On Dealers

On my street, most of the apartment dwellers sold drugs. I remained unaware of this until I transferred to public school. Oh, I knew that a few people sold drugs; and I knew that everyone owned a gun or two. But I didn't realize how readily available drugs were on my block.

That all changed when I invited my friend (the one who died in the previous story) over to my house. He told me his mom wouldn't let him. So I asked him why not? And he said, "Because of the dealers, of course."
"What dealers?" I asked.
Yeah, my street was so notorious, it even had a nickname. They called it Drug Alley. And no, it doesn't make sense. California Avenue is not an alley. Not only did my little stretch of land between Sidney and Lynch have the distinction of sheltering the California Bum, it was also the place where most of my friends' parents bought their drugs. Wow.

Of course, "drugs" back then are not the same as "drugs" you hear about on the news now. In my neighborhood, everyone smoked pot and most adults bought painkillers on occasion. LSD and mushrooms were taken exclusively indoors; and only with close friends. Really, the only daily drug was beer. Everybody drank beer. (except my mom, who hated beer. But mom never fit in with the neighbors anyway.)

Hard-core drugs were for junkies and yuppies. We couldn't afford cocaine, the rich man's drug. Nobody was stupid enough, or desperate enough to try heroin. Meth meant a kind of moonshine.

It was an eye-opener for me; realizing that the stuff everybody did classified as scary dangerous drugs. My neighbors weren't drug addicts! They were Hoosiers! They fought and drank and got stoned. So what? Didn't everybody? Who the hell gets to decide that my street is worse than any other, anyway?

... And I promptly got to know who sold what, and at which times. I had no use for drugs while in the 7th grade, but I knew I'd buy them eventually. Everyone did. It was just another rite of passage. You get a job, you buy drugs.

My freshman year of high school, I did buy a drug. I went to an apartment with the 9 year old prostitute and bought a pair of pink and blue pills. One for me, one for her. It was a surreal experience. I told the dealer that this was my first time buying speed. I let her know that I'd been getting high for a while now, and wanted to try something different. I told the dealer that I didn't want to try anything too strong, and she suggested "speckled eggs". My friend the prostitute said, "Oooh, those are fun. They're kinda wimpy, but I think you'll like them."
(note: "Getting high for a while now" translates to 3 occasions over 5 months. Oh, yeah; I was so experienced.)

I bought the speckled eggs for 50 cents a piece, and we downed them the minute we walked out the door.
And nothing happened.
So I waited.
Pills need time to dissolve, right?
(sigh)

Now, I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe bright colors and hippy-trippy music. What I got was a caffeine rush of the worst magnitude.
I got jumpy, and being jumpy made me mad. It built to a barely controllable rage. I. Don't. Like. Being out of control.
I told my friend what was going on in my body, thinking, "She has more experience. She'll know what to do."
She said, "You need to get in a fight. That'll help."
Yeah. A fight. I'd like to beat someone up. My fist smashing into someone's helpless face would be just the ticket. Yeah.
I spent the next eternity looking for someone to beat the snot out of. I was on a quest. It didn't matter that I'd never started a fight before in my life. It didn't matter that I held no grudges against anyone at the moment. The only thing that mattered was that there was no one out on the street. I mean nobody. We tried the park, the school, everywhere; and there was not a soul to be seen.
I took to pounding my fist into my other hand, while my friend skipped alongside with her eyes twinkling. She was enjoying seeing me be violent. Eventually it sunk in that I wasn't going to find anyone to beat up. So I went home.

When the singular speckled egg wore off, I went to bed. I was so tired. I had a flu-like exhaustion. All I wanted was to sleep. I told my mom that I didn't feel well, and that I wouldn't be eating dinner. I was just going to sleep. Mom gave me a worried look, and I knew that she knew I'd taken something.

When I got up later, all she said was, "I hope you're feeling better. And I hope you won't ever feel that bad again." Yes, she knew.
I never did feel that bad again. I felt worse when I drank so much that I threw up. And I felt even worse than that when I drank so much that I couldn't throw up. But that's another story.

This story is about the one and only time I bought drugs for my personal use. It was a waste of money, and a waste of time. I wonder, If I'd had a pleasant experience, would I be a druggie now? Probably. If you didn't do drugs, you were harassed by your peers. They would hunt you in packs and beat you up for thinking you were superior. It was far easier to smoke a little pot and drink a little beer, even if you didn't like it. At least you fit in, and you didn't have to be afraid to go out of the house. I never did a lot of drugs, just enough to get by.

The Day My Best Friend Died

Sometimes people can be horribly cruel; and for no better reason than that their own lives are miserable. If you haven't guessed from reading this blog, I saw a lot of cruelty... But this story is about the cruelest thing that happened to me.

When I transferred to public school, I made a friend. Well, ok; I made several friends and one best friend. We hung out after school. We hung out during summer vacation. Although we never dated, he was my first kiss. We worked at the same pizza place, just so we could be together. I watched him date my friends, and I forgave him when he broke up with them. I let him sleep in my car when his aunt kicked him out of the house and greeted him every morning with breakfast and a pack of smokes. Friends carry no debts.

I knew he was depressed. I mean homeless and unemployed; who wouldn't be depressed? But then his aunt let him back in the house, and he was actively looking for a job; I thought the worst was over. The day after he moved back to his aunt's house, he came to me with a bottle of pills. They were unlike any pills I'd seen before. He had made them himself. He had taken some household ingredients and mixed them with stuff from his old chemistry set. (You know, the kind of set that actually had toxic stuff in it? The kind they don't sell anymore?) He had put the mix into gelcaps, but his aunt had kicked him out before he could take them. Separated from his chosen method of surcease, he'd slept in my car and never said a word.
I made him promise me that he would call before he took the pills. I told him that I would try to talk him through it; and if I couldn't, then I would stay on the phone and keep him company while he died. He didn't want me to keep him company, he said the mix was designed to make sure he died; but it would be painful. I insisted that when you're in pain is when you need company the most. I reminded him of the day he'd talked to me for 7 hours while I'd secretly chewed up aspirin, trying to kill myself because BG wouldn't take my virginity when I'd offered it to him. (side note: 14 yr. olds are not very rational) But he kept me company, and talked to me until I fell asleep. He brought me back to my senses. How could I do less for him?

He did not call me the next day. He didn't come by to visit, either. I was confident that he hadn't taken the pills. During the 6 years we had been friends, he'd never broken his word. So I called his house to see how he was doing. His aunt answered the phone; and when I asked if my friend was available, she told me that he had killed himself last night.

I was stunned. My world became very quiet. I kept trying to think of something to say that would make it not so, and no words would bring him back.
Finally, I asked, "When is the funeral? I'd like to say goodbye."
His aunt replied, "You fucking bitch. You knew about those pills, and you didn't tell me! Now he's dead and it's all your fault!"
I tried again, "Please, when is the funeral?"
I'll never forget what she said to me next, "You can find out in the obituaries!"
Then she hung up on me.
I slammed down the phone, and sat looking at my hands and thinking. My best friend was dead. He didn't feeldead, but there was no reason for her to lie to me. I knew I should call our mutual friends, and see if they could find out when the funeral was. Maybe that bitter dishrag of a human being would tell them. I couldn't call his mom; she would be grieving, and I didn't want to dump this new problem on her. My mind was running in circles. I needed to call people... How could she say that to me?... Maybe K would talk to her... He can't be dead, he promised me!... How could he break his promise?... I need to call someone... an endless loop.

I did eventually call K, who called the aunt for me. She wouldn't tell him anything either. After that, she stopped answering her phone. K called all of our mutual friends, and they trickled in throughout the evening. We sat on my car for most of the night. We talked and we grieved. I should say they grieved. I was just numb. I kept thinking how surreal this was. Everything had the same weird quality as an uncomfortable dream.
It was a typical hazy summer night, which made the street look shrouded. It didn't help that the city had recently installed those nasty orange streetlights which bleed the color out of everything.

Once in a while I would say, "I can't believe it. He just doesn't feel dead to me. I would know if he were dead."
My friends said, "You have to face it and move on. He's dead. And you're in denial."
A good friend will say harsh things when they need to be said. They were good friends, indeed.
The next morning, he still didn't seem dead. I could feel him out there, alive. My gut said, "He lives!" while my head said, "Quit being stupid. Accept it and move on."

The morning after that, I had begun to come to terms with it. It was hard. I felt like I was going crazy. After all, only crazy people have delusions, and I was deluding myself thinking that he was alive. When in reality, my best friend was gone forever; but I was still here. Some part of me would probably always feel like he was alive; like he had moved to another state, and we just didn't talk anymore.
I had to separate that part of me, and I spent the day doing just that. Every time I thought, "He's alive", I would suppress it and think, "No, he's dead."
I guess it worked, because the thoughts came less frequently as the day went on. They started to be thoughts of, "I must go on", instead.

That afternoon the phone rang. A strange voice on the other end said, "Sharon? Hi! How are you?"
I said, "Who is this?"
The voice said, "This is (name)."
I said, "(Name) who?"

Here was this stranger on the phone insisting that he was my dead friend!
I said, "That's not funny. What kind of twisted fuck are you? (Name)'s dead!"
Ooh, I was mad. What kind of perv makes calls like this? How did he get my number, and how did he know my friend's name?
The voice said, "I'm not dead. I checked myself into Malcolm Bliss Hospital, so that I wouldn't kill myself."
And, oh my god, it was him!
His aunt, the bitch, had lied to me.
lied
to
me!

I didn't go and murder her.
I wouldn't, couldn't murder someone in cold blood.
However.
If I ever see her on the street begging for food, I will pass her by.
And if I see her trapped in the wreckage of a car, I'm likely to lean in real close and say, "You deserve it" before I walk away.

More writing is forthcoming, I promise
Right now I'm busy setting up an online storefront. Heck, that makes for a good story...

When my dad left, we moved in with Grandma (as you may recall from the archives). I think mom sent us to ballet class out of guilt. I know she couldn't afford it. It's possible that her brothers and sisters chipped in. They are those kind of people.
However it came about, my sister and I got to take ballet and tap lessons for almost a year. Every Tuesday we would run home from school, drop off our books, grab our dance bags, and catch the Gravois bus to go to dance class.

The school was on Gravois, between the White Castle and K-Mart. The reception area had pale violet carpeting and dark red chairs. I barely noticed the clashing decor, however; because my eyes were inevitably drawn to the photos on the walls. There were hundreds of framed 5x7 photos of girls in dance costumes. These were the real dancers. The ones who had actually been on stage, in front of an audience. I so my picture on one of those walls. There were more pictures lining the halls to the changing room. Every time I passed beneath them, I'd think, "I'm going to be better than you. They're going to hang my picture right out front.

I worked myself silly learning to shuffle-ball-change. I lost my baby fat doing tedius plie's. Up and down, up and down. Turn out your feet, tuck in your butt. Straighten your back. Up and down.
Our teacher had a cane that she would tap you with if your form was wrong. Her gentle taps never hurt, but it was humiliating to have your positioning corrected in front of the whole class. It didn't matter that she tapped everyone equally. What mattered was that she was tapping you.

And, oh! The pain of those excercises. First the warm-up stretches (no problem), then moving through the 5 positions (pain in the back, pain in the ankles, knees aching, arms turned to jelly, straighten your back, lift your chin and smile!) -followed by a million plie's.

But I was going to be a dancer. I was going to be on stage. My daddy would see my name in lights, and he would be proud of me.

Yeah, that was a nice fantasy.

I loved all that hard work. I loved finally getting my chance to tap dance to a bit of music on stage. I loved the costume that mom had to borrow money to pay for; and I didn't understand when the dance lessons stopped.
My sister and I begged to be allowed to go back. We swore we would scrub floors or work in factories to pay for it. Our pleas must have broken my mom's heart; but the dance lessons were too expensive, and we just couldn't do it anymore.
I wouldn't give up my tap shoes, though.

My first year at Visual and Performing Arts magnet school, I took acting and art. The next year I took acting and dance. I kept up the exercises when I changed schools. In total, I spent 5 years doing ballet exercises for 2 hours a day, 5 days a week.

As a result, I have arthritis in both my knees. I'm 35 years old, and there are days when the only thing that gets me moving is the need to get my son to school. In the winter time, it feels like a dozen icepicks are shoved into my knees. I (sometimes) do physical therapy exercises with 10 lb weights on my ankles to strengthen my legs.
It's funny, in a way. In order to slow the deterioration from too many years of dancing, I have to maintain dancer's muscles.

Which leads me to my store. I make an arthritis salve from shea butter and comfrey, I also make an oil. This stuff keeps me moving on my bad days. It enables me to do my PT, to walk without limping, to drive. Ahhh, comfrey.
As an added benefit, it's shrinking the stretch marks on my belly. (because, I just had to try it everywhere)

I used my friends as guinea-pigs, and put comfrey on everything from tendonitis to gout, and by god-it works! At the urging of my hubby and friends, I've started selling it online.

I hope you enjoyed my story, and I realized I forgot the best part about dance class. We would use our bus fare to buy white castles, and walk the 3 miles home in the dark. I was 8 and my sister was 9.

The Decay Of The Olympic Torch

When I was a kid, I got to see a runner carrying the Olympic torch. We had to get our parents' permission, because it meant leaving school grounds and walking 2 blocks through a crummy neighborhood in order to see a bit of flame for a few seconds. Mom got all excited when I brought the permission form home. She had to tell me all about the history of the carrying of the torch, where it had been, where it was going, and how fortunate out city was to have the flame pass through. My teacher had already covered this; with the same level of enthusiasm, and more historical accuracy.

I was in the 7th grade at the time, and thought that standing on the sidewalk was better than sitting at a desk any day. That was about the extent of my interest.

So the big day came, and after lunch we hiked off to watch the torch go by. Interestingly enough; while my teacher and my mom both thought this was a big deal, they were in the minority. My class was one of the 3 that even bothered to watch.
There were a scattering of people waiting with us. Most had brought lawn chairs. After about 5 minutes of standing there, I started wishing that I had brought a lawn chair too. It was boring, standing around in the hot sun. This was before St. Louis got serious with it's tree-planting program. There was no shade, and nothing to look at beyond a few run-down apartment buildings.

I started thinking about the history class I was missing. My desk was looking better and better to me. I could be learning something, darn it! All my friends were in the other 7th grade class, so I didn't have anyone to talk to. No one was stirring in the apartments, and there wasn't even so much as a pidgeon to stare at. (sigh)

I was terribly bored.

Then the people around me became restless. Word began to spread... The torch was coming. "Finally!" I thought.
I has assumed that all torch bearers were Olympic caliber runners, and I couldn't figure out what was taking so long. I mean, Olympic sprinters ran at least as fast as a car, right? (And that just goes to show you what 7th graders know about physics)
I looked down the street. Nothing.
I listened for the sound of running feet. Nothing.

More people were showing up, so I knew somethingwas happening. By the time the runner got there, the street was crowded. I was being squeezed from all sides, and couldn't see a damned thing. Fortunately, the teachers noticed this and started spreading us kids out. I don't know how it happened; but I wound up right at the curb, with a clear view.
A feeling of awe had spread up the street. I was standing with my toes hanging over the curb, and I was afraid of being pushed into the street. I couldn't fall into the street! It had turned into Holy Ground.
The crowd began clapping, and I could see someone jogging down the road carrying what looked like a short, white, whiffle-ball bat. It was pretty sunny out, and I couldn't see the flame. All that standing around to see a sweaty jogger? What a waste!

And then he ran past.

I had expected someone proud. I had expected the runner to look around self-importantly. Instead, I got the feeling that the runner barely noticed us. His sole focus was that flame. The flame I couldn't see. I couldn't see it, but wow! I could feel it.
And I began to understand. This flame, that had begun as the rays of the sun, was as pure as it was when it began it's trip in Athens. Passed from torch to torch, runner to runner, it was essentially the same fire.
He was followed by a pack of joggers. Some of them were replacement runners, some were everyday people. After them came a van with a police escort. It was carrying a back-up flame; for the flame must never go out.

There was something magical about that little bit if fire, and I'll never forget how it made me feel.

That was then. Nowadays, they have torch bearers in several cities, all running at the same time. That sacred flame is divided, and used to light stupid little cauldrons designed to look just like the big one at the Olympics. The last time the flame went out during a run, it was relit with a propane torch, because the "back-up flame" was in another city!

I personally believe that each time the flame is divided, each time it's used to light a little cauldron; it's strength is diminished.

I hate commercialism.

Ways to make money

Last weekend, we went to pick out a kitten. Driving through the subdivision that held the kitten's home; we passed a lemonade stand. I insisted we stop so I could buy some lemonade. The hubby-man thought I was nuts, but he dutifully pulled over so I could trade a quarter for a 10 oz. cup of lukewarm Crystal Light. (bleah)
So why did I do this? Why did I buy, and then drink, something I had no desire for?
Because I remember the pleasure of a handful of change that I earned myself.

My sister and I tried selling lemonade, snow cones, and ice cream. When that didn't earn enough to make it worth the effort, we mowed lawns and worked at the bingo hall in the Church basement. Bingo players are weird. Each person has their own little ritual for playing. They have a "lucky seat" and a "lucky number", and lucky doo-dads that they spread around their cards. Each knick-knack must be touched a certain number of times before the game commences. Everything must be in a certain order, so as to insure a good day. Some players liked to pick out their own bingo cards, but others preferred to have children do it for them. So, one of our jobs was to sit by the bins and pick "lucky" cards. For this service, we would receive a tip. Usually a nickel, sometimes the tip was as large as a quarter. Once gaming commenced, we ran errands for the customers. We would fetch food and drink for the players, so they needn't interrupt their game. This also usually earned a tip.

We would work for 3 hours or so, and come home with a few dollars worth of change. The work really paid off during Girl Scout Cookie time. We sold cookies door-to-door, and we also ordered extra cookies; which we sold before bingo. Mom was our troop leader, and she was really cool about the cookie sales. She would set a goal for the troop -enough to cover an educational field trip- and anything above that goal went into our personal accounts. We could use it to buy badges, new uniforms, or a trip to Girl Scout camp.

My sister and I figured the profit from cookie sales, and ordered the amount we would need to sell in order to go to camp. This meant 200 boxes of cookies. It wasn't too bad, really; because we could count on at least 100 boxes from door-to-door sales. Cookies were $1.75 at the time. Of that amount, 75 cents went to the troop. So 100 boxes equaled $75. And that was enough to get us to camp, since mom's income qualified us for a partial scholarship.

We sold cookies like crazy, until my neighbors ran out of money. President Reagan's "trickle down" theory never trickled into my neighborhood. It was embarrassing to knock on a door and have someone look wistfully at your order sheet and say, "I just can't this year. I'm sorry." My sister and I knocked on door after door, and we were turned away time and again. The people who used to order 10 boxes, began ordering one or two instead. To meet our goals, we ranged far beyond the neighborhood; taking orders as far away as Meremec Park. It was great in theory... but actually delivering 200 boxes of cookies was another matter.

Every day, for 3 solid weeks we hung bags of cookies off the handlebars of our bikes; for delivery to the far flung corners of South St. Louis. When your customer lives a block away, it's no big deal if they're not home. You just deliver on another day. But when you have to bike for 2 miles, balancing bags of cookies on your handlebars; to be greeted by an empty house... it kind of sucks.

Some of our customers were only home at night, and mom wouldn't let us bike at night; so those deliveries had to be made on the weekends. In the end, we were rescued by mom's boyfriend. He spent the last few days of our delivery time driving us to the various houses. Oh, the luxury of a car!

More On Prostitutes

Recently, Channel 2 news "exposed" prostitution in Creve Couer Park. Golly! There are men having sex with other men? In a public park? Here... in St. Louis? *gasp* I never knew!
Get over yourselves, channel 2. Go back to chasing Alderwomen who pee in trash cans. Quit scaring the many citizens who enjoy their parks. Better yet, use those investigative reporters to cover what's being done about the problem. Give us some good news for a change.

One day, C and I skipped school and went to Tower Grove Park. She wanted me to meet some friends of hers. So we went to the park and walked up to a group of guys who were sitting on a bridge. As we were talking, a car pulled up and a young man got out. My friend said, "This is the guy I really wanted you to meet. Isn't he cute?" If I could put little anime hearts all around the word cute, I would. I could certainly see them hanging in the air around her.
He was cute, with his blonde hair and blue eyes. He was tall and well muscled too. I could see why she was crushing on him. And, of course, her crush made him off-limits for me. None of the other guys had any interest in me, so I stared at the trickle of muddy water beneath the bridge while she giggled and posed.
I was starting to think it would have been more exciting to be at school. This staring-at-the-water shit was boring. I started praying for a fish, a frog, even a mosquito to liven the scenery; when something even better happened.
A car came cruising slowly down the road, the driver staring confusedly at me and C as he passed. He turned around and passed us again, then parked about 50 feet away from us. One of the guys said to us, "Hey! You need to go somewhere else. You're scaring away the customers!" Suddenly, the light dawned. These guys were prostitutes. I didn't even know boys could be prostitutes. I thought it was solely women's work, like dishes or childcare. I mentally scoffed at any woman who would buy sex, and then realized that C's "cute guy" hadn't gotten out of a car with a woman; and the parked car didn't hold a woman, either.
Well! That was an eye-opener!

The whole way home, I tried to get my friend to give up her crush. "He's a faggot! You can't date a faggot!" I exclaimed.
She replied, as if this made perfect sense, "He's not a faggot. He just fucks faggots and takes their money."
She thought it was funny; her guy ripping off the gay men. She laughed over how they got "taken"; thinking he was gay, when in reality he wasn't. I totally didn't get it. If he were ripping them off, then he would be beating them up and taking their money, not getting paid for a service he provided... And if he wasn't gay, wasn't he the one getting ripped off? Sex is supposed to be enjoyable. I just couldn't imagine him working at a job he hated, when there were less invasive jobs available. Even at 16, I had a lot to learn about the world.

The next time we skipped school together, we went back to the park. We sat on one side of the bridge and the guys sat on the other side. That way, we could talk without interrupting their flow of business. We became somewhat accepted when we helped pick gravel out of the cute guy's back. He had been car surfing, and gotten a nasty case of road rash, so we cleaned him up. I started carrying Bactine and bandages, after one of the guys had gotten beat up by a customer.

In the neighborhood; if you'd been beat up, your friends would have hunted the bastard down and delivered retribution. These guys just took it as a hazard of the job. They never stood up for each other. It sickened me that they would just shrug off a "fag bashing", nurse their cuts until they were healed, and go back to work. If the beatings weren't too bad, they would be working the next day. They said it brought bigger tips sometimes.

I hung out with the prostitutes long after C had given up her crush, and moved on. The funny thing was, the park was the only safe place for me. Walking down the street, I'd get propositioned left and right; but in the park, they were only interested in the boys.

The Thing About Hoosiers

I've taught my son a bad word, and I'm not proud of it. It worked it's way in when I wasn't looking. It never even occurred to me, because it's such a common term in St. Louis.
The word is "Hoosier", and it doesn't mean "A graduate from the Universtity of Indiana". At least not in St. Louis, it doesn't. All my life, I've heard this word used daily. I never thought twice about it. Hell, I never thought once about it; until I met someone who was born and raised in Indiana. I was chatting with this person, when a car full of young adults came down the street. The radio was blaring Black Sabbath or some such, every person in the car was smoking, and the vehicle was more rust than steel. I muttered the phrase I'd heard my entire life, "Goddam hoosiers."
My friend from Indiana lifted his eyebrows and said, "...Um... I'm a Hoosier."
I said, "No you're not! You have a college degree. You have a good job. You own your own home, for god's sake. You are not a hoosier."
This led to an edifying conversation. I learned that, outside of St. Louis, "Hoosier" is something to be proud of. My friend learned that, within St. Louis, "hoosier" meant "lowlife caucasion scum with no ambition". Yes, St. Louisans have a different phrase for non-caucasions living below the poverty level. I won't go into them here. They are all derogatory. And that's entirely my point. My mother taught me to judge a person by their actions, not their income or skin color. But when she was teaching me that, she meant that I should not judge anyone but hoosiers. Anyone with a clear ethnic background was potentially a human being, but when you see someone with pale skin and an indeterminate ethnicity -the judgement is on.
It's what I was taught. It's ingrained in me, and I'm not proud of it. I resist it. And every time I think I've got it conquered, every time I cease my vigilance; my bigotry sneaks in the back door.
Over the years, it's snuck in often enough, that my son has a clear definition of the word "hoosier", and it's not pretty. To be fair, the only time I've heard him say "hoosier" is when talking to grown-ups. So I hope his definition is not as restrictive as mine. But it galls me that I've been oblivious to my bias for so long.
Even my friend from Indiana uses "hoosier" now. I asked him why, once; and he responded, "When you don't say hoosier, people see you as an outsider. It's clear you're not from St. Louis. When I say it, I'm accepted."
He now says it as casually as the rest of us do.

Goddam hoosiers.

Congrats to Josh and Nats

Their baby girl was born Sunday, she's a whopping 10 lbs 7 oz. So pop over and offer them congratulations!

Trying my hand at poetry. Visit St. Louis Bloggers to read some others' poetry
St. Louis Sunset
The setting sun
Touches the facade
Of my 19th century apartment
Painting the limestone
With red and gold hues

Works of man
Reflecting nature

Fixing Up Cars

There were 3 classes of teenagers in my neighborhood; kids with no car, kids with a car that went nowhere, and kids with freedom -aka a car that runs. Thus a favored pastime was fixing up cars. I participated in it myself. The idea was to spend an entire paycheck on a car that didn't run, then have your friends push it to your house. Sometimes they pushed that car for miles. It didn't matter to them. All that did matter was having a status symbol. Boys with cars were a step up from boys who walked. Even if the car didn't have an engine, it might have an engine someday.

It showed that here was a guy who was going somewhere.
So, every once in a while, the whole neighborhood was entertained with the arrival of a new car. They'd come down California Avenue; one proud driver and 4 sweaty friends, pushing like mad. They always came down California, because that took them past the Game Room. It served a dual purpose in that, not only did you get to show off, you got more help to push your car home. Boys would pour out of the Game Room to ooh and aah over the rust bucket before them. They would spend an hour or so discussing the finer points of car restoration, eyes glazing over with dreams of what their own car might look like someday; living vicariously through others.

They always believed that this car would run again; they helped push it so they could share in the glory. Once home, the wheels would be taken off and the car would be put on blocks in the yard. For the next month, everyone would take turns sitting in the drivers seat and dreaming. This was called fixing up the car. As in, "We're going over to so-and-so's house, we're gonna help fix up his car." Sometimes they would get high, sometimes they wouldn't; but they always sat and dreamed.

Most of those old cars were eventually sold or traded when the owners' parents said they'd had enough, and to get that @&#^$ car outta the backyard. A rare few actually became drivable. That was pretty entertaining, too. We'd see our friends pull up in a car that was mostly body putty, blue smoke pouring out the back end, and usually running on less cylinders than should be possible. We'd all climb in the car and go for a ride. Then we would help push the car home. (snicker)

When I finally bought a car, I bought one that ran. Sure I had to replace a few things over time. Like the water pump, alternator, starter and one of the push rods. But I never needed my friends to help me push my car home.
I still grieve over that car. My much-beloved 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus was murdered by a drunk driver on the 4th of July, 1990. Two months later, the city towed it away and crushed it into a cube. We had moved to a better neighborhood, you see; and the neighbors complained about the ugly old wreck that was messing up their street.

On California Avenue, no one would have done that. They would have helped me bang out the dents and fix my baby's shattered frame. And they would have sat in the driver's seat and dreamed.

80's Clothes
Writing about my childhood during the 1980's just wouldn't be writing without the obligatory "I can't believe I wore that" entry. So for all you fans of 80's fashion; here ya go!

My earliest fashion memories stem from the late 1970's. Back then, clothing was comfortable and casual. Much like it is today. Children wore t-shirts and terry cloth, denim and velour. The colors were bland and earthy.
The advent of MTV changed all that.

We didn't have cable or satellite. Paying for television? What a frivolous expense! Yet, MTV style clothing began showing up in the stores. Matching sweatbands and legwarmers, previously available only at Danskin; were now everywhere. Colored tights, once the provence of little girls in cute dresses; were all the rage. It seems everyone was trying their hand at fashion design, and an entire generation suffered because of it. I'm not talking about the late 1980's, either. I mean the horrible, scary, early 1980's. The part of the decade that required you to change your style every month or so.

I remember babysitting all summer long so I could buy a pair on Nike shoes. Two months after I bought them, everyone was wearing Reebok. I was stuck with outdated shoes for an entire school year. But I learned a valuable lesson. I had 9 months to observe a fashion dance that I could never afford to keep up with, and I learned that dressing uniquely gives you more clout that dressing like the crowd. I would always be a fashion wanna-be, if I bought what we could afford. So, while others wore ruffled blouses with matching ruffled skirts, poufy sleeves and string ties; I wore what I liked.

I liked blue jeans and tee shirts without a logo. I liked deep, classy colors like emerald green, royal blue and chocolate brown. I only wore neon as an under tee shirt; so that when you roll up the sleeves, you see neon trim. I don't look good in neon.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood began wearing concert tee shirts. The problem with this was, each style had a stereotype attached to it. Polo shirts and khaki's were preppy, meaning you had tastes beyond your parents' income. Concert shirts were for burnouts, meaning you did a lot of drugs. Whatever was in that year was New Wave or Trendy, meaning you had no imagination. A mish-mosh of everything was low-grade Punk and a mish-mosh of clothes that clashed were hard core Punk. I fell into the low-grade Punk category. People thought I wanted to be Punk, but couldn't get away with dressing too crazy because my mom would kill me if I did.

ok, Now really! Who goes looking for "Sexist Redhead on the internet"??? Why don't you search for a sexist blonde or brunette, for a change. Redheads are not the epitome of life, you know. Geez, stop surfing the net, and grow an imagination!

The 9 year old prostitute

This is one of those stories that I've started and stopped a half dozen times. This time I'm going to finish it no matter how much it hurts.

My best friend had some cousins who lived over on the next block. The older two were both glue heads, the youngest was a prostitute. Her father had been selling her off to friends since she was a toddler. When she was 9, she decided it was time to go into business for herself. After all, why should her father get all the money?

On the outside, she was the perfect All-American girl. She had long blonde hair, lovely blue eyes, and a slender little girl body. On the inside she was hard as nails. She worried a lot about maturing. She thought she would lose a lot of business when she grew breasts. She also worried about getting caught. She only went home when she thought her dad was passed out drunk. If he was awake, he would beat her and take her money. To solve the problem, she carried a certain amount of cash at all times. She had hiding places for the rest.

She had learned the hard way, that her money was never safe in the house; and she hid her earnings in some truly creative places. There were several garages that could be broken into easily, and for a while she hid her cash there. When her brothers caught on and stole it all to buy drugs, she resorted to hiding it in the hubcaps of the neighborhood cars. It was risky; sometimes the money would be discovered, but she saw it as an acceptable risk. At least the money wouldn't be going to her dad.

She spent very little on clothes or make up. She had plans for her earnings. She wanted to go to college (didn't we all!), and be the president of her own corporation. I hope she made it. She was so damned hard. I think she would do well in the corporate world.

I only saw her break down once.
I was out wandering the night, like I sometimes did. It was winter, and it was supposed to drop below freezing that night. As I walked past the Notre Dame school yard, something had me detour. Instead of simply walking past, I entered the school yard and went over by the steps.
She was huddled up in the shadows, wearing nothing warmer than a cardigan. The whole right side of her face was bruised, and there was blood in her very messed up hair.
At first, she wouldn't let me come near her. She kept trying to hide her head. She didn't want me to look at her. She didn't want to be touched. I had no problem with that. Girls weren't allowed to hug each other in my neighborhood.
I thought one of her customers had beaten her up; so I said, "Which guy was it? I'll find him and beat the shit out of him."
She laughed bitterly and said, "It wasn't the customers. I can handle them." And she started to cry. Great, heaving sobs came pouring out of her. I sat down near her, to try and shield her from the wind. I just sat, not knowing what to do; while she cried.

She didn't cry for long, nobody ever did back then. Pretty soon she was telling me the story. I'd like to say my blood ran cold, but it isn't so. It would make for a great story. You know, how I became shocked and horrified; aghast at the cruelty of my fellow human beings. But I too, had grown up here. At 15 years old, her story didn't scare me, it angered me.

When she told me her dad had once again beaten her and taken her earnings, I felt a hard lump of anger in my stomach. When she told me her brothers had held her down while her dad had beaten, and then raped her, I simply added them to my "to-do" list. When she told me they had first pulled out big patches of her hair, and then cut what was left; I put those bastards near the top of my list. And when she told me they had made her get the $600 or so dollars she had hidden, I made their misery my life's work.

She wouldn't go home, but she couldn't stay in the school yard. They would find her there, easily. I told her to come home with me, but she wouldn't. She knew my mom would call the police, and then everyone would know. I suggested that I could walk her to her cousins house. We could sneak her in through the basement window, and nobody would know; but she wouldn't do that either. So I did the only thing I could do. I showed her a warmer, safer place to hide, and loaned her my coat.

I never did get around to killing her family. I suppose it's just as well. I don't think I truly have the stomach for murder. They got some karmic payback anyway. She ran away from home, and was gone for more than a year. During that time, one of the brothers died from drug use. The other one just kind of dropped off the face of the earth. Her father had a stroke, and finally, their home caught fire.
When she came back to the neighborhood, the house was nothing but a brick exterior; sheltering the homeless.

She wasn't very surprised.

Looking Back

Driving through my old neighborhood, I see that both apartments we used to live in are boarded up. It's as if they're waiting for something. Solid brick buildings, with their 1880's interiors; standing silent and strong... waiting. I want to pull over and park, walk around the overgrown back yards, touch the spot where I buried my parakeet and climb the silver leaf maple just one more time.

The sense of danger is all around me. My mind screams, "Get out! Get out now!"
Memories chase after me as I drive on, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach Grand Avenue. Safe now. No neighborhood memories here.

The boarded up houses still stand. When I drove past them, I heard children's laughter; and for just a moment, I was a kid again. I felt again the love that had filled our home. I remembered all the good things.

I wonder if there's still modeling clay jammed in the cracks of the wooden floor? Does the plaster still bleed out the scents of countless meals and cigarette smoke? I wonder about the claw foot tub. If I went inside and looked, would it still be as big as a swimming pool? Would there be any remnant of the child I was?

I could buy one of those places. I could put it on my credit card. The city sells them cheap. I could own the only safe haven of my youth. But what would I do with it?