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I've
debated whether or not to tell this story, not because it embarrasses
me (although by all rights it should), but because I've been trying to
work this small piece of autobiography into a short story. Actually,
I've been able to insert it rather easily into a story—except after the
autobiographical portion of the story I just kind of fizzle. I know
where I want to go and what I want to do, but then when I get there I
have nothing to end the story with. Or I thought I did have something
to end the story with, until I realized my ending was just a little too
similar to Stephen King's "Strawberry Spring". Anyway, if I do ever
finish the story and it's fit for reading, you can either skip this
journal here or try to take the retelling I give later.
I
was kicked out of my mother's house when I was eighteen. Yeah, I know
you're saying that, hey, I'm eighteen, what am I do living with my
family. But I was living with them, pretending to go to college, and
working full-time at Hardees. What I would usually do was work the
closing shift and then hang around with my friends to early in the
morning, and come into my parents' house around three or four in the
morning. Oftentimes, the door was locked and I ended up sleeping in a
car if they left it unlocked (I didn't have a car and used a bicycle to
get to work; I was the coolest eighteen-year-old boy around!). It
wasn't too bad for when we were living on Kinkead Avenue, since we were
only about five blocks away from Hardees, but we had moved to Barling,
which was about six or seven miles away. And the house we moved into
only had three bedrooms. There were seven of us. Perhaps they were
trying to give me a hint. Anyway, I had to sleep on the couch, which
didn't really encourage me to spend a lot of time at home. I
practically slept through a semester of American History and still got a
C out of it. Other times, I would go to the library between classes
(and during classes) and sleep at one of the desks. Although my parents
and I had our differences, I was pretty much a good boy. I didn't
smoke; I didn't drink; I didn't do drugs; I didn't even swear until I
was sixteen. In other words, I was a dork. You know how people are
always saying you can see drug deals done in the school yard? Even
though people have told me they could while I was going to high school, I
never saw a damn thing. So I was pretty much a good boy, except I was
eighteen, and I simply didn't feel like telling my mom where I was. And
she felt since I was living in her house, I damn well better. So,
anyway, she kicked me out. Of course, she kicked out Coleena and Danny
in their time, too, but I was the only one too stupid to not realize I
could go back.
For
a while I lived with my friend Ronnie and his family. Then that stupid
ass Ronnie went and ran off with his girlfriend. And his family,
understandably, did not feel comfortable housing me without him around.
So I essentially became homeless. I would get off work at my Hardees
and walk about two miles to the 24-hour Hardees on Grand Avenue and stay
up all night chugging Diet Cokes. I would take a sink shower in the
men's bathroom at about three in the morning, since few people were
likely to come in then (although there was no way I could do this on
Saturday or Sunday morning, because of the drunks). Sometimes during
the day I would go back to my Hardees and take a nap at the break
table. Every once in a while, a friend would let me sleep at his or her
house. So I often would stay up for 48 to 72 hours straight.
Anyway,
one night, neither I nor Brandy is working, so we tool around in her
car. Brandy, whose parents are truckers, is an emancipated minor who
lives with Robin, an assistant manager at our store. We stop by the
store and talk to Robin, who's closing that night, and she agrees I can
sleep on the couch. Brandy and I go to her house, and we talk for a
while, and she goes to her bedroom and I bunk on the couch.
Perhaps
I should mention at this point that I had a rather serious crush on
Brandy. Although I had said nothing to her, she also knew about it, but
she had made it perfectly clear she only saw me as a friend. I didn't
push her—I wasn't the pushy type. So we were just friends. But that
night…well, I'm still not sure what happened, except I had to pee and
went to the bathroom, which was past her bedroom. When I was going back
to the living room, she called me into her room. And, as they say, one
thing led to another and she pulled a condom out of her end table.
Which was a good thing, since at that time I was relatively sexually
inexperienced. And if you took away self-love, you could say I was
almost non-experienced. So it's my first, and it's with a girl I really
dig, and then…Robin comes into the house. Well, I practically did a
triple back flip into the closet, but Robin pretty much knew what the
deal was, and she asked me to leave. So I throw my jeans and shirt
on, grab my things and head out the door. Not only was I again homeless
for the night, I wasn't even able to complete the transaction, and my
balls were feeling the agony. I walk all the way to the Hardees on
Grand Avenue, order my Diet Coke, and sit down in a booth. My balls are
still aching, and I figure I'll go into the bathroom and wash up, maybe
throw some cold water on them. When I do, I look down and see I still
have my condom on. It was on the entire time.
