The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act V - The Final Chapter

Interesting fact about Old Man Mungus: I have always lived in a home that required me to walk to school. In my first house in upstate NY I walked to Kindergarten with my sister, the house in Woodstock was right down the street from the local public school and Manchester was no different (although the walk was significantly longer). Now I’m not gonna give you that “uphill both ways” bullshit, but it literally took half an hour to walk to my new Junior High School. Not a problem at this point in life, but later on when the drugs entered the pictured, “perpetual tardiness” was a common label by the school staff for me.

I remember walking up to the school and there being a large crowd of people outside. I thought maybe there was a fire drill or something, but it turns out this was the “line” waiting for the doors to open. Like the line for a Kid ‘n Play concert: parachute pants, those angled hairdos with the lines shaved into the eyebrows, Adidas sneakers with wide laces and giant gold chains hung around necks. I was in “high-water” Husky jeans and a plain T-shirt. My hair was a sad attempt at Michael J. Fox’s in Back to the Future – but the dual cowlick (one dead center middle front and one dead center middle back like Alfalfa) never let me pull it off. I was the whitest kid in the world – a fish out of water and I really didn’t fit in. I was shit scared.

I hesitantly strolled up to the screaming mob that were my new peers and inched my way up to the outskirts. I knew no one of course so I stood with my hands in my pockets waiting for something to happen. 7:15 a bell rang. I could see movement at the front of the herd as we all started filing into the set of double doors that had mysteriously opened in the side of the large brick building. I had worked my way up to the middle of the group now and for a moment thought I might lose my balance and fall. I was pressed up against strangers in designer clothes and pretty girls with newly blossoming breasts. My heart was pounding as I was pulled into the building and we were marched into an assembly hall. I was led to the 7^th grade section and sat with a girl with long dark greasy hair and a pink sweater with large glasses and a boy who was wearing an Ocean Pacific shirt with a surfer on it and had a skateboard standing between his legs. Back to the Future was my first exposure to skateboards and I hadn’t actually seen one so close before.

“Cool skateboard” was the only thing I could think to say.

“Thanks,” he answered and turned to talk to someone else. First attempt at contact with the local populace? Fail.

The principal reminded me of a sweaty frog. He stammered when he talked (my mom would later refer to it as “babbling”) and sloppily welcomed us to a new school year. At the end of his intro, the 8^th and 9^th grade classes were dismissed and sent to their new home rooms. The 7^th graders were kept behind and called one by one to the front of the auditorium to receive their home room assignments. My name is down the list a bit (starting with “L”) so I was able to get a good look at those called before me. The usual cast of characters were present: the jocks, the skids, the povs, the preps, the shop class guys, the pretty girls, the popular girls, the slutty girls, the black kids (who marched to the front with such bravado as to receive a smattering of applause), and the loser hick kid who smelled. Oh wait, that was me.

There was bit of laughter as I walked to the front of the room. I am physically a large guy, nearly 6 foot by this time and heavy. Not obese, but just big. Turns out (and I hadn’t realized it before) that my size is quite intimidating. I honestly never realized it. Here (although I was clearly poor and it was assumed by my size, kinda stupid) I had an authority of presence. The laughter was followed by a few Flava Flav “DAMN BOYEEEE!!!”s at my size and at that moment I was flooded with a certain confidence that this would be OK. I would be left alone and I could just do my thing and get through this. Yes I may be laughed at; girls would be scared of me (this was the case for many, many years to come), and friends would be few and far between. But I would (and did) get through it.

I actually made few friends that first day. I had someone to eat with at lunch and eventually got myself to a level of acceptance with the boys in my new school. I became something of a class clown due to a vast comedic knowledge acquired through my hours of classic TV viewing and late night talk shows (by this point I had a TV in my room – a 3” TV/AM/FM/Cassette combo) and had taken to staying up late to try and catch Letterman. I always preferred Letterman to Carson. He was “dangerous” (at least in the eyes of a 12 year old boy) and had this odd way of seeing things. So Letterman and “The Best of Saturday Night” all fueled my wise-ass reputation. Luckily, my Woodstock education was well beyond that of the kids who had come through the Manchester school system. I really breezed through 7^th grade and wasn’t challenged again scholastically until High School. But I had changed by then. I wasn’t the innocent hick anymore.

By 8^th grade I had befriended Vinnie (I’ve spoken about him before) who influenced me toward the darker side of things. By 9^th grade I was experimenting with heavier drugs like coke and acid and drinking pretty heavily. Mom had no control over me whatsoever and I knew it. I feel guilty in hindsight as now Mom has passed on, but I was a kid and I certainly can’t be blamed for acting out. OK, maybe I can, but there was no Dad around to kick my ass and Mom had no idea what to do, so she hid.

The summer between 9^th grade and High School really stand out in my memory. I was flown off to stay with Dad and his wife in California. I was 15 and full of myself. I considered myself an artist by then and carried myself as though I really had something to say. And honestly, I did. Dad had recently moved north to Sacramento and was doing quite well. I was pretty excited about the trip and decided to stay clean and sober the entire summer. Sacramento was an artist’s city and I looked forward to the galleries and coffee houses Dad was telling me about. When I arrived, Dad informed me that he expected me to pick up a summer job while I was there. I had never worked a day in my life, but said what the fuck. I knew it would have to happen eventually so why not here? Why not now? I tried my luck at applying for all the Del Taco’s and El Polo Loco’s around but it turns out I wasn’t Mexican. Even the grocery stores were overflowing with cheap labor. I don’t know if Dad bought it that I couldn’t find a job, but he made me a deal anyway: go get a volunteer job and I’ll pay you an agreed upon amount at the end of the summer to go home with. Cool.

I volunteered to work at the Sacramento Downtown Food Bank and spent my mornings packing paper bags full of basic food items – beans and rice, cereals, canned goods, etc. I met a lot of really cool people there including some of the homeless. I really enjoyed my time there. Dad agreed to let me sign up for some guitar lessons in the afternoon a few days a week. I ended up hanging with this cool stoner guy who was a hair band casualty but played a great guitar. He showed me a lot and I ended up becoming a pretty good guitar player as a result.

I walked everywhere I went only stopping for the daily cup at Java City. I was young, healthy, sober and happy. Again, I spent almost all my time by myself, but that was OK. I was good at being by myself and really felt like part of the community there. I really liked Sacramento and could’ve seen myself living there had things not happened the way they did. Then I went back to Manchester for my first year in High School.

Within the hour of getting back into my closet of a room, I had sparked a bowl of weed I had stashed in my desk all summer. It was a revelation. I had never been so high and didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling. There were only a few days before school started and that was all it took to wipe out the positive energy from my trip to Sacramento. Things really spiraled out of control. The day before school, my Mom came home from work to find our bathroom all trashed and spattered with blood and hair stuck to the mirror and sink. Using nothing but scissors and a disposable razor I had given myself the world’s most fucked up Mohawk. I had nicked myself all over and still had open un scabbed wounds when Mom burst into my room. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE????”

The first day of High School I sat down in my home room to shock and nervous laughter from those around me. There were scabs all over my head, I was wearing a black FLAK jacket and combat boots and had a crooked 2” wide mess on top of my patchy nicked up head. Those who knew me said “What the fuck” and those who didn’t know me said nothing. I already had something of a reputation as a crazy fucker and this just cemented it for folks. I would spend the bulk of High School in isolation and that suited me just fine. I was anti-social and declared myself an anarchist (although I did nothing to demonstrate this and have always been the gentlest fella you could come across – it was all an act for the attention I outwardly said I didn’t want – ahhh, the teen years). The Mohawk was refined over the years and ultimately ended up as 5 beautiful spikes from my brow to the back and ended in a foot or so of thin straight hair. By college I had taken to simply combing it to one side although in a pinch it remained functional as a Mohawk until one day I simply shaved it off – a look I maintain to this day.

This story ends at the beginning of adolescence - an event marked by the end of Junior High and the scarring shave of my head. But here’s a glimpse at the future that awaited me:

The art career never panned out more from my lack of drive than lack of talent. The family fell apart, I took to heavy drinking and ultimately would have died penniless and alone had it not been for the chance meeting of my future wife. That’s another amazing story waiting to be told. But not today.

I went through many interesting potential careers and eventually happened upon my current job, one that I love and hope to keep for many years. Kids have come as has home ownership and a growing sense of stability. In the early 90’s, Manchester was revitalized through the building of a world-class shopping mall. This immediate revenue was reinvested into the schools and downtown area as well as police and fire equipment and staffing. My wife and I made the decision to stay here and send our kids through the newly reinvigorated school system. So far so good. Now it feels like Home.

The isolation of my childhood provided a skill for self-contained entertainment which has served me well over the years. I am hesitant to get close to people and let them in directly. But I am perfectly willing to express my deepest darkest secrets through song, illustration or anonymous internet posting. I have difficulty sharing my hopes and fears with my closest friends – even my wife occasionally. Often it takes me time to analyze an issue or concern and I share it only when I have a proposed solution (after a time of shitty attitude or emotional distance). I am wired to function alone and sometimes operate in a mode of forced co-habitation, though obviously I am not perpetually miserable in the company of others. I often hide my discomfort through humor and continue to be the class clown of yesteryear. The joy I get from the smile of my wife and the laughter of my children cuts through all the anxiety and fear. And for the most part, I'm happy.

I have so many more tales to tell of those teen years: the acid experiments, the music, the artwork and the ultimate maturation into the man I am. And that will take some time. And frankly, as much as I have enjoyed writing this I feel I have been selfish in my self-indulgent autobiographical story telling. And I have other stuff to write about.