The Multi-Use Roof

St. Louis is great because it has a multitude of flat roofs. When you combine them with narrow gangways, you get a daring method of transportation. If you can leap 6 feet, you can traverse an entire block without touching the ground.
Since most of our flat roofed buildings have a facade; you can hide from the cops, sunt@n t0pl&ss, or bombard your friends. They're also a great place to shoot off fireworks.

A flat roof should be re-tarred every 5 years or so, which explains all those smelly tar trucks around the city.

When we moved in to the apartment next door to the bar, the roof was freshly tarred. When we moved out 7 years later, we left behind an assortment of tupperware that had been collecting drips. The landlord didn't do a damn thing to maintain the building.
When the downstairs neighbors broke our door, Mom was the one who fixed it.
When the Leisures threw a brick through our window, Mom was the one who patched it with duct tape.
And when kids pulled the mortar out from between the bricks so they could have something to throw at the busses, our neighbors were the ones who tuckpointed the place.
We gave that slumlord $300 a month for a leaky roof and an apartment we had to share with mice and cockroaches. And I'm a little bitter about it tonight.

Tenants have rights, and mom could have called the health department and gotten the place condemned; but then where would we live? So we tried to make the best of it. Eventually, we got rid of the mice and roaches through the judicious application of cats and Raid. For some reason that's beyond me, our landlord had carpeted the kitchen; so we put cardboard around the stove, to keep the carpet clean. (throw rugs? What, are you kidding me? We couldn't afford throw rugs! We needed that money for food and such.)
I have a picture of our cat, standing on the stained cardboard, with a bloody mouse in his mouth. we were so proud of him. He single handedly (clawed-ly?) rid our apartment of mice, and then he went after the roaches. He was the most efficient killer I've ever known.

Hey, St. Louis!

We're having a little bit of a drought here, and tomorrow is the 4th of July. Which means cheap fireworks will be lighting the sky for the next few nights. If you don't water your lawns; they'll be lighting your grass, too.
I know it's a hassle, but you might want to water your roof, too. It's been a long time since St. Louis was so dry... But trust me; debris in your gutters or laying on your roof will catch fire.

More Interesting Stuff About My Dad

During my father's stay in the brig, he wrote long letters to my mom. She wrote medium-length letters in return. With a toddler (my sister) running around the house, it was all she had time for. Some of their communications discussed the naming rights of the baby to be. (me)

Mom thought that if I were a boy, I'd be named after my father... But what if I were a girl?
Thankfully, I am a girl; which spared me the moniker Willian Daniel Phillips the Third. Dad would have nicknamed me Billy Da Turd. He liked to play with words. Tomatoes = tamaygers, etc.
Perhaps there is a Billy Da Turd in an alternate universe. I wouldn't know. This universe is strange enough to keep me busy.

Anyway, my name is a blend of fact and fiction. In fact, my father is Welsh. Pure Welsh. All 4 of his grandparents were born in Wales. They had little Welsh babies who grew up, met, and married in America; whereupon they produced little Welsh/American babies.

My mom, on the other hand, is half Sicilian and half everything else.
I get the red hair for both sides of the gene pool.

In fiction, dad's grandparents were born in a lovely green valley filled with flowers and bunnies and happy, plump people. They called their paradise "The Valley of Sharon"; and everyone lived happily ever after.

Dad wanted to name his daughter after the valley where his grandparents were born. Mom thought it was a wonderful story, and so I was named after that valley.
When she wrote my father to tell him he had a new daughter, he was delighted. But he couldn't figure out why she'd named me "Sharon". He had no recollection of the story he'd made up.

It doesn't bother me that my name has no base. People name their kids all kinds of weird things. I mean, since I was born in 1969, I could have been saddled with "Moonbow" or "Dandelion" or any number of names you won't find on a toothbrush.

And besides. At least I'm not a Turd.

PTSD

I was reading a Frontline article about how the military deals with killing, which led me to look up post traumatic stress disorder; and what I found was fascinating.

I know I have PTSD. I've known for a long time, but I'm not exactly sure what caused it in the first place.
It wasn't the stuff that I don't talk about here because it embarrasses certain family members who choose to believe that stuff never happened. Should you ever meet me in person, go ahead and ask. I'm not embarrassed.

It wasn't my childhood.

It was probably the rape, but I'm not certain.

The thing is... whenever the original trauma happened, it's caused me problems ever since. Something stressful happens, and I stumble. Like walking down a path and tripping over a log. Each time it's harder to get up and climb over the damn thing; and I wouldn't even recognize that I'd tripped if I didn't have good people around to tell me so.
Here's an example: My son was accepted into a very fine high school, unfortunately it's $8900 for his first year. Which we don't have. Which means I need a job. But it's hard to find a job when you've been a stay-home mom for 14 years. It's especially hard when you need to work between 9 and 2:30, no weekends.
So it's stressful.
My mind wanders when I talk on the phone. I stop snuggling with my husband. I don't talk about what's bothering me -heck, I totally forget what's bothering me. I sleep poorly and dream about things I overcame years ago. I startle easily. And I don't leave the house without putting on the mental toughness I acquired in my old neighborhood.

It may sound like a list of complaints. A whine list ;) But it's just stuff I've been thinking about recently. Mostly thoughts like, "Now that I see it, how do I make it go away?" and "I wonder what normal looks like?"

I've come so far, damnit, and I'm still tripping over invisible logs.
It's frustrating.

Ruminations
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I turned 36 a few days ago, and I must say... I couldn't be happier.
Sure, I look in the mirror and see a few laugh lines; and there are some interesting white streaks in my red-orange hair. But in general, I look in the mirror and see myself. I wonder how much of that is genetic, and how much it has to do with attitude?

What got me thinking about this was not the 10 year old who accused me of looking like I was in my twenties (and informing me that wasn't a compliment.) No, it was this:
The song "MacArthur Park" was stuck in my head, and I shared some of the godawful lyrics with my son. We found a website listing a whole bunch of bad, bad songs; and giggled over some of the things people wrote -and made money from!
But on the list was "seasons in the sun", and I really liked that song when I was a kid. Because one repeating verse really spoke to me. The one where he sings goodbye, it's hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky... I've always felt that it will be hard to die. I don't have any fear of what comes after, I just don't wanna let go. It's so wonderful here.
I'm a 36 year old kid marvelling at life. I like that.

The Fall Of Saigon

I would have been not quite six years old at the time. I remember that mom and dad would watch the evening news, and sometimes they'd argue about it. Saigon falling to the North Vietnamese definitely sparked an argument. Mom and dad would go into the dining room to argue, and I'd be left to watch the news alone. At least until mom sent me to play elsewhere. She didn't think a 5 year old should be watching the news.

*break for a rant about my father*

My father was, among other things, a Marine. He served in Vietnam, somewhere around 1967 or 1968. His mother was hospitalized during his tour, and he was given leave to visit her. She recovered from her whatever-it-was, and dad never went back to the military. He came to St. Louis instead. A mutual "friend" made a bet with my dad. He bet that dad couldn't get my mom to agree to marry him.

A few months later, dad won a measly $5 and a wife. They had a little honeymoon, conceived myself, and only then did he tell my mom that he was AWOL from the Marines. He told her because he had decided to turn himself in. He was court-marshaled and sentenced to 2 1/2 years in the brig. When he was released, he had his dishonorable discharge papers framed and hung on the wall behind his recliner.
*end rant*

Somehow, my father thought that spending 4 months as a stock clerk in a large, safe city in Asia entitled him to opine about Vietnam. My mother disagreed.

So I got to watch a few news clips while my parents argued. All I remember seeing was helicopters and crowds of people. I didn't understand any of it.
Some months (or years) later, I earned a spanking for asking ceaseless questions about the Vietnamese children that were coming to America on a plane.

My parent's did not understand that I felt I'd missed a turning point in history, with the fall of Saigon; and that I wanted to know what was going on now. I thought those Orphan Flights would be just as historic as Saigon, and I didn't want to miss it!

Yeah, so I was wrong. Oh well.

Music
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If you check my profile, you'll see that I'm not a fan of country music. That's because I associate it with the bar across the street.

We could hear the jukebox from our front porch; they always turned the music up on the weekends. As the night would wear on and the drinking would get heavier, the music would become more and more maudlin. There were endless versions of some poor slob who's dog had died, or his wife had left him, and he was walking down the train tracks, because he'd just got outta jail... Songs with the corniest lyrics, I swear!

As long as the music was maudlin, the bar would stay pretty quiet. But sooner or later someone would play "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino" and follow it up with "You're Cheatin' Heart"; and we knew it was just about time to go inside and call the cops. Because those two songs in combination meant that some woman was fed up with her no-good-drunk-of-a-man; and she was right that instant sitting on some other guy's lap.
The noise level would rise to a point that we couldn't hear the music anymore, and then bodies would come tumbling out of the bar. A knot of people beating on each other would be surrounded by a larger group of observers. Some would try to interject a bit of drunken wisdom, "Hey, man. You can't be doin' that." or "She ain't worth it." Others would join in the fray. Lord knows why. Still others would wail at the sky, bemoaning their fate.
The funniest one I ever saw was a woman jump into the mess of people and shove her husband out of the fight so that she could start a new one. She yelled, "GodDAMN you, Greg! Now we can't drink no more!"
This caused a mass exodus back into the bar; people having realized they were jeopardizing their own drinking privileges for the night.

In case you're unfamiliar with the song "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino"; here are David Frizzell's classic words:

I came crawling home last night, like many nights before:
I finally made it to my feet as she opened up the door.
And she said, "You're not gonna do this anymore."

She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."

She said: "Just bring your Friday paycheck, and I'll cash them all right here.
"And I'll keep on tap - for all your friends, their favorite kinds of beer.
"And for you, I'll always keep in stock, those soft aluminum cans.
"And when you're feeling macho, you can crush them like a man."

She said: "We'll rip out all the carpet, and put sawdust on the floor.
"Serve hard boiled eggs and pretzels, and I won't cook no more.
"There'll be Monday night football, on T.V. above the bar.
"And a pay phone in the hallway, when your friends can't find their car."

She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."

She said: "You'll get friendly service, and for added atmosphere.
"I'll slip on something sexy, and I'll cut it clear to here.
"Then you can slap my bottom, every time you tell a joke.
"Just as long as you keep tipping, well, I'll laugh until you're broke."

She said: "Instead of family quarrels, we'll have a bar-room brawl,
"When the Ham's bear say's its closing time, you won't have far to crawl.
"And when you run out of money, you'll have me to thank.
"You can sleep it off next morning, when I'm putting it in the bank."

She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino, to decorate our home,
"So you can feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"When you and your friends get off from work, and have a powerful thirst.
"There won't be any reason, why you can't stop off here first."

She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."

The Worst Thing I've Ever Done
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This month's Blogging For Books subject is ... Cruelty.

What a quandary! To tell, or not to tell? If I bare my deepest act of cruelty, I could lose every friend I have. But if I don't take this opportunity... It's the old "tree falling in the woods" thing. You know, if I did something awful, but no one knows... will I still be seen as good? I guess I'll never know unless I hit that "publish" button at the bottom of my blog.

"We like to think of ourselves as nice people. Yet even the nicest person can engage in cruel, vindictive, or just plain mean behavior.

For this Blogging for Books, write about the meanest thing you have ever done - either to another person or to yourself. (Topic idea credit: Jenorama)"

I've fried ants with a magnifying glass and fed nasty food to my dog. Who hasn't? I've said hurtful things, deliberately; with the sole intention of making someone miserable. I've even thrown rocks at children.
But all those things had a reason behind them. A justification, if you will. Each one carried it's own lesson, too. Your dog will eat anything. Ants run from heat. Sometimes you have to choose between a power trip, and having your own power. Throwing rocks won't change the fact that you're mom is getting the shit beat out of her at home... Or that the only reason your sister is throwing rocks along with you is that your mother is taking the blows in her place.

None of those things shame me. It's all stuff I'll happily talk about, if you're interested in the sordid details of my childhood. And there's one thing I will not happily talk about. It makes me sick to my stomach when I remember it. It's the thing I did that taught me the definition of "cruelty".


I helped beat up "the retarded kid".

It doesn't matter that I was in the 4th grade at the time. It doesn't matter that I had been the victim of escalating abuses at school. It doesn't even matter that a teacher had just that week plucked a splinter of my own broken glasses out of my eye, yet continued to have me fend for myself on the playground.

What mattered was that for once, they were beating up someone else. And I rushed across the street to join in.

I wanted to know what it was like from the other side. I wanted so badly to be part of a group, just once. I thought maybe they would like me if I did a good job on this poor kid.
So I ran across the street and whacked him with my bag full of homework.
I was aiming for his head. I wanted to knock him down so the kids could see that it was me with all that power. But he was tall and I wasn't strong enough. My book bag bounced ineffectually off of his back and tears were running down my face. (Yes. I hit him from behind. Not only did I attack a mentally deficient child, I did it from behind. If there's a hell, I'll be there along with Hitler and those guys who wore black hats on the Lone Ranger show.)

I expected the kids to start laughing any minute. I was afraid they might turn on me next. A part of me thought that wouldn't be a bad thing. At least I would deserve it for thinking I was in any way socially acceptable.
I still had a chance to show how tough I was, though; because no one had noticed my feeble attack. I thought I could jump on the kid's back and pound him in the head a few times. Then everybody would see how great I was. Except I couldn't jump that high. My arms weren't strong enough to pull myself up to his shoulders.
I tried again. And I just couldn't do it. He was a 7th grader, for gosh sakes! I just wasn't big enough.
I could still get in a few good blows with my book bag, but first I'd have to re-load it. Everything had fallen out when I'd made my sneak attack. The fight moved down the street as I stuffed my books back in the bag. I'd have to run to catch up.

And then I came to my senses. Instead of running back to the fight, I ran down a gangway. I hid in the shadows and dried my eyes on my sleeve. Then I walked toward home until I was past the fighting. When I got around the corner, I ran.
I ran past the homeless people, fresh tears blurring my vision, terrified that someone would punish me for beating up the retarded kid.

There it is. The worst thing I've ever done. My definition of cruelty.

And Jay? I think this Blogging for Books subject is pretty damn cruel too. :p

Desegregation

St. Louis began it's desegregation program when I started the 6th grade. The year was 1981. The city quickly created magnet schools to try and get more volunteer students, and to keep the courts from creating a plan of integration. The kids in my neighborhood attended either Notre Dame Catholic School, or the nearest public school. I didn't know anyone who went to Holy Cross Lutheran School, although that was also an option.

The public school kids walked to school, attended classes with their neighbors, and generally behaved like normal kids. And then the busses came, bringing problems that no one was prepared for. It never occurred to the school board that the deseg students might resent being pulled from their neighborhood schools. They didn't really have a choice. The "black" schools were closed, and the students had to go somewhere. That "somewhere" was predominantly white schools filled with children who had known each other their entire lives. The black students were divided between many schools, meaning they were separated from their friends. They probably felt isolated, and I know they were scared. Some of the new students were agressive; determined not to be pushed around or put down by "whitey". The white students were told fearful stories about how savage "black people" were; how they were all criminals or animals.
None of this was true, of course; but it made for a very bad start.

When I left Notre Dame for a magnet school, I was warned about "black" behaviour. I was told that the girls would steal anything they wanted from me. I was warned not to carry a purse, because the girls would come up to me and say, "What you got girl gimmie some." While taking whatever I had. I was told that "they" would beat me up if I resisted...
Mind you, my neighborhood was filled with some of the meanest, toughest kids I'd ever seen. The kinds of kids who would knock you down and kick your teeth in. Kids who thought that a fight wasn't a fight unless you came away with blood and a trophy. Yet they were afraid to fight the black kids.

Children are good at sensing fear, and when these new students saw the fear in the old students, they took advantage of it. It's what children do across the world.
It took a few years for the neighborhood kids to remember that they were tough. Then they started fighting back. The schools became dangerous. Students of both races started cutting school because the streets were a safer place to be. They also found ways to be safe within the schools. One way was to sell drugs. The drug dealers were cool, and you don't mess with the cool kids. That's how we got 7th and 8th graders selling pot or speed to 5th graders. Smoking was also cool. Smoking meant you were a badass, and therefore less likely to be a victim. The really badass kids would talk back to the teachers, walk out of class, and throw things out the window. Nobody messed with those kids.

Desegregation, at least St. Louis' version of it, created a lot of problems. We still don't have any solutions.

Conflicted

I'm really conflicted about what to write next. What started as a series of amusing stories became therapy for me as I worked through my memories.
-I just realized that I still haven't told about skipping school, the disaster that the St. Louis public shool system was in the 1980's, my neighborhood's reaction to desegregation, racing down the highway at 115 mph, the yuppie rehabbers at the neighborhood meetings, how to spot a narc, running away from home because my mom wouldn't let me go to a concert... Yeah, I have a lot more to say.

Somewhere along the line, this blog went from what I observed to more personal stuff. I guess in that way, it reflects life. My childhood was joyful -untouched by what I saw. And as I grew older, what I saw became what I lived. I was no longer the center of my universe. I was just another neighborhood kid trying to stay alive long enough to escape.

I'd never meant to get into the more personal (and painful) aspects of my life story. So if you notice a shift in my writing, that's why.
The completed book will include the story of my rape, because it's integral to the complete picture. My rape changed how I viewed my neighborhood, thereby changing the stories I tell. I think it will make a nice segue into the darker stories.

Surprise, Surprise

I was surprised to see hits from Ecology Of Absence, I wondered who had been hitting them from here. I was even more surprised when I saw that I hadn't linked them yet. I had meant to from the first time I visited and saw a post about a place I'll never forget. I'll never forget it because I discovered it by accident while driving with my son. We had gone to a skating party at what used to be Ron's Roller World. On the way home, I realized my son has never wandered his own neighborhood. (being an only child, he has no one to wander with)
I thought about all the wondrous discoveries he'd missed out on, and decided then and there to change it. So I turned right at the next corner, saying, "Let's see where this takes us, ok?"
And so we drove. Always taking the road less traveled (the street less occupied), wending our way toward my beloved Mississippi River. Within minutes, we had found a road that appeared to go nowhere. There were no gates or signs to keep us out, just this scrabbly old road.
To what wonders would this broken pavement lead? We drove along (maybe all of 3 short blocks) and found a magnificent old factory compound. My breath caught in my throat, and I hoped no developer ever discovered this place. It was built when bricklayers were true craftsmen, and it was beautiful. I spied a clearing toward Broadway, and slowly drove in that direction. I was so worried about damage to my tires, or disturbing some vagrant who might consider this place home, that I didn't see it at first. My son whispered, "mom..." and turned his head toward the clearing. And there it was. A young deer. Standing in the bright sunshine and scrubgrass. Staring at us. I wondered if the deer was as awestruck by a truck in this place, as I was by a deer in the middle of the city.
The deer looked his fill and then casually strolled away. After a time, we left too.


In writing this, I figured out that the blog isn't the website, although they're both by the same people. So go read the blog. Ecology Of Absence is so damn good. It's really warming to see people who love St. Louis, and it's glorious architecture, the way I do. Kudos to Michael and Claire for their awesome writing and interest.

Life As We Know It

I'm having an interesting discussion on my other blog about the situation with our returning soldiers, and it flashed me back to my old neighborhood and all the homeless we had there.

A soldier comes home and discovers that he/she no longer fits in society. They tend to believe that only another soldier understands this feeling. That's not so. I've never been in the military. Because, frankly- basic training scared the crap out of me. The idea of willingly submitting to "being broken" and made into a model soldier was abhorrent to me. So I never signed up. Not even for a chance at college. But I know how it feels to jump to combat readiness because someone nearby is giving off the subtle signals that mean danger.


I used to think my life was not sheltered. If you've read my archives, you might think my life was not sheltered, too. But in it's own wierd way, life was sheltered. We had a code to live by, and if you followed the rules; you were sheltered by the neighborhood. If you didn't follow the code you were abandoned. I followed the code: Acknowledge your betters. Fight when you have to, not when you want to. Keep your nose outta other people's business. Protect anyone who can't protect themselves. Partying is sacred, never mess with The Party... it goes on, but you get the idea. Those were the rules of my world. I had some vague idea that "rich" (i.e. County) people had other rules, but I had no idea what they were. I believed it had something to do with place settings and extended pinky fingers. All that stuff about 2 cars in your garage and having a well landscaped yard was beyond me. I didn't know the "rules" of "society".

The scariest thing I ever did was step out of my own little world, and take on society. It was scarier than going to the abortion clinic, scarier than giving my son up for adoption, and scarier than anything my neighborhood could throw at me. Because while my neighborhood could hurt me, society might break me. Average people do not know that there are people like me around. They don't want to know. I'm a predator, and I recognize other predators. I know when to present a challenging stare and when to lower my eyes and submit. I'm safe with that. I know my place.
Do you know what it's like? If you work at a bar, you do. Ok, I'm ranting. Sorry about that. I meant to talk about my personal evolution. Heh. So here goes...

At first, I just faked it. I dated a county boy and simply did whatever he did. I may not have understood the logic behind the behaviour, but I faked it well enough to pass. Then I started really looking at why middle-class people acted the way they did. Why did they lock their cars then lock the garages that were holding the cars, then carry their keys like a weapon as they walked to their well lit front doors? I mean really! Did they think someone might be lurking in their manicured bushes? What could they possibly fear?

It took me a decade to figure it out. They feared the unknown, the same as everybody else. I feared the unknown of a life beyond my neighborhood. The same holds true for them.

With understanding, comes acceptance. I accept that county fears are just as valid as city fears. My life is no greater than yours, nor is it less.

What does any of this have to do with a soldiers' return, you ask? I say it's the survival factor. Once you've been there, you can't go back. (Let's see if I still believe that when I'm ninety.) You can't just step back to being afraid of your front yard. I don't believe your typical suburbanite wakes in a cold sweat because they were dreaming of stalking an urban landscape; knowing that they were going to take a life, while their spirit cringes inside and quietly wails, "nooo...."
That's one thing soldiers and I share. We know what it's like to do whatever you have to do to survive. We know how it feels to think you've given up a piece of your humanity, and how desperately we want that humanity back.

Woot!

I'd like to thank whoever did a Yahoo search for "classy common redhead". Considering the freakish (and sometimes disgusting) search hits I get; reading this one in my site stats was a pleasure. It gets better, though. I clicked the link, expecting to show up on page 16 or so... nope! I'm Number One!
Wootwootwoot!

Living in the State of Virginity

My sister and I kinda stood apart from the rest of the neighborhood, in that we weren't going to have sex until we were damn good and ready. You would not believe the peer pressure involved. By the time I was 12, everyone I knew (except my sister, and the girl next door) had done it, or was actively trying to do it.
At twelve years of age, I didn't even want to think about sex. I wanted to ride my bike and play at the park. I wanted to climb trees in the middle of winter and catch snowflakes on my tongue. I wasn't ready to grow up. And I was smart enough to know it.

For the next year, I watched my friends chase down boys and step into that unknown world. I watched them drift away from the things I considered fun; and frankly, it scared me. Virginity is a one time thing. Once it's gone, there's no going back. It should be something more than another mark on a bedpost.

I actually had a friend who wrote on her wall the names of every eligible guy in the neighborhood. Her goal was to fuck them all. There were 22 guys on the list. It took her 6 years, but she got them all. And each time she put a little star by a name, I scratched that name off my mental list of men worthy of my virginity.

(I probably sound righteous, and I'm fine with that. I don't know where her crotch has been, and I'm certainly not going to give myself to someone who doesn't see me as the god send that I am. So there! Anyway...)

By the time I was 13, I was getting desperate. I still wasn't ready to take that big step, but the pool of males was shrinking daily. The good looking guys would screw anything, so it had to be someone average or ugly. Acne was a plus, because it made it more likely that they would cherish the act. I really wanted my first time to be good. I knew there was no knight in shining armor for me. My neighborhood didn't hold any Prince Charmings. I knew it wouldn't be perfect, and that was ok. I would settle for someone (anyone) who would treat me well, give me time to perfect my skills, and not smirk about it to his friends.

Believe it or not, that was a tall order.

I finally found someone to fit the bill. My friend BG. The guy who, later that Summer, would share his front steps with my sister and I while we watched a man get beaten nearly to death.

I chased BG relentlessly, dogging his every step. It was harder than I'd thought. First, I had to get him to notice me. I needed him to see that I was an interesting female creature with, you know... tits and stuff. I got a haircut and started wearing makeup. I paid attention to how my friends let guys know they were interested, and began mimicking them. I tried standing really close to him, ohhing and ahhing over his prowess at Pac Man. I tried pretending like I was too good for him. I tried just hanging out, "being his friend", acting like I gave a crap about the stupid things he was interested in. And all of it failed miserably.
I started to think that I would actually have to wait for marriage. And boy, did that make me feel pathetic. Nobody in my neighborhood stayed a virgin until they were married. Not even the fat girls.

So I got really depressed and gave up. I scratched BG off my list. I scratched everybody off my list. Either I was going to lose my virginity in a fit of drunken stupidity, or I was going to lose it on my wedding night and that was that!
None of these guys were good enough for me anyway. Nyeah.

And then BG started hitting on me. Literally. He would pass me in the game room and whop me (gently) upside the head. That just added injury to insult, in my book. First he ignores every attempt I make, and then he starts smacking me? What a jerk!

My friends all said, "He likes you." They were certain of it. I couldn't see how a guy could 'like you' when they were hurting you. That was just bullshit.
I tolerated his hitting because when I tried to fight back I looked and felt like a fool. BG had been practicing martial arts for years. He was too quick, and I never laid a hand on him.
Well, I'd be damned if he made himself look slick by blocking my punches. So I ignored him, or at least tried to. It's not in my nature to take that kind of crap. He'd poke me, or slap me, and eventually (inevitably) I'd fight back. It infuriated me that I couldn't get past his guard. It infuriated me that he was picking on me, and it enraged me that he didn't see me as a woman.

One day, after I had yet again taken a swing at him, and he had grabbed my wrist and was making me slap myself... "Stop hittin' yourself...Stop hittin' yourself"
With me resisting for all I was worth, and trying so hard not to look stupid... I had a moment of clarity.

I let my arm go limp, (which didn't stop him, of course) and said, "You know, BG. You're a real asshole. And I think you need to get off my porch and not come back. You can have the Game Room (the local hangout), just stay away from me."
I said it the way you might comment on the weather. He just didn't matter anymore. I was done with him. There was a nanosecond of grief for the years of growing up together, but really- he'd devolved into an asshole like the rest of the guys and he wasn't worth a thought.

BG didn't get it. He kept making my limp hand contact my face as I rolled my eyes away from him and stared at a tree across the street. I knew he'd go away sooner or later, and eventually he did. I stayed out of the Game Room for the next couple of weeks. I sat on my porch and listened to the radio instead. If BG came up on the porch, I'd take the radio inside. I could listen just as well on the balcony in back. As a matter of fact, the balcony was even better, because we had a hammock to lay in. Mom had bought it at the carnival supply store for $7, and it was quite comfortable, thank you very much.

Five weeks later, BG stood on the sidewalk and apologized to me. A few weeks after that, we were dating. Sort of.
I don't think anybody knew. Perhaps the proper term would be expressing an interest in each other. I went over to his house a couple of times. First we kissed, then we petted, then we petted heavily. The third or fourth trip to his house, I had decided that today was the day.
On that day, I would give BG my virginity.
It never occurred to me that he might not want it.


We reached a point where I was entirely naked, and we were taking his pants off -when I had to go and open my big mouth. I said, "I realize that this was kind of a surprise. I'm a virgin, so I'm not on the pill or anything. You don't have any condoms, do you?" He said, "No."
Then I had to make a choice. Risk pregnancy, or stop it right there. With my hormones raging and my body on fire, I decided to take the risk. I felt that in the interests of fairness, I should let him off the hook, so I said, "I'm the one who started this, so if anything happens, it's my problem. I'll take care of it."
I thought I was being responsible. I thought I was doing the right thing. Apparently that wasn't the case, because he laid back on the bed, flung an arm over his eyes, and stayed that way.

"Um. B?" I asked, "BG?"
nothing. No response whatsoever. He just shut me out.
I sat naked on the bed for what seems like an eternity. Then I spent another eternity screwing up the courage to ask him the question I so didn't want to ask... Well, there was nothing to be done about it. I could sit there in the buff or I could find out what I'd done wrong. (sigh)
So I asked, "Um. Do you still want to have sex with me?"
He replied, "No."

I felt absolutely worthless.
I slowly put my clothes back on. I wanted to give him every opportunity to come to his senses. After all, how often does a guy get this kind of offer?
As I was buttoning my shirt, I asked, "You're sure?"
No response.
So I left.

I stepped out into the bright January sunshine, lifted my chin proudly to the world and went home.

(And then I pretended to let my best friend talk me out of suicide, while I secretly chewed aspirin after aspirin in an attempt to kill myself. Aspirin being the only thing in the medicine cabinet.)