then, I would have probably made fun of me, too, but that is beside the point. I had convinced Ryan and Brent that he was such a jerk and deserved the wrath that only 10 year old boys could bestow.
So, we peed in a Folgers can and then filled it with water with the intent of dumping it on him. We had seen him earlier playing catch in the park with his brother Jaime so we went there to deliver our little bit of revenge. Well, it was technically my revenge, I had just turned my friends into little "revenge helpers."
Ryan was carrying the can, and was in charge of the actual throwing of the pee water. I didn't have the skill to throw anything, and Brent didn't run very fast, so we were along for the solidarity. We just walked straight up to Shawn, and then Ryan tossed the pee water right in Shawn's face. It was a glorious moment. We then ran like hell all the way back to Ryan and Brent's porch where we sat, drank Kool-Aid, and talked about the look on his face, and what it would look like when he realized it was all piss water.
So, as anyone could see, we needed time to revel. My stepfather did not see this, however. He was actually pretty pissed that I didn't come home when he asked. I remember I actually heard the front door of my house slam shut from across the street, as he came storming down our front porch and the many steps to the street. The three of us sat petrified on the porch swing. I knew I was in a world of trouble, and they knew they were going to have to witness it, at least the outdoor display.
Once Tom got to our side of the street he started yelling at me. "You god damn little fucker, you come home when I tell ya to! You better fuckin' do what I tell ya, ya little fucker! God damn!" Ryan and Brent slinked off the porch swing and ran inside. I was hoping Dee Dee, their mom, would come out to help me. She didn't, but I could see her looking out the window, Ryan and Brent at her side.
The beating pretty much started where I sat. He just yanked me up from where I was sitting and began spanking my ass, or my back, or my leg, you know, wherever his big meaty hands would strike. He beat me across the street. He beat me up the many stairs. He beat me through the front door, and then threw me down on the couch.
The whole time I am shouting, "You don't know what you are doing, you are too mad...you should stop or you'll feel bad later." I had just recently watched some special on abuse and some 'expert' said people who abused children went into a 'blind rage' and had no idea what they were doing. Telling the abuser this during the abuse, just so you know for any future reference, not such a great idea.
Tom was not a very nice guy. Oh, the stories I could tell about him, but this entry isn't suppose to focus on the bad things about my childhood. And, I guess they weren't really bad...I wouldn't be the fucked up ball of joy I am now if it weren't for those 'good 'ol days.'
I do miss being a kid, though...the throwing pee on enemies part, not the getting beat by scary stepfathers part.
Time for bed.
Peace.
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