When I think of my childhood adventures, I try not to over-dramatize my experiences. Knowing full well how many people had similar and much, much worse upbringings. Mine, for the most part, were very different from my friends and the kids I grew up with. What seems unique is how colorful and detailed these experiences remain. It’s almost as if I cherry-picked to relay these stories somehow with the knowledge that, in many cases, I was too young to understand what was happening right before my eyes. I try to write with a split sense of vision. One as a young observer. Another as a knowing adult.
While many, I would say, recollections feed off of repetitious encounters with regular people in my life. It’s the memory of brief encounters that baffle me. One, in particular, stands out due to how detailed I can still recall the short yet memorable meeting. By the age of eight, my parents were divorced, and my Dad had left his job at the bus company to pursue other ventures. He was involved with several hustles, including running numbers, loansharking, and illegal casino games near the local bar. Nothing too shady, yet nothing you’d bring up at school when the kids were asked, “So tell the class what your Dad does for a living..” According to the divorce, my Dad had weekend custody, and the weekends always featured nights at the bar and collecting money from those who risked but, did not cover the spread.
When my grandmother wasn’t available to watch me, my Dad would bring me along to collect money from the many degenerate gamblers I got to know over the years. One in particular stood out, and here’s why.
Imagine this muscular yet thin 6’4 Black Irishman (That’s what they called Irishmen with black hair and eyes at the time.) walking through the door with this dwarf-sized eight-year-old at his side. Imagine the mix of fear and folly. No matter the time, place, or situation. I always had that wide-eyed curiosity that amassed countless questions to fire at will throughout the night. Although we had visited many houses, apartments, and basements before. This guy’s scene was on another level. His loft apartment had several pinball machines and a giant waterbed with ceiling mirrors above it. (Now remember, I was only eight years old.) I couldn’t help but think, “Who the hell wants to look at themself when it’s time to sleep? The guy was greasy, fat, with black, wavy hair. (Former male porn star Ron Jeremy comes to mind.) Then came the big WTF? His fingernails were manicured to a standard size, with the noted exception his pinky, which was uncut and eccentrically long. At the time, I had very little knowledge of drug culture and ways to consume cocaine. It was weird and a bit scary. I remember wanting to get the hell out of there. How the experience and sacrifice might award me some Chinese food on the way home. I never returned to that place and don’t recall seeing that guy again. But the memories remain.
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