After conferring with Mike and determining that neither of
us had spilled the beans about shooting out the high school windows, we both
sat patiently, waiting for our parents to pick us up.
Jack worked the swing shift at Firestone, in Des Moines, so
he was at work and my mom didn’t drive. She was forced to walk to the Madrid
police station. No big deal. We lived about five blocks away.
Once our parents arrived, instead of letting us go, they sat
us all together and the cop in charge said, “I’m going to ask you guys one more
time… what do you know about the high school windows getting shot out tonight?”
Instinctively… we both lied again… as he just stared us
down. Something was up. He knew. Somehow… he knew.
Finally Mike mumbled… “Okay, we did it.”
The cop nodded his head and said, “I know you did it. Your
buddy spilled his guts to the officer that transported him to Boone.”
Farmer ratted us out. It was for the best, though… I guess.
We had to pay a fine and we were put on some sort of
probation. I remember meeting a couple times with a probation official at the
high school… in the middle of the school day. That was embarrassing.
We made the Madrid Newspaper, further tarnishing my less
than stellar reputation in the small town where everyone knew the minutest
details of everyone else’s life. I suppose this may have been part of the
reason that I became more and more isolated from my friends… or former friends.
I would not blame their parents for instructing them to stay clear of the
Munson kid. I would do the same today… with my kids.
But the lessons of life hadn’t yet persuaded me to turn over
a new leaf. God… I wish they had of! Could have saved me some additional grief.
Saturdays in the dead of winter could be very boring in
small Midwestern towns. We didn’t have the electronic entertainment of video
games, cell phones, computers and tablets… like the kids do today. So, when the
school system decided to open the old gymnasium at the elementary/junior high
on Saturday afternoons, my buddies and I, with nothing better to do, would
trudge to the gym, through the snow and cold, to see if we could start some sort
of mischief.
One Saturday, Carlo (Marc Carlson) and Greg Drake showed up
at my house about 90 minutes before the gym was to open. My parents were gone,
tending bar at “Jack & Verna’s” and my step-siblings were either still in
bed or were pursuing their own Saturday interests. All I remember is that my
buddies and I occupied the downstairs area… alone.
We were horsing around in the den, using throw pillows for
boxing gloves as we took turns “fighting” each other.
On one side of the den was a love seat and a shelving unit
where mom kept many of her useless nik naks, many of which I had already broken.
Mom would simply glue them back together and place them back on the shelf.
On the other side of the den was a miniature bar, about five
feet long, with a couple bar stools in front of it. It wasn’t long before Carlo
made his way behind the bar and discovered a large variety of alcoholic drink.
He began pulling out bottles and placing them on the bar. Bourbon, brandy, Crème
de Menthe, scotch and, of course, a half-gallon of Smirnoff Vodka.
I think Carlo and Greg may have partaken in sampling some of
the stock but somewhere in the process, I had made the decision that I was
going to get drunk. What better way to liven up “Gym Day” than to arrive with a
buzz!
At that point in my young life, I was still in the amateur
ranks of alcohol consumption… particularly when it came to the hard stuff.
I started my taste testing with sips from the various
bottles. It was awful! I could never see myself drinking for enjoyment sake. My
goal was to get wasted and so the sips turned into gulps. First brandy, then
bourbon, followed by vodka… and then back to brandy. With each gulp, the taste
wasn’t so much a factor anymore. I was getting looped in a hurry.
A few minutes before noon, we decided to head toward the
gym. We walked by the bank downtown where their spinning sign showed us the
time on one side and the temperature on the other. It was in the single digits
and the wind was howling but I wasn’t cold in the slightest as I made my way,
coat unzipped and with no covering on my head.
We got to the gym and it was as if the bitterly cold
temperatures outside kept me sober enough to be cognoscente of what was going
on because as soon as I felt the blast of warm air in the gym, I remember
little else for the next couple of hours.
I sensed a crowded gym of bodies darting around in an
absolute blur and the sound of voices rising and falling and rising and
falling. I’ve seen the way they depict such a scene as this in the movies with
their special effects and I must say… it seems pretty accurate.
I seemed to drift toward slight coherency for very brief
periods of time before drifting back into a blackout period. And so, I remember
a few things about that day in the gym… the first of which was finding myself
on the stage at the north end of the building where the wrestling mats were
laid out and a group of kids were milling around. I kept stumbling toward various
individuals, boy or girl, and challenging them to a wrestling match.
Surprisingly, nobody took me up on my wrestling challenge.
They all just backed away from me before I fell into them. Some laughed, others
just shook their head and removed themselves from my presence. Those were the
smart ones.
During my lucid moments, I was aware that I was really,
really intoxicated… more so than any time in my brief drinking career. Darn
hard stuff! I knew that I was fall-down drunk and a wave of extreme nausea was
beginning to set in. I was sweating profusely.
Someone, I honestly don’t know who, was aware of my
condition and decided to help me out. He put his arm around me and led me
downstairs to the boys’ locker room. He told me that it was cooler down there
and perhaps I should grab a bench and try to sober up some.
I thanked him… over and over again. I told him that I loved
him and that if I could ever do something to help him… that I would! I told him
that he saved my life and that I owed him one!
I still have no idea who it was.
I remember sitting on the edge of a bench, my elbows resting
on my knees and my head cupped in the palms of my hands. I passed out in this
position. I’d wake up on occasion as my head would slip out of my hands and my
whole body would jerk and stiffen up in an effort to keep me from crashing down
to the cold, hard, cement floor.
Every once in a while, I would hear voices and footsteps
coming down the stairs. I didn’t bother to look. I didn’t care who saw me. I
was too drunk and too sick. I was in survival mode. Sober up and never do this
again! (Until the next time, of course)
My next period of awareness came when I woke up, lying on
the locker room floor… my face planted in a pool of my own vomit. I still didn’t
care. I didn’t bother to lift my head… I just opened my eyes and saw someone’s
bare feet about five inches from my face. I had a spectator.
I slowly raised my head and followed my line of vision
upward to discover a naked guy, toweling off as he looked at me in utter
amusement… or maybe it was disgust. He wasn’t smiling.
It was Rick Isolini. A popular kid a couple years older than
me. Rick was a great athlete and a kid I admired quite a bit. He didn’t like me
much. This scene did nothing to improve my standing with him. Oh well.
I staggered over to the sink, turned on the cold faucet and thrust
my head beneath it. The cobwebs began to slowly clear but I was still far from
sober.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Carlo handing
me my jacket. Huh… I had no recollection of ever taking my jacket off. I
slipped it on and headed out the outside door to begin my journey home. My wet
hair almost instantly turned to ice but again, I wasn’t bothered by it.
As I approached my house, I observed the Buick Electra
parked on the street on the east side of the house. Mom and Jack were home.
Great!
I steadied myself, opened the door and walked briskly by
them as they sat on the couch… drinking, as usual, and watching television. I raised
my hand with a quick wave and bounded up the stairs and to my bedroom. I fell
onto my bed, clothes on and hair frozen… and slept until the evening.
I was 14 years old. This behavior had to stop. But the self-medicating
was the only method I knew to dull the pain of a miserable existence and a
home-life that was pushing me to the brink of ending it all.
