Going Home (Az years part 7)

Around this age I started my period. It scared me and it hurt. I knew what it was, but, I didn’t know why it hurt so much and I thought there must be something wrong. In my frightened state, I actually got up the balls to talk to my mother about it. She grabbed her head and said “Oh, god, no. Don’t tell anybody. Don’t ever wear pants while you have it. “ That was it. That was all the advice I got. I guess if you wore pants, you’d get a stain and everyone would know your deepest shame. We were heavy bleeders in my family. I learned to just stay in bed for the first couple of days and skip school and life. It was pretty bad and I understood why it’s known as “the curse.” Later in life, when I had a daughter, I was knowledgeable enough to handle it differently for her, but, at that time not a lot was known by the common person about the complications of such things. You just accepted the pain, it was your curse. Later I would need a complete hysterectomy because of ovarian cysts and massive scar tissue, and I realize my pain was not normal. But, who could have known back then? I was never taken to a doctor, I wasn’t worth the price of a doctor visit. Now they have commercials right on TV about women’s periods and products, but, back then that wasn’t imaginable. They didn’t even advertise pads on TV. Women were expected to hide all that messy female stuff and never trouble men with the knowledge of it, even by proxy. And so I learned to hide every sign of the shameful unpleasantness, deep in the refuse of the garbage cans, wrapped, bagged and taped and secured from sight, least it scar some male psychie forever. It was all very mysterious and shameful. GiGi suggested tampons and I was shocked. She said it was no big deal and the only ads for women’s products hidden in the backs of magazines always showed some chick swimming, with the quiet caption that you could do anything at anytime. With the little Tampax logo at the bottom. You were supposed to know what that meant. I thought GiGi was nuts, and I wasn’t about to stick something up myself. I didn’t think there was an opening either, I was pretty sure, I checked. I seriously thought of that part of my body as a healed over scar and once a month, a bloody wound. I’d have been happier if I was made like Barbie, smooth molded plastic with no problems. But, I wasn’t, so I learned to deal with it.

*
With the curse comes other changes. My breasts started growing again. The rest of my stupid body stayed skinny and small, but, the boobs were out of control. I’d needed a training bra since the fourth grade and now moved into a C cup. It was ridiculous. I asked my mother for a bra and got laughed at. It was hard enough to disguise the things before, but, I managed. Now it was impossible and I dreaded gym class where you had to undress and shower in front of other girls. I liked my boobs, I thought they were the best boobs in junior high, but, how do you explain the fact that you don’t own a bra? It’s underwear for christ sakes! Whisper, whisper. It sounds like a small thing, but, at the time it was totally humiliating and I’d play hookie on the days I had gym. It threw me into a total panic. It was putting me behind in everything. GiGi’s bras were too small for me and besides, hers were fancy and had designer labels. I wouldn’t borrow her clothes much because people at school could tell and I just knew they’d start talking about how I was a charity case. I’d been through that and I wouldn’t let it happen again. I still think I was right about that. Junior high is a mean place. We finally solved the problem by going to a used store and finding an old bra I could afford. It looked like bullets and had round stitching in the cups, it was absurd, but, it worked. At Hippie Hill no one wore bras anyway, in fact, they had bra burnings with much screaming, shouting and fist pumping and that’s where my bra eventually ended up. But, it served me all through the eighth grade and I was able to go to damn gym. By that time, I’d figured out how to get around in the city and where they sold unmentionables. And for the record, I am still furious at my mother for not buying me a god dammed bra when I needed one. Things like that make a kid a target and no, you don’t get over it. I’d have rather taken another beating any day of the week.
*

And by the way, that small dirty used clothing store near the bus stop was the only clothing store I saw for years. And it only sold adult old lady clothes. I had no idea where the malls were, they were a long way from where I was and until I learned bus routes in the huge city, I never saw a clothing store, a movie, a skating rink, or even the inside of a grocery store. Not once. Neither did my brother. There were no family outings, no transportation anywhere and no allowances made for anything children might enjoy. We were never taken to the doctor or dentist or optometrist, we were not included in anything at all. School and home, that was it. And you found your own school and the way there. And I think that’s when my brother’s mental health began to deteriorate. He had it easier than I did, for sure, but, you can’t take a little boy that age away from his grandmother and all his relatives and friends and total freedom and move him across the damn country to a place so different it looked like another country all together, and plop him dead center in a huge city where he knows no one and leave him alone. I wasn’t even there at first to help him and I have no idea what he did all day. It must have seemed like hell to him. There weren’t even any other kids in the neighborhood, it was mostly old retired people. He did own a record player and a convenience store a couple of miles from our house sold the top ten 45’s for a dollar. My mother would give him a few dollar bills every week and he’d buy all the latest records. That was supposed to shut him up forever, I guess. He liked music. He later learned some guitar too, but, he has the tendency to play the same three songs that were popular when he was a kid and he’s not very good at it. He has a decent singing voice though, but, he’s stuck in time. Stuck forever in that time when he was trapped in a strange city alone. It was just such a bad and weird thing to do to a little boy, I don’t think he’s ever gotten past it. He also needed glasses so he didn’t see clearly and no one took him to an eye doctor. I just look back and see a lonely handsome little boy with blurry vision, his head cocked to the beat of that stupid little record player that was his prized possession. It took it’s toll on him and he became odd.
*

Okay, he became more than odd. By the time I got into eighth grade, he was around twelve and he was a big boy. Not fat, he was tall and built more like a teenager and he was incredibly strong. He was also mean. Who can blame him? By this time he got into building model cars (also sold at the gas station) and I think he liked the glue more than the cars. He was so damn bored he’d do anything to relieve the boredom and some of it scared me. He also had finally made one friend, a local young hood called Keslo. Keslo was an asshole, to put it mildly, I don’t know what his story was, but, he was a couple of years older and never seemed to have any boundaries. My brother wanted a bicycle, he wanted one so bad. Keslo had one and he seemed to go everywhere on it. It represented freedom. My stepfather wouldn’t buy him one, he said he could go get a job. I’d like to know where he expected the kid to get a job? We were in a residential retirement district and we weren’t even allowed to speak to anyone outside of school. There wasn’t even a city bus stop for miles and he was just a child. A child who had been babied and spoiled up to this point. He was beyond environmentally challenged, he was warped. He and Keslo started stealing bicycles around the neighborhood and since it was mostly old people, they didn’t steal cool bikes. He started taking them apart and building his own custom bikes and he was quite good at it. By the time the cops busted him, they had over 100 bicycles hidden behind the garage. How did our parents miss that? Yeah, I wonder..that’s sarcasm, by the way.
*

He ended up on probation and the parental unit finally bought him a god dammed bike of his own. By that time he needed intensive therapy, but, instead he got a bike. It was cheaper than dealing with him emotionally. It was a cool bike, and had a banana seat and those drop down gorilla looking handle bars . He discovered the local parks too, but, he avoided Hippie Hill and I was glad. The Hill scared him for some reason and I didn’t want him in my world anyway. He always had that freak Keslo with him and I didn’t need that guy in my face anymore than it had to be. The two of them kept their goofy bike shop behind the garage and that was the only place I had to shower, if you remember. My brother would hide out there just to irritate me, but, that Keslo was another story. I was scared of him and he was always lurking around with some obscene comment and low brow looks. Peeking in my one window, grabbing at my breasts when I’d walk by and just being fucking weird. My brother and I fought about it all the time. Our fights escalated to the physical and I doubt that’s unusual. But, what was unusual was the severity of them. He had to come outside to fight with me because I wasn’t allowed in the house. The public driveway was our favorite spot. We’d yell and scream at the top of our lungs inventing the most creative profanity anyone has ever uttered. We went way beyond the usual “cocksucker” and “mother fucker” shit and would yell crap at each other that probably hung blue in the air for years afterwards. “You crusty ass crack licking cunt wipe!” “You pus filled wart on the inside of Satan’s slimy rectal cavity!” There was no end to our vileness. The old neighbors, fed up with the disturbance would call the law and they’d call our mother at work. We’d stop for the day, but, start up again anytime I was home. It was awful. I can’t imagine how anyone could stand us. As for us, I think we were just tired of the prison life. It was enough already.
*

When the fights got physical, at first I would fight back, but, I wasn’t much for hitting my own little brother no matter how big he was. I couldn’t abide the thought of punching him in the face. He had no such convictions about me however. Egged on by the evil Keslo, he started sucker punching me and knocking me down. Apparently, in their warped world, this was funny stuff. A regular three stooges, with me being the main stooge. He’d hide behind the Oleanders and jump out when I wasn’t expecting it and just punch me in the face as hard as he could. If it broke my nose and there was copious amounts of blood it was even funnier. Keslo’s misplaced sexual frustration took some deep and dark twist and my brother was his weapon of choice. Since he knew I wasn’t going to squeal on my brother, he came up with all sorts of physical tortures for him to implement in their was against me. I was ambushed on a regular basis and my ribs and nose were broken more than once. I was slammed with a dog chain on the back of my legs once. I thought that was scary as hell, but, very creative. The door to my garage was nailed shut once in August and I nearly suffocated before someone finally pulled into the drive way and I could pound on the narrow window for help. A cage of pet rats I had in there DID suffocate that day. It was one of the worst things the boys pulled on me. I am still terrified of the heat and I despise August. They thought of something worse everyday and there was no adult around to stop them. I thought of ways to stay away from home unless I absolutely had to go there. My mother would just act completely stupid about the problem even when I explained it to her a dozen times. She’d shake her head and say to Andrew, “Darn kids, always fighting.“ And then they’d laugh like it was normal. Like my brother and his friend had been teasing me like Greg Brady teased his step sister Marcia. There was just no getting though to her, even when I was clearly injured so badly I needed a hospital. Sometimes they hurt me so bad physically that I would get on a bus and go back to Iowa to heal. Or Mexico for a few days, or anyplace else that sounded cool and I had the bus money for. I ran away and joined a circus once. It was so ridiculous, I was babysitting for a crystal ball reading gypsy and living in a tent on fairgrounds.. I lasted two weeks. I never knew where to go really, I didn’t seem to fit anywhere, but, Hippie Hill and so I’d eventually go back. Somehow I managed to get through junior high and I even got decent grades. That whole time, not one teacher or adult asked me anything about my injuries or absenses. I don’t know why, but, I was convinced the hippies were right. Adults were the enemy.
*

I also started actually dating at this time and there was no way I was ready for that. How does a girl who got a beating for kissing a boy at thirteen get to date at fourteen? My family is full of contradictory behavior and my mother had a friend at work named Linda. Linda was beautiful and in her late thirties, she had a new baby and was divorced and lived in a hot nasty trailer park. I liked her baby a lot, she was a sweet little baby, named Rita, and I watched her at the trailer sometimes while her mom went on dates. She paid me fifty cents an hour, which was pretty good and I didn’t have to clean the house. Which, back then babysitters were expected to do. She had a TV set and it got two channels pretty clear so it was a sweet deal. I found out Linda was pretty, but, messed up and she still wet the bed. Yeah, another Linda who was a bed pisser. What are the odds? Anyway, Rita wasn’t Linda’s only kid, she had a sixteen year old son who lived with his dad and visited every other weekend. Linda was crazy about that boy, actually, she was just crazy, but, she insisted I needed to date her son. She told my mother that and they got all giddy acting like idiot teenagers and describing him to me this way..”He’s built like a brick shithouse!” I went red and later cried about it. You don’t say things like that to fourteen year old girls. I was humiliated that they’d even think like that, much less think I did. And believe me, I didn’t. I really thought they were the most vile ignorant adults I had ever seen at that time, just from that comment. And trust me, I’d seen a lot.
*

And so the big date was arranged. Oddly there were no pictures of this kid at Linda’s trailer so I had only their description and he had a car. That’s all I knew. He showed up at the house all dressed up, and that was my first clue. No one cool dressed up back then. He had on a tie. Good grief on a popsickle stick, who did he think he was, Richard Nixon? He had a blond buzz cut..oh jesus, no. No one, and I mean no one, wore a buzz cut back then. And he was husky. Brick shithouse? Whatever that meant to my mother and Linda, to me, it meant fat ass. With pimples. I wasn’t going to be mean to this stupid boy just because he looked like a fool, I’d been through enough shit myself just from the way I’d dressed. So I went out and met him and I tried my best to be polite. I was determined to stick it through, how bad could it be? Maybe he was really nice and no one from school would see us. I could always say he was my cousin from out of town. My mother was there, for once, out in the front yard watching us. Big stupid smile on her stupid face. I kind of hated her at that moment. It was festering anyway. The hatred.

*
We got halfway down the driveway when he said something sexual to me. I forget what it was, but, it was really vile and sounded like something the demented Keslo would come up with and I got silent and scared. I kept walking, When we got to the car, he opened the door for me and grabbed my ass. It felt like he was doing something weird with his finger. Was he seriously trying to jam his fat finger up my fourteen year old butt crack? What was he? The fucking perverted puppet master? I freaked out. I told him to get his mother fucking goofy hands off me and I turned around and stomped back up the driveway. My mother’s view of his little hand show had been blocked by the car door and she wouldn’t even listen to me. She started yelling at me to be polite and how awful I was, blah blah. He came up to the house and acted all sweet and mannerly, but, I could see the meanness behind his piggy eyes now. That fucker! I ran in the house and grabbed the first thing I saw which was a bottle of French’s mustard in the new squeeze bottle and I went out and let him have it. I drenched his white dress shirt and young republican looking mother fucking tie in yellow slop. I said “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Fuck all of you!” I threw the bottle at the house and I took off walking to Hippie Hill and I didn’t look back. And I didn’t come back for several days.
*

When I crashed in my garage again, no one talked to me. Big deal, like they ever had. But, now I openly dated anyone I wanted to. My own mother had started it, she could deal with my choices now. No one ever said a word again. And they never met my friends again either, I’d have them pull the old rev up in the driveway and honk the horn gig. My choices weren’t that great either, but, at least I had enough sense to know when I was safe. If I had let my mother choose, there’s no doubt in my mind, I’d have been raped and pregnant at fourteen and she wouldn’t protect me. I knew that. My choice was to date in groups. I never dated anyone alone until three years later. I had this big dumb boyfriend named Mike. Racine had introduced us, she knew every boy in town it seemed. Mike, sigh, at least I think he was dumb, looking back, it’s not like we had any deep conversations. Mike was good looking in that greasy hood Danny Zuko way and he was mentally unstable, but, safe to be with. He wasn’t a rapist. He was just a horny eighteen year old with a car. We’d go with other couples, jammed packed in his shitty old car to the mountains and to drive in movies. We’d get beer for the guys to drink and we’d cruise around, parking in the desert for groping sessions and snake hunting. Mike considered himself a real man if he could wrestle a Diamond Back with his switch blade and win. The bigger the better. It was not a game I approved of. We were in the snakes territory after all and they come only out at night. I considered it cruel, but, Mike despised snakes. He had some kind of deep phobia about them. And he only picked on the huge ones. Six footers or longer. The one’s that were truly dangerous if approached. It was scary and gross and I’m surprised he lived through that stage of his life.

*
Mike would occasionally break up with me and move on to another girl he thought would “give him some.” Sometimes they did. He always came back though. I never cried over Mike, even though GiGi said he was the hottest. I thought he was just okay and someone to do things with. Mostly, I liked him because he was safe. He had these old 50’s moral codes, like, “ya don’t never hurt no woman.” Cool with me. He was a big mama’s boy with no father and lived in a shitty adobe with her. She’d raised him alone, in poverty. That’s where all his moral codes came from. Even when he got rip roaring drunk all he wanted to hurt was big snakes or fist fight with other greasers and I could live with that. He liked putting the pedal to the metal in the desert where there were no roads and no cops. We rolled his car on several occasions and I enjoyed every minute. He taught me to drive a stick shift on a one lane mountain cliff road with what looked like a mile drop off into a bottomless canyon with no guard rails. It was terrifying and awesome. He said if you can drive this bitch on this road, you can drive anything. He was right. I now can drive anything, anywhere. Thanks Mike. We were like Bonnie and Clyde..only, you know, not fucking and not in love. Oh, and not doing anything too illegal. We were friends though, we respected each others past. His friends were almost as crazy as he was and my friends liked them and usually went steady with one or the other of them at different times. Lots of drama and teen angst..from them, not me. I was just happy to have what seemed like normal fun and not be scared of the people I was with. Mike and his buddies were greasers though, not hippies. We’d occasionally get into arguments about politics and lifestyles and I’d throw out the ideas I’d learned at The Hill. It didn’t go over well. Especially the idea that women were equal. Mike would throw back his head and laugh and say, “Oh, yeah? Then you pay for the drive in tickets.” Sometimes I defiantly did, but, he liked that even less. It insulted his all important manhood. I still hung out at The Hill by myself half the time and I liked the thoughts that were exchanged there. Mike and his buddies didn’t have a lot of deep thoughts past fake ID’s, hair grease and “getting some”.
*

It was Mike who got me to try pot. GiGi suggested I try it for menstrual cramps, but, I doubted anything would help that. I really tried it because Mike hated it so much. Frickin’ Mike and his grease ball half hoodlum friends put down the hippies and Hippie Hill so much, it finally got to me. They were always drinking beer until they were shit faced and driving around like maniacs wrecking cars and killing things and yet they thought hippies smoking pot should be locked up. You could go to The Hill and find out what was going on in the war, the things the news didn’t tell you. You could decide what was right and wrong and have these deep discussions about the state of the world. All Mike talked about was how he rebuilt a carberator. Which is a good skill, but, it won’t change the world. Sometimes they’d have chugging contests and then crush beer cans on their foreheads. I thought they were a little “special.” At least compared to the hippies. And so, one Saturday night I skipped Mike and the drive in, even though Thoroughly Modern Millie was playing and I hit The Hill. And when they passed me a joint I sucked on it. I’d never even really smoked a cigarette and I choked like crazy. The hippies patted my back and laughed and then they showed me how a non smoker tokes. There’s a trick to it. You suck it all into your mouth first and let it cool off and then you inhale it. That way it doesn’t burn. I felt nothing. I took a few more tokes and whamo! The world went a little out of focus and the music sounded really really good. Every conversation seemed a little more intense, animated and funny as hell. No wonder the hippies laughed so much. And no wonder they were so peaceful. I couldn’t have fought with anyone if I tried. Not even my brother. I just remember laughing my ass off between the parts where I was sure everyone in the park was looking right at me. Then I got really hungry. For some reason, no one had anything to eat that night and I walked all the way home, bouncing and hearing a ringing sound with each step. I got paranoid on the long walk and thought every car was a cop car and I was going to go to jail. That part wasn’t fun. When I finally got home my stepfather’s car wasn’t there. I snuck in the house and raided his refridgerator. Silently and sneakily, I ate what seemed like a whole weeks worth of groceries by myself. I ate anything edible. Even weird stuff like peanut butter on pickle slices. Which tasted very good and intense. I knew I’d pay for it the next day, but, I didn’t care. Fuck them. Then quietly snuck out and went to the garage where I fell asleep. Oddly, no one caught me. Oh, I was confronted and asked if I’d eaten soup AND a sandwich, because that was against the rules. I knew I was only allowed one or the other, and there was some “you’re grounded” thrown in there. I laughed after they left. I was living in a garage, how were they going to ground me?
*

I left pot mostly alone after that, it wasn’t my thing, but, I did occasionally take a small toke to be friendly. I found out later that the marijuana had been cheap Mexican weed. If I had smoked Iowa Skunk weed that first time, I might not have made it out of the park for days. But, that was something to learn later. I also learned I didn’t miss much skipping out on Thouroly Modern Millie. I saw it the other day on the computer and it sucked. Julie Andrew’s is a dork.

*
About this time, while Mike and I were on one of our “breaks” I met this boy about my age walking his dog in a small park a couple of miles from where I lived. I was walking our dog and we got to talking. I knew I’d never seen him at The Hill, he wasn’t a hippie. But, he wasn’t a greaser either. He was very cute in that rich preppy way, but, instead of being snotty, he was shy and sweet. He was also sharp as a tack and knew all about the peace movement and what was going on. He had real opinions and they were sound. We started meeting at the small park everyday, my dog probably wondered why he was suddenly walking for miles everyday, but, that was his problem. I consider Camden my first boy friend, even though we never even made out. It was the first relationship I’d had where I was involved in real conversations and allowed to have opinions. Cam thought women were equal to men and he even went to a women’s rights rally at The Hill with me. He fit in at The Hill even though he dressed like a preppie, which he was. We’d have these intense discussions about music and it’s impact on the political structure and freedom of speech and on and on. The conversations were deep and endless. I really liked him. Then he took me home to meet his parents. That was a mistake. A big mistake. He lived in a big fine house with servants, he went to a private school and his mother was a society lady who was the head of every crazy organization you can think of. She was very bright and very classy. I was not. Oh, I was bright enough, that’s a fact, but, I had no clue on class. I looked like a skinny little hippie in cheap used clothes and I obviously didn’t have the education her son did. I wasn’t anyone she wanted him to be hanging out with and she made that clear. Not that she insulted me or threw me out, she had too much class for that behavior, but, she made it clear. Unlike GiGi’s parents who were filthy rich, but, uninvolved, this woman was clearly in charge. I’m sure she had me investigated and found out the cops were called on me for screaming obsenities at my brother in our driveway and that I hung out at Hippie Hill and had been involved in some skirmishes with the law there during peace rallies. And I’m sure she thought I drank and did drugs. She made me feel guilty even when I wasn’t up to anything. She made me feel sub human, even while she was smiling politely at me. I actually lost sleep over it, it made me so paranoid. Camden was a rebel in crocodile logo shirts and he let his hair grow below his ears and told me he didn’t give a crap what his mother thought about me. He actually said “crap”, that’s about as bad as he got. I was on my best behavior every time he invited me over and we were allowed to hang out alone in his room with the door open. He played the guitar and he had an amplifier. He could play lead to any record by listening to it and he also read and studied music. He was pretty good. I could never pick up lead, my fingers just wouldn’t do that naturally, but, he taught me basic chords and when I got up the nerve to sing in front of him, he said I was good. And since he actually knew what he was talking about, I knew he wasn’t bullshitting. We were both surprised that I had a natural talent for knowing when the chord changs came in a song and it was easy for me to sing and play at the same time. He said not everyone could do that and it made me feel good. He said he could read the music and play it, but, I felt it inside. That was a good thing, I guess. I never learned to read music, but, I can play about anything I hear. It’s come in handy sometimes. Anyway, I was just really impressed by Cam, by his intelligence, his acceptance and his manners. He asked me to go to the prom with him at his private school and I said yes, without thinking. I should have thought it out. Jesus. I knew there was going to be a formal dinner first, then a dance and I needed manners lessons and a dress. I confided in GiGi and asked her if I could borrow a nice dress. Since Cam didn’t go to our public school, I figured no one would know it wasn’t my dress. GiGi did me one better. She looked at me like she was studying me for a long time and then she went to the closet and pulled out the most amazing dress I have ever seen. It still is. And she gave it to me to keep. It still had the price tags on it, which were whoping and my mouth dropped open. GiGi said it was a dress her mother had bought her during her “mod” phase and she’d never worn it. It was perfect for me and this dance. It was pink mini dress, a combination of A line and baby doll, and it had long bell sleeves made of pink lace. It fit like a dream, it had been custom made by some designer her mom favored. It was modern, yet had a tiny hippie element to it. I was so grateful for that dress and my friend Gi, who could tell me how to eat dinner with these fancy people without making an ass of myself. I was scared shitless. In my mind, it was like inviting a wild monkey to dinner at The Ritz.
*

Gi and I had the best time practicing. She’d have her cook and maid serve us elite food and I think they liked it too. They really didn’t get to show their skills a lot around there since GiGi mostly lived alone and ate cereal. I’d pratice endlessly with silverware and which damn fork to use for which damn course and how to pass things and how to use a fingerbowl. The more I practiced, the more freaked out I got. I spent all my money on a pair of bone colored Capezio flats and then we dyed them to match the dress. White leotards and a white Capezio clutch completed the outfit, and believe me, it wasn’t tacky. I looked just like the fancy models in the mod magazines in it. We had modeled the whole look on a press photo of Goldie Hawn going to a fancy party. She was the IT girl at that time. On the night of the dance, right before Cam and his limo were going to pick me up, I panicked. I just fell apart from the pressure of it all and the imagined lame looks I’d get from his friends and his mother and I called him and told him I was sick. I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe me. He was so shy, he probably thought I was off to Hippie Hill and that he meant nothing to me. He was hurt, that was the worst part and the end of it all. The end of the big night and the end of Cam. I never saw him again, because I never looked for him or went to that park where I’d met him. I just thought it all over and that night I decided his mother was right. I was not good enough for him and I never would be. I’d been used up and he still hadn’t had his first kiss. It was secrets like that, that undid me. He could do better than some chick who couldn’t even use a salad fork , lived in a shitty garage and had to wear a borrowed dress. I still don’t blame his mom, I blame my parents for retarding me socially until the mere thought of a junior high prom sent me into a panic. You have to realize I was fourteen and had never even been taken to a child’s birthday party or even a movie or restaurant with my parents at that time. It was terrifying. And I actually did get sick thinking about it all. I wish I could apologise to Cam now and tell him I wasn’t an asshole who stood him up. I was just scared.

*
I was done as far as Cam was concerned and done with Mike too. I ignored him when he’d pull up and honk, I’d had a taste of real conversation and I didn’t want to go back. I’d find out in the years to come, real conversation is hard to come by and when you get it, you should hang onto it. GiGi thought I was a little crazy, but, I think she understood. She’d been raised similar to Cam, I had been raised by wolves apparently. It was a long time before I felt comfortable in the company of so called “decent” people. I always felt that they could see through me and know the horror I knew and it made them uncomfortable. And maybe that’s a little true. I was ashamed of what I was, even if it wasn’t of my own making. I do know one thing, I made a promise to myself never to fall apart again because of my feelings of inadequacies and I kept it. That dance was the last time I ever let anything stop me.
*

When junior high ended two things happened which impacted my life forever. I was looking foreward to a Summer of freedom and fun. Hanging with Gi and going to the happenings at Hippe Hill, buying some concert tickets with my painting money and just being a teenager. I’ll never forget the day Gi called and said she had something to tell me and she wanted to see me. She had her driver pick me up and take me to her mansion and we sat down to talk. She told me her father was in some trouble with the feds and they were going into the witness protection program. When I found out what that meant, we both sobbed our hearts out. I spent the night and the next day she had her driver load a bunch of stuff from her room into the limo. Things like posters and beaded curtains and her beautiful purple silk bedspread. She told me to take them, she’d have a new decorator at whatever new mansion they moved to. And that is the last time I ever talked to her. They were gone. It was the saddest time and I hope she’s out there somewhere safe and happy, but, I will never know. Her departure left a hole in my young life that couldn’t be filled.
*

The other thing that happened was that my stepfather, in his infinite wisdom, found me a job. Some clients of his needed a babysitter for their three kids and he offered me without bothering to ask me. I was to go move in with these strange people and be a nanny. He said all I did was run the streets anyway and it would keep me out of trouble. Actually, the only time I got into trouble was when I was at home with those idiots who were supposed to be raising me. But, I knew there was no arguing and I figured it wouldn’t be so bad. I liked kids. I needed some money too.

*
They picked me and my stupid little paper sack full of clothes up that weekend. I had never met them and neither had my mother and I was going to live with them. It was bizarre. I was scared. They seemed like a nice normal looking couple and the kids were cute. All blond and big eyed. Looks is as far as normal went, they were strange even by my standards. They were really uptight and had more rules than my stepfather. Their house was a perfect one story ranch with perfect matching furniture and perfect fucking everything. I think the mom had OCD and definitely a severe case of bitchiness. They’d set up an army cot in the laundry room for me. I kept my clothes in a cardbord box under it. At least it was air conditioned. I was uncomfortable and scared all the time. Everything I did was wrong. She’d have these big discussions with me every night when she got home and lists of do’s and don’ts for her precious children who were out of control. I don’t know what philosophy of child rearing they adhered to, but, apparently it was the one that advocated raising wild screeching animals. They all loved to strip their clothes off all day long and run out the front door. I constantly chased them and pleaded with them to wear pants. They hit me and screamed. I wasn’t allowed to hit them back. I think the neighbors thought we were all nuts and wondered what the hell I was doing to those children. The twin four year old girls liked to do things like paint with catsup on the white walls and their mom claimed they were exploring their creativity and mustn’t be stifled. The toddler boy enjoyed trying to stick pencils (or crayons or sticks or whatever) up their dog’s butt hole. He was old enough to know better, but, it was his thing. He did it constantly and would not be distracted. The mother called it “curiosity”. That poor dog. I wondered where he had gotten the sick idea and the more I thought about it, the more frightened of these people I became. Meanwhile the mom avoided their “creativity” and worked as much over time as she could get. The last straw came when the mother told me I was no longer allowed to wear cut off jeans around the house. It was unseemly. Really? Your fucking kids won’t even wear pants, Lady. And do I need to mention I’d been there a month and been paid nothing? What was I supposed to buy these suitable outfits with? Actually, the real last straw came when her uptight fucking husband “accidentally” walked in on me in the shower when he was supposed to be at work..for the third time. I knew men like him, I knew how they worked and I was aware that he was not one of the harmless ones. He had serial killer potential and reminds me now of Ted Bundy. It was only a matter of time and I knew I had to get out. So I did. I just told them to shove it, said goodbye to the naked little monsters and took off walking. I wouldn’t miss any of them. Maybe the poor ass raped dog.
*

Things happen in life in the oddest ways. I was carrying my stupid paper sack of clothes and sitting in a park about halfway home, feeling mistreated and pretty damn sorry for myself..and also scared of what my stepfather would do to me over telling his clients to shove it. As I sat on a bench sadly contemplating the unfairness of life, this cute little elfin girl about five years old started jabbering to me in kid talk. “Whatcha doin’? You sad? Wanna play balls wiff me?” No one could ignore her, she was too funny. I sat down my sack and started playing catch with her with a big bouncy ball she had. Her sister joined in and then her older brother. They seemed like nice kids. Pretty soon her parents came over and started chatting. They were looking for a babysitter and it took all of twenty minutes for them to offer me the job. And I could live at their house and they’d pay me $20 bucks a week and I could have weekends off. Hey, I was packed and homeless, I took the offer. Turned out they had five kids, the youngest one about a year old and the oldest one was eight. The oldest was a boy, all the rest were girls. They lived in a large crummy duplex decorated in kid and castoffs. It was messy, comfy and there was plenty of room. I called my mother and told her where I was and that I had a job. I wouldn’t give her the phone number or their address. Fuck them. I told her I’d see her..sometime.
*
It was a happy place. My room was the living room which was big and at the far end of the duplex. No one used it and they didn’t use the front door there either, it worked out really nice. I slept on a big shabby pull out couch. The baby’s crib was in an alcove by the front door, but, she slept all night and you could hear her, but, not see her, so it was private. The TV set was in my room, but, no one watched it much. They were all too busy. The parents worked nights, she worked in a bar, I don’t know what he did, but, they were hardly ever home except to sleep once in awhile. I found out their life had always been like this, but, they were transplants from the Midwest and the grandparents had always watched the kids. So they weren’t warped from having parents who worked or partied all the time. I was their first babysitter. The old man was a drunk and he half heartedly hit on me a couple of times when he came home late and the wife was still out, but, he was harmless. I’d just slap him away and tell him to knock it off. He was ashamed when he’d sober up. I never told on him, he didn’t worry me a bit. The mom was a corker who dressed like a hooker and I learned to put a wastebasket by her bed if she was out past midnight. That way her fancy bedspread wasn’t added to my laundry the next day. The kids were great. I liked them a lot, they were good kids and I had permission to spank them, but, I never did. Not once. I hardly even had to yell at them, only if they did something real bad like go into the street. The parents were very generous with groceries and I even got to put things on the list. There was always plenty of food to cook and no rules about who could have what. There were no rules, period. Well, there was one, don’t kill each other or burn the house down. The dad thought that was hilarious. They were just gone all the time, it was mostly me and the kids. And most of the time, they paid me. Sometimes they were broke and I had to wait, or they’d forget, but, that was okay. When they got paid, they’d give me some money and even buy me a few clothes or a pair of inexpensive shoes, like they did their own kids. Sometimes we had family outings where they’d take us all to their favorite tavern and we ate gigantic hamburgers and fed the juke box. I learned how mix a Tom Collins and how that differed from a John Collins and what a dry martini was. I’d be their bartender and serve their friends, it was kind of fun. But, I never drank any of their endless stash and I always picked up after them so the kids wouldn’t get into it. They were good people, if a little crazy. They were mostly the good kind of crazy. I did get some weekends off and I took off to The Hill then, but, sometimes I still worked. The one thing they did that I didn’t like was, have me watch their friends kids so they could all go party. One of her friends had five little kids too and that made ten kids all weekend. And I didn’t like those kids as much as “my” kids, so those weekends weren’t fun. They get each other all riled up and it was too chaotic. I’d get bad migraines. And I never got paid by the other people, just promises. But, it wasn’t enough to bitch about, in the scheme of things, I had it pretty good. I had plenty to eat, a TV, my own space, no one was beating on me and I had my nights free after the kids went to sleep. I could even invite friends over. But, once Gi left there didn’t seem to be much point. And no boy that age is going to want a girl friend with a pack of kids. I settled down to my life of raising five children and got on with it.
*

When school started back up, we talked about me leaving and decided I should just stay. I had no home really and we figured we could work it out somehow. It became clear that I couldn’t get the three older kids off to two different schools and find my own sitter for the two little ones AND get myself to high school. I didn’t really give a shit, I had no future and high school would be more of the same pain I’d already been through. Trying to fit in and..not. So, I settled for auditing some English classes and an art class at Catalina High School. That’s the same high school Linda Ronstadt went to, in case you didn’t know. Like anyone who’s not from there would, but, I thought it was a cool fact. She was older than me and had already graduated. I managed to get to those classes all year and I enjoyed what I saw of high school on a part time basis. I got no grades and no credits for my classes, but, I learned just the same. English was important, I wanted to be able to speak right and not sound like a moron. I like words and I loved reading. I had access to the library and the TV set was hardly ever turned on. Unless “Laugh In” was on, you had to watch that. I got the kids into reading and we learned how to take the bus to the library. Five kids, one an infant on a city bus, that’s fun. But, we managed. We knew where all the parks and pools were and how to get there. The mom would buy us family passes with her tips anytime I'd suggest it. We went all over that damn city, me and the kids, and I finally found out how big it was. It was huge. There were all kinds of places to go, once you learned how to get there. I even took them to see Old Tucson, and we watched the cowboys shoot it out in the street and we ate lunch in the saloon. We were always busy.

*
I don’t know how good of a nanny I really was at such a young age. But, I made sure they ate enough and bathed them and made sure they had clean clothes and fixed the girls hair so they looked nice at school. No one would ever make fun of them, I made sure of that. I taught them not to use words like “aint” or people will call you dumb. And you do not want that. I taught them to always say please and thank you. I potty trained the middle ones and threw impromptus kiddie parties for every accomplishment. I had excessive energy so I played all kinds of games with them day and night and did creative art projects out of junk and scraps. I also let them stay up too late, watch horror movies and eat candy pretty much anytime they wanted. I even put koolaid in the baby’s bottle at snack time, because they assured me she loved it. I can’t believe I did that now. I just really didn’t know any better, but, the whole time I was with them, no one ever got hurt. There was never an emergency room visit. There was never so much as a case of diaper rash, even in the desert heat. I watched them. So that’s pretty good., I guess. I never really went home again except to briefly visit my mother. I don’t even know why I did that, except that she was my mother.

*
Life changes by fate sometimes. I don’t know how long I would have stayed there, but, I was with them for over a year when the dad got a job offer in California. According to him, he was going to stop drinking and make a good wage and she could stop working and stay home with the kids. They offered to take me with them and I know they meant it, but, somehow California didn’t seem right for me. And frankly, even though I wasn’t worn out or stressed, I wondered if raising kids was all there was to life? And they wouldn’t really need me anymore. I wondered how the mom would like staying at home. I doubted she would, and her boy friends sure wouldn’t. Snicker. But, it was their life, not mine. I hugged them all goodbye and they dropped me off at the Continental Trailways station with a hundred dollar bill in my pocket. I bought a one way ticket to Iowa. I was going home.