Life changed forever after my baptism
It was within a year or two of that momentous event of my baptism that I described in the earlier entry that my young life was filled with an unimaginable turmoil. I say “unimaginable,” because to the mind of a seven and then eight-year-old child, some things are beyond comprehension. Some of the events I related in a separate work titled Welcome To MY World, but to bring context to this account I will repeat some of the details. The events that follow are etched in my memory and I only relate them here because they remain so clear to me as when they happened.
There was a neighbor boy who would constantly taunt and harangue me. Every chance he had, he would try to pick a fight with me, until one day he finally provoked me to the point that a fight ensued. I remember being held by his larger brothers so that he could beat on me mercilessly out in the front yard of the duplexes. I was pummeled pretty good that day, and when it was over I felt nothing but rage and hate. It was blinding, seething, pent-up yet boiling over. I picked up my bike that I had been pushed off from, turned to the boy and raged, “I hope you die!” and ran home before he could catch me.
That night, as I lay there feeling sorry for myself and hating the bully, I fell asleep and nearly immediately fell into a dream where I saw the boy riding along in a car with a man during the night. Suddenly, the car door opened and the boy fell from the vehicle and was killed as the man drove over him with the rear tire of the car. I remember waking up in a cold sweat, everything had been so intense during the dream. So real. And eventually, finally, I went off to sleep again.
The next morning, as I was about to go outdoors, my mother told me to leave the neighbors alone, to stay away from them. I asked why and she told me that there had been an accident and something bad happened. She said that the boy had gone to visit with his father for the weekend, and had fallen from the car and was killed. I remember my initial response, coming from the mind of a frustrated, angry eight-year-old boy, “Good!” But that glee was soon replaced by dread after the initial shock of the announcement set in. I remembered going to sleep that night wishing that he’d die. I wanted him to die so much. Had I caused his death by the sheer extent of hate and rage that I had?
I wish I could say that an eight-year-old child could answer those questions, but I couldn’t. To this day, I sometimes wonder whether I didn’t play some part in the tragedy that befell him. I am left wondering what really happens when we allow our darker emotions overpower us to the point where our will becomes steeped in primal barbarism and instinct. Nearly everyone I’ve ever told this to has told me that it wasn’t my fault, that it was a coincidence. And I want to believe them, I really do. But there remains that part of me that can’t help but think that in some way, I did play a role, even if it was peripherally. The family of the boy certainly held me responsible. They had nothing but spite and disdain for me after that day, remembering what had happened to me, what I had said to him, and what had happened. But they never bothered me again after that day, either.
It wouldn’t be the only time that I was given to dreams that eventually “came true,” either. They seemed to come at regular intervals in those days following my baptism, plateau during my teenage years, resume from age 17 onward, and then diminish to irregular occurrences since my early 30’s. Today, they are fairly irregular, but no less intense and fear-inspiring.
On another occasion around that period in my life, my mother tried to commit suicide.
It was on a night that she sent me and my brothers off to bed earlier than usual. Maybe it was something in her tone or her voice, but whatever it was, I remember lying there in bed afraid. I kept wanting to go check on her. One time, I actually did. She was lying on the couch, no blankets or anything. I asked her if she was okay, and she told me to get back to bed, which I reluctantly did.
I don’t remember how much time passed, but I went back out to check on her and George, the man that she had been dating, was there. He was shaking her, trying to wake her up. I asked him if she was okay and he told me that she was “playing possum.” Somehow, I knew it was more serious than that. The next thing that I remember is riding in the station wagon in the thick of night, my brothers and I still in our pajamas, George driving really fast, and mom asleep at his side. It wasn’t until many years later that I would learn that she had tried to overdose on sleeping pills.
See, my mother had recently divorced my father. Our place in Lake Odessa was what she had managed to get as a single mother with three boys after the initial separation from my father. Most of it was kept from us boys, of course, but there clearly was angst and distress going on with my mother. Apparently, enough to drive her to the cliff of despair and willing her over the ledge. But we were young, and we didn’t understand all of that stuff. We just knew that on various weekends, dad would come visit us, and the rest of the time he didn’t.
In any event, that suicide attempt was only the beginning of the turmoil which would consume my home.
Actually, maybe I had been more aware of it than I was consciously aware of. My brothers and I took to loving to be outside. For me, bike riding was an escape. It was a sense of adventure and independence and soaring around the world at breakneck speeds. At least in the mind of an 8-year-old it seemed like that. Back then, the world was so big, and the possibilities endless.
As I would ride my bike up and down the sidewalk of Second Avenue there in Lake Odessa, I would see an older gentleman every weekend carry from his house armfuls of boxes. He would then bring out several tables and pull the contents of the boxes and place them on the tables. There was oodles of stuff, all of it priced. Every weekend he would do this, and every weekend people would stop and buy from his array of items. At one point, I finally allowed my curiosity to get the better of me, and I stopped to see what he had. And I kept doing that for a couple weekends, and each weekend he’d talk to me and ask me if there was anything that I saw that I liked. And of course there was! There was a treasure trove of memorabilia–at least in the mind of a young boy. But I always had to tell him the same thing, I had no money.
One weekend, he asked if I’d help him. I could carry out the boxes for him while he set things up on the tables. In exchange, he’d pay me and then I’d have some money to get whatever it was that seemed to catch my eye every time I stopped by. Of course, I readily agreed. He told me to make sure it was okay with my mom, to get her permission.
So, I raced home to ask. My mom seemed awfully reluctant when I told her about the man, but she finally relented after much Please mom! and other boyish pleadings, but only after she made it clear that I was to come right home afterwards. That was enough of an answer for me, and I profusely told her Thank You Thank You and raced back to let the man know.
And so it began, my weekend adventures in yard saling. The first few times I was absolutely awestruck by the number of boxes that he had stacked there in his bedroom all along the wall. I had never seen so many boxes. I would find out during one of our conversations that he went to auctions all of his free time, and would then try to sell the items in his yard sale to the locals, for the extra money. He seemed to do really well, too.
He was my first real adult friend. I admired him. He was the most kindest-hearted person I had ever met. In many ways, he became a father figure to me in the absence of my own father. Like my dad, I could only see him on the weekends because he worked the rest of the week. But in many ways, he seemed so lonely, too. He seemed to enjoy my company, and he tolerated my endless chatter in ways that my mother didn’t seem to have the patience for.
My mother still expressed her disapproval of my ongoing associating with “that man” but never stopped me from going over there. Nor did she ever tell me why it was such a worry for her. For me, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, apart from the man’s loneliness, as he lived alone. And even then, there were sometimes weekends when he had a much older kid stay over on a Friday or Saturday. The term I’d use nowadays would be that the older kid (early 20’s?) crashed there. In spite of that, I always got the impression that the older kid was not liked by the man, who’s name was Bill. But for whatever reason, he tolerated letting Randy (the older kid) stay there from time to time.
The most exciting times for me then were when I rode along with Bill to the auction sales. I had never been to bazaars and auction sales before, and they were a whirlwind of activity and bustling people and a cacophony of voices above the stir. People would gather around a man standing on a platform and raise their hand in beat to his cries, it seemed. Afterwards, I’d help Bill load his purchases into the car and we’d take it all back home to store for the following weekend’s yard sale.
It was only after doing that for the entire summer that I finally managed to get my mom to let me stay at Bill’s for a night. The deal was, I’d help him with his yard sale the entire day, and at nightfall, I’d help him carry it all back in and help him count his money. Afterwards, he’d feed me dinner, we’d watch tv, and then it was time for sleep. In my mind it was an exciting new adventure. As always, my mom expressed her reservations and I wore her down with my typical boyhood reassurances.
The one thing I remember most about Bill’s house is the absolute quietness of it. There was none of the chaos that I was used to at my home. It was smaller than my house, about half the size. A small kitchen, a sitting room with a television, a bathroom, and the bedroom with no closet. The only closet was the one out in the pseudo-hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom, off from the sitting room.
I wasn’t always allowed to stay the nights at Bill’s, though. I’d sleep on the sofa when I did. Occasionally, Randy would show up and ask if he could stay a night or two, and Bill would reluctantly but graciously allow him to. I found myself liking Randy less and less over time. He’d tease Bill and berate him in ways that reminded me of when that neighborhood bully would taunt me unceasingly. But I enjoyed my time with Bill, as well. So I put up with Randy so that I could see Bill every chance I got.
But something would happen shortly afterward that would change all of that, and forever change me, as well.
