Thursday, August 21, 2008

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 7th 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 8th and 9th grade classes were dismissed and sent to their new home rooms. The 7th 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 7th grade and wasn’t challenged again scholastically until High School. But I had changed by then. I wasn’t the innocent hick anymore.

By 8th grade I had befriended Vinnie (I’ve spoken about him before) who influenced me toward the darker side of things. By 9th 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 9th 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.

Friday, August 8, 2008

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act IV

A vision of the past is only as clear as the years in between then and now. I have imbibed in many a substance in my day and the clouds of intoxication have wiped many a situation from recollection. But the defining moments are never erased, only the low times in between. Those first hours in the house in Manchester were a defining moment for me.

Lack of grass or yard was the first of many changes I would need to accept into my new reality. The second was the house itself. The grand entrance and high ceilings of our Home in Woodstock was now replaced with a choked doorway and small dark rooms. It was a unique house, clean and with many architectural oddities - a narrow spiraling staircase, a large round three-panel picture window - and although I would eventually be familiar with all its corners and crevices, it never earned my love as a Home should. But as I said, I accepted it as a place to hang my hat and as the setting for the tragic events that would ultimately define the man I have become.

My new room was nothing more than an exaggerated closet, a narrow space between my bed and "Odd Rods" sticker covered dresser. A large desk was squeezed into the space at the end of my bed and blocked the door from fully opening. The door had a metal post that extended into my room, designed for clothes hangers to be held - my new closet. I hung the posters from my previous room but here they looked childish and immature, innocent throwbacks to a soon forgotten time.
After a near sleepless night due to unaccustomed house-settling creaks and moans I decided to check out the landscape of the surrounding neighborhood. I set out on my bike. I soon learned that "banana" seats and large U-shaped handlebars would not be an acceptable form of transportation in my new surroundings. But on day two, I innocently and confidently set off. The scenery of suburbia leaves something to be desired, especially when you have spent your life in a postcard worthy corner of New England. The duplex and triplex housing, the acres of asphalt and the traffic congestion were all new to me, not to mention the startlingly gruff attitude of the local inhabitants. To be honest, I had barely had a conversation with a black person let alone been a neighbor or gone to school with one. I had seen my fair share during visits to the city with my grandparents, but my grandparents had lived in their house since the beginning of time and were respected members of their community. I had never encountered intimidation before, especially from other races. And honestly, I was so inexperienced that I may not have recognized it when it happened. I must have been a sight - the country hick nerd boy with glasses on the retro 70's bike riding along the sidewalk, gawking at the people walking and figuring out how to use a cross-walk button.

In the weeks before my first day of school, I ventured outside and learned the area pretty well. I learned where to get comics and where to get gum and fountain drinks. I learned where the library was and where the local kids my age hung out. I learned the streets where people would confront you and ask you for money or if you "needed something." All this I learned alone.

The only major positive advancement that came with this relocation was the availability of CABLE TELEVISION. Cable was not available out in Woodstock. Matter of fact, it was another two or three years before it would be offered there. But here it was for me - a frenzied blur of MTV and Captain USA, ESPN and CNN. And all the networks with gorgeous reception (without having to adjust the "rabbit ears" for each new channel). This really was something of a breakthrough for me. It would eventually change my world and how I saw myself in it. The possibilities held in 30 channels (as opposed to the 4 I had in Woodstock) were endless. And for those first few years it lived up to its promise. The late 80's were my Golden Age of television and in my mind have yet to be repeated in the amazing diversity of programming available to me. Yes, today I have like 200 channels (many in glorious HD) but many of those channels are duplicates. At any one time I can find 7 or 8 separate shows devoted to renovating houses either for resale or luxurious surprise (for example). Again, future posts will illustrate my views on television, so I won't go on now. But let's just say again that TV was (and is) a huge part of my generation and skewed us a certain way. Today's kids are skewed another way due to the differences in the TV programming available. It's amazing that TV has this kind of power over society, but it does and we all know it.

I think I can wrap this up and get to the point by the end of Act V. I know this is long-winded and I hope those following along are getting something from it. It's a huge release for me and I find myself re-reading the posts for my own insight into the man who is me. Again, I've come this far and must finish it, so expect the grand finale within a week.

Monday, August 4, 2008

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act III

If you met me now you would never guess my backwoods upbringing. I can recall endless hours spent tromping around the woods building forts, finding new trails, swords and arrows - all that shit. I would come home FILTHY. Mom would have me strip down to my undies (or less) outside so I didn't track mud and dirt through the house. I would be marched straight to the shower and hosed down.

Nowadays, I'm seen as something of a city guy. Those around me are surprised when I speak of weekend camping trips with the family and cutting down tress in the yard and stuff. I'm like a closet hick. You can take the boy out of the country but you can't take the country out of the boy and all that.

So up until the age of 12, I lived in the woods. It was during this twelfth year that my father got himself a 16-year itch and moved out - presumably to bigger and better things. See, Dad (much as the man I have become) was a work-a-holic. He did the 60+ hour weeks and was driven by work primarily. Yes, he said his motivation was family (this is the mental justification for the work-a-holic) but ultimately he was out for himself.

Being a father of two myself now, I cannot imagine leaving my family under any circumstances. If my wife tomorrow decides she is no longer in love with me or is just up and leaving I would fight for her and my kids to the end. I would win her back one way or another - woo her.

You know, it's fucked up when you go through this argument in your head. Like, WHY DON'T I JUST WOO HER ALL THE TIME??? WHY WAIT FOR HER TO THREATEN TO LEAVE?? Now look, she hasn't threatened to leave. The old marriage is still in pretty good shape and healthy, but ya know... don't take it for granted dumb ass...

OK, back to the story:

So dear old Dad walks and leaves Mom, Sis and me to fend for ourselves. Mom gets a job as a computer programmer (pretty cool for 1985) and we move closer to where she works in Hartford. Welcome to Manchester, Mr. Mungus...

Before I get to Manchester, let me say that Dad DIDN'T quite leave us high and dry. Maybe for the first couple of years. But Dad DID get pretty successful and DID support us (and his eventual new family) pretty well from afar. And from afar I mean that Dad relocated to California - where (in the late '80s) there were big bucks to be made for the right folks in the right places. But yeah, it was pretty lean there when we moved to Manchester. We were semi-poor country folk in a bustling metropolitan suburb. And we got eaten up. All three of us.

It's kinda weird how it happened - it's like a blur: Dad invited me and Sis to stay with him for a few weeks over the summer. We still lived in Woodstock. Dad was already living with another woman - someone we knew from childhood. She was one of Dad's coworkers (he swears to this day there was no affair, but it's pretty likely that was how it went down). Sis and her, they clashed from day one. There was yelling and screaming and the like. Lots of "I hate you"s and "You're not my mother"s. But I got on with her pretty well. She was younger than Mom and a little hipper. We were there for maybe a week and we got the call from Mom. "When you get back to Connecticut, we'll live in a different town. I've enrolled you in a new school."

Sis exploded. Dad and poor new step-Mom had no idea what to do with a 16 year old girl. Slamming doors and hysterical crying was the mode of the day. And it was ugly. I don't recall getting wrapped up in my sister's madness; I was (am) more the brooding, internalizing type of guy who is much more comfortable staring at a wall, drawing a picture of people being chopped up or putting my face on my knees and slowly rocking for a few hours. This is before I really honed in my drawing skills and learned to channel anger and frustration into violent illustration so it was all quiet intensity from me.

Clearly, looking back my parents felt it would be "cleaner" to do the move while we were away - sort of an adolescent "trap." And for me, it was probably the best plan. Had I been there during the move I can imagine myself trying to sabotage the movers - setting up trip wires and piercing foot traps.

Sis and I flew back to Connecticut (I won't say "flew back HOME" - not yet) and were introduced to our new town. I remember the ride into Manchester: the shopping plazas and empty factories, the past-it's-prime Main Street complete with a dozen or so homeless living in the park by the library. We pulled up to a modest two-story house and got out. I was standing on pavement. A small patch of grass was pinched between our parking space and the parking lot of the adjacent flower shop. We had one tree. They officially took the boy out of the country.

I know I wandered a bit from the narrative of the previous posts with this one. But this is what came so this is what is. I do have an ultimate point to make with this, so bear with me. I'll get there. Act IV soon to come.
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