My Pathetic life

CHAPTER 1

IN THE BEGINNING…

June 13, 1966 5:55 am... Santa Rosa, California.

After 18 long hours of labor, my mother gave birth to me; probably a mistake the world will regret for a very long time; but none the less it happened against the rules of the universe. The weather report was for a sunny day, not that my mother would know it; she slept for 9 hours, unaware of the beautiful northern California day. Looking back at this day makes me wonder if my first thoughts were about what my infant eyes saw, or did I make fun of the child in the next plastic hospital crib next to mine. Maybe I was mentally commenting on his ethnic heritage or the size of his nose. Either way I knew that there was a hard road ahead. I find that the more I think about it, the more I realize that my life has really never been easy, the more comedy in my life was essential.

So there I was, this small version of my now self, swaddled in diapers and sucking on a ‘binky’; just trying to figure out this wacky thing called living. As most children, I was carefree and explorative in a setting that in those days, was probably not a safe as it should have been. Like the time I climbed up on the kitchen counter, ate a bottle of kids Tylenol chewable’s, slipping off and cracking my head open. (Yes there might be the first symptom of my madness.)

Note to one self: taking Tylenol before your accident will not prevent pain, just saying.

When you have to think back to your early days, you seem to only remember pockets of it. So, I will have to navigate you around some of mine.

Kindergarten

My first vivid memory of my childhood was my first day of school. My mother made us bath in the morning of that day; it was colder than a well digger’s ass; and the only heat in the house was our gas wall heater. While I was standing there butt naked, drying myself off, I manage to fall backwards and landed against the heater, burning my ass checks in the process. The heater’s grate like design had been burnt into my young bum, making it look like the stripes on the American flag. Well I guess that’s one way to be patriotic. So there I was, butt padded with bandages and waddling into the kindergarten playground. It was an interesting way to start off your education, having to have the teacher change your dressings twice a day for the next week. It seemed like I was the only source of entertainment for my class for that week, to the tune of names like ‘flag butt’, ‘broken ass’ and a few others. Sitting was a new experience in pain all together. I finally convinced the teacher to allow me to lie down on my stomach after two days of complaining. Learning your ABC’s while in constant pain will soon get on your nerves, and I just wanted every school day to end quickly.

Soon I was healed, and the names gave way to a new set of insults. I remember the first time someone called me ‘Art the fart’, her name was Michelle. (Side note: to all my childhood friends, since I really don’t want to pay you to use your name in my book, I will be changing them.) She walked up to me, blonde ponytails, blue dress, white stockings and glossy black shoes and asked me what my name was, my heart skipped a beat as I answered ‘Art’. Her face was blank for a moment, then she exclaimed ‘Art the Fart!’ needless to say I was devastated. From that day on I would only allow people to call me Arthur, in the hopes of avoiding this assault on my name. Unfortunately it did not, and they soon came up with the song that they would sing in unison:

                “Gene, Gene made a machine. Joe, Joe made it go. Art, Art cut a fart and blew it all apart!”

Apparently my name was now a childhood number one song, like ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round’. After the daily ritual of this, I wanted to punch them all in their mocking little throats. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t get into some fight or another over this. In my opinion, school fucking sucked and I was soon coming up with whatever illness to avoid going. I once drank ketchup, stuck my finger down my throat and threw up all over the kitchen floor. Well I got out of school that day, only after having to clean it up and a little trip to the hospital. As the doctor scratched his head, trying to figure out my symptoms, my mother began to scrutinize me and it was then that I knew that the jig was up.

She asked me why I smelt like ketchup, and I stammered that I didn’t know what she was talking about. Well the lie was soon found out, and I had my first taste of parental justice. I got a spanking and was on restriction from watching television; my only friend at that time was taken away from me for a week and at that age a week seemed like forever. That’s when I was introduced to my new friend, resentment and little did I know he would be there in my life for a very long time. Later in life I would find out that resentment really like alcohol and drugs, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Fourth grade

The next little pocket of my childhood was when I was in fourth grade, and another head injury. We were playing baseball at recess, and I was next up at bat waiting for my turn. Little did I know, with my back to the batter’s box, that I was too close and the biggest fourth grader you’ve ever seen swung at the ball; missing the ball and connecting to the side of my head. Instant lights out and I awoke in the hospital ER, dazed and confused. I heard the nurse tell my mom that I had a really bad concussion and would need to stay in the hospital overnight for observation. The only thing in my mind was that the ringing would not shut the hell up, and my stomach would not cooperate. I instantly threw up anything that they fed me, so I eventually just gave up trying for the rest of the night. It seemed like my stomach was mocking me to eat but then would pull a dirty trick right afterwards. As I drifted in and out of a restless sleep, my only comfort was when the pretty nurse would put her cool hands on my forehead and ask me how I felt. How I felt? Really?  Was this a joke or a set up? I remember thinking, ‘Lady if you only knew’.

My parents picked me up the next morning, and informed me that I was out of school for the next week. Like this kind of news was going to break my heart, I would have to say that it was one of the best weeks of my little life so far. I was allowed to lay on the couch in the living room and watch television, hello old friend. Watching ‘The Price is Right’, ‘Dialing for Dollars’ movies and afternoon cartoons like Scooby-Doo, in my opinion was some of the best shit on the planet. I escaped in to the world of television, like a beaten wife to a woman’s shelter.

Just a year before this incident, my sister was born and I now was the big brother. It was a responsibility that was thrusted upon me, like a really crappy Christmas present. Some days I would wonder if her life would be better than mine, or was she going to have to put up with the same shit as I was. Well first she was lucky that my parents named her Gerri, it also didn’t help that everyone thought of her as a princess. Up until her birth, being an only child was not a bad gig, but it soon gave way to her being in the spotlight at every family function and I was now yesterday’s news. Hello resentment, have a seat on the couch. Want a cookie?

Fifth and Sixth grades

By the time that my fifth grade year rolled around, my emotional skin had grown a callus like the hands of a migrant worker and the evil songs and words now meant nothing to me. That year for Halloween I cut a hole in the bottom of a pumpkin, hollowed it out, put it on my head and went to school as the Headless Horseman. The teacher’s thought that it was brilliant; I didn’t have the heart to tell them that my family was too poor to afford a real costume and that I had stolen the pumpkin from the next door neighbors’ garden the night before. Halloween was pure heaven to me, how could it not be? A day when you could act and be someone else and no one would chastise you for it. What’s not to like? I reveled in the acts of scaring the little girls on the playground with my home-made disguise and watching them run away screaming. What did I care, they were the same ones who sang those evil little songs and all I could do that day was endlessly  grin behind my vegetable mask, fuck them. That’s when I realized that revenge was sweet given out in small doses, and resentment had a delightfully evil twin brother. The more they cried the more I enjoyed it, I usually don’t condone this kind of behavior but in this case the act was so gratifying, I think I went home that day almost feeling high. Needless to say, I went home with the first prize in the best costume contest, thus flipping the middle finger in my mind at the others in my school. Yeah I won that battle.

When the school year ended, going into the great summer vacation, is when I was introduced to a little game called ‘Truth or Dare’ and the first time I got a girl to lift her skirt and show me her goods. Little did I know that this was just a preview of what was to become my so called sex life later. When she did show me the goods, I would have to say I was a little disappointed. I mean here I had this thing in my pants, this creature if you will, that constantly did things to embarrass me and she had this blank slate with a crack in it. I mean that’s it? That’s what all the fuss is about?  When you’re ten years old I guess you just expect an action figure to jump out or something. Nothing.

This little girl became my first girlfriend; for the summer; and at the time I really didn’t understand what that meant. To me it just meant someone to hang out with, and an extra set of hands to help build tree forts. It is also the time when I realized that I could make people laugh with a joke or a funny face, I had found my niche. Whenever I met confrontation, I would joke my way out of it. To me it was just sheer brilliance, and I soon tried to find the funny in everything around me.

As sixth grade started that year, I found myself being sent home from school the first day, for acting like a dog and pretend peeing on the teachers’ leg while his back was turned to the class. Anything for a laugh, right?  That didn’t go well when I got home, another helping of parental justice with two scoops of ass whooping to go please. Looking back, my teacher didn’t really deserve what I did and he turned out to be one of the best teachers I have had in my life. Thank you Mr. Martin. He would read books to us, like The Hobbit, and do all the voices of all the characters. Sixth grade was bearable with him and his bearded surfer attitude, and again at Halloween I surprised everyone by playing Frankenstein in our Halloween play. All of my costume was home-made, including the paper Mache’ false forehead to make me look like the creature. My mother had made the suggestion, and actually helped me fashion it. Though she was thoroughly drunk while we did it, but what the hell …quality time. Just before Christmas she would surprise the hell out me, flipping my dad over her shoulder and to the ground on the side of the road on Highway 101.

Ok, let me explain. Both my parents drank until I was 11 years old, my mom quit yet my dad continued. At the time my mom was going to school to become a correctional officer and had just completed her self-defense training classes, much to the dismay of my father. Whenever they got drunk like that there would always be some kind of fight, either verbal or physical, but this time it was deferent. My dad pulled the car over to the side of the road and jerked her out of the car, and as I watched out the back window of our ’71 Nova, took a swing at her. She intercepted his arm and in one fluid motion, whipped him over her shoulder, planting his drunken ass on the gravel. I think he was just as stunned as I was, and it took the fight right out of him. My mom then proceeded to drive him to the police station and turned him in. I remember my mom calling my dad’s best friend, Bill, and telling him that he might want to go bail him out and have him stay with him for a while. I think that lasted for about three days, and he was back with flowers and an apology. Shortly after that my mom quit drinking and picked up smoking pot, and life would soon be a lot more interesting. If not greener, pardon the pun.

I would end up playing Santa Claus in the school play, ‘Twas the night before Christmas, to the amusement of drunken parents and sugar induced kids. Not being the most graceful kid on the planet, I fell off the stage, missing my mark. The results were an uproar of laughter, mixed in with a little of concern and I recovered immediately, taking a bow. I even made my dad laugh, which was rare to say the least. I remember going home after the play, thinking to myself that maybe there was something to this comedy thing after all. One could only hope.