"Temporary Reprieve" - Submission #39

Obviously... I didn't do it. I didn't harm myself. Partly because I didn't have the guts to go through with it. But mostly because I had received a reprieve of sorts. I had decided to throw a Hail Mary and ask my mom if I could go out to California for part of the summer. You know, spend some much needed bonding time with my three brothers... chill out at Huntington Beach... maybe attend church a little... try to find myself. 

After days of psyching myself up, I presented my case with passion, emotion and yes, even a few tears. I was desperate. It paid off.

To my utter amazement... she agreed. Miracle! I was heading to California! Far away from my patchwork, dysfunctional family and toxic home life. Far away from the hostility of those whom had once been my friends. Far away from the small, Midwestern town that seemingly did not like me anymore... if it ever did at all.

"One month," mom told me. A one-month vacation in California.

There were a couple negative aspects to taking this trip. 

One... I'd have to miss my sophomore year of baseball, as the Iowa high school baseball season took place in the summer. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a deal breaker. Miss a baseball season? Are you kidding me? But during this season of my life... yes, I would gladly miss a baseball season for this great escape.

Two... the plane tickets purchased included a return trip. The escape would be temporary. The thought of this depressed me... so I tried not to think about it.

As the final days of my sophomore year counted down, I kept quiet about my pending trip to the golden state. I'm not sure why. You'd think that I would be shouting it from the mountain tops. Maybe I thought talking about it would jinx it. Or maybe I thought revealing my plans would result in a stronger urgency for those who wanted to do me harm. Or maybe... I just thought that nobody would care.

I don't remember the exact date, but it was in the month of June... 1975... when I flew into LA. My brother Bill (the preacher) picked me up at the airport. He seemed genuinely excited to see me as he rattled off all that we could do while I was there.

As it turned out, I spent very little time with Bill while I was there... which was ironic given the events that would unfold in the months to come. More on that later.

I chose to stay with my brother, Bob, first. I'm not sure exactly how that choice was made but I'm certain it had something to do with his plentiful stash of cannabis, pipes, rolling papers, hash oil and other related paraphernalia. In my massively misguided thinking, these were key components to my summer "escape."   

Bob lived in the Orange County community of Los Alamitos. The small, 2-bedroom house he rented was crammed onto a small piece of property that held two houses... One in the front and one in the back with a shared driveway. Bob lived in the front. He had no garage and a front yard about the size of a postage stamp. A chain link fence enclosed the property.

Bob worked the swing shift at his job and wasn't home when we arrived. His live-in girlfriend, Ginny, greeted us cheerfully at the door. Ginny was a pretty, dark skinned Latina with long, thick black hair and an ever-present smile. She was cheerful and had such a servant spirit about her that it was almost uncomfortable at times. Very Stepford wife-ish.

Ginny was a waitress at a local restaurant that Bob frequented... the "Casa Castillo," an upscale Mexican restaurant in a busy strip mall on Seal Beach Boulevard. That's where they met.

Ginny was a recent divorcee with two children who lived with their father. Within a month of their meeting, they moved in together.

After a bit, Bill left and I spent the afternoon and evening getting to know Ginny better. Being 16 and somewhat socially awkward, I was pretty uncomfortable despite Ginny's efforts to make me feel at home. She made me the best tacos ever, followed by these huge chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven. Man... she could cook!

Bob and Ginny had only one car between them... a Volkswagen Beetle. Bob's shift ended at 11PM and so we hopped into the bug to go pick him up at about 10:30.

LeFiell Manufacturing Company had played an important role in the Munson family over the years. My mom worked there briefly in the early 1960's. My dad was a machinist at LeFiell up until he was stricken with cancer in 1968. My brother, Butch, got a job there right after graduating high school in 1967 and would retire from LeFiell some 48 years later. Bob followed the family tradition, working at the plant for 27 years... until he was let go after testing positive for marijuana somewhere around the year 2000.

Bob came strolling out with a stream of employees promptly at 11, empty lunchbox in hand. Ginny hopped out of the car and jumped in the back seat. Bob settled in the driver's seat, slugged me in the arm and pulled out of the parking lot.

We briefly engaged in some small talk before Bob pulled a hard pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. He flipped it open and thumbed through the content before pulling out a tightly rolled joint. 

"Here we go!" I thought.

Driving south on Bloomfield Boulevard toward Los Al, Bob lit the joint and took a long drag... and then held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before slowly exhaling. He handed the joint to me. I followed suit.

Ginny held up her hand and shook her head "no," and so Bob and I passed the joint back and forth until it was almost completely consumed. Bob opened the ashtray, retrieved a roach clip and clamped it to the end of the joint. I finished it off.

Within seconds, I was higher than a kite. I had been smoking pot for a couple years at this point but I had never felt such an intense high as that June evening in Southern California. I felt like I was floating inside the car... like an astronaut floating inside his space capsule.

"What the hell is this stuff?" I asked incredulously.

He told me the name of it. Said it was grown in the deep south of Mexico. It was known for its potency.

Um... yeah.

As if that wasn't enough... we got home and Bob rolled an "oiler." He put some marijuana on a saucer and used a toothpick to mix in some drops of a dark liquid from a small vile. Hash oil. He mixed it together... almost like a stir fry... and then rolled it into a joint using his Zig Zag brand papers.

 

We hit the "oiler" until it was gone... and then I was... gone. Waaaaaaay gone!

Bob had me lay back in his big, yellow bean bag chair and close my eyes. He put some headphones on my ears and cranked up the sound as Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird" blasted my eardrums. The feeling of floating was quickly replaced with the sensation of spinning. I lay there for a minute or so... hoping that the spinning would slow down... or stop. It didn't.  

When I couldn't take it anymore, I quickly sat up, threw the headphones off and threw open my eyes. Bob and Ginny were sitting on the couch... but I couldn't focus my eyes on them because they were vibrating rapidly, up and down. 

I felt sick to my stomach and I knew I was about to hurl. I got up and dashed toward the front door, stumbling and falling before I reached for the doorknob. Bob ran ahead and opened the door as I groped my way past him.

On my hands and knees, I vomited violently into the flower bed. I'm not certain but I'm pretty sure that partially digested tacos and cookies didn't make a very good plant food.

Bob sat next to me with his hand on my back. Every time I threw up, he'd say, "Alright man... get it all out. You're okay. Now you'll feel better." A vomiting coach of sorts.

I stayed on my hands and knees for about 10 minutes... until I was certain that I was done. Eventually, I looked up at Bob and started laughing hysterically and asked, "What's for dinner? I'm starved!"

Wow! If that first night was any indication of what was to come that summer of '75, and it was... this was most certainly going to be a wild ride.

Welcome to California!

"He Was Only 16" - Submission #38

I don't recall exactly why it happened. I don't remember if it was a singular event... a flashpoint... or if it developed over time. All I know is that the word on the street was that my former buddy, Rod was after me and was patiently awaiting the opportunity to fight me... to teach me a lesson of some sort. And he became very vocal about it. Everyone knew. He made sure of that.

I have never been one who has sought the spotlight. I've never enjoyed being the center of attention. I tried to avoid being that guy. It was particularly dreadful when my name was on the lips of many for all the wrong reasons. This was one of those times.

As horrible as this time was for me... how much worse would it have been if we had the social media that we have today? I can only imagine. It would have been brutal.

Rod and I were really good friends at one point. We hung out together all the time the summer

after 8th grade. We used to hike along some old, abandoned railroad tracks north of town, looking for the ideal spot to build a fort. We even drew up plans with sizes and dimensions. We searched for wood and other building materials and when we found some, we'd haul it out to our build site. This was going to be the coolest hangout spot ever.

We never built the fort. But that was okay. It was the fantasy and the planning that was fun and helped us forge that bond of friendship that summer.

In less than two years’ time, that friendship had not only eroded into nothing but had morphed into hostility. Violent hostility.

It was the tail end of my sophomore year of high school. 1975. The weather had warmed up after months of frigid temperatures, snow and a collective case of cabin fever for the teens of Madrid, Iowa. Outdoor activities had picked up for everyone... except me, it seemed. I was hiding out. Other than attending school, I was in total seclusion.

I went to school. I came home from school. And the routes I took were as stealth as I could make them. Avoid the busier streets, cut through the back yards as much as possible and

hide behind bushes until a street looked clear before crossing it.

Rod was a bit crazy, at least that was my perception and this is what concerned me. He didn't seem to have much discernment and discretion. I wasn't sure what he might be capable of. In retrospect... I'm sure I blew this out of proportion but nevertheless... this caused me great anxiety. I would fall asleep each night and wake up each morning... with him on my mind. It consumed me. It put me in a perpetual state of anxiety.

There was never any indication that my "friends" had my back. They were silent. I was an island. "Lonely" doesn't quite capture it. It was far, far beyond that.

Rod drove a royal blue, late model Nova. Nice set of wheels for a kid. I made it my number one priority to scan the landscape for that vehicle... no matter where I was and what I was doing. And it seems I saw it often. It was as if he was stalking me... which... he probably was.

Living on the main drag of town, there were times when I would walk out my front door... and there was that blue Nova... slowly driving by with the driver staring a hole through me. Sometimes he would turn onto the alley that ran behind my house and he would cruise by as though he were casing the joint.

To be clear, Rod was not the reason for all of my mental and emotional turmoil. He just helped create one more situation... among many... that made life miserable for me during that period of time. If every other aspect of my life would have been good… then I probably could have handled this squabble with Rod. But my existence was a dark cloud. My life sucked. I hated it. I REALLY hated it!

So, I'm just going to say this... I have never shared this with anyone for obvious reasons… I thought that ending my life might just be the best option available for me. Why not? Nobody would really care, right? Some might even be happy about it. That was my mindset and rationale.

 

I made a mental list of ways that I could carry it out... a gun to the head, a leap from the viaduct onto the railroad tracks, a bottle of pills. Strangely, I felt a sense of calm and peace as I contemplated these options. Anything that offered an escape from the misery gave me momentary solace.

I considered leaving these thoughts out of my writings. It's dark. It's highly personal. It's sensitive. It's embarrassing. But... it's the truth. It happened. If I leave it out, I'm not showing the transparency needed to paint an accurate picture of this period of time in my life. I was a mess.

Suicide is not the answer. It is never the answer. As I look back across the decades that have passed since this time in my life, the amazing wife, the tremendous children, the beautiful grandchildren that God has blessed me with... the precious friends, the momentous events, the multitude of undeserved blessings that God has bestowed upon me... I can tell you with the utmost confidence and conviction... to be patient... persevere... work through those dark seasons of your life... because God has a plan. Life will get better. You will be stronger. Do not rob your influence from the individuals who need you now and in the future.

Those are my thoughts now but they were not my thoughts then. My decision was made. I was really going to do it.

1959 – 1975

He had his whole life ahead of him.

He was only 16.

"Alone Again, Naturally" - Submission #37

The summer after my freshman year offered me the solace of baseball. I loved baseball. It was my happy place. Many of my earliest memories of life included baseball. I spent countless hours throwing a rubber ball against a wall to field ground balls or tossing a ball as high as I could to see if I could track it down and catch it. I’d lay on my back in my bedroom and repeatedly toss a ball up with my right hand and catch it with my left. Often, I would just take a baseball bat and work on the mechanics of my swing. In my mind, each swing was preceded with the fantasy that I was up in a crucial situation in the World Series. And every swing represented me swatting the game winning hit… while my adoring fans roared.

.

I’d like to think that I was a pretty decent player. I pitched and played shortstop. Two coveted positions on the diamond.

There were two teams that represented Madrid for our age group of the Senior League in the region. My team was the Sox and our evil, cross-town rival was the Dodgers. It was actually a pretty fun competition and we were the top two teams in our league.

Lovell Gordon was our coach and his son, Terry (we called him ‘Bubbles’) was our catcher. Kevin Gibbons and I rotated on the mound.

We did well that year. I think we won the league. I had made the All-Star team the year before as one of the younger players in the league and so I had every confidence that I would make it again as one of the older ones. Plus, I had a good season.

Coach Gordon was assigned the task of picking two players to represent the Sox on the All-Star team. I was confident that Kevin and I would be chosen. I was half right. Kevin was chosen… deservedly so... and Bubbles was the second choice.

I was devastated.

I’m still bitter about that.

As it would turn out, I would never play organized baseball again.

I don’t remember a whole lot about my sophomore year of high school. I certainly never dreamed it would be my final school year in Madrid. But as it turned out… it was.

Most of that year was shrouded in loneliness, fear, uncertainty and emotional pain. I was just surviving… trying to make it through each day. My family situation and social life continued on its downward trajectory.

The only semi-bright spot was basketball season. Again… sports to the rescue.

I played on the JV team and started every game. We only had six players on the squad, so being a “starter” wasn’t all that impressive. But I do remember the six players… Don Friedmeyer, Kevin Gibbons, Rod Isolini, John Horton, Randy Norton and yours truly.

My singular highlight was scoring 21 points in our very first game. I was as hot as a pistol. I never scored in double figures again.

I have a number of odd, random memories from that basketball season. One of them was a game, in our home gym. We were locked in a heated battle with only a couple seconds left to go in regulation. The score was tied and Kevin Gibbons was at the free throw line. He had a chance to win it for us. I was at half court, bent over, hands on my knees… begging God to let us win the game. I despised the very thought of losing! I tried to make a deal with the

Almighty… “God, if you allow Kevin to make this free throw, I will quit smoking. Yes… I will quit smoking cigarettes and pot. I promise!”

Don’t judge. You’ve made similar “deals” with God, right?

Kevin sunk the free throw and we won. God held up His end of the bargain… but I didn’t. I broke my promise later that night… in my bedroom. A celebratory cigarette… in the dark… alone again, naturally.

Randy Norton threw a party for the team when the season ended. The party included the essential elements... booze and chicks.

Randy had one of those “cool dads” who left us alone to party with a “You boys behave!” admonition as he winked and drove away. Yeah right. We’ll “behave” alright.

That night quickly became somewhat of a blur for me as I became quite the mixologist. I combined various liquids as though I were playing with a chemistry set. They tasted horrible at first but it didn’t take long before the taste became a nonissue. My mantra became pour and consume.

Apparently there was another party, with similar refreshments being served across town because about an hour into our shindig, a couple guys delivered one of their partiers to Randy’s house. It was a girl named Lynnette, whose older sister was with us.

I think the guys that dropped her off… did so because they were scared. They had to carry her to the house. We were drunk but Lynnette was blackout drunk. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t function. She was only 14.

I felt sorry for her. I sat on the floor by the couch where they laid her and tried to brush the hair away

from her face. Somebody had brought a bucket and set it down next to me. It was great timing because within seconds she began heaving. I grabbed the bucket with one hand and held her head up with the other as she heaved and vomited.

When she was through, I grabbed a box of tissues from the end table and began wiping around her mouth. She would occasionally open her eyes and then close them quickly as she tried to form words but her ability to speak coherently failed.

Eventually Lynnette passed out… completely.

Looking back, she really should have been taken to the hospital but we didn’t have common sense enough to make that judgment. I assume that she had never really drank before and didn’t know her limits. Painful lesson, I’m certain.

I thought about her the next day as I was working through my own hangover. I called her house to see how she was doing. She answered the phone. I had never really talked to her before and because she had zero recollection of the events from the previous night, she was awfully confused as to ‘why’ Bart Munson was calling her.

I explained… in detail. She was confused and embarrassed. I just laughed it off and told her that she had a great story to tell people in the years to come. I expressed my relief at how much better she sounded compared to the last time I’d seen her.

We ended up talking on the phone for a couple hours. So I called her again the next day and talked for a long time again.

After that, we became an item. She was the only girl that I ever gave my class ring to. She was the last girlfriend that I had in Iowa.

But what an odd start to that relationship.

The end of basketball marked the final stretch of the school year. Events would unfold that would push me to my limit and would be confronted with life changing... or ending... decisions.

"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.