"Bad Butterflies" - Submission #36

For the sake of context, I suggest you go back and read “So I started a Gang” Submission #20. I quote from that entry here:

“A few days later, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler got wind of the newly formed gang and was dying to be a part of it. We were at school, on a break after lunch. We stood in front of the three-story school building, near the street.

“What do I have to do, Muns?” Huffy pleaded, “Name it!”

Thinking back to the “jump-in” initiation from the book, I modified the protocol as I told him to turn his head away from me and turn back when I told him to a few seconds later. Huffy obediently turned his head as I slipped my heavy chain bracelet over the knuckles on my right hand.

“Ok Huff, turn around.” I said

He turned his head and before he could focus his eyes, I slugged him on his left cheek as the chain dug into my knuckles, taking the skin with them.

Huffy fell against the tree and slithered down in a squatting position with his face in his hands. He stayed that way for quite some time as a small crowd gathered. Eventually he got up and smiled. A welt in the shape of the chain links protruded from his cheek.”

I think it was the spring of 1974… April or May. The weather was starting to warm up and the final semester of my freshman year of high school was winding down. It had been a horrible year for me and I could not wait for the school year to end.

I had become so insecure that I didn’t even want to be seen in public for fear that I’d be whispered about and pointed at. I felt like a leper that was to be avoided at all costs. Even the guys that, at one time, were my very best friends… Marc Carlson (Carlo), Mark Gibbons (Sparky) and Greg Drake… seemed cold and distant. They quit calling me. Quit coming over to the house. Quit including me in their plans.

It was painful… emotionally… even physically.

At the end of each school day, my routine was the same… rush to my locker, throw my books on the top shelf, scurry out the south door and walk home. My route was always the same… south on the sidewalk that ran parallel to Highway 17… past Dunns Sure Save grocery store, past the bowling alley and down to 2^nd Street where I crossed the highway and finished my trek a block west on 2^nd.

One day as school ended, I started my departure routine. I arrived at my locker and before I could spin the lock combination, I glanced to my right and noticed a small group of guys standing with Brian Huffstutler (Huffy) near his locker. They were all staring at me. Odd.

I opened my locker, tossed my books on the shelf and then slowly looked around the locker door… they were still there. They were still staring. Huffy was smiling… sort of an evil grin.

Something was up.

I felt a sliver of dread run through my body as my chest tightened and my mouth grew dry. I had butterflies in my stomach. They weren’t good butterflies… like when you were excited about something… they were bad butterflies that came with the feeling of impending doom.

As the hallway began to empty out, I stood at my locker and started pulling out my books… one at a time. I would slowly leaf through them, my brow furrowed… intently searching for… nothing. I was killing time.

Occasionally, I would cast a stealth glance to my right, past my locker door. Huffy and his posse were still there… talking, laughing… shooting looks in my direction.

My stalling tactics lasted a good 20 minutes. I ran out of books and papers to peruse. I couldn’t stand at my locker all night. Whatever was going to happen… was going to happen.

The hallway was now quiet as most of the students had vacated the building and headed home. I slowly closed my locker and headed toward the door.

I remember being greeted by a bright sun, blue skies and warm temperatures. The coat that I had worn that morning was now tied around my waist. I headed down the diagonal sidewalk, still on school property. I was walking at a brisk pace. I didn’t look back.

The school property ended where the diagonal sidewalk intersected with the sidewalk that ran north and south… parallel with the highway. On the other side of the highway, a truck of stoners… Huffy’s friends, had parked on the shoulder of the road. They were waiting for a show.

At about that moment, I heard Huffy’s voice… “Hey Munson.”

I turned around and the first thing I saw was the glimmer of the bright sun reflecting off a silver chain that was wrapped around Huffy’s clenched, right fist. The blow hit me on my right jaw.

Sweet revenge, huh? Good memory, Huffy. Payback time I guess.

Huffy wasn’t an imposing figure and despite the fact that his punch was aided by a chain, it didn’t knock me down. Heck, it didn’t even wobble me.

One of the guys in the truck hollered, “He ain’t down yet, Huffy!”

I looked at Huffy… waiting the second punch but it never came. If it did, I would have defended myself. We would have had a full on scrap. But as it turned out… we didn’t.

Why didn’t I swing back? Why did I let him hit me without a physical response? Did I feel overmatched? No. Not in the slightest. Then why?

I thought about this often, sometimes obsessively… over the next days, weeks, months… even years.

In my mind… this fight wasn’t between Brian Huffstutler and Bart Munson. It was the guys in the truck against me. It was Kevin Gibbons against me. It was Carlo, Sparky and Greg against me. It was all of my former friends against me. It was my family against me. It was Madrid, Iowa against me.

I could fight back against one guy but I was overwhelmed with the size and scope of my enemy. At least… my perceived enemy. And we all know the saying, “Perception is reality.”

I stood there. Hands at my sides.

Huffy sneered at me. Told me what he thought of me. Advised me to watch my back. Then he jogged across the highway and hopped into the bed of the pick-up truck as it headed toward town.

My route home changed that day and for the remaining time that I lived in Madrid. No longer did I walk along Highway 17 to 2^nd Street. That whole way was high traffic. The most traveled roads in Madrid.

Instead, I crossed the highway almost immediately and would jog behind the Dairy Sweet and would walk through backyards. Every time I came to a road, I would stay hidden by a house, or shrubs until I could see that no cars were coming from either direction. Once the coast was clear, I’d sprint across the street and duck in between houses again. I would follow this zig zag pattern until I reached the houses across from my own house on 2^nd Street. Because that was the busiest street in town… I’d sometimes wait minutes before the road was clear of cars in both directions and then I’d sprint to my house.

I did this every school day for more than a year. I learned what houses had dogs in their backyard and which houses didn’t. I learned who had sheds, canoes, vegetable gardens and who hung their clothes out to dry.

I didn't want to be seen. I didn't want to be a target. 

I hated life and I wanted out.

"Eroding Friendships" Submission #35

Continuing the theme of eroding friendships…

Although the neighborhood kids were the first friendships I had developed when I moved to Madrid during the summer of 1969, Kevin Gibbons was the first friend I made once school started. He was in my class and we quickly formed a bond. Being the “new kid” in town and at a new school, I was very thankful to have a buddy that could help ease my transitions.

Kevin came from a good, solid family. He was the younger of two boys born to “Pinky” and Ramona Gibbons. His dad was a real estate agent and had actually been the one who sold us our house on Union Street. He also had a distinctive hue of reddish hair and thus the nickname “Pinky,” … I think.

Kevin invited me for a sleepover one Friday night during the fall of our fifth grade year. I was super excited and I counted down the days as that Friday night approached.

I remember marveling at the structure of the Gibbons’ household… the cleanliness of their house, the strict order of planned events during my visit and the precise time of “lights out” when it was time for us to retire for the evening.

It was different… but I liked it. Actually… I loved it. I ached for a family life that resembled the Gibbons family. But that was nothing more than a pipe dream for me. It would never happen.

Kevin and I remained pretty good friends over the following years. Not “best friends” but good friends as our closeness ebbed and flowed through the seasons of our lives. He was a good athlete and we played on a number of teams together. We were the two pitchers on the Madrid Sox during our early teen years and we pushed each other, in a healthy way, to be better ball players.

Sometime early in our freshman year of high school, our relationship began to take a turn south. Heck… it wasn’t only Kevin… it was most everyone that had once been considered a friend. I seemed to be the common denominator in these deteriorating relationships and thus, most of the blame was likely attributable to me.

Living on 2^nd Street, I lived on what was considered the “main drag” of town. Every time someone “scooped the loop,” which most every driving teen did with regularity, they passed my house. Just a few blocks west was the downtown area. So we had frequent car, as well as foot traffic traveling by our humble abode.

One brisk night in the fall of 1973, my freshman year, I heard some muffled voices emanating from outside of our front door. Dusk had long since passed and it was fairly dark outside. I walked into our den, which had windows overlooking our porch and front yard… just to see if I recognized the travelers passing by.

As it turned out, the “travelers” had stopped and they seemed to be eyeing my 10-speed bike that I had wedged between the handrail leading up to our front porch and some bushes. Not an unusual practice. I never felt there was much of a threat to have my junky bike stolen… so I rarely, if ever, felt the need to lock it up in my garage.

The bike was “junky” but it was my sole source of transportation to and from school and around town. Without it… my feet handled the assignment. I preferred my bike.

I strained to make out the shapes and faces of my visitors as my curiosity grew. There were three of them. They seemed to be about my age.

The streetlight over their left shoulders illuminated them just enough for me to notice that one of

them was wearing a jean jacket and I knew of only one guy that wore a jean jacket as his go-to fashion statement… and that was my old friend, Kevin Gibbons.

My suspicion was confirmed when I heard him laugh. It was Kevin. His laugh was as distinctive as his jacket. Who was he with and what were they doing?

Thinking that nothing nefarious was afoot, I started to turn and make my way out the front door to greet my buddy when the trio suddenly grew quiet and Kevin pulled something out of his pocket. I froze and squinted my eyes trying to identify the mystery object.

He raised the item, secure in his fist and thrust it downward onto the back tire of my bike. It was a small pocket knife.

His first attempt didn’t puncture the tire. He tried it two more times. No luck. The group chuckled. Finally, on the fourth try… POP! Success. Tire… dead.

Not content with just disabling the back tire, he went after the front tire. Learning from previous experience, Kevin punctured it on his first attempt, to the delight of his, still unidentified, cohorts. And with that… they vacated the premises in a dead sprint.

I stood there for what felt like about ten minutes. Motionless. Stunned. Angry. But more than anything… deeply hurt.

It really wasn’t about the bike so much. As I said… the bike was junk. This was about the death of a longtime friendship. This was an act that I would never have expected from Kevin Gibbons… Pinky and Ramona’s boy. The kid from that buttoned up family that had befriended me four years earlier when I was new to town.

I was the only one home. I wouldn’t have told anyone had they been home. This was yet another component, added to the private storm that swirled within me. I walked upstairs and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep much that night. My mind kept replaying what my eyes had witnessed… over and over again. The only deviation my mind allowed was when I pondered how I would approach Kevin when I saw him at school the next day. What would I say? What would I do? Would I say or do anything at all?

The next morning, I walked to school.

Second period, Art class. Our teacher was “Jake.” Yeah… that’s what Mr. Stoudt allowed us to call him. Jake… the cool, relevant, hip teacher. This was the first class of the day that Kevin and I shared. In fact, our assigned seats were right next to each other. We picked them that way… the first day of school… back when we were friends.

I reached my seat first, knowing that Kevin would arrive shortly. A few seconds later, I felt the back of his hand gently tap me on my right arm as he dropped his books on the shared table in front of us. “Hey.” He said… still standing… wearing his jean jacket.

It was a normal greeting. Just like every other day. Obviously… he didn’t know that I knew.

“You know what’s really fun, Kev?” I didn’t let him answer. “It’s really fun to pop the tires on your friend’s bike. That’s REALLY, REALLY fun! Don’t you think?”

I looked up at him… standing… staring straight ahead with an awkward and forced grin on his face. I think he struggled… initially… with how to respond to being unexpectedly confronted.

I wanted him to apologize. I wanted him to tell me that he didn’t know why he did it and that it was a dumb stunt. I wanted him to lie to me if he had to. I wanted him to still be my friend and I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

“Yep.” He finally offered, as he took his seat. “That really IS fun.”

I stared at him. He stared back, his smile was gone.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Another friendship… over.

"The Equity of Friendship: Overdrawn" Submission #34

What I am about to write about, starting with this and the next several blog submissions, is a narrative of events which ultimately led me… drove me… to the most transformative decisions and moves of my entire life. I am going to attempt to portray my life during a miserable two year period. My chronology might be a bit off on some of the events but I’m confident that the details are highly accurate as they are burned deeply into the most inner recesses of my mind and spirit.

I attended Madrid High School (Iowa) my freshman and sophomore years and they were arguably the worse two years of my life. I lived in a constant state of anxiety, depression, questioning, fear and self-loathing.

I had no idea who I was or what I wanted to become. I had no role models to emulate. I had no adult to counsel me. I had no discernible path to follow.

I viewed God as a lucky rabbit’s foot who existed for the sole purpose of bailing me out of jams and the fact that I seemed to perpetually be in hot water, rendered His existence in serious doubt.

I have chronicled in detail the instability and total dysfunction of my home life… a mismatched blended family, checked-out alcoholic parents and the constant threat of verbal and physical warfare.

So there’s that…

But what drove that undesirable, miserable lifestyle even further into the bowels of a living hell was a distinctive downward turn in my social life. My friends… or, in most cases… my former friends.

Life is tough enough to navigate through the ups and downs of puberty and the transition that is supposed to lead to adulthood. For me… the discomfort and awkwardness of those years were greatly compounded by my personal circumstances.

Let me hasten to say that I do not consider myself a total victim in all of this. I mean… obviously, there wasn’t a lot I could do to remedy the trials and tribulations inside my home, but when it came to the downward spiral of my life outside the home… I must own some culpability.

The decisions to involve myself with a variety of rebellious acts, behavioral mischief, a lack of effort and engagement at school, drugs and alcohol were mine. Nobody forced me. Nobody pressured me. I, and I alone, am responsible for those decisions and the subsequent fallout.

Actions and attitude… that’s on me.

Then there were the friends…

At best… I was abandoned by many “friends” and at worst... I actually became the “sworn enemy” to

some. Kids can be cruel… and sometimes, we bring a little bit of the cruelty upon ourselves. I brought a lot of this on myself… I think. I mean… how else could it have happened?

One night, I was at a basketball game at the high school. There was a group of us sitting in the stands, top row… with our backs against the brick wall. Rod Isolini, me, Don Friedmeyer and Sparky (Mark Gibbons.) Sitting in that order.

We were always cutting up in some fashion. That night was no different. I don’t remember what was said exactly… but Donny cut Iso down with a verbal jab of some sort. It was clever and cutting. I was sitting between them… and I began to chuckle at the quip. Suddenly, Iso put the butt of his hand against my forehead and slammed my head against the brick wall.

He was ticked and in my mind, he was displaying his wrath against the wrong guy… Donny is the guy that cut him down… I just laughed.

I couldn’t figure it out… until years later. The truth of what was happening during those years was a revelation to me and at least gave me a viable working theory into the complexities of teen relationship dynamics.

Relationships are built and maintained with an emotional currency that is difficult to explain. And the more equity that is gained in a friendship, the more withdrawals we are allowed, while maintaining the strong bond of friendship.

In other words, when we screw up with a close friend… we lie to them or we gossip about them… when we somehow disappoint them… maybe laugh at them… we, in essence, make a withdrawal against our friendship. But because we have years of relationship equity built up, it doesn’t destroy the friendship. It just temporarily weakens it.

But when you continue to make withdrawals… and you have ceased to make deposits… you eventually become overdrawn and the fundamentals of the relationship become compromised… usually for good.

That’s what happened between me and Rod Isolini that night. He and I used to be close friends but over time, my smart aleck attitude obviously wore thin with him. And that was totally me… if I had the choice between making a humorous, cutting remark against someone with a good possibility of making the audience chuckle and being sensitive enough to refrain for fear of hurting their feelings… I’d choose the humorous, cutting remark every time.

Donny made the joke and I laughed at Rod. Donny still had equity in his friendship with Rod, the public humiliation of my laughing at him officially put my account in arrears. He chose to retaliate physically.

Our friendship was over.

It would only get worse between Rod and me. Much worse.

"The Protocol of Stoners" Submission #33

A continuation from Submission #32

We grabbed our coats and made our way out to the high school parking lot.

It was January in Iowa or to put it another way… it was face-numbing cold! The ground was covered with a thick blanket of snow and the wind was whipping out of the north at a brisk pace.

Huffy and I trudged towards Hallsy’s dark colored van, hands thrust deep into our pockets, the snow crunching loudly with every step. We piled into the van, already occupied by Hallsy and someone else… I really can’t remember who… I just remember there were four of us.

We pulled out of the school parking lot and headed south on Highway 17 and then made a left on Highway 210, by the bowling alley. We called it the Slater Road because, well… if you stayed on it for six miles… you’d end up in the town of Slater. Yeah… we were a clever bunch.

I don’t recall the conversation, or if there was any conversation at all. I just knew we were on a journey that would end with yet another experience that would contribute to my downward spiral. I was nervous.

Oddly enough, we ended up at a cemetery two miles east of Madrid, just past the railroad tracks. We pulled into the entryway and Hallsy maneuvered the van toward the back corner. The snow was deep and you could hear the tires spinning several times as it felt like we might get stuck. We ended up next to an old shed as we tried to hide our presence from any traffic that happened to pass by.

With only the faint light from the moon, you could see the tips of tombstones sticking out of the snow. It was so eerily quiet with only the wind gusts providing a sound. I was creeped out. Just the four of us and a bunch of dead people… prospective Democrat voters. Why did we pick a cemetery as the location to get high? Oh well, I guess it added some flavor to the story that I would eventually share.

Huffy pulled out a box of Marlboro cigarettes and popped open the top. Alongside the neatly packaged, filter tipped cancer sticks were a couple, hand-rolled joints. Doobies.

He pulled one out and fired it up, as he took a long drag. He made a hissing sound as he inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with smoke and then he held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling, creating a massive cloud inside the van.

“Interesting,” I thought. “There seems to be a technique happening here. Who knew?”

The joint was passed around, which I thought was odd. How come I couldn’t have one of my own? I never passed a cigarette around to my friends… or a bottle of beer. Weird.

The protocol of stoners.

When the joint came to me for the first time, I tried my best to employ the same technique I’d seen demonstrated by my more experienced comrades. I wanted to fit in. I wanted to look cool. I wanted to look like I’d done this before but all four of us knew that wasn’t the case and that fact became painfully obvious when I sucked the smoke into my lungs and my lungs immediately said, “OH NO YOU DON’T!”

It felt like someone had slit my trachea with a razor blade. I coughed so hard, I swear a piece of my lung came flying out. My coughing spell lasted for several minutes, which apparently was hilariously funny to the other three guys. They howled with laughter. It was as though I was a pledge to a fraternity and they were putting me through a little hazing but to be honest, I wasn’t having very much fun.

I took my turn several more times, albeit with gentle drags… trying to take it easy on my reluctant lungs. When it was all said and done, I felt a minor buzz but that’s all. Bad quality weed or a failure to correctly inhale? Maybe both.

The deed was done and we needed to head back to town.  Hallsy popped the van in reverse and pressed on the gas. We could hear the tires spinning but the vehicle wasn’t moving. He pressed down harder and the tires spun faster… but we didn’t move. We were stuck and as it turned out, stuck pretty good.

Three of us hopped out and pushed and heaved as Hallsy attempted to maneuver the wheels to such an angle that would gain some traction. No luck. We entertained the notion of walking back to town but quickly dismissed it as a “bad idea.” So we kept pushing for probably a solid half hour.

Finally, we broke loose and the van started rolling backwards. We jumped in, dying to get some heat on our frost bitten hands. I looked down and noticed that Huffy wasn’t wearing any shoes. He didn’t even realize it. They had both come off as we were pushing the van. He found them… stuck in the snow. Maybe the quality of that marijuana was stronger than I thought!

It was spring and the weather had warmed considerably before my second experience with weed. My buddy, Kevin Gibbons and I had scored a “nickel bag” and I had purchased a small, home-made pipe from… someone… I don’t remember who.

There was a dance being held in the log cabin at Edgewood Park and we thought it would be a great idea if we showed up stoned.

Kevin met me at my house. My parents were home and so we decided to find an alternate location to smoke our pot. It was still light outside. We decided to head toward the park and figure out a good spot along the way.

That “spot” ended up being the Christian Church, a block west from my house. On the backside of the church, hidden by some overgrown bushes, was a porch, tall enough for us to comfortably crawl underneath. Perfect. Nobody would see us.

We filled the bowl of the pipe and lit it up. We passed it back and forth, as I had learned from my “stoner pals.” I don’t recall how many bowls we made it through but before we crawled out from under the church porch, I was higher than a kite. This felt totally different than being drunk.

I felt like I was in a cartoon. I didn’t feel real. I kept looking at my hands and my fingers, as though I'd discovered them for the very first time. 

My surroundings looked like animation and everything suddenly turned very humorous. We laughed the entire way to the park and once we got to the park, I became the best dancer in the place… at least in my mind.

Getting high became a routine activity after that. Whenever I wanted to escape the reality of my miserable existence… and it WAS a very miserable existence… I got stoned.

I stole money from my parents to buy my dope. I became brazen enough to smoke it in my own bedroom… often. My sanctuary. A room in the house that my parents never, ever visited. A blessing and a curse.

For me… life sucked. I didn’t know if I wanted to continue living it but getting high allowed me to escape those heavy thoughts and dark questions… even if it was only for a little while.

"Up In Smoke" Submission #32

In the 1950’s, the term “stoned” was coined to describe somebody that was “under the influence.” Similar to “drunk” or “high.” In the late 1970’s, a derivative of that word, a noun, “Stoner,” entered the American vernacular and was used to describe, primarily, one who frequently smoked marijuana.

So, even though we weren’t actually using the term “stoner” in 1974, at Madrid High School… we had our “stoners” and everyone knew who they were. Steve “Hallsey” Hall, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler, the Udorvich boys… and a number of others.

I can vividly remember many occasions passing one of these guys in the hallway or in class, usually before our first class of the day… and smelling the strong and distinct odor of pot. And you knew what they had been doing on the way to school or in their cars out in the school parking lot.

The smell stuck to their jackets, their clothes and their hair. Their half closed eyes and dazed smiles were further evidence of their impairment. I often thought that if I knew they were high, surely the teachers knew also. But they never said anything or did anything… at least not that I was aware of.

I didn’t hang out with this group much. I mean… we knew each other… heck, everyone knew everyone in Madrid. But other than being friends for a bit with Huffy in junior high… I wasn’t part of the “stoners.” But my curiosity about getting high was something that began to creep into my consciousness during my freshman year of high school.

I sat by Huffy in a couple of classes and I began to ask him about his experiences with weed. I asked him about the difference between getting high and being drunk. I asked him about cost and availability. I learned that it was packaged and sold in denominations such as a nickel bag, a dime bag or a lid.

He didn’t divulge who the dealers were but he assured me that he could procure it for me if I ever wanted some and could produce the cash. Huffy was as good as a used car salesman. His words intrigued me and his stories fascinated me. But I wasn’t ready to commit to an actual transaction.

One Friday night in January of 1974, the whole town (it seemed) had packed the gymnasium for a basketball game. The Madrid Tigers boys’ basketball team was state rated in the top 10 and the community was abuzz. We were not used to that level of success from any of our teams. It was an exciting time.

The team was led by a couple of seniors… Kevin Munson (my cousin) and Jim “Coba” Nicoletto, who had captured the imagination of high school sports fans across the state. Coba was a gifted, 4-sport athlete who nearly had his athletic career ended the year before in a freak accident during a baseball game.

Coba, who was the varsity catcher, threw off his mask as he prepared for a play at the plate. The runner barreled into him at full speed and his elbow crashed into the area around Coba’s right eye. Jim Nicoletto would never see out of that eye again.

The whole town lamented the loss of Madrid’s best high school athlete and wept over the fact that his senior year would be a total loss… athletically speaking. The problem was that someone forgot got to tell Coba that he was done participating in sports.

A couple games into the next football season, the townspeople were shocked to see Coba suited up for the game and standing on the sidelines. They were even more surprised to see him inserted into the running back position during Madrid’s first possession.

Coba finished that game with over 200 yards rushing and a legend was born.

Yes, he played basketball too, despite the fact that he was blind in his shooting eye and he competed at a level far beyond anyone’s expectations. His leadership and his skills on the court led the Tigers to a #8 rating in the state that season.

Now… what does this story about Jim Nicoletto have to do with the “stoners” and my first experience with pot? Other than the fact that I was watching him play on the night that I first smoked a reefer… absolutely nothing. It is just a great story and I wanted to tell it!

It was almost halftime. I didn’t see him at first but I suddenly smelled the aroma of cannabis.  Huffy had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and sat next to me. He had never sat next to me at a game in his life, so I knew something was up.

“You wanna take a ride?” He grinned broadly as I pondered his offer.

“Where to?” I stalled.

He repeated the question with exaggerated pauses between the words, as though he were speaking to someone from a foreign country. “Do… you… want… to… take… a… ride? Yes or no?”

I caught on to his cryptic utterings. At least I thought I did. This must have something to do with the topic that we had been discussing nonstop for a few weeks… his friend, Mary Jane.

"The Unlearned Lessons of Life" Submission #31

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.

"We Denied... He Smirked" Submission #30

Alcohol, rifles, teenagers… and a vehicle. Can you think of a worse combination? That sounded perfectly fine to me back in the mid-1970’s when I was doing my best to sow my wild oats, but now… as a father of five… it causes me to break into a cold sweat.

Mike Fischer (Fisch), Denny Young (Farmer) and me.

After about an hour of driving around in our small town and consuming our fair share of alcohol, we stopped at Mike’s house to pick up some rifles. I don’t recall but I have to assume that Mike’s parents were not at home. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t have carte blanche to remove their firearms from the gun cabinet and go target shooting with a couple drunk teenagers.

We drove somewhere north and west of town and ended up at the Des Moines River near the town of Luther. I do not have a clear recollection of this portion of the adventure. I vaguely remember shooting, laughing and using the river as my personal restroom. But that’s about it.

My memory becomes a lot clearer with what happened next…

 

Dusk was setting in and we decided we’d better call it a day and get those guns back in the gun cabinet at the Fischer household. So, we made our way south on Highway 17 towards Madrid.

On the northern edge of town sat our beautiful and pristine high school. It was just a few years old at that point in time. As we passed by the school… it was as if we all had the same idea at the same time.

Farmer whipped into the driveway of the school and followed the circular roadway until it brought us right in front of the school student center. It’s where we ate lunch, had study halls and congregated between classes and after school.

The front of the student center was a grid of 4 foot by 4 foot windows with black metal trim. The windows went from floor to ceiling.

We sat there for a few seconds and looked at those windows. Buoyed by our consumption of liquid courage, Fisch and I hung the rifles out the car windows and squeezed the trigger. My senses were overwhelmed with the sounds of gunshots and of glass shattering, the smell of gun smoke and the feeling that we just did something really, really bad.

We needed to do two things very quickly, 1) vacate the school premises before anyone saw us and 2) rid ourselves of any criminal evidence.

Fisch lived a couple blocks from the school and so we promptly drove to his house where he quickly put the rifles away. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Nobody would ever find out.

It was now dark and I needed Farmer to drop me off at the bowling alley where I could grab my bike and peddle home.

“Let’s just scoop the loop one more time before I drop you off.” Farmer suggested.

Bad decision.

My house was on a corner at 216 East 2^nd Street… on the main drag of town, a couple blocks east of the downtown business area. Part of the “loop” that everyone “scooped.”

After we turned west on 2^nd Street from Highway 17 and just before we made it to my house, we got lit up. The cops.

“Oh Sh*%!” Farmer muttered.

 Farmer turned left on Cedar Street which bordered the east side of my house and pulled over. I could see my mom through the window, working the crossword puzzle from the Boone News Republican. She had no idea that I was a matter of 30 feet away from her, drunk… and about to answer to Madrid’s finest.

Farmer was driving down the middle of the road, straddling the yellow line. Seems he forgot that it was customary to drive on the right side of the line. So we got pulled over… right next to my house.

The cop pulled us all out of the car, asked to smell our breath and then accused us all of drinking. The nerve!

We denied… he smirked.

I feel like I sobered up in a hurry at that point.

He didn’t cuff us but he did order us into his back seat. We were going for a little ride to the Madrid Police Station.

Farmer was 18 and was of legal age to drink at that time… except it was illegal to drink and drive… obviously. So, they immediately packed him up and took him to Boone for a blood test.

They separated Fisch and me. Took us to separate rooms. Odd. What was going on?

I sat in a small room for what seemed like an eternity. I was scared, sweating… and promising God all sorts of stuff if He’d just get me out of this jam. A “jam” that was about to get a lot worse!

Finally… a cop came in and pulled up a chair and sat in front of me… his nose no more than 6 inches away from mine. Just like the movies. Intimidating. Thought for sure that I was about to get roughed up. My stomach was churning and my legs were jelly.

His opening volley, “What do you know about windows getting shot out at the high school today?”

“What?!?”

“How in the world did he know?” I thought as the color drained from my face and I began to feel feint.

“Nothing… sir. I don’t know what you are talking about.” I lied.

He wasn’t done. He told me that he was sure that I was involved and that it was only a matter of time before the truth came out. But I was determined that the truth would not come from me… deny, deny, deny!

Weary of his lack of progress, he grabbed me by the shoulder and led me back into the lobby where Fisch was sitting. We were told that our parents had been called and they were on their way to pick us up.

“If you think this is over,” He growled, “think again.”

Wide eyed… I just nodded.

I turned to Fisch and whispered, “He asked me about shooting out the high school windows!”

“Me too!” Fisch responded.

“Did you admit to it?” I asked.

“No! Did you?” He asked

“Of course not!” I said.

Good! We were in the clear…

Or so we thought…

"Firewater and Firearms" Submission #29

After several hours of early morning drinking at Mike Fischer’s house, I stumbled home at about four in the morning. This wasn’t the first time for this scenario to play out.

My typical protocol had me sneaking out of my bedroom window when I left... and then simply but quietly, walking in my unlocked front door when I returned. My parents would be in an alcohol induced coma with very little chance of hearing me, no matter how noisy my arrival.

So... no worries.

But remember, my parents were in Cincinnati, Ohio... at a bowling tournament and my step-grandma Edna was staying the weekend with us and making sure we stayed out of trouble. If only she knew.

With that in mind, as best as I could at my level of intoxication, I stepped lightly onto our porch, wearing my white Converse Chuck Taylor’s (no socks) and grabbed the hand rail in an effort to stabilize myself as my head spun in circles.

The moths were relentlessly flying around the illuminated porch light as I slowly pulled open the screen door and grabbed the knob to our front door and turned... wait... it wasn't turning! Why wasn't it turning? It always turned! 

It always turned… unless someone had locked it. But we never locked our front door… ever.

I was drunk on a porch... locked out of my house.

Grandma Edna had locked the front door.

I ran around the house to the back door. It was locked. I stood there for a moment… listening to the crickets chirp… trying to devise a plan.

I began to circle the house… looking for a downstairs window that was open. My last chance was the kitchen window and as luck would have it, it was open. Unfortunately, the bottom of the window was about seven feet from the ground and well out of my reach.

I found a small stool on our patio and put it up against the house, beneath the kitchen window. It got me closer to my goal but this would be a challenge even if I were sober… which I wasn’t.

I removed the screen, tossing it onto the yard and grabbed the window sill. I leaped as I simultaneously pulled with my arms and got my chest on the sill as my head entered the interior of our kitchen. It was pitch black. Couldn’t see a thing. 

We had a portable, electric dishwasher that
connected to the kitchen faucet when in use and when we were done with it, we would wheel it against the wall, right under that kitchen window... where it sat most of the time.

As I hovered in the darkness of our kitchen… half of my body in and half of my body out... I thrust myself forward with the goal of landing on top of the dishwasher. As it turned out, the dishwasher wasn’t there. Grandma Edna had decided to do a load of dishes before she went to bed.

I crashed head first onto the linoleum floor about four feet below the window. It was loud… and painful. I just knew that Grandma Edna, who was sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, would be out to investigate just as soon as she could locate her robe. I hoped she wasn't bringing a weapon.

So I just lay there on the cold floor… awaiting the patter of her footsteps and drawing a blank as I attempted to dream up an explanation for my folly. I waited… and waited… and waited… until I fell asleep. She never came. Sound sleeper.

I awoke at first light and all was quiet except for the pounding in my head. I got up and tip-toed toward my grandma’s bedroom. The door was shut. She was still sleeping.

I was still drunk but somehow had the sense to go outside and put the screen on the kitchen window. I quietly climbed the stairs to my bedroom and fell on my bed… fully clothed… and slept until two that afternoon.

Still undefeated.

I ran into Fisch and Farmer a week later. This time, we upped the stakes.

It was a Saturday. The afternoon had begun innocently enough and a few hours before dusk, I got the urge to play some pinball down at the Madrid Bowling Alley. I was a pinball wizard… or at least I thought I was.

Playing pinball at Wayne Novotny’s bowling alley was a favorite pastime for teens in Madrid. In a small town where not much happens… our entertainment options were severely limited. So we’d spend hours beating up that old pinball machine, racking up as many free games as we could earn.

I hopped on my ten-speed and rode the half mile or so. Just as I turned into the parking lot off Highway 210, I see a car flying right at me and it wasn’t slowing down. I froze and just squeezed my eyes shut… not wanting to see the point of impact.

I heard the brakes lock up and the wheels squeal as the speeding car stopped inches from me. I didn’t open my eyes until I heard some raucous laughter coming from inside the would-be assassin’s car. Farmer was behind the wheel and Mike Fischer was in the passenger seat.

“Did we scare ya Munson?” Fisch laughed.

“I’m pretty sure I wet myself.” I reported.

We all laughed.

“Get in.” Farmer ordered.

“Nah… I’m gonna play a little pinball. I’ll catch up with you guys later.’

“C’mon Munson… you can play pinball anytime.” Mike tried to persuade me.

I retorted, “I can hang out with you guys anytime too. I’m playing me some pinball.”

Farmer broke the stalemate. “But we got boooo – ooooze!” He smiled as he held up a pint of vodka. Smirnoff. The seal yet unbroken.

That’s all it took.

I leaned my bike against the wall of the bowling alley and hopped into the backseat of the car.

Fisch pulled a can of orange flavored Hi-C from a brown grocery bag and pierced a hole on either side of the top with an old fashioned can opener. He held the can out the window as he dumped half of the contents onto the pavement below. He broke the seal on the pint of vodka and dumped the whole bottle into the orange drink.

 A traveling screwdriver. Genius.

My front seat bartender handed the can to me and I began to consume the contents. I drank fast. I never really liked the taste of booze much… I just wanted to get drunk. Once I reached a certain level of intoxication, the bad taste ceased bothering me.

The boys were already looped by the time they had picked me up and so I caught up with them in a hurry.

You could only scoop the loop in Madrid so many times before total boredom sets in. It was close to dusk.

“Whattaya want to do now,” Farmer asked us.

“Hey, I got some guns at my house.” Mike offered. “Let’s go do some target shooting, huh?”

Why not? Firewater and firearms! What could go wrong?

We headed to Fisch’s house.