[WP] THE GUN INCIDENT (The following story is 100% true.) I will never forget the day that my father placed a loaded pistol into my mouth and then asked me if I wanted to die. He squeezed the trigger, and I heard a very distinct and loud click. The snap of metal on metal. To this day I am unsure whether that sound was the safety mechanism, or if the bullet misfired. Only my father knew the answer to that mysterious question, and since I never got around to asking him before he died in 2009, I guess I will never know. Before he pulled the trigger, he had knelt over me as he screamed again and again: “Do you want to die, motherfucker?! Do you want to die?! Because I am going to kill you, I swear to God I am going to blow your fucking brains out of your fucking head!” My father was a heavy smoker, and the stench of his breath was so overwhelming that my stomach lurched, threatening to vomit. He was screaming with such force that his spittle covered my face in droplets. I was not only horrified, but revolted. It surprises me that I can reflect on this incident and remember that although my life was in desperate peril, I still had the presence of mind to be disgusted by his breath. Beneath his reddened and sweaty forehead, a large blue vein stood out prominently. I thought that it must surely burst. At any other time it would have been funny, but this was definitely no time to laugh.
I was nervous and uneasy earlier that morning. I had good reason. The day before, I had been threatened by another student, a senior. I'll call him “Bobby”. He had told me, in no particular terms, that as soon as I stepped off of the bus the following day, he was going to beat my ass.I had unknowingly attracted the affections of a freshman girl in my history class who happened to be the very same girl that Bobby was in love with. I didn't even know her name, I was so unaware of her. Apparently, someone in our class had communicated to him that I was making a move on his girl. This of course was not true, and I was so bewildered by his confrontation with me that evening that I didn't know what to say.
He approached me after the last period of the day and began to shove me. I have never been adept at handling threatening confrontations, so I did the only thing I could think of. I ran. As I made my escape he yelled after me that he would see me the next morning, and assured me that he would inflict the maximum amount of pain possible. Looking back, I have to wonder how much of his braggadocio was simply that. Posturing for his friends, perhaps. It's entirely possible that he may have forgotten all about me by the next morning, but I didn't take the chance to find out.
I made it onto the school bus, and of course there were several students aboard that had witnessed the entire confrontation. It quickly became the accepted general consensus that I was nothing but a pussy. A chicken. A coward. I suppose they may have been right because not for a moment did the thought of actually fighting back against Bobby ever cross my mind. I certainly was not physically capable of defending myself, as I had never been taught to resist or fight back. On the contrary, I had learned from a very early age that resistance to violence only led to more violence.
The bus ride to my home was rather short. We lived about a mile or so from Lakeview High School in Cortland, Ohio. In fact, mine was the first stop of the evening. Once I had arrived home, I pushed the thoughts of Bobby far from my mind. I was home, safe, and another dismal day at school was now behind me. My mother greeted me as I walked in the door. She always asked how my day was, and I always responded with “Fine.” I never thought of actually telling her how my day went. School was an uncomfortable subject. Due in part to the fact that I seemed to always be in some kind of trouble, and partly due to my embarrassment and shame in being unable to defend myself.
I spent the remainder of that day as I usually did. Sometimes I would sit at my desk and draw. I would play outside with my little brothers, or I would watch television. The closer summer vacation became, the more I would spend outside. Quite often, I would spend hours in the wooded area at the lower end of our property, climbing trees and secretly dipping smokeless tobacco. Throughout most of the day I tried not to think of Bobby, yet he still remained in my thoughts with the uncomfortable knowledge that the next morning I would have to deal with him again.
My father wasn't home on the day that Bobby attacked me. He was a truck driver, and wasn't due to return home for a few days. He drove a semi trailer that was commonly referred to as a “portable parking lot”. The cab was located above the engine, giving the truck a flat, squarish appearance. It had a large, open-framed trailer that could transport about ten automobiles. He picked these vehicles up at a place he referred to as “the plant”; a massive parking area in Lordstown, Ohio where cars had arrived directly from the manufacturing facility and were waiting to be loaded onto the semis. Once he had loaded them, he would then deliver them wherever they needed to go, usually dealerships across the eastern part of the country. At that time we only owned one vehicle, so my father would usually get my mother to take him to the plant. Sometimes, he would have loaded his semi up with cars the previous day and therefore would only need to arrive the next morning, hop in and take off. It was fairly common for these delivery trips to take several days, and occasionally he would be gone for nearly a week. Once he returned from his deliveries, he would return his truck to its designated space and would arrange for my mother to meet him at the plant to pick him up.
On the day of the gun incident, my mother began her shift at a local pizza restaurant shortly after my brothers and I had left for school. She took this job because she needed something a little more fulfilling in her life other than simply spending her days as a stay-at-home housewife. I don't recall that there was necessarily a desperate need for additional income, as my father earned a very good wage driving a truck. So much so that we not only lived in a very nice town, but in a very nice house. I saw that house a few years ago, and it still impresses me. We had a trampoline, a swimming pool, a go-cart and great birthdays and Christmases. If there were any indications of financial instability, I never noticed. Regardless, for whatever reason, my mother was working on the day that my father completely lost his mind.
I've always referred to that day as “The Gun Incident”, and on it I began the day filled with apprehension, fear and a tight knot in the pit of my stomach. I was very afraid of what was going to happen at school. It's strange to me now, because I realize that I had suffered many abuses at the hands of my father which were far worse than anything some high school bully could dish out. Yet, I was still deathly afraid. If only I had known how the events of that day would unfold, I would have simply marched into school and faced Bobby head on. I briefly entertained the thought of playing sick and skipping school, but because neither of my parents would be home that day due to work, it was simply out of the question. Having already been in trouble at school that week, I was already trying to maintain a low profile at home.
I was a poorly behaved child. Apparently, I had been diagnosed at a very young age as being afflicted with Attention Deficit Disorder. After numerous behavioral problems, the school system had arranged for a psychologist to interview me and it was determined that although I was extremely intelligent, I was simply incapable of functioning in the standard educational environment. Medications were recommended, and my parents, knowing little about the disorder, were apprehensive about relying on medication to address my behavioral issues. Eventually, when I was in the seventh grade, it was decided that I was to be removed from the regular public school system and placed into a specialized educational environment known as SBH. This stood for “Severely Behaviorally Handicapped.” Yep. Handicapped.
I already suffered from a serious lack of self esteem, so to be labeled as handicapped was incomprehensible to me. Especially when I was always told how smart I was. I suppose that what some people, including my parents, couldn't understand was how such a bright, intelligent child could not follow instruction. As that child, I can remember always being fidgety, bored, and anxious. I couldn't sit still for very long, and I'm still like that to this day. I know that I could read long before I went to kindergarten, thanks to my mom. I definitely owe much of my acquired tastes for reading and art to her. Unfortunately, the skills I acquired before I even entered school only exacerbated my inattentiveness. While some other students struggled with reading, I was commonly called upon to read aloud in grade school because my pronunciation and diction were far beyond what my peers possessed. I often read books that were typically considered to be above my grade level. Unbelievably, I actually flunked fifth grade and had to repeat it. I was told it was because I started school at too early of an age. (I was born in August, so I turned five years old about the same time I started kindergarten.)
I will definitely never forget second grade. A teacher, whom I will refer to as Mrs. E, was cruel beyond even today's standards. One one occasion I had to use the restroom, and no matter how much I begged, she wouldn't let me go. Finally, she took me to the bathroom, followed me in and ordered me to lower my pants. She pinched my penis very hard, causing me to cry. She then produced a pair of scissors and said that if I couldn't control my penis that maybe she should cut it off, and then it would trouble me no more. That was terrifying.
Another thing I remember was that I had misbehaved in class so she ordered me to the front of the classroom and commanded me to stand in the garbage can. She told me that since I wanted to act like garbage, she would treat me like garbage. I stood in that trash can until recess, and even then I wasn't permitted to go play with the other children. Not that they would have wanted to play with me anyway, being trash and all...
She once made me carry around a baby doll all day. This was because I was “acting like a baby”. What a strange woman she was. I can only wonder what other horrors she dealt to other nonconforming students over the years. A particularly disturbing memory for me is that in third grade I was removed from the school bus and taken directly to the principal's office. I was paddled with my pants and underwear pooled around my ankles. Three times, if memory serves correctly. This was a punishment for drawing “dirty” pictures on the school bus. Mostly of erect penises ejaculating or urinating. It seems strange that I was never asked why I was drawing such things. I suppose if they had known that my father had been molesting me for some time, maybe things would have turned out differently. Unfortunately, that event was chalked up to me simply being a bad kid.
At one point my parents thought that placing me in a Christian school might help my behavior. That didn't work at all. In fact, I think I got in more trouble at that school than I did in public school. I recall that I was punished by paddling for exposing myself to several female students. The repeated paddling and punishments had an effect. I eventually learned to curb certain types of behaviors in order to avoid punishment. Mostly because a paddling at school meant additional paddling at home, and a child's ass can only handle so much paddling. So, later being labeled as handicapped in my early teens was not only insulting, but it was extremely demoralizing. I couldn't quite wrap my head around it, but because it had always been drilled into my head that I was to do as I was told or be punished, I never voiced my objections. I never had a voice. I didn't know how to express myself properly. I seriously doubt that anyone would have listened to me or taken me seriously anyway. It became a matter of trying as best as I could to just go with the flow, but eventually I would tire of suppressing myself and I would act out in whatever way I could in order to relieve the unbelievable pressure that was building up inside of me. I think that one of the most embarrassing aspects of being shipped out of public schools was the bus ride. I had to ride a short bus. It said “co-op” on the side of it. Other kids at the school would say “Hey, here comes the coop kids. The dumb chickens ride in the chicken coop bus.” I know it sounds funny, but to those of us that had to ride that bus, it was humiliating.
On the day of the gun incident, I wasn't riding the co-op bus. I was no longer being sent off to SBH schools. The prior year, my mother had left my father due to his violence and unpredictable anger. In fact, she had left him a few times before, but he would always come looking for us, no matter where we went. Eventually he would convince my mother to bring us kids home, and things would be great for a while. But, it never lasted long. When we returned to Ohio after fleeing to North Carolina, I was fortunate to be returned to regular public school. This was my first year in high school, and it was just as tumultuous as the previous years. I can remember one specific incident that landed me in some serious hot water. A different bully had been threatening me, pushing me around, and generally just being an asshole. For some reason, I thought I might be able to defend myself if I brought my father's stiletto knife with me to school. He kept it in the top of a curio cabinet in the living room, and I don't think that he was aware that I knew where to find it. He was off on a delivery that day, too. It definitely worked in my favor later.
I had been showing the knife to some friends on the school bus. It was neat to push the button up and watch the gleaming, razor-sharp blade shoot out of the handle with a whispery snick! Unfortunately, there were several students aboard the bus that also saw the knife and had heard me say that if that bully messed with me I would stab him. Not long after we arrived at school, I was called to the principal's office. I knew what the deal was, so after I left the classroom I stopped in the restroom. I went into the last stall and removed the knife from my pocket. I took a moment to etch the words “fuck this school” into the stall wall, then rolled the knife into the elastic waistband of my underwear. I left the restroom, and went into the principal's office. He was a balding, squat Jewish man that smelled like dirty socks and moldy cheese. I always wondered what that smell really was. It seemed as if his entire office smelled that way. He always wore a faded brown corduroy jacket with black patches on the elbows, and he was very fond of his paddle. I was surprised to see my cousin in the office with the principal. She was a senior that year, and it was really cool then to be in the same school together. I don't know if she knew back then the extent at which I was bullied. She was sitting there looking at me fixedly, with a strangle look in her eyes. The principal asked me if I had a knife, and of course I said that I didn't. He said that several students had seen me with a knife, and he wanted to know where it was. I told him that I had thrown it out of the window of the bus because someone had threatened to tell on me. He then asked me that if he called the police would I be willing to submit to a strip search. That was when my cousin spoke up and defended me. She said that it wouldn't be necessary, and that if I said I threw it off the bus then that must be true. She then told him she would like to talk to me alone, so he let us leave his office. She and I walked down the hall for a moment, and she whispered to me “Do you have the knife? Because, if you do, and they find it, you're going to be in a lot of trouble. And when your dad finds out, he's gonna rip you a new asshole.” I told her that I did have the knife, and that my father was off on deliveries. We walked around a corner, out of sight of the principal's office, and she said “Give me the knife. I won't tell the principal you had it.” So, I retrieved it from the waistband of my underwear and handed it to her. She said she would hide it, and then she would come by the house after school, and I could slip it back into it's hiding spot. We did exactly that, and I was fortunate that it wasn't found on me that day.
I was standing at the end of our driveway thinking of my options. I considered the possibility that maybe Bobby would be sick that day. Wishful thinking, I knew. I thought that maybe I could quickly find my best friend, Jamie, and that he and I could whip Bobby's ass together. However, Jamie lived in a different part of town, and rode a different bus. I wasn't sure which one it was, so I scrubbed that idea pretty quick. I looked around to see if maybe I could find a large enough rock to take with me, thinking maybe I could bean that bastard in the head before he got his hands on me, but our driveway was paved and therefore there were no large rocks to be found. It didn't take long for me to resign myself to the fact that I was simply going to have to avoid Bobby as best as I could. Finally, the bus arrived. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. I climbed aboard, and prepared myself for the inevitable. As the bus made its short journey to the school, I watched out the window at the passing scenery. I saw a man walking on the side of the road, and that was when I had an idea. I knew that my mother had must have left by now, and since my father was away on deliveries, I formulated a plan that I thought was brilliant. It turned out to be literally the worst idea I have ever had. That single decision affected the future of myself, my mother, and my brothers for the rest of our lives.
I figured since nobody would be home that I could simply get off of the bus, walk back towards the house, and let myself in with the spare key. The plan was that I would just hang around, watch some television, and when it was nearly time for me to be arriving home from school, I would make my way down to the woods. I would wait for the school bus to go past my house, wait a few minutes, then walk back and go inside, as if I had just ridden the bus home. Knowing my mother's routine, I knew she wouldn't be paying much attention and that I could make my entrance relatively routine. I considered that on the off chance that she might see the school bus go by without stopping, or see it stop and me not get off, that I could say that I had missed that bus, caught another, and had the driver drop me off on the street below ours. It was the kind of plan that required a special flair for acting that I had slowly developed over the years to avoid the belt of my father. I was sure my plan would work, but once again, I will never know.
When the bus arrived at the school I cautiously peered through the windows to see if Bobby was nearby. He wasn't, so it was time to place my carefully formulated plan into action. I stepped off of the bus and walked to the side of the school. It was pretty much a long, rectangular shaped building back then, and it ran parallel to the main road. The end that was nearest to my home sat very close to a wooded area that I crossed rather quickly, and then opened into a small subdivision. I quickly made my way through the little neighborhood and onto the main road. From there, it was less than a mile's walk home. I remember that I was very nervous as I walked that road. I tried to keep my head lowered to avoid suspicion, but in retrospect, I most likely resembled exactly what I was. A truant teen guiltily skipping school. A police car actually drove past me, and my heart skipped a beat. I thought for sure that he would turn around and stop me. I was quite relieved when several seconds had passed and I turned around to see that he was still continuing on his way.
I made it to my house in about ten minutes. I quickly noticed that our station wagon was nowhere around, confirming that my mother was at work. I casually sauntered up the driveway, hoping to convey with my body language that I was doing absolutely nothing wrong, should anyone notice me. The relief that I felt once I reached our back door was overwhelming. Bobby was now the last thing on my mind. I located the spare key, opened the door, and returned the key to the hiding spot. The back door opened into our kitchen, which was on the right. To the left was a small “breakfast nook”, and recessed into that was a small laundry area where the washer and dryer were located. I stepped in, removed my shoes and placed them by the door, and went directly to the refrigerator. I opened the fridge and removed a two liter bottle of Pepsi. Back then, soda was somewhat of a treat in our home, but today there would be an open bar. I found the largest glass in the cupboard and promptly filled it to the rim with soda, and made my way to the living room. I was going to watch some television and live like a king for a little while.
I was sitting on the couch when the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall rang. It was a canary yellow, rotary dial phone that rang with an actual internal bell of some kind. I have thought of that phone ringing many times over the years. To this day, I don't know why I picked it up. In hindsight, what I probably should have done was simply disengage the ringer with the little switch on the side. But, having no answering machine, it was almost second nature to answer a ringing phone. It was just what you did. Phone calls weren't unusual, but occasion enough to motivate an answer. So, for whatever reason, I went ahead and answered it. “Hello?” I said, somewhat reluctantly. “Hello, this is Mr. Smith, the principal of the high school. Is this Derrick?” (Mr. Smith wasn't his real name, but I've changed it to protect his anonymity.) “Yes, this is Derrick.” I answered. My heart was triphammering in my chest and adrenaline had poured into my system. I quickly became short of breath. “Derrick, why did you leave the school? I saw you from my office. Are you sick?” He asked. “Yes, sir.” I responded. “I'm not feeling very well at all, so I decided to come home. I was sick before I came to school, but I felt worse when I got there.” Those statements weren't entirely untrue. “Well, Derrick, you should have went to the nurse's station if you're ill. We would have called one of your parents. Are either of them home?” My response to his question is still inexplicable to me. I was really beginning to panic now, so I figured I could get rid of him with a simple little white lie. “Of course, Mr. Smith. My father is here.” I said. “Then put him on the phone, I'd like to speak with him for a moment.” He answered. What I did next defies all logic, however, in my child's mind, I was already in a compromising situation, so I quickly thought and reacted as best as I could. “Hold on a moment, Mr. Smith. I think he's asleep. He hates to be woke up when he's taking a nap.” I smiled at my own cleverness. “Well, you need to wake him up, I want to speak to him.” He replied. I was dismayed, but responded with “Hang on, I'll go get him.” My mind was now racing, but my ability to think quickly kicked in. I roughly sat the phone on the table, loudly enough to make it plausible, and stomped my feet to simulate the sound of me walking away from the phone. I began to yell, “Dad! Dad! The phone is for you. It's Mr. Smith from the school. Yes, I told him that I'm sick, and yes I told him that you're here.” I then simulated loud steps nearing the phone. I picked it and spoke in my deepest, gruffest voice: “This is Derrick's dad. How can I help you?” Never once did I consider that my father probably would have answered with his name, and not “Derrick's dad”, but what did I know? I was just a scared, stupid kid. I didn't know at the time that Mr. Smith wasn't even the least bit convinced, but he decided to play along. I'm not sure why, but he spoke to me as if I was my father. “Did your son tell you that he is sick, sir?” Mr. Smith asked my father (me). “Yes sir, yes sir, he sure did. And I'm here with him, and I'm going to make him stay in bed for the remainder of the day. Now, I'm quite tired myself, Mr. Smith, so if there's nothing further, I'll let you go.” I said. “Certainly. Tell your son that I hope he feels better. Have a good day, sir. Enjoy your nap.” Mr. Smith chuckled. Yeah, he actually chuckled. “Of course, goodbye, Mr. Smith” I responded and quickly hung up. Now, I knew that I was in serious trouble. I figured that eventually my parents might learn of this ruse, but after I hung up the phone I figured that what was done was done and that I should go ahead with my plan and just enjoy the freedom of the the remaining day. On the other hand, part of me was rejoicing at my cleverness and hoping that I had indeed fooled Mr. Smith. Once again, my decision to not simply disengage the ringer of the phone would have disastrous results.
I was sitting on the couch in the living room, watching television and sipping Pepsi when I saw a white van pull into our driveway and stop right at the end of it. I was immediately apprehensive as this was a vehicle I had never seen before. When my father stepped out of the van and waved at the driver, my life was forever changed.
Submitted March 14, 2017 at 06:11AM by GU1TART1ST http://ift.tt/2mUcw7b WritingPrompts
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