It was 97 balmy, degrees in July.

A tumultuous storm left it’s memories, in the form of vapor, which rose
from the hot asphalt, like ghost from a million graves, beneath Lime
Avenue.
The level of humidity rivaled that of any tropical rain forest in South
America.
Inasmuch that birds would not leave their twigged nests. The air was still.
The sky was empty, and clear the only exception being, several buzzards
circling an Orange grove, not far in the distant horizon, as I sat, leaning back
on my elbows, on the top concrete step in front of our house, wondering,
what kind of dead creature, was going to be lunch for those vultures, and
also of peanut butter, chocolate, and feeling an ominous uneasiness. It was
an uneasiness that in worse times would plague me for the rest of my natural
life.

My comforts were not so unlike that of any other human. I enjoyed food,
beverages, and music. However, that alone did not make me like every other
child on the block, or planet.
We are inherently separated by more than just fingerprints and DNA

A musical sound came from a canary-yellow, plastic shrouded, GE Model,

transistor radio, which was playing an oldies station in the kitchen. The
song was entitled, “Memphis”, by Johnny Rivers. I listened from the front
porch- keeping rhythm by rocking my 4-inch, rubber sole, back and forth. I
could hear my eldest brother, Eddy singing with the monophonic radio
sound.
“Help me, information, get in touch with my Marie/
She's the only one who'd call me here from Memphis, Tennessee/.
She could not leave her number/but I know the place to call/
Cause my uncle took a message and he wrote it on the wall...”

A long, black, leather belt hung ominously on a .16 gauge nail, which was
driven halfway into the door, which acted as a belt hanger, in my Fathers
bedroom.
To my Father, it was where he hung his belt, but to all of his offspring, it
was a sadistic reminder, of blind obedience, and cruel intentions.

A fan sat spinning at a medium speed, as my father (John, -Johnny to his

friends), lay in bed, reading the newspaper, as demons sat and lay around
him like so many ghosts from world war two. In the evening, after dinner,
which usually consisted of fried cornbread lima beans, and some green peas,
or mashed potatoes. All of my siblings had one glass of sweet teas each.
My Father on the other hand had 3 glasses from which he drank all of its
contents. He would have glass of milk, a glass of iced water, and a glass of
buttermilk. He used as a container for the fried cornbread. Mixing it
together and drinking it like a buttermilk-fried-cornbread-shake.

The heat from southern Florida in, July was drawn through the screened,
window, and became a cool zephyr, as it rolled away the burdens, humidity,
and stress, from a days labor, in Lake Wales, Florida.
I and my 2 brothers and 3 sisters lived in a 3 bedroom, paint-faded, white
house, which was rented to my mom and dad, from the same man who
delivered our mail. I knew this, because my Father had once called, our
Landlord, to repair the septic tank, and the mailman arrived, made the
necessary repair, which involved a lot of digging, and left. He had made this
comment, during his laborious struggle.
“ Women! “
I looked on in wonder.
It was Saturday July 18, 1966. ”Paint it Black”, by “The Rolling Stones”
was at the number one spot, on Billboard Magazines American Top Forty.
It was far cry form “When a man loves a woman”, by Percy Sledge, which
was at number one, just a couple weeks back on June 4th.
There was an unusual shift in music-and I liked.

It was around then, that I was diagnosed with Perth’s disease. I was 4 years
old. It was because of this condition, that I earned nick names such as,
Frankenstein, Hop-a-long", "Peg Leg", “crip” and an assortment of others. I
wore a harness around my waist, and a strap of leather that hung over my
right shoulder, to support my left foot, on which there was a clasp attached,
to the back of an orthopedic shoe, which fastened to a metal clasp at the end
of the strap, that hung from the back of the harness, which was also wrapped
around my waist. This was to provide complete support for my right leg,
which was suspended in the non-bending, orthopedic steel brace.
Kindergarten was as shameful an experience as anyone could ever imagine.
I was the 4th of six children.

August 3rd 1968 “Hello, I love you” was at number one by, “The Doors”

It is said that, “middle children are the well-adjusted ones”.

I have two sisters and two brothers, who might disagree with that statement.
My mother worked at “E.B. Malone”, a Mattress factory, and it was her job
to fire-test the mattresses, (as far as I knew), to see if they would burn any
more than they were supposed to. I think the maximum is two inches, but
unfortunately, sheets do not have to adhere to the same standards as a
mattress from “E.B. Malone”.
She never smoked a cigarette in her life, (that I know of) but as irony would
have it, she died of cancer, on November 28th 1974 at the beautiful age of
46, whereas my Father smoked “Kool Filter King” cigarettes continuously,
and lived to the terrible age of 78, and died without his legs.
No one except a funeral home worker, a government liaison, and myself
attended his funeral.
There is no greater sadness, than when there is no sadness at all.
It was said, that my Father was a “wonderful dancer”, and I know, it must
have been true, although I had never seen him, “cut-a-rug”, as he would say.
I had the same DNA, that was responsible for the ability to dance well, but it
would be 25 years, before I learned this information.

My fathers’ job was leaving our home in the morning, with a lunch box,
wearing a white, short sleeve, button down, collared, shirt, dark slacks and
black leather dress shoes. I was never for certain what his occupation was. I
was certain of one thing though. He liked to drink Jim Beam whiskey with
his friend(s) Curtis Monday and or Carol Tolson which was straight from the
bottle, play guitar, left handed (while singing old Hank Williams songs),
erstwhile becoming, verbally abusive to anyone... but especially those whom
he loved. Curtis Monday would eat the peelings from oranges that my father
peeled with precision with his Boker Tree brand pocketknife.
Curtis claimed, “the peeling had the most nutrition in them”.
I would never know, because I would never eat the peelings-only suffer the
burning in the yes, as the peelings ejected it’s acidic content while I watched
my father as he peeled them, then cut a cork-like hole in the top of the
orange and give it to me.
I suppose that in my Fathers mind, he thought, “ There's nothing like
physical and verbal abuse, to let those whom you “love”, know how much
you really care ”. My Mother blamed World War Two on his “condition”. I
blamed her for caring too much about her children, and also the inability to
leave him. But like many women, during the early stages of “Women’s
Rights”-she had no place to go, and no way to pay for it, when she arrived,
to a place that never existed for her.
Not unlike myself today.
My Father took cursing to lacrims flood, with add-ons like, "Lilly-livered,"
yellow-bellied", & "pussel-gut”, before launching into what I call,
"catastrophic cursing”. I've seen him make more than one-person, break into
tears, just by shouting obscenities at them.
Never underestimate the power of words.
I had never heard my mother say one single curse word, or any word of
degradation for that matter.
It is my opinion that, it is what one holds inside, that will kill you, and what
you let out, can permanently scar others. My Fathers hobby and side
profession was raising purebred German Shepherds, which he would take for
walks every afternoon when he came home from work- all 4 German
Shepherds. Sometimes I would join him. This was our quality time.
Him being sober- an experience that few members of my family (aside from
the woman who gave birth to us) would ever know.
I struggled to keep up with his military pace. It’s because of him that I
speed walk to this day. (When I can walk).

None of my Fathers dogs required a leash, and would stop dead in their
tracks, when they heard his voice, they would either sit, or return to my
father’s side, on command. My father used a technique for training dogs,
that was so effective, people would often times marvel, at the same blind
obedience, that his children had.
Therefore, none of my father’s dogs ever required a leash. His equivalent of
a leash were 3 golf ball sized stones, in his left hand, and he could launch
them with tremendous force, and great accuracy. Whenever any dog, would
stray more than 20 yards, or so away, one could hear him shout, “Hear me!”
from a half a block away. He was an otherwise soft-spoken man-when sober.
Translated, that means: “That is too far away from my voice”; “You need to
return to the perimeter immediately, or you will experience severe pain”. He
never said it twice. If the dog did not respond, he’d lift his right knee up to
his midsection, in like a professional baseball pitcher, as his upper body
tilted slightly backwards. This was the equivalent of a term commonly used
in baseball, called “the wind up”.
The sound of the stone, leaving his left hand, made a whizzing sound, as
ripped through the air, followed by a thump, of the rock, connecting to the
flesh, and bone of it’s canine target. Immediately following the throw,
One could hear, the screaming sound of a dog that would come running back
to my Father.
He claimed, that the dog was shouting apologies, for not listening.
The landscape of my front suburban yard was like a well-trodden
playground, with black dirt and formidable roots. From the front porch, one
could see 3 giant oak trees, one at each corner of the house, and another, that
sat closer to the road.
A rope hung from a limb, about 30 feet off the ground, with a large knot tied
in the bottom to swing on.
The oaks trees rooted tentacles seemed to reach to the sky, as they eddied
across the yard, like a slow moving plague, as if to say, “Free me from this
burdened soil…. this cold and darkened, wonderful growth”. Black sand,
and dark brown roots, covered my front yard, at 308 Lime Avenue.
Across the street was alive, with rows of hibiscus, which grew wild, and
some sandspurs, cacti, and a Cumquat tree, as well as wildflowers, which
also thrived. Several yards further, were millions, and millions of orange
trees, on which hung, billions of orange orbicular fruit, which were
surrounded by miles and miles of ginger-colored dirt roads, and a root-
stained lake, which looked like tea, where my Father walked his dogs.

It was in August 6th a month later “The Troggs” were a band with a number
one song called, “Wild Thing” which years later would be used in a movie
about a rogue baseball pitcher, played by Charlie Sheen.
The song was drowned out by the screaming sound of one of my sisters
announcing that we were going swimming.
“Everybody get ready! ” she shouted, and the sound of running feet on
wooden tongue and groove floors, drowned out the monophonic speaker,
which I was listening to, but that didn’t matter now.
It was a wonderful feeling to be free from the confines of the house,
moreover, to be in the water, was to be free. It was one of the free
summertime luxuries that we always looked forward to.
I made my way to the bedroom, and my mother assisted me, in removing the
heavy metal, orthopedic brace from my right leg. If I had the option to walk
to the Lake, with the brace and wooden crutches, it would have taken me
much longer to get there, and besides, there was no public place to change.
So, to arrive with the rest of my siblings, my brother Eddy carried me on his
shoulders, to Twin Lake.
With towels over the back of our necks, and an inflated tractor tube, we set
out barefoot, across the burning asphalt of Lime Avenue, and the hot, black
sands of the orange groves, through which we would always make a short
cut, as they all ran from shade to shade, until we emerged on an orange
colored dirt road, which overlooked Twin lake. I would roll up my towel
and wrap it around my brothers’ forehead and he would gallop, as if he was
a horse, and my towel was the reigns.
Years later, after I died…the second time, it would be called, “Twin Lakes
Boulevard”. It was from here, that we could see the whole lake, as well as
bright sheet metal roofing that covered the pavilion; from which a dock
stretched it’s wooden planks to the lake.
Unlike my front yard, there were no roots, only white, sugar sand, and
cattails by the waters edge. Eddy sat me on the inner tube when we were in
the water, and he would push the inner tube out, about 30 feet into the lake,
where we were the diving judges, as my other brothers and sisters did their
best dives from the end of the dock.
Then, games of hide and seek, in dark greenish brown water would ensue.
Most of the time, after an hour or so, a curious alligator’s head could be seen
about 40 yards away.
We made a game of seeing who could get the closest to it, without it going
under.
If it went under when you were about 30 feet away, panic would set in, and
everyone would swim to shore, as if their life was in peril of being torn to
shreds by an alligator of gigantic proportions.
It was adrenaline-laden excitement to say the least.

The First Death.

On this particular day, I was sitting atop the water on an inflated, tractor-
trailer inner tube.
The sun began drying the water, from the blackened tube, as it began to get
hot on my legs. It was habit to reach down between my legs and splash
more water onto the tube, but this time I slipped in through the middle,
without so much as a splash, and began sinking, deeper and deeper into the
root stained water of the abyss.

Years later, I would suffer a different drowning in something much worse

than water.
I heard my sister Rhoda scream from the dock, as I watched the sun
drenched water over my head fade, and it became cold and dark.
I felt a thumb and fore fingers grasp my right hand tightly, but slip away as I
sank more, as if being pulled by an unseen force. My body was a solid mass
of muscle, and gravity took over.
Darkness was all around me, and I had to breathe, or I had already taken a
breath, I don’t remember the sequence, but I remember being able to
breathe, when I inhaled under water. I was curious how I was able to breath
under water. At that point I no longer panicked.
I thought I would simply, walk out of the lake, on my own two feet.
Again, I felt someone touch the tips of my fingers and was gone.
One hour later.
A small trickle of light appeared over my head, as I looked upward for my
salvation. I felt myself move toward it. Was I swimming? It appeared that
I was heading toward the brightened surface of the water. I heard
something.
It was a radio, but not the music kind; it was the official sort of radio that
one hears, from ambulance or police car. In this instance, it was an
ambulance.
I was confused, but I kept moving toward the light. I felt a hard pressure on
my chest, pain, then water spilled from my mouth choking, I gasped for air.
I felt cold concrete of the pavilion foundation on my back. I opened my
eyes, and saw the exposed rafters overhead, another gush of water sprang,
from my head rolled to the side. An ambulance sat on the orange, sandy
road not far away, with its lights spinning, and flashing. I heard the
squawking radio noise, and a few of the local neighbors gathered outside the
pavilion staring at me.
The uniformed ambulance people, as well as, my brothers and sisters loomed
over me. “We thought we lost you there, for a couple minutes.” Said the
paramedic, as he continued to assure me, “You’ll be all right”, as I looked
closely at his white starched shirt, looming over me. He could not have been
more wrong, or more right. I would see this shirt type again years later.

Often times, life is full of contradictions, exclusive rights, and etceteras.

The sum of who we are rests not on our ability to survive, moreover, our
ability to believe, that we will survive, that we are here with a single-minded
purpose. I did believe, without knowing, but that would soon change.
At this stage in my life, I looked up to, and admired my elder brother Eddy,
whom I was sure, pulled me from that watery grave.
Often times, the truth will change the most inherent feelings that there are
between siblings, and distant relatives.

Tension between my Father and Eddy grew more intense, as Eddy

matured.... as much as he was allowed.
My Father gave his infamous, “This is my fuckin’ house!” speech, for the
last time to Eddy.
The truth was, it was a “rental”. My Father believed that “possession was
nine-tenths of the law”.
I stood out of sight, as the shouting continued. I heard my brother say
something, to the affect of “leaving”, and watched him walk through the
kitchen, and into his bedroom.
My brothers’ bedroom was the room on the back of the house, closest to
State Road 60.
His room was where everyone threw their dirty laundry, as the washing
machine was immediately outside that room. Eddy had left his A.M. F.M.
portable radio playing, on a country radio station. The music eerily crept
into my ears, that day in August, as I crippled my way through the kitchen,
and hesitated to listen to the rest of the song, before entering through the
doorway of what was recently Eddy’s’ bedroom. ... Marty Robbins sang.

“ It was over in a moment, and the crowd all gathered 'round

There before them lay the body, of the outlaw on the ground,
Oh, he might have went on livin,' but he made one fatal slip,
When he tried to match the ranger, with the big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip.”

It was almost like a strange anthem, or a psychotic soundtrack to Eddy’s

way of life. It could easily have been that, of “”Pink Floyds” –
“Dark Side of the Moon.”
It was during this part of Eddy’s life, that he had somehow managed to
acquire a horse, which he named, “Red Man”.
“Red Man”, was a quarter horse, and ate all the grass in the back yard. My
brother had tied him with a long rope to a lone Chinaberry tree, which I
climbed in the evenings, and watched Mr. Sterns walk home from the
package store, and we would wave at one another for hours on end.
He had only had the horse and a .22 caliber rifle, then on that day, after the
“my house” speech, I watched him as he saddled his horse one last time.
I had seen him saddle his horse before, but this time it was different.
A silent, sedated fury launched this equine vessel. He rolled up a blanket,
and secured it to the horse’s saddle, which he had slung over “Red Man”,
fast enough to startle the 2-year-old quarter horse.
It was a recipe of furious actions, which I shall always remember.
He then, went back into his bedroom, and brought out his Remington .22
Caliber hunting rifle, and laid it horizontally across the blanketed horses
hips. He did not have the rifle holster that you see in cowboy movies.
I watched curiously, and asked, Where are you going’ Eddy? His walk had
a sense of urgency, (not unlike that of our father, or mine for that matter) as
he reached for the saddle horn, with the reigns wrapped around, and put his
leathered boot into the stirrup of the horse saddle. With a tug at the reigns,
he spun the horse around to face me. Tilting his tan felt cowboy hat
upwards, he leaned forward, propping his forearm on the saddle horn, as if I
were far below him, and replied, “I’m heading out to the Country.” he said,
as cars zipped by a few feet away, on hiway 60.
Good bye, I said, to which he replied”,
“Don’t say, Good bye”, its bad luck”. Say, see ya later”.
So I complied, see ya later Alligator, to which he retorted,
“After while crocodile.”
“Red man” made a brisk gate across the hiway, “clop-clopa-clop-clopa-clop
clopa” and headed west over hiway 27. It was in the evening, and the sun
had started its slow descent in the west. Shades of orange, sepia, pale violet,
pink, and blue filled the western skyline.
It was like the end of an old western movie.
He turned and shouted, “Don’t watch me leave. It’s bad luck!”
Turning around, I heeded his advice, and went back inside.
His luck continued to be bad, for the rest of our lives.
Hmm, I thought, “the country” was “Yee Haw Junction”, which was in the
opposite direction.
Besides, I knew then, that at the end of Hiway 60, was the Bartow County
Hospital. That was not the “country” as I thought it should be.
As a child, I found a “hospital visit” to be one of the most humiliating, and
painful events that there was, outside of a public beating.
No matter what the condition or ailment-you could count on two things.
The first thing was being probed up the anal cavity with a glass tube, inside
of which was filled with mercury...that’s right, a deadly poison.
This was “modern medicines” method of determining, a child’s body
temperature.
Insane by today’s standards, but I knew it was insane, by my standards, back
then.
The second was having a needle stuck in your buttock, which always hurt. I
still hate shots to this day; I held back the tears, and turned them to anger-
something that would kill me.

Often times, in my pre-school and elementary years, there were children

who would sneak up behind me and pull my crutches from underneath my
arm pits, and watch me flail my arms wildly, as I fell earthward, trying to
un-snap the heel claps to regain my balance. Most of the time, I never
managed to get it unsnapped, in time to keep from hitting the earth.
Once a boy named Jerome Stewart chased another boy down, who had taken
my crutches and ran with them.
Jerome brought them back to me. Jerome Stewart was my friend, whom
years later, would retire from the United States Navy.
No one wants to be friends with the crippled boy. They were either scared
of me, or hated me for being different. It was if they thought, that they
would get a disease, from being around me, but it were they, who had the
disease, not I.
Everyday I dreaded school, for what it had to offer. I was so emotionally
exhausted, and humiliated from being the victim of scorn. Every day was a
new pit of shame, which I’d crawl into without a sound. I complained to my
mother, who would complain to the teachers, and school board, but it made
no difference, in fact, now the school staff at, Polk Avenue Elementary were
growing indifferent to my social calamity. My Mothers soft, consoling
wisdom was this, in my time of sorrow. “Sticks and stones will break your
bones, but words can never hurt you”. She was right, and she was wrong.
But it was the only words I knew, which hurt the most.
She wanted me to learn patients, and understanding, by over-looking the
words that others would say. Instead, I learned how to hurt back passively,
so I could demean those who would bring me shame. But that would be 20
years later. It’s not the right thing to do, but it was better than tears.
More often than not, I would always walk away, after the physical jests and
jeering. I could hear the voices behind me, “Oooo look he’s limping home
to Momma” or “Whatcha gonna do about it! Crip!” or “Ooo look he’s
scared”, and “Cry for me baby. Cry for me”. Children are the cruelest, and
most insensitive people on the planet.
Child support services are in wonder, when they learn of a child being
physically abused, and parents are in wonder when they learn that their child
has been abusive to another child.

For reasons unknown, my mother began driving a school bus. Sometimes

we rode home together. It was because of this, that blood was shed, and
tears were cried.
It was third or fourth grade and I was in the cafeteria having lunch. I could
carry a tray with my hands if I clasped the crutches tightly under my arms.
After lunch, I made my way to the return tray, before going outside, to the
playground. Keith Mabry “accidentally” knocked my tray out of my hands,
and ran outside, as a teacher said, “You come back here Mr. Mabry and pick
this up!” A green pea rolled to a stop against the wall, as another teacher
began picking up my lunch debris. The other kids were laughing until Ms.
Dorothy Oliver, who was the Principal of Polk Avenue Elementary said,
“Quiet!” as she was a feared woman. She had a wooden paddle, with holes
drilled in it, for maximum velocity, when swinging at ones buttock. It really
did make a startling sound, like a firecracker going off, and then a
screaming-crying child would lament the harsh reality of his or her actions

{It is my belief that girls were never paddled, but that’s only the author’s
opinion. We live in a sexist world-that’s a fact}.

Jerome Stewart walked in front of me, and opened the door, as I made my
way out. The next thing I heard was this. “Your mommas fat, and she
drives a school bus”. Then, he made a strange face at me, and ran off and
climbed onto the jungle bars. Afterwards he ran to the black tractor tires,
which were halfway buried into the ground. Kids would jump from one to
the next. He was running all over the playground, as I kept moving toward
him. It did not matter if he saw me or not.
Finally he saw me crutching towards him, and came to meet me, which
made the next turn of events so much easier.
“What are you going to do? He asked, “Get mad or something?
Pushing me backwards thinking quickly, as this had happened many times
before, I slung my crutches around behind me, and caught myself from
falling. I lifted myself, back upright, and just stood there, somewhere
between anger and tears. I could take it no longer.
My anxiety became fury, and my angst became evil. It was (at the time) a
good trade.
He turned around, to walk away, and I swung my right crutch, with all my
might at his head. Back then, there were butterfly nuts that secured the
middle wooden leg extension of the crutch to its outer legs, which held it
together.
It was the butterfly nuts wing part, which ripped through hair and scalp, as it
ricocheted off his monstrous-evil head.

He screamed and grabbed his blood-laden scalp. The same scalp that
covered the terrible brain, which he used to think of those hurtful, degrading
things, which he had said.
Tears fell, blood was shed, and pandemonium had begun.
For once, I felt justified. A strange, yet humble jubilation swept over me.
His agony was my relief, and his pain, my comfort. He quickly spun
around, crying in fear, and lifted his left arm in protection, as if I were going
to continue thrashing him about the head, with my wooden weapons of
destruction. (W.O.D.)
 I did not want to continue beating him, but I did think, that he deserved one
good whack in the head- some more than others.
So, I just watched his grief and child-like mannerisms, as he screamed, “I’m
gonna tell my mommy on you, you hurt me!” He continued to announce my
culpability; “He hit me with his crutch!” as he continued to scream out in
pain and crying.

Just as the euphoria of what I had done, had given me a certain peace, the
reality of what I had done, gave me anxiety. There was screaming, from the
other kids, who saw the blood-soaked head of the evil Keith. Teachers ran
wild, and I heard a whistle being blown. Soon I was whisked into the
Principals office, for what I was sure would be a severe “paddling” or
“corporal punishment” for the politically correct.
Instead, they must have considered the consequences of beating a crippled
child, and called my mother.

It was said, that my mother had English, Choctaw Indian, and Irish in her
ancestry, but I’m not sure if that matters now; only to say that we’re all
(As far as Anglo-Saxons in America go) mixed-breeds.
My mother, (Nettie) arrived at the school, after many minutes of waiting in
nervousness anticipation, of the beating that would make the paddling at
school pale by comparison.
She walked into the office and looked at me, as I looked shamefully toward
the floor. She went into the principals’ office and after what seemed like 30
minutes, my mother walked out of the principals’ office with several of my
teachers, and we went home for the rest of that day. On the ride home, she
asked me what happened, and I told her. To which she replied, “Son, what
other people say about me can’t hurt me,” and added, “Are you alright?”
Yes, Mam, I replied.
I almost lost my bladder, thinking about my Fathers reaction when he came
home. The rest of my brothers and sisters came home later, and as we ate
dinner, my mothers first words were,” I had to go get Mike at school today,”
she said, in a discouraged tone of voice. My Dad never looked up, he just
shoveled another fork full of Lima beans and corn bread into his mouth, and
picked up one of the three glasses that were sat in front of him. He had a
glass of water, a glass of sweet tea, and a glass of buttermilk.
“What for?” asked my Father, after swallowing, and taking another drink of
sweet tea. “He hit another boy at school, who had to be rushed to the
hospital...” my mother said, before being interrupted.
“ How bad was he hurt?” my Father verbally injected.
“Dorothy Oliver said, the boy needed stitches,” replied my mother in a calm
tone. My Father finished his meal, and got up from the table, as my sisters
began taking away the dishes. I could feel urine running down my leg, when
the sound of belt loops popping filled the air, as he unbuckled his belt, and
whipped it off his waist.
“Mike”, he said. Yes Sir, I replied in soft humility. “Go hang this up, I
want to talk to you”, he continued, without anger.
I went to his room, and hung his belt on that .16-penny nail. He took his
white button down shirt off, as he walked into the room, wearing his
undershirt. The fan was on high, so he reached across the bed and twisted
the white plastic-rigid knob which reduced the speed, and thereby the
volume of sound so he wouldn’t have to talk over it, Turning from the fan,
he sat down on the side of his bed next to a work desk, where he both wrote
continually in a diary, and read a “King James Version Bible (that was about
3 inches thick). I suppose it’s easier to read than to live.

His eyes were ate times, soft when they appeared to be a pale, calming, blue
color, and at other times, one could see a certain amount of grey, which were
like spherical spikes that could easily be mistaken for a ghost-like quality,
that one might find, in a man full of rage. Leaning slowly forward, so as to
show no sign of aggression. He propped is bent elbows upon each knee, as
he clasped his fingers together, one through another, as he lowered his
forearms toward me-hands clasped together.
“Son, he said, don’t ever lie to me. He continued,
“Never steal from anyone, and remember nobody can ever hurt you, more
than I can, and if I find out that you let someone hurt you, I’ll beat your ass,
till you don’t have an ass to beat”.
“You understand that?’ he asked, as I quickly replied, Yes Sir. He continued
in a slow soft tone.
“Now your Mommas upset, and she’s expecting me to punish you for what
you did to that boy, but I’m not. I’m proud of you for standing up for
yourself. Now go change your pants, and let me see you climb that rope”.
It was over, and he never even asked what happened, or why I did, what it
was, that I did.
This was the same man who said this, while in a belligerent state of
drunkenness.
“I’ll cut a man 3 ways – long, deep, wide, and continuously”.

{John Fletcher Richards circa 1970}

It was true.

I had seen my fathers’ white button down shirt covered in blood on more
than one occasion, in the laundry, but he never appeared to be harmed.
To this day, I have no idea how my mother got out bloodstains, or if she
shopped at the Goodwill for white, button down, pocketed shirts for men.
My Father always carried in the upper left hand side pocket-a white plastic
“pocket protector”. This plastic custom encasement, would fit perfectly in
the pocket, and wrap over the pocket, so as to protect the fabric from wear,
and the shirt from ink stains and physical abuse from the pen being removed
and placed back in the pocket.
The legendary “pocket protector” also stored data in the form of a small
notebook. This was the first “Notebook”.
It was the kind of notebook, which had a 2 and a half-inch spiral wire at the
top, to hold multiple pieces of white paper, with blue horizontal lines on
which to write, take notes or to remember important things or numbers
etcetera. By this description, one might assume that my father was a so-
called, “nerd”, but in fact, he was an ex army sergeant, from World War 2
that been decorated for as many things, as he was busted down for.
He was a gregarious drunk, who loved nothing more than a fight or a dance.
If I had to put them in order I suppose it would be like this.
Dancing, drinking, fighting.
On Sunday morning the rest of my family would get ready for Church, but I
would stay home with my Mother. I could not attend a church services due
to the ergonomics of my leg brace, which did not bend at the knee.
Therefore, it would not allow me to sit back in a pew, as there was not
enough room for my leg to stick straight out in front of me. Neither could I
walk down the stairs to get outside. I could go upstairs, if I had about 2 feet
on either side, to swing my crutches over but the descent was impossible
without falling, getting seriously hurt. Besides, everyone knew that
I was just in the way, so I watched a church service on T.V. with my mom.
It was a religious show, which was filmed in Tulsa, Oklahoma at Oral
Roberts University.
At the end of the show, Oral Roberts would ask, that any viewers with any
condition, put their hands on the television screen, and pray with him, as he
asked God, to heal those in need. I did this every Sunday for over a year,
but my leg never grew back out, to the same length as the other one.
I never became angry with God for my condition. This was just another day
that I’d have to live with.
I never felt that I was different from anyone else, but I was. One day, after
school, around 6:00 p.m. My mother asked me to get in the car. Me, and
only me, into the 58 ford automobile and we drove south on Hi-way 27, until
we reached a dark green army surplus tent. It was large, and sat in the
middle of a cow pasture, on the left hand side of the hiway, which was
surrounded by palmettos, cactus, and sandspurs.
As we parked the car and walked in, I looked at all the medical apparatus
hanging from the ceiling. There was a wheel chair, a hospital bed, some
crutches, and a brace or two. The crowd was standing, and singing gospel
songs, when we arrived.
I was feeling slight panic. After much yelling, and sweating from the
minister of the gospels, who was standing behind a makeshift pulpit, I heard
the request.
It was the same one that Oral Roberts had used.
“If there is anyone here today that needs the anointing of the Holy Spirit or
needs the healing hands of God, please come forward”.
My Mother stepped out in the trodden grass aisle and made her way forward,
and I wondered what was wrong with her. She leaned over and whispered
something to the minister, who asked me to sit down in an unfolded metal
chair and remove my brace. I did.
He then asked me to prop my feet up in the chair in front of me. I was
embarrassed, because I had to remove my pants first, in order to remove the
leg brace.
My mother complied with removing of my leg brace, and I felt the coldness
of the metal on my legs.
The congregation, now on their feet, made their way toward me, and began
praying. They made sounds that no man could understand, and hands were
all over my legs and head. I felt the knee of my right leg buckle ever so
slightly, and lifted it to keep from pushing the chair back, as the hands lay
softly. Clapping began, and cheers of “Halleluiahs” rang out. As the pastor
folded a small clothe, which he had anointed with oil, and put it in my
hands. ”Keep this with you”, he asked, as he folded my fingers over it.
I did not say a word.
“Get up and run around this tent for us”, he gestured towards the exit. I did
as he requested, as my mother shed a tear, as I saw her raise a handkerchief
to her eyes, as she looked to the ground.
I thought I was healed, and wondered why was she not happy?
I could not understand how it was, that I did not step on one single sandspur
or cactus, or for that matter, a cow pie.
My mother asked me to put the brace back on, but now it no longer went to
my hip.
In fact, now my foot sat on the bottom of the brace-no longer suspended.

The following day we had a scheduled monthly visit to see my Doctor in

Lakeland, Florida.
It was along drive, and it usually ended with my brace getting an adjustment
after some x rays, and sometimes-new arm pads for my crutches.
I usually only had 1 X ray, to compare with the last X ray.
However, this day I had three.
I was sitting on the Doctors table, when the X ray arrived that had been
taken earlier.
He looked at them hastily-the same way he always did, but then, as if
frustrated by incompetence, raised them back up the light and said, “I’ll be
right back”, as he left the room. The door to his office opened shortly
thereafter, and an X ray technician walked in pushing a wheelchair, and said,
“The Doctor thinks he has the wrong X rays, so we’re going to shoot some
more”.
I sat in the wheel chair, and was rolled back down the luminescent hall to the
cold x-ray room. A second set was taken, then a third. I was wheel chaired
back to the office, and waited with my mother. The Doctor walked back in,
and asked me to walk.
He had not asked me to walk since my first visit so long ago. So I walked to
the window and stopped.
“Walk back”, he asked, so I walked back.
“Sit here”, he beckoned me towards a chair. I sat down as he squatted down
and looked at my bare feet, from both sides, then he held my feet with both
his hands, as he declared. “He appears to be fine”, and he added, as he
looked back at me, you wont need these anymore, he said, as he picked up
my crutches. “This is what we call a medical miracle,” he said, as a tear
filled my mothers eyes.
It seemed like my family took it in stride, as if it was pre arranged.
About 6 years later, my mother came home with a cloth wrapped around the
top of her hand. She said, it was a patch of skin cancer that was removed.

I knew nothing about cancer and had no idea what lay in store.
It seemed like a few months passed and she was in the hospital for a day or
two. Afterward, she was in the hospital for a week or two.
Soon thereafter, my whole family was making daily trips to Bartow County
Hospital to see my mother.
She was on “Cobalt” treatment.
It is my belief that “Cobalt Treatment” was as much a part of what caused
her death, as the Cancer itself.
At the beginning of the hospital stays, she had one breast removed, and
returned to work in less than two weeks.
A few months later, she had to have the other breast removed as well, which
caused her great agony of mind, body, and spirit.
Yet she continued to work, struggle to feed her family, and nurture as best
she could, in spite of my Fathers inability to stop drinking. The more sick
my mother became, the more drunk my Father became. They both felt
guilty for each other’s pain, and she grew to hate my Father. My brother
returned from the Navy, and everyone was happy to see him, but knowing he
came home to take care of us was a sad reminder that our Mother was in the
hospital with cancer. Bills started to pile up, and my Father did not earn
enough money to support all of us, so my brother Eddy took us to a new
house. This new location was known as “Golf view Park”, and indeed it
faced a Golf Course, which was on the other side of hiway 60.
I had never known any other house but the one I grew up in. Moving was a
drastic change, but one that I would never become accustomed to. It seemed
like every day after school, my brother would drive us to Bartow County
Hospital to see my mother.
My mothers’ hospital room was on the ground floor with a window, which
had no screen, and could be opened from the inside out. Perhaps a caring
hospital worker or my older sister rolled her bed to the window and opened
it. The hospitals visiting policy would not allow anyone under the age of 18
to go in to visit.
Instead, we would go to the window, and Eddy would lift me up to see the
tortured smile on my mothers tear stained face, and I would hold her vein-
punctured, hand, which had been severely bruised from the many times
blood had been drawn, or intravenous needles were stuck into her.
She would commend me on my child like feats of obedience, and make
comment on my stature.
“Boy, you’re bigger now than you were yesterday, you’ll probably eat your
brothers and sisters out of house and home”. I’d lean through the window
and give her a hug as we said; good-bye and my brother would sit me back
down on the ground. He’d then pick up my little brother, John and much the
same with my younger sister, Shondi. It became habit to run to the window
where my mothers’ room was when we would arrive at the hospital. It was
on such an occasion that I heard my mother say something, in a way I’d
never heard before.... in a tone she’d never used before, she said,
“GET OUT!! “ I don’t want to ever see you again!!! GET OUT!!” and
then, I heard my Fathers voice say, in a soft burdened voice, “Good bye
Nettie”, and heard her begin to cry. I knew that she could not see me, and I
felt my Mothers-World collapse. A feeling of deep sorrow and remorse, for
what would soon be, a broken home, swept over me.
The rest of my brothers and sisters came around the corner, as I was walking
back to the car, to wait in my own silent desperation, Shondi stopped, as the
rest ran by and asked, “Are you ok, Boot Dink?” She always knew when I
was feeling bad. We were the closest of any of my brothers and sisters,
when we were young. I don’t recall what I said, and walked back to the
window with her.
I stood behind the rest of my brothers, and sisters while they each took their
turn to share in the jubilation of a visit to their sick Mother in the hospital. I
hesitated so long because I didn’t want to see the tears in her eyes, and know
why. I felt like she would know, that I knew, just by looking at me.
Mothers have that power you know. It made me saddened, and I did not
want her to see me that way, so I waited for the rest of my siblings, and
made my visit short, before she knew why I was not myself.
Thereafter, we were not allowed to see her at all, only my oldest brother and
sister Ellen were allowed to see her. It was on this “new rule” day that my
brother Eddy came out of the hospital and said this, “Your mothers dead”.
It was November 28, 1974 at around 6: 00 p.m.

“Mad World” by Michael Andrews could have been the soundtrack for that
day, as well as, the rest of my life.
“Hang my head I want to drown my sorrow, no tomorrow, no tomorrow”.
I was 12 years old, and the sunset was not so beautiful, the trees and grass
seemed to weep as if to join my sisters, in their lachrymal flood.
It was as if, he had separated himself from the reality, as if she was not his
mother.
That was the last time the hospital window would ever be opened for me.
The pain was complete, and I could not fathom losing her at all.
A pain so full-it would bind itself to my heart, for the rest of my natural life.
We walked back to the car, and the tears kept flowing, as my brother drove
East on Hwy 60, to and stopped, at a small roadside bar, and went inside, as
he said, “I’ll be right back”. Within a moment he was getting back into the
car with a six-pack of Coors beer.
It was enough for each of us to have one. “The bible says, “Give strong
drink to him who is of heavy heart,” my brother announced, as he passed the
canned beverages around the car. I really didn’t think that is was in the
bible, nor biblical.
I did not like the taste of beer then, nor do I now. We drove back to the
house in Golf View Park, and walked silently our separate ways.
I wondered down the orange dirt road, in front of the house that we had
moved into.
Meanwhile, my Father had moved into a small trailer, on the other side of
town, called, “Jamie’s Trailer Park” and slipped into a drunken oblivion.

I continued walking down Azalea Avenue, till I reached the end, and turned
around and walked back to the house, only to find it empty.
The rest of my brothers and sisters had disappeared into their own private
despair; I was alone- I suppose I always have been since that day.
Walking into the only room that had any semblance of comfort- I sat down
on the bed, in which my mother had both slept and suffered for several
months, before she went into the hospital. I leaned over and rested my head
on the surrogate pillow, as if to be comforted by someone who was no
longer there.
Forsaken.
The next day could have been “Thanksgiving”, and all my relatives, from
Sebring, Babson Park, and Yeehaw Junction, came to our house, with more
food than I had ever seen in my lifetime. There was not enough room for it
all.
I wondered how anyone could eat, in such a time of despair, and loss, but eat
they did. I felt it was a sign of disrespect and would not participate,
although I managed sneak a piece of Pumpkin Pie without anyone else being
privy to my covert, sweet tooth, operation.
The following day, the funeral was held at Marion –Nelson Funeral parlor,
and everyone put on his or her best clothes to attend the service.
A Limousine pulled up in front of our house, and we walked in silence to get
into this really big shiny car.
I felt guilty for being excited by being in a Limousine, when I knew it was
going to the funeral home. We arrived at the Funeral Home, and the driver
quickly stepped out from behind the wheel, and opened the back door. The
first thing I noticed was the red carpet, and was confused, because I
associated “red carpet” with “celebrity,” and here I was walking on it, in my
penny loafers with no pennies, my pale blue, and white, bell bottom plaid
slacks, and my canary yellow button down shirt.
(It was the only “dress-up” clothes I had to wear, that were clean, so don’t
laugh).
The large double doors were opened and we made our way inside.
The furnishing were French Victorian, with pleated, and polished leather; a
Crystal Chandelier hung like majesty, in its dimmed grandeur in the foyer,
which was eddied by large bouquets flowers from E.B.Malone.
(The Mattress Factory for which my Mother had worked).
My cousin Theron, and his family were there as well. It was the only time I
had ever seen shoes on his feet. He would not wear shoes again for 8 years,
at which point in time he had a job.
A minister stepped behind a podium, and said some eloquent words, for the
“dearly departed;” followed by a representative from E.B. Malone Mattress
factory, who spoke more kind words about my Mother, and her work ethic,
and purity of heart. Maybe it was because all the rest of my family was
crying, but up until now I had not shed a tear.... then the water fell from my
eyes for what seemed like an hour. Inconsolable sadness...tragedy, pain,
angst, and the horror of loss, filled me with the most dread, of anything I had
ever felt before. It was if time had stood still, and this could not be passed.
It was grief multiplied and squared. My mind just seemed to shut down, and
my body felt numb.
After the funeral reception, and burial we came back to the house on Azalea
Avenue. My brother enrolled us in school, and my oldest sister, Rhoda
moved to Pascagoula, Mississippi.
I lost focus on what was important, and my grades fell. I was not
encouraged to study, and felt like nothing mattered anyway, so I didn’t. Nor
did not make friends easily, and I could not be found guilty, of being a social
butterfly. I went to school and came home.
At first I thought my brother was just a mechanic, doing some mechanical
work, but in fact, he owned all the junk cars, which were starting to
accumulate in our yard.
One day I came home to find a quarter horse tied to an oak tree, by the side
of the house, then the following day, a chopper sat in the front yard. Every
day it was something new, and more junk cars. Eddy took on a role as a
father figure, and became consumed with the same obedience issues, which
he inherited from my father.
Often times, there are those who must, at all costs, have complete “control”.
It is the author’s opinion that people like this; need medication, therapy, and
maybe love.

Whatever happened to “humility?”

It seemed as if every day after school, I was made to remove an engine, or

drop a transmission. Perhaps I would be stacking tires in a different
location, which I had previously stacked them in, or maybe I would be
finding a new place to stack the car batteries, or just cleaning and assorting
tools in their proper place. I did not have “work clothes“ at this age, and so
my school clothes became stained with black grease spots, which would not
wash out, no matter how much they were washed. In school, everybody
thought I wore dirty clothes, and I was back to square one, with the name-
calling and jeers about my hygiene. Other students would hold their noses,
as they walked by, as if I did not bathe. I was too embarrassed to tell them
that these were the only clothes I had, and the conditions in which my
clothes became this way, but it would be much like, a man holding a
smoking gun, and saying, he “didn’t pull the trigger”.
At one point, even the Coach at Roosevelt Middle School said to me,”
“Richard” Don’t your family have a washing machine?”
Yes, Sir, I replied.
“Do you wash your clothes?” he continued, as the other pre pubescent boys
laughed.
Yes, Sir, I replied in a quiet tone of voice.
“Do you use detergent?” he asked.
Yes Sir, I replied.
“What kind? He continued.
Tide, I replied.
“Well, you may want to try another brand”. “
Now run some laps with the rest of those young men who thought that was
funny”. The hatred among my peers grew.
I ran and ran, as if to run away from all the old anguish that I was feeling
again. In fact, I was faster than any other kid in school, but did not have the
financial capacity or parental wherewithal to participate in sports, as there
was no money for the uniform, and no transportation-besides my older
brother had me doing too many mechanical things at home, so I did not have
time either. Everyone in my middle school, knew that I could run faster than
anyone else, but would not be on the track team and the despised me even
more because they thought perhaps that I thought, I was “too good” to play
on a team with the other students. My shyness, or the meekness which had
been beaten into me, kept me from trying to explain to my fellow student
body, which hated me.
When a crowd hates a person-nothing can change that.
Little by little, personal objects like a large painting which my brother had
purchased of a sea going vessel, riding out a storm, which was only one of
the items that were once a part of my family’s poor legacy began to
disappear. It seemed like overnight another piece of furniture, then another,
then another. Perhaps my brother sold them, or gave them away. Soon we
had no beds, in which to sleep, so my brother Eddy decided that we would
live like Daniel Boone, or Grizzly Adams, “Live off the land!” were his
exact words. I wondered if he knew that, “Grizzly Adams” was a TV.
Show made for entertainment only.
I had a very bad feeling about this, but had no opinion in this decision.
Eddy Rode a horse called “Thunder”, a quarter horse. I think there was a
neighbor’s car involved for hauling the cooler, but I don’t remember. So,
With 3 horses, 2 loaves of bread and a cooler with Vienna sausage and a few
drinks, as well as hot dogs and bologna packed in ice; we went to a place
called, “The Mines”, where crystal blue waters and white sand, as far as the
eye could see prevailed.
It was a Silica mining operation, and natural springs were made from the
mining. Some of these natural springs were huge lakes, where on any given
weekend, there were cars everywhere, bonfires and music blasted from the
car radios.
It was from this episode in my life that I developed hatred for Hot Dogs.
We had hot dogs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
My skin burned from the sunshine of the south Florida sun, and at night I
could not get into my sleeping bag because of the painful discomfort of
burnt skin. We did not bring any sunscreen.
The mosquitoes were terrible, and even though it was 70 degrees at night,
I’d have to get in the sleeping bag to keep from being bitten, because if I
were to get bitten, I would slap and or scratch the skin where I was being
stung, and that would cause even more pain. Sometimes, I would get in the
water and stay there, till I could no longer stay awake, then return to my
sleeping bag, and pray for sleep. I have no idea what my brother must’ve
been thinking. Roasting marshmallows on palmetto stems for “desert” after
an endless supply of hotdogs only made me want to die. I knew then that
this was not even close to “normal” behavior.
A couple of weeks passed, and eventually we returned home, to find it
empty, and more of the same control issues that my Father had ensued.
Eddy had met a woman named Christina, while he had served our Country
in the Navy, who moved to south Florida from Morton Grove, Illinois to live
with my brother. She drove a yellow Volkswagen
She acted as a cool stepmother, and an emotion buffer, between Eddy and
the rest of us.
She was truly a godsend.
Eddy was concerned about us all, not being able to protect ourselves, when
he was not around, so he enrolled Penny (my older sister) in a Karate class,
and Chris and I in a Judo class, in Lakeland, Florida.
I liked being able to get away twice a week, and the feeling of dignity I had,
when wearing the starch white “gi”, (or Judo uniform).
My instructors name was Frank, but in the Dojo he was, “Sensei” -
(Translated, “One who has gone before”). He called me. “Smiley”.
The introductory class was easy. I just did some push up and leg stretches.
After 6 months of training, I felt like I could easily; throw anyone over my
hip, and onto the ground below.
Frank had a Son, who was 3 years younger, and 1 foot shorter than myself-
he was a “purple belt”.
Sensei, asked, “Would anyone care to show this young man what they have
learned?” I quickly raised my hand in anticipation of tossing this little guy
on the mat. “O.k. Smiley, he said, “Get up, and come over here”. I stood
and bowed before walking onto the mat, (so as to show respect), as was the
general guideline for approaching an opponent or stepping onto a mat, or
into a Dojo. Frank backed off the blue mat, which was about 40 square feet.
I looked at my opponent, and bent at the waist, and lowered my head as to
show respect, and thus began the match, as I rose up again. We locked arms
and struggled, pulling, and jerking in every direction-off balance, I fell, and
rolled, he was now on top of me, and I was in a conundrum, and suffocating.
I slapped the mat to concede.
“Thank you”, Frank said, as he approached us. My opponent released me
from the burden he had put me in and I had a new found respect for the
Purple belt. “You see what I mean by, size does not matter?” Frank asked.
“Yes Sir, Sensei “, said a few of the students. I just stood there with my Gi
askew.
“Sit down Smiley”, he said and I walked across the mat, feeling a little bit
more humble. Another student patted me on the back, as I sat down, which
was just a little bit of reassurance, “He does that to everybody”. I had
received enough instruction, to qualify for a promotion, to “Yellow belt”. I
was excited about that, as Frank also announced a National Tournament to
be held a month later, in our Dojo in Lakeland.
“If you are interested in competing in this tournament, there is some
paperwork to fill out in the back of the Dojo”. After class I signed up. I was
not going to allow myself to be intimidated by a smaller person who penned
me down. I was better than that, and I knew it. I would prove it.
The matches were arranged by weight, not degree, so in theory I could be
fighting a Black belt.
I was concerned, but no scared. I worked out harder and became focused for
that day. When the day of the tournament came, it was on a Saturday
afternoon. It looked as if there were people from all over the world at this
location. There must have been at least 400 participants in this tournament.
I waited and waited, and watched match after match until my name was
called. It was the weight division that I qualified to “spar” in. I was
introduced over a public address system (like everyone else) and loud
speakers, bellowed out my name, for all to hear.
I walked to the mat and bowed as I went to listen to instructions and meet
my opponent.
Oh crap, I thought, a “Brown belt”. That’s the one before “Black”. Oh well,
I’ll do the best I can, I thought as I bowed and locked arms. I went for a hip
toss, but he quickly countered, with a sweeping leg motion, meant to throw
me forward. I countered, by hopping on one leg, over his leg, and spun back
around to face him.
He pulled me violently to his right, and I countered by allowing his own
weight to shift my way, as I countered-We both hit the floor with a mighty
whoomp! He grabbed under the calf of my knee, but I did a kip up, and was
standing, before he could pin me. Again, we did the same moves over again,
and I expected this would be a draw, as neither he nor I, was making any
progress. Then, without any hint or movement, that I could counter, he was
on top of me, and I was moving in every direction, to keep from being
pinned.
I saw something white hanging down beside my head. I grabbed it to get
leverage, so I could hoist myself from the calamity, which I was now in.
A whistle blew, and I knew that meant a disqualification.

I wondered what my opponent had done to be disqualified, but didn’t ask.

I bowed, and went to get some water. Christina met me in the hall and made
a comment about my match, which she thought was funny, but I was out of
breath and could not hear for the P.A. system announcing another fight. At
the end of the day Christina had won second place for her weight category,
and received the “Blue ribbon of Excellence”.
I did not win anything. I learned I was disqualified, but did not know what
for. I felt bad for not winning and worse for being disqualified. Christina
tried to console me, by offering me her ribbon, but that was a slap in the
face, as far as I was concerned, because I did not win it-she did.
On Monday the following week we went back to our scheduled Judo class.
“Hey Mike, look on the billboard in the front office. They got your picture
there, from the tournament last Saturday” said one of my fellow students. I
quickly made my way to the sensei’s office and there I was.
A white thumbtack held the picture of the incident in question,
On the card boarded wall of notices and announcements.
I was there on the mat, another opponent was trying to pin me, and Sensei’s
pants were pulled down to his knees, as I had used them to heave up, by
grabbing the leg of his Gee.
I had to laugh.
It was truly funny, the expression on the referee’s face, as I pulled his pants
down to his knees.
I walked back into the Dojo and everyone had a good laugh at my expense.
It was not a hurtful laughter, as they were laughing with me, as we talked
about what that referee may have thought about me.
Frank said, “You did a great job smiley. Next time I’ll make sure my pants
are on tighter”, he continued as a few laughed including myself.
“The rest of you guys made me proud”. I am not disappointed with any of
the students in this Dojo with me here today”.

He went on about integrity, the importance of a training regiment, and

dedication, as I drifted off, into dreamland. I liked the sport, but not the
speeches. My older sister Penny was promoted to a green belt but was more
advanced than your average green belt. She had hands, and feet like
lightning bolts, but she did not compete. We had a physical fight, about a
month after this event that ended with me going to the hospital.
It was an argument about who would wash the dishes. It had been marked
on the calendar, to avoid thing like this, but she thought that the calendar had
been compromised, and it had, by Shondi (who did not want to participate in
learning a martial art) she erased my initials, and put in hers, so the days
were contrary to what they were supposed to be.
The Fight

I had to go back, and erase what she had done to make it right.
She saw what I was doing, and was convinced I was wrong, as we started
fighting, as she pushed me away from the calendar to correct it (in her mind)
It lasted 3 or maybe 4 seconds.
I pushed her hard, up against the refrigerator, and the refrigerator rocked
hard back against the sheet-rocked wall- she gasped for air, and I thought I
had knocked the wind out of her.
She opened her eyes, glaring and affixed on me, and made an instantly
perfect forward karate kick. This was an attempt to render me helpless.
However, my pseudo-quick judo reflexes reacted to deflect said kick.
It worked.
She missed my groin, but broke the hand that blocked it.
I had to wash dishes anyway, and afterward my brother reluctantly, took me
to the hospital, where they did an x –ray and found that my thumb had been
broken. Must’ve bent my hand too far forward. My brothers’ friend Jim
McDonald told me to lie down in the back of his El Camino and they were
going to carry me inside, when we got home, as if I had been mortally
wounded. By now my sister was nowhere around and the joke was on me.
I still hold a deep of respect and love for her to this day.

My younger sister Shondi and I always rode the bus to and from school.
Everyday, when we would get off the bus at our bus stop, in Golf View
Park, there was one kid, who in childish jest would throw rocks at us.
We thought that he was playing, due in part to his inability to throw straight,
so we would run together through the wooded field and escape. The rocks
that he threw never hit either of us, and perhaps that was what made him
angry. This happened every day.
It was always the same thing- getting off the bus in the afternoon.
Shondi and I sat close to the front so we could get a running head start.
It had become a game. The bus stopped. Shondi got out of the bus first and
I looked behind me to see James Medlock, and his friend Eddie Dawson,
who also got off at the same stop. Behind Eddie, in the rear of the bus was
Jerry Johnson giving me that “You-better-run!” look, and I smiled, as he
made that familiar grimace. Shondi was several feet in front of me running,
and I caught up with her, and passed her by, on my way to the shelter of the
woods, leading to my house. I heard a scream…
Aghhhhhhaaaa! Turning in less than a second, to see Jerry Johnson holding
a handful of hair, which was attached to my sisters head. He had grabbed her
long brown hair, and jerked her to the ground from behind, as she continued
screaming and crying, I started walking at an urgent pace to help her up.
I reached down and took her hand in mine and lifted her from the ground.
As tears fell she started running home. I remained behind.
This was the day I would repay Shondi, for a beating that she had taken for
me so long ago, which rightfully belonged to me.
I walked across the orange, dirt road and got into Judo sparing position, as
he laughed, and said sarcastically, “Oh no he’s going to kung Fu me. Does
baby want to fight”? He continued. “Go ahead give me your best shot” and
I’ll..........” .
That was all the time he had to speak, before I punched him about the
stomach, and face. I cannot remember just how many times As he fell, I
bent to one knee, continued punching him, as he slid down an allied fence
that surrounded the house on the corner, where our bus stopped.
Now he was crying, and gasping for his breath. My anger was not full, but I
felt compelled to honor my sister. If I had honored her any more the kid
would have surely died, or the bones in my hands would surely break.
I beat him till he screamed like my sister had screamed. He begged through
blood stained lips, for me to stop beating him. Somebody spoke up and said
“O.K. he’s had enough”. I had also had enough and was winded, from the
spiked adrenaline.
“Damn Mike, I guess you showed his ass” James Medlock shouted from the
paved road, a few feet away. Eddie spoke up and said, “I don’t think you
have to run anymore.” as he let out a chuckle. Walking away from the
mindless act, I turned to see Jerry, walking in the opposite direction, holding
his stomach, bent over slightly. I realized then, that it was not a game to him
at all.
He wanted to hurt us, for no reason.
 Now he had a reason not consider it at all.
That was the last time, I would ever have to defend her, and the last time I
would be feel justified in fighting another human.
To think of it as a “sport” in America, sends American values back a few
thousand years, to the age of Roman Gladiators.

THE SECOND MOVE

My older brother had a friend, named Terry, who convinced Eddy to move
with him to Mississippi, and get jobs, as ship builders, for “Ingles” ship
yard, in Pascagoula, Mississippi. He started rebuilding the engine in a 1972
green dodge pickup truck, which would eventually, be driven to Mississippi.
He then, designed a camper shell, from scratch.
My elder brother wanted to use it as a camper, to secure our clothes and
shoes (what was left of them). All of my belongings fit snugly inside a
pillowcase. He also put locks on the back door, to prevent theft.
As if someone would want to rob people in poverty.
It was during this time, that I had developed an inner ear infection, which
was painfully uncomfortable.
I rode in the camper, and my other brothers and sisters were riding in
separate automobiles with Terry’s vehicle leading the small convoy.

I remembered waking up, and smelling the salt air mixed with the smell of
dead fish from boats returning from the Gulf of Mexico. It was dark in the
camper shell, as it was around midnight. I pushed against the door and
found it to be locked. My ear throbbed with pain I panicked and began
calling out, Help! Get me outtalk here! I’m locked in here!! Help!!
This went on for 10 minutes or so, and my hands were hurting from beating
against the wood fame door.
Finally, my brother opened the door, after removing the pad lock and asked
in an angry tone,
“What’s your fucking problem?” to which I replied, I have an earache.
“Don’t be such a cry baby.” He snapped, and walked away.
I wanted to say, Hmm well let’s see, First the “camping episode” then the
“junkyard extravaganza”, and now with being locked up in a camper shell
just about sums it up! But I knew better.
Eddy, at times, could be as brutal as our Father had once been, to the
woman who had given birth to us all.
God rest her soul.
Smelling the salt air filled with other odors that defy description, and shrimp
boats, which had been out to sea for weeks, and it almost made me want to
vomit.
We moved into a run down trailer in Escatawpa, where the tap water was
(and probably still is) brown, and marshes prevailed, right out side of Moss
Point City limits. We lived there for almost 4 months.
It was here, that I saw the very thing that had held me captivity, that early
darkened morning, upon our arrival, to the soon to be flooded City of
Pascagoula, Mississippi.
The wooden camper topper, which Eddy, had secured to the pickup truck,
which was now sitting on the side of the road.
It was flipped up onto one side, and appeared to be slowly sliding into the
brackish water. I felt, a sort of, forlorn-relief upon, seeing it’s wooden,
demise.
After that my life became a non-memory, of moving from town to town, in
and out of schools too numerous to mention. Never living anywhere long
enough to make lasting friendships

In time, my sisters joined a Christian denomination, which practiced the

teachings of Jesus Christ, and attended a seminary school in Pensacola
Florida. My older brother and eventually myself moved to North Carolina,
and soon I found myself working for the United States Forrest Service,
(Tusquitee District) in Murphy, N.C. during (James Earl) Jimmy Carter
administration- 1977-1981.

My brother wanted to move again, this time to Atlanta, Georgia but I was
tired of moving, and it seemed like we were running from one town to the
next. Eddy, introduced me to a local disk jockey whose radio name was
“Roger Scott”. He agreed to let me live with him, as long as I shared all the
expenses involved in maintaining a small trailer, next to WCVP A.M. 600.
On the air, he would call out to his dog at home, as he mentioned, “I’m
Roger Scott and you’re not”. I think that was a line borrowed from Chevy
Chase form SNL.
He was upbeat and funny, like any D.J. I suppose, and we were hardly ever
there at the same time, so it was a good arrangement for both of us.
After I clocked out at 5:00 p.m. form the USFS I would go to the a.m. radio
station and watch my roommate do his job. It hardly looked like “work” to
me. On Saturday I would come in to the station and watch him broadcast
“Kasey Kaseem’s American Top 40” which he performed with ease. The
radio station owner, Sylvia Blakemore, offered me a job cleaning, and out of
obligation for hanging around so much, I accepted. It was not long after
that, that she asked me to read a promotional add, for the “Cherokee County
Museum”. I did, and she asked me, if I wanted a job doing that. I jumped at
the opportunity, because it beat the hell out of sweeping the floors, and
dumping the garbage.
My room mate had left for the weekend to go to the “Oktoberfest” in Helen,
Georgia with a female friend, and I had known that his step Son, (who was
known on the a.m. airwaves as, “Dr. Brown”), worked for WCVP on the
weekends. He also started to produce his own show called, “ROCK
TRAX”. David’s exacting memory recalled,
“We met on New Year's Eve, when 1981 became 1982, at Brian’s house.
I had just turned 15, and was a junior at Murphy High School.
I started working at the radio station before then, in October, which means
the first “Dr. Magic” reel-to-reel likely came out in spring”.
This is where we became friends, and formed a rock and roll band called,
“Dr. Magic”. We spent hours and days recording everything we could think
of. I had purchased a Nikon 220 SLR camera from a co-worker at the U.S.
Forrest Service. It had a slight defect-the through the lens (TTL) metering
system was broken. I became a photo enthusiast and read as much as I could
about the basic functions of metering systems and how they affect a shutter
speed and aperture. Most of my earnings were spent on film and processing.
One day, as we stood on what we had named, “Hell Hill” he asked,
“What’s the best thing a person can do with their life?
Without thinking twice I quickly responded, “Serve God”.
His mother moved back to West Palm beach, Florida and he as well.
I moved south to secure viable employment in Marietta, Georgia
Later, David Brown went on to a seminary college, in Alabama and became
an ordained minister, (but only in Alabama). I continued to work in
construction, and every day I scoured the classifieds in the Atlanta-Journal
Constitution for something better. Then an add popped out off the page
which read,
“Earn 125.00 an hour, Teaching Ballroom Dancing”. I was so naïve.
I called the number, and made an appointment. They told me that I would
have to learn both men’s and woman’s steps on all four levels, (Bronze,
Silver, Gold and International) in order to teach. I agreed - thinking that this
was not rocket science, and should not take that long.
This was just one of the many assumptions I would have in life, that would
lead to no good end.
By day, I framed houses from 7:00 a.m. till 4:00 p.m. and from 6:00 p.m. till
10:00 p.m. I learned all the facets of Ballroom Dancing. After about a year
and a half I was teaching, but not earning. To “earn” meant getting 2 elderly
people to sign a contract for several thousand dollars.
I did it, but I didn’t like it. It was easier than construction, but with a higher
moral conscience. Soon I quit, and moved from one Dance Company to
another-finding them all the same. I framed houses by day and taught
Ballroom dancing at night.

In September of 1985 I married. In March 17th of 1990 my son was born. It

was in September the 23 at 10:35 a.m. I slipped from the roof of a
condominium called, “Covered Bridge,” (off of Powers Ferry Road) and was
hanging from the heel of my construction boot, about 35 feet from the
ground, over a rock garden patio. It was supposed to be “easy money”.
Having a child cost a lot, and I needed to subsidize my income, so when my
neighbor Rick, asked me if I wanted to earn 50.00 bucks I gladly agreed. It
was a beautiful Saturday morning and I kissed my newborn Son, Forrest on
the head, as left apartment A-7 at “Powers Ferry Plantation.”
It was a simple chore. All we had to do was clean out the drainage gutters,
and bag it. After we were there for about an hour Rick said he had to go
home and check on something and left me there.
I didn’t panic as I hung precariously above the ground. I knew that I could
reach to ledge with my hands, without bending my knees, which would have
put more inertia on the ledge causing me to fall headfirst to the ground.
However, no sooner had I thought this and I was free falling.
I had a ladder that was only about 8 to 10 feet long.
The buildings were 30 to 35 feet high. My dilemma with the vertically
challenged situation, called for creative thinking. So, I put the ladder on the
lowest floor and climbed up it, thereby cleaning out the gutters there.
Then, I would pull up the ladder and place it on the center point or apex of
the roof and lean it against the center of the next floor and climb up it.
It seemed to be effortless for the first hour or so. I must have been short
sighted as I climbed up to the rung that was too high, and the bottom of the
ladder kicked out, as my right leg went through the second or third ladder
rung and I tumbled sideways, and then, the ladder slammed into my groin, as
I flipped backwards.
The sound of aluminum crashing precariously over the edge of the roof was
an alarming sound, but more alarming was the fact, that I was now falling.
My well thought plan, for recovering from the current circumstance, meant
nothing now. I don’t remember hitting the ground, but I do remember the
burning and stinging sensation that I felt on the left side of my head, as
blood spilled across the white rocked garden, and I thought angrily, “Who in
their right mind, has a rock garden!” As I thought this question was
answered, by a man who came from behind a sliding glass door of the
condominium where I had fallen. “I heard the ladder, and saw you fall from
my living room,” he exclaimed as he continued. “I called 911. Are you all
right? He asked. If I had been in a better state of mind and body I would
have said this.
I weigh 160 pounds, and I just fell, headfirst from 35 feet onto a rock
garden, and there is blood squirting from my skull. What do you think?
Alas, sarcasm was far from me, as my life was fleeting.
I remember saying this. Can’t breathe.... water. I woke up in an ambulance,
then in Kennestone Hospital.
I remember having the tongs screwed into my skull, which was painful, but
did wonders for my sinus congestion. I woke up 5 days later and had no
idea where I was, what happened, or who I was.
I was in the Intensive Care Unit at Kennestone Hospital, with weights hung
from the halo, which was secured to my skull. I had broken C3, C4, and C5
vertebrae. My breathing had stopped because the part of the brain, which
causes ones lungs to inhale, is at the very bottom of the brain and at the tip
of the spinal cord. I had what is referred to as Traumatic Brain Injury or
TBI.
During my recovery a man dressed in black came to visit me. He walked
around the hospital bed and put his hand on my hand and began praying. He
then left, without many words at all. I asked my wife who that man was and
what church he was from. She looked shocked for a second and replied,
“That was your brother, Eddy”. It was then, that I knew I was in a bad way.
I started trying to remember things ...anything and there seemed to be
nothing to remember. I was angry, confused, and depressed. Through much
rehab, I was able to walk again. You would have thought it was pure magic,
the way Doctors and nurses would stand in awe, when I would just move
one foot. I could feel my legs but I could not make them move, so when the
day came that I started moving both my feet in a walking motion, there was
much exuberance. A man who claimed to be from the New England Journal
of Medicine visited me and asked me some questions. According to him I
was a very rare statistic, having suffered the same injury 99 44/100ths of the
people would have been paralyzed, if not dead.
To me, that was of little consolation. I hated it, when a Dr. or nurse would
say, “You’re very lucky”.
I would answer, No, “lucky” would be, if I had died, or “lucky” would be, if
I won the lottery. “Lucky” is not breaking your neck in 3 places, and not
knowing if you will ever be able to function again.
This is NOT “lucky”!
I went home with a cane, a neck brace, and severe depression, after having
cervical fusion and spending many days and night in the hospital. I could
not return to my job (which required manual labor) and that left my wife to
support a child and a disabled husband. This took its toll on our marriage.
One day my wife walked into the den, where I was sitting with Forrest and
said, “Mike, I can’t be married to you anymore” I asked why? And she said,
“The man I married died, when you broke your neck. I don’t know who you
are anymore.”
My memory loss was her excuse. I would have thought that she could have
been more creative.
I soon recovered enough to walk without assistance, but neck and back pain
plague me to this day.
I found an apartment in Marietta, and we separated. I secured employment
with a Communications company, installing high speed data cable, in public
schools. I found it to be laborious, monotonous and the people around me
were questionable at best, not unlike most jobs I suppose. Then, one day I
was looking through the classified ads section of the Atlanta-Journal
Constitution and found a great job with great pay. This company was traded
on the New York Stock exchange, and a friend whom I’d known from my
hometown of Lake Wales worked there. In fact, he sat in during the
interview. I was hired, and soon began racking up Delta Sky Miles. I
traveled all over the United States, installing “predictive dialers” and a Unix
Host software application. This is where I met Derrick, who wrote code for
the same company, and was proud of his heritage. He claimed to be a
member of “Mensa”. An associate told me to stay away from him, because
he was “bad news”, but I thought that they were just intimidated by him and
gave it no second thought. I would later regret not taking that associate
more seriously.
Having been shrouded with Christianity from being raised in the south, and
knowing the difference between right and wrong.... I went terribly wrong.
So wrong, that I simply called it, The End.

It was the end of everything. It was not unlike any other day. My co-
workers and I would race onto Ashford Dunwoody Road and exit onto I-
285, for what I called the, 280-500 Race Home. Whoever reached I-75 first
won-in my mind. I’d stop in at the “Philly Connection” on Powers ferry
Road, for a cheese steak and go home and watch “Seinfeld”, take a shower
and go to sleep, but instead I had several margaritas with my friend “Terry”
after work.
On the way home I stopped into a 24-hour grocer called, “Kroger” on
Powers Ferry Road, not far from where I had once broken my neck. I had to
urinate immediately, but had to wait to use the bathroom. While I stood
outside waiting I met Glenda Smith, an accountant for Dekalb County. We
made light conversation, as I stared helplessly at her enlarged breasts.
Eventually, she asked me out to lunch the next day. She was unassuming,
and a sort of happy-go-lucky personality, and so we had lunch to next day at
“Fridays”. She invited me over to her condominium, introduced me to her
good friend, and business partner...cocaine.
I knew that cocaine was bad, but I never thought I would be the “junkie”
person, the “addict”, or a “druggie”.
As the days went on, I made regular visits to Glenda’s condo to purchase
cocaine...not for resale but personal consumption. It was frustrating to have
to wait for her clients, who were a business priority.
Snorting cocaine made me feel as if I were part of the whole universe. I had
never felt that good in my entire life, and I had to feel that way again, and
again, and again.
Now when I went to work, I carried a demon in the passenger seat, and a
“monkey on my back”.
I once had to call her, to deliver me an “eight ball” to work, so I could stay
awake, because of an all weekend cocaine binge. I shared my current state
of affairs with Terry, and he said, that “snorting coke was passé’, and that he
had to “cook it”. I asked him if he meant “free basing”, which I had heard
that Richard Pryor (a prolific comic of tragedy) had caught on fire by “free
basing”. “Come over to my place tonight and I’ll show you” he said. He
had closed all the blinds and pulled the curtains as if he was afraid of being
seen. I didn’t get the paranoia. He took an empty baby food jar and put a
small portion of baking soda in it with the cocaine.
He then began to heat it, and stir it a bit. After a few minutes he had a small
golden colored wax-like rock, which melted into smoke when it was heated
again. He put a small portion in a glass tube with a piece (copper scrub pad)
of “chore-boy, as a filter and lit it. The smoke billowed from his lungs, and
he became extremely paranoid, as he stared continuously through the
peephole glass at the front door. Then, he would silently, and slowly pull
back a small portion of a curtain, and stare through the blinds, as if
anticipating an intruder. It was starting to become disturbing to me when he
turned off the television. “Hey, that was Seinfeld you just turned off”. He
gave no response. I told him, “If that’s the way it makes you feel, I don’t
want it”. My cocaine-induced exuberance was asking me to, get the hell out
and do something! While Derrick’s crack filled paranoia, was requiring
complete silence and anonymity. After about ten minutes, he walked back
to the kitchen, where he had left the rest of the rock and the pipe. He sliced
a small portion of the rock off and handed it to me, while he said, “I take no
responsibility for what you do after you hit this, but take my word for it; it’s
ten times better than snorting”.
I thought that feeling better was well, feeling better. I thought I was
immune, and that I could just stop whenever I wanted.
In the nights that followed, I saw cash and cocaine exchange hands many
times before I ever thought about quitting, or trying to quit and resume my
normal life. But normal never returned. Monday morning I arrived at work
feeling rested from not having done any coke, or crack that weekend.
My nerves were slightly frayed and I thought it was the coffee.
I walked into my workspace when our shipping and receiving person greeted
me and said, “Dude, there’s blood coming out of your nose”. I immediately
quipped, Damn sinus infection, Thanks Rich, I said, Hey don’t mention this
to anyone, or they’ll think I’m on cocaine! And we laughed heartily, but I
could see a value of disbelief in Rich’s eyes, as I turned away, and headed
for the bathroom. I wondered if I had a brain tumor. I became depressed
beyond depression. But I didn’t stop as planned. The following Saturday
marked the beginning of “the end” for what use to be my life? This is when
I started to die-the living death. I recalled what Tony said, and did not recall
having felt anything for the rock, but decided to give it another try. A
curiosity became an all consuming possession, which had me telling lies to
my co-workers, and using alcohol to mask the guilt behind the lies to my
friends and family-and worst of all-myself. I thought that my life was in
control, but I could not have been further from the truth. Unlike snorting
cocaine, crack had to be constantly redone. One hit after another. - Over
and over and over and over and over, etc. And if it ran out, you had to get
more immediately, regardless of the cost or time of day. Crack causes one
to cling to the darkness and silence, a heightened sense of paranoia that
borders on insanity or a type of schizophrenia. Derrick started coming over
to my place, and we smoked and smoked. I never stopped.... I couldn’t.
Weekends became weeks, then months.
I was usually late to work on Mondays, because I could not pull myself
away from the pipe. I began making excuses why I could not come in to
work. After getting stopped in a roadblock, in the same area of Marietta
where we always went, we decided to go somewhere else. The police had
confiscated a brand new pipe and some “Choir –boy” brillo pad.” I don’t
recall the officer’s name, but I did not have anything worth being arrested
for so they let me leave, but not without being screamed at for 5 minutes or
so. “YOU NEED HELP”! Screamed the Marietta police officer. “I want to
hear you say, that you are going to go somewhere, and check yourself in to a
hospital where they can help you!!! SAY IT!! He shouted, and I told him
that I would check into a local psychiatric hospital. I thought about what he
said, and how close I came to going to jail. I then, decided that I did need
help. There was a Mental Hospital on Atlanta Road in Smyrna, Georgia,
that was only a couple of miles or so, from my apartment. I went there, and
told them that I was suicidal and an addict.
By law, they have to hold a person for 24 hours, if they are suicidal, but
there is not a program for crack addicts.
After 24 hours, I convinced myself that the 24 hours had breathed sobriety
into my new found, addiction-free life. But my body had other plans, as I
dialed Derrick’s number on my cell phone.
We need to make a run; I said as he replied, “I thought you checked yourself
in to rehab”. Well, I checked myself out. Let’s go, and I hung up the phone
after arranging to meet him at my place.
“Misery loves company”. We drove around I-285 and got off at the
“Bufford” Hiway exit. Home of the “Bufford Hiway Flea Market”, in front
of which was a large parking lot, which was sparsely filled with homeless,
addicts and legitimate patrons. There was what Derrick called,” La Eme” or
Mexican Mafia. Who are we looking for I asked suspiciously, “Mexicans
who are under five feet tall, and do not speak English” he replied. Why
under 5 feet tall I asked, to which he replied, “One must be a certain height
to be a police officer, and that height is over five feet he replied. Soon we
found such a small tattooed individual. Derrick spoke Spanish to him and
we found out that he was a crack dealer, and proceeded to use his services
from that day till 3 weeks later, when he had to “re-up” or go get some more.
He trusted Derrick and I, because Derrick spoke his native language, and I
said nothing. We drove west on Buford Hiway, until we reached these 2
story apartment complexes. They were painted a faded eggshell white,
which was chipping from the 4, 2 story columns, which sat in front of each
set of buildings. It looked as if the architect wanted to reflect southern
values, by making the place look like a Plantation, as white shutters were
screwed into the sides of each window, that a sheet hung over from the
inside.
African-American and American-American children played games of
shoot’em’ up in the parking lot, behind the late model vehicles which
scarcely covered the long absent yellow lines, of designated parking space.
A black wrought iron and rusted banister traveled the length of the upper
floor, and people sat in chairs on the narrow walkway and stared down at us
as, I reluctantly stepped from the car. I told Derrick to lock the car, but he
said, “I’d rather not have them break my windows, as well as stealing my
radio”. We walked through a hallway that separated the apartments and I
could see where lights once lit this now darkened hallway. We took another
set of stairs in the middle of the building to a second floor and I felt
nauseous and nervous. The unnamed crack dealer gave a knock on the door,
which was unlike a typical knock. I knew immediately that it was a setup,
or a legitimate coded knock for security reasons. The door opened and we
entered. A violent smell of feces and what I thought might be rotting flesh
attacked my senses. I saw at least 12 men. They appeared to be of Hispanic
origin-what, with the Spanish and dark skin. I’m just sayin’.
They were standing around and sitting on everything that could be sat on. I
tried not to make eye contact, but they saw me, as I looked at the coffee
table on which sat a 9-millimeter. One man sat alone on the sofa, and was
the first to speak. The dealer replied something in Spanish, and walked into
the bedroom. I heard muffled sounds that sounded, as if he was getting
smacked up a bit. It was unnerving to know that could easily have been me.
Derrick spoke some words in Spanish, and the conversation went back and
forth. The large Mexican/American man on the sofa removed a newspaper,
on the corner table, which revealed an Uzi. My eyes widened, as he
laughed. Derrick said something else in Spanish, and he reached under the
sofa, and pulled out more crack than I had ever seen. Conversation was
exchanged again, and silence gripped the room.
Derrick sat the 100.00-dollar bill down, and picked up the one rock that fit
the description, as a hundred dollars worth. The large Mexican-America (to
be politically correct) leaned forward, and said the same thing again, which I
did not understand, but I did think, that we were not leaving that place alive.
The door was opened for us, and I walked nervously, but not too fast, back
to the car, which surprisingly was not broken into. We got into the car, and
Derrick said, “We’re never doing business with them again”. Why not, I
asked. “They wanted to offer us all of that crack that you saw for taking
some bodies out of their apartment, and following them to a place to dispose
of them”.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Yes”, he replied. We drove back around the
perimeter (I-285) in silence, and never spoke of it again. I developed a sense
of “crack-radar” and we just found it anywhere we looked. It was always in
the most dangerous parts of town.
Whenever I traveled (before it got this deep) I would simply ask any
nefarious stranger, or street person, “Where can I go, to get shot, mugged, or
killed?” They would send me straight to it.
I felt as if, I was on a mission-guided by my own demon, who said
nothing.... just pointed an invisible withered hand that only I could see.
We went to other questionable areas in and around Marietta, Georgia, and
continued our spending spree, as time slipped by like so many an unseen
falling star. All things have their end, and money is no exception.
I eventually pawned all of my most prized possessions, which could not be
replaced, that included a 1942 Hamilton, wristwatch, which was given to me
by my an old friend and neighbor J.C. from his deathbed.
I had managed to spend over 12,000 dollars in about a 3 weeks, and
overdraw my checking account...all for crack cocaine.
I quickly lost weight, and unplugged the phone, because I could not tolerate
the sound, nor could I carry on a conversation. My eyes looked as if blood
had been poured on top of them. I scared myself when I looked into the
mirror. I went days and days without sleep. At work, I saturated my eyes
with “Visine” (eye drops) to no avail, and made frequent trips to the
executive john, to snort a line, so I could make it through the day.
I saw this as clever, but others saw right through it. I was a fools fool.
My supervisor, whom I had known long before I started working under him,
called me into a private office.
I could not lie my way out of this. “I’m sorry I have to fire you, but it’s for
your own good,” he said, with tears in his eyes. He continued, “Sometimes
you have to get knocked down, before you can get up. He continued, “I
want you to go to the nearest clinic and get help”. “Don’t worry, the
company insurance will pay for it”. I hung my head in shame, feeling filthy
and disgraced. I left in tears and drove to Charter Peachford Psychiatric
Hospital, which was only a couple of miles down I-285. I was on the brink
of collapsing when I walked into the hospital and told the attendant that, I
needed help, because I was a crack addict, and wanted to die. I filled out a 3
page document, only to have a hospital representative tell me that, “they had
no program to help crack addicts”. I left, and started driving home, after
being awake for 96 hours. I did not remember driving the 16 miles around I-
285 or merging onto the 120 loop, but I did hear the screaming horn, as I
crossed over onto oncoming traffic.
I awoke looking in a forward direction that indicated I was on a head –on
collision toward another vehicle.
I swerved, and thought that the vehicle would flip over, but I didn’t, and a
collision was avoided. It was around 5:00 p.m. when I arrived at my
apartment. I fell asleep and slept till 5:30 p.m. the next day, when the phone
began ringing. I wondered why I had plugged it back in. I answered it.
“Are you up?” a familiar voice asked. “Hey, I’m sorry you lost your job.
I’m coming over to cheer you up”.
I wanted to ask him if he had a rock, but realized that cell phones are easily
monitored. Hey, I asked, and he interrupted “don’t say it. He continued,
“I’m pulling into your parking lot right now”. Dick’s gate seemed to exude
a type of nonchalant “better-than-you” attitude. I unlocked the door, and he
walked in. I was depressed, angry, and I had a monkey on my back the size
of my pseudo-friends ego. He walked into my apartment with no
expression, as I said sarcastically, I feel better already, as I walked into the
kitchen and sat down at the table, where an empty glass pipe lay, and stared
at it. “Could you use a hit?” Dick asked. Are you kidding, I replied, I’m
dead already.
Dick dropped a 100.00-dollar rock on the table and my demon said, Thanks.
The insanity began immediately and ended about two and half hours later.
He asked me, if I could remember the code to his car. I said sure.
He told me the code, and asked me to get what was in the driver’s side door
panel out. I said, Ok and went to his car. I saw a brown paper bag and
retrieved it. I dumped it on the kitchen table and out fell a zip lock bag that
was almost completely full of cocaine. I was delirious with excitement as I
held it like a precious jewel. We cooked and smoked, and cooked and
smoked. It was like a horrible merry-go-round that I could not get off of.
Two weeks later, we were out of cocaine and thereby having no crack. “My
friend” was not affected by the economics of the situation as he was a
contractor who wrote code for 165.00 an hour, and made his own hours, so
no one questioned his absence. I had filed for unemployment and received
my check the same day we ran out. We drove to an area in Marietta where
young African-American youth would sale you crack cocaine and you would
get more for your money, rather than buying cocaine and cooking it, but it
was a little more dangerous. I bought 200.00 worth and “my friend” did as
well, but that only lasted till midnight. “Do you want to make a run?” He
asked. I’m broke, I replied. “You fly, I’ll buy” he said. The only people
out past midnight in this area of town were “cops”, “dealers”, or “crack
heads”. I was nervous and kept trying to think of what to say in the event a
cop should pull me over. I turned down a darkened road, and eased down to
the bottom of the hill. At least ten men and young boys, who all dealt in
crack, each offering a better deal, soon surrounded me. We made another at
1:00 a.m. then, another at 3:00 a.m., then 5:00 a.m. At 8:30 a.m. we
exceeded speeds of 100 miles per hour to get back to my apartment. We
never spoke, which we though would bring bad karma.
When we arrived back at my apartment, I jumped out and ran inside.
Derrick walked at a fast pace. He liked to act as if everything was under
control - until he hit the pipe. Our sick and paranoid behavior continued for
3 months. “We need to stop,” he said, one day right out of the blue. “I
know it, and you know it. We’re both broke”. He opened the front door and
placed the glass pipe on the cement walkway and stomped on it-shattering it
into a million slivers of crack stained glass. My mouth fell open and I
slumped down to the floor as what felt like my life source vanished. “I’m
sorry”, he said, “It’s for your own good”. Hmm I thought, where have I
heard that before? I wanted to strangle the life out of him, but I knew he
was right. He closed the door and walked away. I sat in the darkened, silent
apartment, as I had put blackout lining over all the windows.

A knock on the door shattered the silence. “My friend” had left!! ...Was
this the police!!! My mind raced then my question was answered as I
unlocked the door, and reluctantly opened it. He walked past me as he
looked down at the carpet. A large African-American man wearing a Mr. T
starter set walked into my apartment. Without expression, “My friend”
turned and said, “Meet Miami. I found him in the parking lot smoking.
Miami shook my hand as I wondered if this was a set up. “ I brought a little
something over for you,” he said as he tossed a 50.00 rock on the table. I
learned that he was the dealer to the many street vendors. So he decided to
cut out the middleman and just set up shop with Derrick and I. Miami
reached down into his incredibly large pants and pulled out a zip lock bag
full of crack cocaine, and laid it on the table. “That’s for when you finish
that”. Miami said. I wondered why, but did not ask. By now “my friend”
had lost his resolve to quit, as he made a pipe, using an empty toilet tube
paper roll. Miami reached again down into his trousers, and pulled out a
rock worth about 300.00 and repeated, “This is for when you finish that”.
Derrick just kept right on smoking, as did I. “I hope you don’t mind. Miami
said casually. I took the liberty of inviting a couple of young ladies over
here. They arrived, as Derrick left, and they both stared like starved animals
at the crack on the table. They were around 19 to 25 and it looked as if they
had died a long time ago. They raised funds in an altogether promiscuous
fashion, in order to support their habit. These were the poor innocent
women whom we shall refer to henceforth as “crack whores”.

They did not want money for sex; they wanted “crack” for sex. Miami
ordered both of the girls to the bedroom, and followed them into it. He left
the door open and asked me to join him. I said, No thanks, as I took another
hit. I heard the sounds of grunting and smacking, so I walked into the
hallway to look into my bedroom. As one of the girls was giving the other
one oral pleasure-the other was giving Miami what he wanted. “You want a
girl?’ Miami asked with a glee like expression.
No, I replied.
”What’s wrong?” ”You want a boy?” “I’ll get ya a boy, if that’s what you
want”, he shouted beyond the hall, as I walked away, back to the crack table
in the kitchen.
After having smoked for what was going on my 18th day, I could not have
had sex, even if I wanted to.
As days turned into weeks, Miami was always there, as crack whores came
and went.
Strange people came and went at all hours of the day and night, and Miami
would sale them crack and or cocaine. Whenever he would run out of
smokes or booze, I’d go to the store and get him some more. That was my
job, and in return, he supplied me with crack cocaine. It seemed like a fair
deal, until Derrick came back to my apartment about 3 weeks later. “Can’t
you see what he’s doing?” He asked. “He’s using crack to make you his
personal slave,” he said angrily. My body and mind had a conflict of
interest. I started remembering things, like when “Miami” made me stop
smoking, long enough to eat a hamburger, which he had bought for me.
“You gotta eat, “ he said. That’s when I realized, that he was keeping me
alive so he would have a place to deal his “crack”.

Derrick left, and I went back to smoking more crack. More people came and
went from my Marietta, Georgia apartment at all hours. I was up for 22 days
the first time, and 26 days he second time, due to my dedication to crack. I
fell asleep, after Miami left to get more crack, and slept for about 14 hours.
When I awoke at 4:00 a.m. my guilt, and shame, for my life, and all it’s
disturbing lies, pierced my soul. I thought the only restitution was death.
As I wallowed in the black tar of my guilt, I cried for what I had become and
for myself. No tears would be shed. I just moaned in grief. I was no longer
a man or human. I was just some flesh and bones that housed a demon, with
whom I could no longer do battle.

It was time to die.

I took a bottle of Red Label Bourbon from the refrigerator and filled a glass
of water. I retrieved the last six or so pain killers from the bathroom and
chased each one with a drink of water. Tasting the bourbon reflected the
awfulness that my life had become. I then waited for that eternal sleep-an
end to the chaos that had become my so-called life.
Time.
I don’t remember how long I was oblivious to my surroundings, but I was
now awake...sort of.
I awoke in the bathroom floor, and almost dried vomit was sticking to the
side of my face, which I had apparently slept in. Standing-I turned to the
medicine cabinet, and looked at my horrible reflection. No longer was I
human, peeling chunks of the semi- dried vomit off my face, and threw up
some more. I was unsuccessful, but I did get that “just died” smell in my
apartment. I took a shower and began cleaning my apartment, and threw
away everything that resembled my habit. Later that evening as I sailed
away on that euphoria of depression, there came a knock at the door.
If it was Miami, I was going to tell him to leave, but it was my pseudo-
friend Derrick, who just came over to give me a two-hour dissertation on
sobriety. Though I had cleaned everything thoroughly, it still stank. He
walked in and put his hand over his face, as he squinted, he said, “My god,
what died in here?” I responded, I did, to no avail. I listened as he exuded
the characteristics of what it means to not be a crack-head, i.e. sobriety 101
No book required.
Often times it is easier to preach the Gospel than to actually live it.
His recommendations only made me feel worse. He told me, “You need to
get into rehab “right now! But I told him that they would not accept me,
because there is no rehab program for crack addicts. I felt the insatiable
appetite for crack cocaine seizing me again, and told him that I needed some
smoke. He left, I thought to get some crack, but instead he contacted my
friend Jim, who fired me, (“for my own good”) and told him I needed help.
Soon the phone rang, it was my old friend Jim from the company that I was
fired from. “Listen, he said. I don’t know who the fuck “Miami” is, and I
don’t care how big he is! But I’m coming over there right now and kick his
ass! And have you both thrown in jail!! Ten minutes later he called again,
from his car, saying “If jail is what it takes to get you straight, then jail it’s
gonna be. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t waste my fucking time”. He
told me that he was “coming to see me, and that I should not leave.” Ten
minutes later “Miami” showed up at my door. I told him that my friend Jim
was coming over and that he was bringing the law. He gave me about 100
dollars worth of crack and left. I waited all night, and the phone rang at 6:15
a.m. I reluctantly answered it. Jim, said that, “he had never asked his family
for anything in his life, but he told me that he asked his brother Mike if he
had “a place I could stay, until I got “straight” again”. Mike agreed to allow
me to stay in the abandoned log cabin that was on his farm in Unaka, North
Carolina. Jim told me to meet him in Kennesaw, Georgia, at a place where
we once worked out every day. I told him I’d meet him there by 8:30 a.m. I
packed some clothes, loaded my pipe, and nervously drove to the designated
location. He met me in the parking lot and asked me to follow him to a gas
station across the road where he pumped fuel in my Chevy Blazer. ”How
long has it been since you used”? He asked, with a tone somewhere between
seriousness and grief.
I was sick of all the lies, and I knew I couldn’t sink any deeper, so I told him
the truth.
Five minutes, I replied, as I looked over my right shoulder, at the demons,
which seemed discouraged.
I continued, I ran out, while I was sitting in the parking lot waiting for you.
He dropped his head as he continued pumping the gas, and said, “I want you
to drive straight to my brothers house, and don’t stop for a damn thing”. He
continued, “A full tank will get you there”. You wont be needing any
money”. The drive was nerve racking and desperate. I was almost relieved
when I arrived at the home of Mike and Jo Ann Archambault.
Mike Archambault was a friend of my older Brother Eddy and he knew me
only through him.
He was not disrespectful, or judgmental, nor did he speak of my addiction.
When I pulled into his driveway, a woman I had never met before greeted
me. It was his wife Jo Ann.
Thinking to myself. She knows I’m a crack addict, and she probably thinks,
I will kill her in her sleep and steal anything that’s not tied down to buy
crack. As I stepped from the vehicle, I saw the screened door open, as I
grabbed my meager luggage. “Mike said you were coming. You must be
the other Mike. She continued in a light hearted, & humorous manner, “It’s
going to be confusing around here with 2 Mikes, she added, It’s hard enough
just keeping up with one Mike” she said, as she let out a shallow galumph,
and a welcome smile covered her face.
I really appreciate you opening your home to me, in lieu of my
circumstances, I said with my head hanging slightly low, so she could not
see the toll that all the drugs have laid to my face. “Come on in” she said,
you can set your belongings in the basement, there’s plenty of room down
there, with a bed and T.V. She continued, “We have a satellite dish and 500
channels to choose from”. That’s great, I said as I stepped cautiously down
the steps leading to the basement. It was colder down there, and there were
no windows, therefore darkness was always present. This made me sleep for
a long time.
Mike woke me up, after I had slept for 2 days, and he took me with him to
drop off some Black Angus cattle, somewhere in Tennessee. As we drove
through the mountainous terrain of gorge, and peak, he said this. “You look
like shit”. He then, let out a hearty laughter, as if to say, “Been there - Done
that”. In fact, he had sown some pretty “wild oats” (as they say) in his own
time, but that’s his story. Let’s continue.
In my time there, I learned the importance of choosing your friends. It’s
always proper etiquette to be polite to everyone, but there are those who are
among us, that do not have anyone’s best interest at heart.
One needs to know the difference. This is no easy chore, given the nature of
being “politically correct”, or the use of common politise.
I also learned how to drive a tractor, haul hay, castrate bulls, and the grand
finale is the “AI” (or Artificial Insemination). This involved slipping your
whole arm up inside of a cow, but not before putting on a long plastic glove.
{That is more information than I really wanted to disclose}.
I also, cut fields of grass to make hay, then the next day, I would fluff the
grass, (so it would dry completely) and several days later, Mike would roll
the grass into hay rolls, which I would spear with the tractor and take to the
barn. None of these feats ever made it on my resume’. After the first week,
I was moved into the cabin.
No, it was not a log cabin, in the traditional sense, like one would imagine a
“quant” log cabin in the wood. It was in fact made from logs, with a
traditional roof, but there was no insulation except under the floors, and it
was falling down, in a myriad of tangled forgotten efforts.
It had a wood burning stove, and electricity, but a portion of the summer had
been spent cutting down trees, for firewood in the winter. Followed by
splitting it with an axe, so it could dry and burn.
The lack of insulation was modified by an old stained glass window, which
had a series of 6 inch by 10-inch glass panes. It went from the floor to the
ceiling, and was 8 feet tall and 4 feet wide. I had taped a piece of cardboard
over one of the 6-inch panes at the bottom left, which had been busted out.
Again, no insulation effort had been made to secure the elements against
leakage. In fact, one could easily look between the window and the log wall
that it sat inside of. The winters in the foothills of the great Smokey
Mountains can be quite unforgiving. Some mornings it would be colder in
the cabin than it was outside. There were usually snow-covered
mountaintops, which looked beautiful, but when night fell the temperatures
would drop. I would make fires that were so hot, I would have to go outside,
or to the bedroom, but by 2 or 3 in the morning, I would be cold again, in the
bedroom, so I would have get up, and move to the living room/kitchen to
finish sleeping.
It was here, that I started my memoirs, The “Chronicles of Crack”, or my
version, “THE END”.
I sent it to my friend David Brown, who had enough courage to print my
story, in “The Lake City Reporter”, where he was currently the Editor, in a
small town, with the same name.
There was so much more of the story, that had been edited out, that he said,
that I should “write it as a book”, but I didn’t take him seriously, until I
received a copy of the story, that he printed on my behalf.
I was ecstatic. Now I knew I had to write it.
A few weeks later, the automatic transmission, stopped being “automatic”
on my Chevy Blazer after 287,000 miles. The cost to replace it was more
than the vehicle was worth, so I opted to purchase another car instead.
My only problem was that I had no money.
Meanwhile, I had started assisting Mike with his Communications business
and after several switch installations, I had saved up enough money to buy a
used car. Mike went with me, to downtown Murphy and we looked at used
cars. That’s what one buys after a bankruptcy, and a trail of unpaid debt.
I respected Mike’s knowledge of vehicles, and asked him which one seemed
to be the car for me.
He simply grumbled, “Ask the salesman which one he drives home at
night”. As it turned out, the salesman drove a 1988 Chevrolet Caprice. It
was maroon colored, with soft, red, velour interior, electric windows, with
cruise control and air conditioning. The radio was questionable at best, but
“beggars can’t be choosers” as they say.
I thought that the radio would not be a priority.
Often times, “the worst kind of ride, beats the best kind of walking”.
{Eddy Richards circa 1975}
On weekends I’d drive down to Riverdale, Georgia and pick up my Son for
the weekend. He liked the cows, the tractor, and playing on the rolls of hay,
and shooting his bb gun, but he didn’t like the 3 hours and 45 minute drive
that it took to get there. The drive made for a very short weekend. I
continued working for Mikes Communication Company and saved some
more money, but most of it was spent on, catching up on unpaid debt, food,
gas, and insurance. At times I wondered if I was being paid fairly, because
the money always disappeared so fast. As it turns out, I was being paid
fairly, and the same thing happens to millions of other hard working
Americans every payday. That’s life, or at least my life.
On one particular Friday, as I passed the “Grizzly bear Trading Post” on the
outskirts of Murphy, and was heading south to get my son for the weekend,
my car started overheating. There was no place to get water and I had long
since passed the “Grizzly Bear Trading Post”. I slowed down and rolled to a
stop at an intersection, across from a lone gas station, which had gone out of
business a long time ago. Two old men sat in rocking chairs in front of the
abandoned station, and looked on, as I was the only thing happening that
day, in that particular location. My radiator had developed a pinhole-sized
leak, which I had not seen when checking the oil. By the time the red (idiot)
light came on, it was already too late, my block had seized, and the motor
had stopped performing as a motor was intended. I did not have the car two
months.
I did not have a cell phone. That’s right. I did not have a cell phone, so I
had to ask the old men for permission to make a long distance call from their
private phone, which was attached to the wall just inside the door of the gas
station which did not sale anything, and the garage part of the station was
long since abandoned. Gentlemen, I asked sympathetically, is it possible for
me to use your phone? As you can see I am broke down a long way from
my home. I carried on, the car overheated and I just bought it two months
ago. One of the old men turned to an empty coffee can, which sat beside
him and picked it up with his thumb and bent index finger.
He gently guided it about a foot off the ground, and spat. I heard the sound
of liquid splashing into liquid, and he sat it back down. As the can touched
the concrete, the other old man said, “I’d like to help ya son, but you can’t
make no phone calls on that phone.” before he continued I thought, in a
mocking way, “You can’t use no double negative to tell me that”.
He then pointed, about 200 yards and said, “You can use that there pay
phone boy, and if’n you need to call sum body”. I looked to the payphone,
and said thank you, as I made my way towards it. I called Mike (collect)
and my Son as well, to explain my situation. An hour later Mike showed up,
and he towed my car back to his barn, where he had an air compressor,
refrigerator (stocked with beer), wood burning stove, a set of bucket seats
(as well as the complete back seat) from some vehicle, and just about every
tool that one may need on a farm, or garage. We stood in the barn, and
looked at the hood, from whence the problem came. Mike observed in a
gruff tone of voice”, Well, you just got the damn thing paid for,” and
continued; I guess you’ll have to rebuild the engine. There’s a “Chilton
manual” over there, he said, as he pointed to a shelf with books of car know-
how. I guess so, I reluctantly conceded, as I remembered the worst days of
my life were spent on working on cars. Now I had to dip in my savings for
another engine and parts, parts and more parts. A new block from the parts
store was 350.00 dollars, but they would have to order it, and I would have
the shipping fees which were as much as the engine. Mike said, “You ought
to call your brother and see if he’s got an engine you can have, and he
continued, If he’s got one, I’ll go get it for you”. You’d go to Florida from
Unaka, North Carolina to get an engine for me? I asked. “Sure he said, and
continued, there still hay that needs to be cut, and some more over by the
creek that needs to be fluffed ”. I smiled and said, I’ll call him. I turned, and
walked up the stony driveway to his house and called my older brother. He
answered the phone like this,
“It’s you’re dime, and my time, tell what I got on the line?
Hey Eddy, I said to which he replied in a more excitable tone, “Heeyyy!
Little brother. What can I do you for? He said jokingly. Well, I bought this
1985 Chevy Caprice, and I managed to blow up the engine. I was
wondering if you had anything that I could throw in it? I replied.
“I’ve got a 1997 engine out of a truck. It’s a 305 he continued, and it has an
aluminum block, because it was made in Canada, that will mean, it’s lighter
and runs cooler, and you’ll have more horsepower, because the truck engines
were stronger, because they had 202 heads, and your Caprice has 194
heads”.
He went on, the engine seized up on this truck, and the “O” rings scratched
the walls, so you’ll have to have it bored out at an engine shop. He
continued, you would need a “4 core radiator”, a transmission cooler, and an
RV cam, with some umph! “. What’s “umps?” I asked. He continued,
“Just tell the man at the parts store to order you an RV cam, with some
oomph, and he’ll know what you mean”.
He had an engine all right, but it was already blown up, and I could not
understand why he was giving me an engine that was already blown up. I
was not disrespectful and was in fact grateful, that I had a brother to help
me, but I could not help being frustrated. I never knew my friend Mike had
left, to go get the engine. I thought the engine was a loss, but a couple of
days passed and Mike showed up in his Diesel Dodge dually, with an Engine
from my brother Eddy, in Pensacola, Florida. I was a little dismayed, and
Mike seemed a little bit happy, because of my confusion, no doubt. Mike
got up in the back of the truck, and with his bear-like hands, he heaved the
engine to the back of the bed, as if it were a small toy. We wrestled it onto
the ground, and into the barn, where I began the disassembly process, as
Mike lit a menthol cigarette, and offered simple suggestions, and favorable
hints, about my current undertaking. “The nearest machine shop for boring
the heads, and giving it an acid bath, is in Blue Ridge,” he said, as he
exhaled smoke from the menthol cigarette.
The following day we loaded the engine up and took it to Blue Ridge
Machine Shop, in North Georgia. A few days later, I received a call from
the machine shop, and the guy said, “Looks like you can go .30 over and it’ll
be fine”. Translated-The piston walls have been compromised to such a
degree, that it needs to be bored out 30/1000ths of an inch, in order to
achieve a smooth operational surface. I agreed, and a week later, I had a
brand new “looking” block, with my first initial, and last name stamped on
it.
As we lowered the engine block to the barn floor, Mike asked, “What color
are you going to paint it?” Well, I replied, I never thought about painting it.
I just want to put it together, so it runs right.
“You gotta paint it. He continued, “You just spent the money to have it
bored, specked-out, and acid washed and you’re putting new parts in it”.
“You really need to paint it!”
I said, Ok I’ll paint it!
“What color?” he asked.
Blue, I replied.
“Why do you want to paint a Chevrolet Blue? He asked.
Well, because that’s the color that I want the engine to be, I replied.
“Blue is a Ford color,” he touted.
I responded with the only simple comeback available - So.
“Ok, it’s your car. Paint it what you will.” he said, as he walked away.
The engine puller was one of the biggest investments. Everything else was
just as the “Chilton” manual said...almost. I went to the parts store to order
my cam, and asked for one with “a little oomph”.
He knew exactly what I meant. I also ordered a “4 core radiator, as well as a
Transmission Cooler.
My brother also insisted that I put in “real gauges” in the car, instead of the
“idiot lights, those are from the factory in the dash. He said, “They don’t tell
the temperature. They only say, “H and “C”.
He continued, “You also need to know your oil pressure, not when it’s so
low that it’s running hot”.
So, with this newfound information, I installed 3 customized gauges.
There was one for water temperature, another for oil pressure, and yet
another for transmission temperature. After about 3 months of working, on
and off, I asked a neighbor, Harold Thrasher, to assist me in installing the
new 1997 engine, because Harold had rebuilt many motors, in the time he
had lived in Unaka, North Carolina, as he was a race car driver.
We finally reached the point, which the car could be cranked up.
The mufflers had not been connected yet, and the sound was terrible and
disturbingly loud, as smoke filled the room, as it burnt off the silicone
lubricant, that was used to slide the pistons into the cylinders.
There were no shouts of joy or celebration –only a few smiles. “Mike’s
nephew Brett, who stood outside the barn drinking a beer, made the
comment over the noise of the car, “You better turn it off. I think it’s gonna
blow up again!! He shouted, as I laughed, and switched the car off
(Just in case he was right.).
Meanwhile, I created quite a resume, and was contacted by a large
corporation in Roswell, Georgia. I went to the interview and was hired. I
had trouble finding an apartment, as I had left a trail of bills behind me, as
well as a bankruptcy. I contacted an old friend who did not know of my
previous life, and he agreed to let me stay with him and his wife.
(They have since turned their back on me so I will not allow their name to
be printed, but they know who they are).
I moved in, and things were going pretty good. I saved about 5000.00
bucks, and was ready to start looking for another place to call home, but then
it happened. I had fought the feeling, but could sense my demon calling to
me like an old lover.
“Just, one time”. Just get a 20.00 and no more”. “That’s it.
“Just one. What can it hurt?” That’s all it had to say.
After dinner, I announced that I was going out for a drink, and pulled my
Caprice from the driveway, in Cartersville, Georgia. I had never been to
“Cartersville” before, but I knew that I would find “it”.
I drove straight to the lowest quality of town, where I found the cheapest
Motel around, and pulled into the parking lot, which allowed an almost
“drive-thru” like service, as the parking spaces were right in front of the
rooms. I turned the car off and waited. I had seen some people lingering
around, and my demon said, “We’re here”, as he unsnapped his safety belt,
and turned on the radio, which I turned off as a young man, with the street
smarts and clothes, which reflected same, approached my Caprice.
“Is this car for sale?” he asked.
No, I replied.
“You a cop”, he asked.
No, I replied, I’m an addict, and I’d like a dove.
After much ado about the legitimacy, of whether I was a cop or not had
passed. Walking slowly away he said, “Drive off, and come back”. I circled
the block and returned. Though my demon kept silent. I knew this was
conspicuous and it angered me somewhat.
He walked out to my car and got in on the passenger side. “Where’s my
money? He asked, as he clutched something in the palm of his left hand. I
anxiously, handed him a 20.00-dollar bill, and turned my palm over, in
which he dropped the rock. I stopped at a local convenience store, on that
side of town, where I could purchase 1 piece of “Chore-Boy”, a glass rose
stem holder, and a piece of close hanger, and an adjustable lighter, for 4
dollars. The Indian man knew what I wanted, and he had done this
transaction a thousand times before. It was wrong, to do that kind of
business, but I was glad he did that kind of business.
I made haste, back to the house of my friends and pushed the small bag,
down in the crotch of my khakis. I went inside and announced that I must
retire for the evening. As I told them, I was exhausted from a hard days
work, and had to leave early in the morning, to beat the Atlanta traffic.
It seemed reasonable, and said, goodnight. In my nervousness of being
heard, I turned on the shower, in the bathroom, which was inside my
bedroom. I also turned on the bathroom fan, as I burnt the “Chore-Boy” and
packed it inside the glass tube, which had held a small artificial rose. The
20.00 were gone in less than 5 minutes. I turned off the shower, and went to
bed, wanting another hit. I finally fell asleep around midnight, and was up
the net morning taking a shower by 5 a.m. and leaving for work by 5:30 a.m.
The company flew me to New Orleans (before Hurricane Katrina) to do an
“on-sight” survey of a Central Office. The company for which I was
employed, told me not to bid on the project,” just show up”, as we were only
there to be seen as a competitor. I spent less than 45 minutes at the location
in question and left after every other Contractor was gone. I had done my
job. I then, took my limousine to “Emeril’s” Restaurant in Downtown New
Orleans for lunch, as my flight was not scheduled till 3:00 p.m. that same
day. It was just another typical day for a large corporation. I pretended to
not want to go looking for “it” again, but when I landed in “Hartsfield”
International Airport, my mind was only on one thing. Going back to that
seedy hotel in Cartersville, Ga. and getting some more. This went on for
about two weeks. Every day after work I’d get a “dove” and that was all.
As the days went on, I’d sneak out again and get some more. On Friday, I
would use “Friday” as an excuse to go “out for the night” and buy 100.00
dollars worth, and stay up all night long. When Saturday came around, I’d
act happy, content, and ever so helpful. This was a mask I wore, to cover
the guilt, which I was starting to feel all over again. I made it through
another week without buying any crack, to rid myself of the feeling that I
was addicted.... again.
However, addiction NEVER leaves.
It was March 12th 2001 at around, 8:30 at night, and I made yet another
excuse to leave again, buy now I was starting to think my “friends” were
suspecting something, but it was too late to care about that now. I drove to
the motel and spotted a cop car sitting in the parking lot, where I was going
to be going; so I drove past and turned at the light. I looked into my rear
view mirror, as I watched him pull out of the parking lot and start heading in
my direction. He pulled up behind me, as I waited at a stop sign. I had
North Carolina License plates on the car, and was thinking that he might pull
me, but the light changed and I drove off. He followed me for about three
miles as I sweat bullets. I knew that he knew something was going wrong,
but he turned off at another light. I went about another mile and turned
around. I went back to the motel. It was now around 8: 45 p.m. and I went
up and knocked on the door. I was beckoned inside by my crack dealer,
whose name I never knew, and never asked. “They been watching my
place”, He said as he invited me in. Yeah, I saw the cop sitting in the
parking lot. He followed me for about 5 miles, I said.
“He’s hurtin’ my business, huffed the crack dealer, as he continued his tale
of woe. “ He already ran off 20 or so of my regular customers and it’s
startin’ to really piss me off. Then he told me to be extra careful going
home, as he handed me 40.00 dollars worth. I was starting to buy more, and
more frequently.
I pulled out of the parking lot and the coast was clear all the way to the red
light.
This was just one of the perks, of living in a small town. I thought as I drove
to the intersection and stopped at the red light. I saw some headlights to my
right and another car approached from the opposing road at the intersection.
It was a cop car. It couldn’t be the same cop, I thought, but what if it is? I
wondered. I had my blinker on to turn left, and as the light changed to
green, I turned left-putting myself directly in front of the cop car again, but it
was the only way I could go. Blue lights flashed behind me, I swallowed the
crack. The officer asked me to step out of the car after he looked at my
driver’s license. “North Carolina!” he said, “Why are you in Cartersville,
Georgia?” He asked. My job transferred me here, I replied. “Do you mind
reciting the alphabet for me? He asked. I recited them perfectly without a
slur or slip. “Stand on one leg and count to ten”, “he asked. I stood on one
leg and counted to ten, and continued standing on one leg, until he told me
to put my leg down. I never tottered or lost my balance. I saw the
frustration in his eyes.
Then, he asked, “Why didn’t you stop at that red light?” to which I replied, I
stopped at that red light.
“It was red when you drove through it”, He snapped, and I retorted, the light
in front of me was green when I turned. He walked back to his car after
asking me to turn around and spread my legs. He said a few words over the
radio, then came back and searched me. “We’re taking a trip downtown”.
He said, as he slapped handcuffs on me. What for I asked, “Oh just some
paperwork and a drug screen”. I had never been arrested before in my life,
and did not know the standard operating procedure. We arrived at a building
about the size of a small economy car, and he handed me a bottle and said,
“Pee in this for me”.
Do I have to? I asked.
“It’s either that or lose your license for one year”, he replied. I said, Ok.
And went to the confined area to urinate. I came out of the room and handed
him the small bottle of urine, and watched as he dripped it on a small white
device which changed color to show deposits of drugs in ones system. The
color changed, but not in my favor. “Looks like you’re going to jail”. He
gloated, as if he’d just captured one of the FBI’s most wanted. He pushed
my head down to get into the car and asked me as we drove to the
“Maximum Holding facility for Felons awaiting a prison to go to, or a court
date”. Why’d ya take the test?” the cop asked, in a you-are-so-stupid-kind –
of –way. I simply replied, because you asked me to. He shook his head.
This was the first and last time I would see officer P.A. Little, after he wrote
Citation number, “15984” on “03/12/2001” at “2105 p.m.”
I was arrested for “Failure to yield to a stop sign,” Possession of Cocaine”,
and “Driving under the influence”. The “influence” had long since past.
I did however, have some leftover waste in my urine.
That by itself, was enough, to make a charge like, “POSSESSION OF
COCAINE” stick.
To the other 2 offenses, it was my word against his...and I wasn’t even from
Cartersville. I am not denying, that I was not guilty, only that, I was not
guilty of any of those things.
I was a flight risk, so they held me from March 16th of 2002 till May 5th of
2002 I served my time in a two level 60 by 30 foot room. My own personal
space was an 8-foot by four-foot cell.
There were cells on the top floor, and cells on the bottom floor. In all, there
must’ve been around 40 cells in one block. In each cell, there were 3
inmates, but only one set of bunk beds. One of the inmates had to sleep on a
mattress pad, on the floor, and at the end of the bunk was a toilet. Those
who were convicted of murder were the most angry and resentful. They
were waiting a prison cell, that was reserved for them for life, and therefore,
had nothing to lose, inasmuch, they were not to be messed with. There were
also rapists, kidnappers, and thieves. I stayed on the top bunk, and did not
eat for the first two days, as the food was absolutely dreadful. Then, at
lunch, on third day, another prisoner spoke up and said, “You better eat
something white boy” He continued, “Cause if you don’t –you going to get
weak, and somebody’s gonna fuck you in the ass, and nobody will save you
poor white ass”. I started shoveling the fowl excuse for vegetables in my
mouth, as sinister laughter rang out on the empty block walls.
I tried to avoid making eye contact, and spent most of my time writing long,
depressing letters of woe, to my friend David in Lake City, Florida. Who
was my only visitor, during my stay, at the maximum holding edifice. By
the time May 5th came around, I thought that I’d been forgotten. I hated the
orange clothes but thought that justice was true, and that I would get what I
deserved for all the crack smoking I had done. I was not disappointed when
the judge sentenced me to “time served and 9 years of probation, a 5000.00-
dollar fine, and my driving license was suspended for one year”.
It was as if I had murdered someone and let off easy.
My car had been impounded for 3 months, and that was around 300.00 to
500.00 to get out. When I tried to crank it, it would not crank up. The
mechanic on duty was a staunch Christian, who had to deliver the message
of Christ to me, but all I wanted was my car fixed.
It was the electric fuel pump. They did not have the right size, and put one
on, that delivered too much fuel to the carburetor. It would idle, but flood,
unless I stomped it to the floor. I idled to the hotel.
An adult male is “damned” in America, if you don’t have a vehicle.
I was told in a letter, which was given to me, when I was released, that I was
no longer welcome at the residence of my former friends. The letter
concluded, that my belongings had been put in a storage facility, and the
address was given along with the phone number for it.
It ended with, “Good Luck, Call me in 10 years, if you’re still alive”.
I could not harbor resentment, because this is the “seed I had sown”, and the
crop I had grown”. This is what I brought on myself and held no one else
culpable.
(Though after ten years, I did call, and was hung up on).
Alas, I realized after calling my ex-wife, that I would never see my Son
again.
I was the “felon-crack-head”. She hung up on me, and asked that I never
call again, or she would call 911 and violate my probation.

Part of, the “First Time Offender Act”. “One should abstain from any
appearance, or act of “evil” fore the duration of the probation. If this criteria
is not met, the felon will be retried, and sentenced to no less than 15 years-
mandatory.” This was enough incentive for me to never call the woman
who left me n my time of need. Of course I use the term, “fuching bish”
loosely, so as to not offend that fushing bitsh. I checked into a Hotel (on the
nice side of town) that sat beside an Applebee’s Restaurant & Bar.
It was less than ¼ mile to the major interstate I-75 and I contemplated the
relevance of jumping onto the freeway, as I could never get a “Class A”
security clearance again, and my former job was long gone.
I was alone in a hotel room, and death was the only doorway, which I
thought would open to new possibilities, as I cried and cried. My so called,
“friends” just seemed to vanish in the wind. I was too embarrassed to call
my family because I did not want them to know the state of affairs, which I
had fallen prey to. The only person I could call was Dave. I owed him a
“Good-bye”. This would be my last phone call. He answered the phone,
and said that he was at a conference in Athens, Georgia.
I explained how I no longer had a reason to live.
I could never see my Son again.
I could never get another job, with a felony on my record.
Even if I did get a job, I could not drive to it, without violating my
probation.
I’m fucked, I said. I’m done with this life. I’m moving on.
“You’ are not moving anywhere.” Dave said. “I’m coming to Cartersville
after I leave here, and you’re coming back to Lake City, and live with me
Sharon and the kids.” He said, in a matter-of-fact type of voice. “Wait for
me”. I waited and wondered how this was going to work. He arrived and
checked into a room because it was after 5:00 and I had to get a change of
address from my probation officer. The next day I applied for a change of
address and was granted that and a “Travel Permit”. I was now free if only
to go to another State.
{Where I would be charged another 5000.00 dollars in “Probation Fees”}.

We devised a plan, for getting my car to Lake City, Florida. It was a weak
plan at best, but the only plan we had. I would drive in front of him, (so my
tag could not be seen) but he could not keep up with the speed that the
electric fuel pump demanded. We drove about 70 miles, and I decided to
just leave the car at a roadside bar. To me it was by far a more superior car,
than anything built in a factory today. It was a necessary thing to do and I
had no choice. It gave me great grief to lose that 1985 Caprice with a 1997
rebuilt aluminum block truck engine, (bored .30 over) with a 4 core radiator,
transmission cooler, liquid gauges, and an RV cam, velour seats complete
with a.c. and a nice stereo which also had some umpf. It was almost like
saying good-bye to an old friend, or in this instance losing my car.

I parked it in a parked in the lot, and started getting my things out, as I

spotted a man walking out of a bar. I shouted, and asked him if he had a
car?
He said,”No”.
I asked if he wanted to buy one cheap?
He said, is it yours?
I said, yes it is.
I pointed to the engine, with a flashlight that I had in the glove compartment,
and said,
That’s my name on the block Richards, and showed him my driver’s license.
“Show me the ownership papers,” he asked, as I pointed to the chrome
plated valve covers.
“How much you want for it? He asked, as I mentioned all the work I had
done to this car.
How much do you have? I asked.
He ran his hands through his jeans pockets and came up with 26.00 dollars
and some change. I wrote a sales receipt.
He said, “My wife is not going to believe this!”
“Why are you selling this car to me?” he asked.
I explained, that I was on probation, and did not want to go to prison for
driving it, and added, I just got unlucky, and you just got a really good car.
I took the rest of my meager belongings, and packed them in Dave’s mini
van, and we drove off down I-75 south. I don’t think I said two words for
the entire trip. I felt empty and lost, like I had already died. We arrived late,
and I slept in the basement of Dave’s house. I didn’t know it then, but the
next day I would meet Elvis. In the knowledge of knowing I was
somewhere that was unfamiliar to me, I awoke early, and had some coffee
with Sharon his wife. “You look better, when you’re not wearing orange”,
she remarked, as we sat in the kitchen. Orange seems to fight with my skin
pigment, I remarked, in an I-still-have-my-sense-of-humor sort of way. That
same morning, I assembled a new resume’ and headed for the nearest
business, on foot. It would not be the same if I did not tell you that
everything was up hill, for 3 blocks. I was almost out of breath, and sweat
had made my white shirt, stick to my chest, and back. The first business I
saw was a National Food chain, which echoed southern sentiments.
The mangers name was Elvis. He bore no semblance to the “legend”, but
only that of a tall, skinny man in his late twenties.
Elvis was in the building.
He met me in the front of the store, and I knew right away that I was
overqualified. We walked to the back of the store, as he made small talk.
We sat down, in an upstairs office surrounded by stock and merchandise,
and he said, Mr. Richards you are over qualified for the position that we
have open, what did you do for the company that you worked at before?
He curiously asked.
I performed site surveys of Central Offices, and wrote detailed
specifications, using software called, Paradox Nine, which was used to show
the implementation of broadband equipment for any given area.
He stared blankly, so I continued to elucidate on my previous job.
Essentially, I went into a C.O. and identified available addresses like the
B.D.F.B. (for available power) and I would find the MDF (Main
Distribution Frame) and measure the distance to the “Cage” (or area where
Broad Band Equipment would be implemented) once everything was
identified, I’d catch the next flight back to Atlanta, and make sense of all
that information, from my office. Then, I would send it to the main Office,
in Ohio, where they would make a schematic of it.
“Well, he said, this does not even come close to that, but we need somebody
in the Photo lab”.
I was scheduled to start the next day. Then, I walked back home and called,
the Columbia County Correctional facility to find out who my probation
officer would be.
He was a middle-aged man named Jerry Hewitt. He was courteous, and fair.
My probation fees just happened to be, in the same amount, as my previous
fine. 5000.00 dollars.
So, this escapade that I had allowed myself to be pulled into, had so far cost
me: 10,000 dollars, a nice car, the loss of my son, a good paying job, and a
whole lot of dignity.
It wasn’t worth it. I wish I had known then, what I know now.
Everybody says that. I mean it.
By the way, I will give you the secret to “how to quit smoking crack”, before
you finish reading this book.
My friend Dave told me that, “he and his wife once purchased some bikes,
which they were going to start riding in the evening, after he got home from
work. He said, “they rode a few times, and then stopped riding altogether,
but I was free to ride one of them if I should choose to do so”.
Now, those bikes leaned against the side of the brick wall, under the carport.
That night we went to a store, where I purchased a chain to lock up the bike
with. The next morning I started peddling to work at the Photo Lab, in this
national grocery chain, which was the closest business to where I lived.
After several months Elvis called me into his office and said, “I have never
in my life had as many complaints about any employee, as I have about you,
but you do a good job. I don’t want to ever hear another complaint about
you or I’ll have to fire you”. I left his office and was disturbed by what I
thought was some kind of small town conspiracy. I knew I was better than
this grocery store. My legs were becoming muscular and my overall health
was in better. I could now ride further, so I inquired about a position with a
company that provided technical support for another nationally acclaimed
computer builder.

I applied, and for one more dollar an hour, I was hired. I worked from 2
p.m. till 11:00 p.m. In rain, at night and rain in the day-I peddled and
dreaded my existence. I was taking a prescription drug called, Viox, for my
arthritic back, due to the cervical fusion, which I had. I soon developed
blood in my stool and had abdominal pain, which I thought was an ulcer.
I was wrong. As I continued peddling my bicycle, the “Law of Averages”
kept building up, but not in my favor.
3 cars hit me on 3 separate occasions. The “Lake City Reporter”
documented one of the multiple accidents. The reporters name was “Sam”.
That was short for Samantha Sinclair, who just happened to be passing by
the scene of the third accident, where I was waking up from the
unconsciousness, which was caused by a large truck that pulled past the
double white pedestrian crossing lines, as I peddled downhill fast.
I was wearing a backpack in which I carried a change of clothes, deodorant,
and a towel.
After peddled 6 miles to work, I needed to change clothes, bathe from the
sink, and put on deodorant as well as change into clean, unstained clothes.
The backpack cushioned my fall, but the fender connected to my head-hence
the temporary unconsciousness. I awoke to the sound of two paramedics
extending the legs of a gurney, as they wheeled it towards me, and bobbled
over the rough asphalt. I’m ok, I said and repeated several times. They took
their gurney back, and disappointingly walked away and drove off.
My bike was ok, but I did not feel like peddling anymore. “Sam” offered me
a ride to work, and I accepted.
When I arrived at my place of employment, (you remember, that really big
computer manufacturer, technical support center?) no one seemed to notice
the bleeding arm, knee, or hand. To everyone else there, I was just the guy
who rode the bicycle to work everyday, who was not from Lake City.
It didn’t take the nerds long to search through the FDLE databases, and pass
the information along.
People, and how they do love to talk. “Ya know he was dui, with possession
of cocaine”.
Gossip is a poison this is fact.
They had no idea whom they were casting judgment upon, as do the
majority of most. I have always believed that what “the Bible had written
about it, “You shall know a tree, by the fruit it bares”, (Mathew 12:33) and
also the old colloquialism”, I just call’em like I see’um”. My fruit was hung
out, for all to see. I rode the bike every day for a year, and on the 5th I was
allowed by the Department of Transportation to apply for and receive a
drivers license. However, there was an 850.00 charge for it because of the
“felony” in question. I paid the fees, and purchased a small late model, red,
2 door used car which, after 4000.00 dollars one year, died, but not before
the final payment. Meanwhile, I had started attending Church services with
David and his family, Ian, Jessica, Noel, Allison and his wife Sharon.
I made new friends and met Dr. Berry Bunn, who worked for a local
Community College, and also taught a class. One day after services, he
asked me if I had my Bachelors Degree, which I responded, No. He then
asked, “Why don’t you take some classes out at the College, and finish it?”
To which I explained, I ride a bike 14 miles a day, and the College is 8 miles
in the opposite direction, which I ride for work. He smiled, and looked at
my friend Dave, as we stood out in front of the Church after a service that
morning and said, “That sounds like a cop-out to me”, as he looked back at
me. Dave joined him in his mockery of my situation, “Yeah, I suppose if I
needed a good excuse that would be it”, and added in a mocking quote, “I
can’t go to College. It’s too far for me to ride my bicycle “, “Yeah” he
continued, “That would work”. Dr. Bunn could see the frustration building
through my plastic smiling mask. “I’ll tell you what. I drive a truck to
work, and added, “If you can ride to the college in the evening, I’ll load up
your bike after class and give you a ride home. DB’s house is on the way
home”.
All right, ok, all right, ok, all right, ok, all right, I’ll take a class at night, I
said as if to be goaded into it-which I was. My first class was a pre-requisite
for College classes, which Dr. Bunn taught. I found it very informative, and
a powerful tool, as well as entertaining. The class had such a profound
affect on me that after I finished it, Dr. Bunn whom I now called, “Barry”
asked me to come back to his class, and elucidate on the fundamentals that I
had gleaned. My speech was about 30 minutes long, and occasionally,
during my speech, Doctor Bunn would let me know, when I would digress
into stand up material, as I often do. Later my friend db received a
promotion and was moving back to Alabama. He asked me if I wanted to go
with, but I told him I had some classes to finish and he wished me well. I
moved into the dorm at the college and by now I was driving again, so that
was no longer an issue.
The school decided to renovate the dorms, and I had to find a place to go. I
decided to get an apartment, and had enough money, but the apartment
complex has it’s own standards. This meant I could not live there, because I
had a felony on my record. That’s right, a felon is not allowed to get a
home, a loan, vote, or own a firearm. There’s a whole list of things that a
felon cannot do. So, I had to adopt new standards for my new found life
style. My probation officer reminded me that, “9 out of 10 felons go back to
jail after the first 5 years out of jail!”.
Given the standards by which one must live, I am not at all surprised that a
felon would end up back in jail.
When all of your rights are taken away, you are shunned by society and
forced to do a job like janitor or grounds keeper, to make ends meet; when
you are capable of writing detailed specifications for broadband
implementation in a Central Office environment, which was what I did.
To have everything taken away is more than the average person should have
to deal with. It was no wonder I ended up in the Emergency room.
I called Janice Ervin, who was the Disabled Student Services Coordinator,
for whom I worked part time.
I explained that I had no place to go, and could not get an apartment,
because of my record.
(My first time offense) She said, “I’ll come and get you at the dorm, and
you can stay in my Sons room till you find a place”. Ms. Ervin had her
hands full with 3 boys, crippling polio, a walker (to get around), and a dog
and was also a single Mom. Her two youngest boys wreaked havoc and
stayed up late every night of the week. Discipline was not too high on her
agenda. Not by my standards anyway. I arrived at her place uncomfortable,
as I unloaded a box of personal belongings and placed them in the garage.
Ms. Irwin was cordial, and tried her best to make me feel at home, although
it was quite futile, due to my independent nature. My room had two single
beds and had a child –like feel about it, which made me even more
uncomfortable. I thought I might be ungracious, or even contemptible to
allow myself to feel like that, but I felt just like that.
I was in the wrong place, and I knew it.
This is what happens to your life, when you allow yourself to be taken to
“the end”.
I awoke before anyone, and began calling trailer parks. I called trailer parks
because I stereotype.
I’ve always seen wily, and nefarious characters walking about in trailer
parks.
I remembered my Father had moved into a trailer park, after my Mother
died. However, I was still damned. My Father was not a felon, and they
kept doing “back ground checks” and calling me back with the bad news.
However, when they did not want to say, “We noticed a Felony on your
record”, they would just say, “Your over-all screening did not pass”, or “We
don’t have a vacancy right now”. When in fact, I knew they did. So I set
my sights a little lower and started calling “ROOM FOR RENT” by the Day
week or month.
A new furious paced search to find a room to rent began. It was the first
phone call I made. It was too easy. I found a comfortable room to rent,
which was fully furnished. The owner of this 4 bedroom doublewide trailer
was a short woman, who drove a semi tractor-trailer.
No one could have visitors. There could be no smoking, or noise of any
kind. The place was full, but one would never know it due to the complete
silence rule. I moved in, and none of the rules bothered me. I went to work,
came home, got something to eat (out), watched TV, and went to sleep.
Every day the level of pain to which I had become accustomed grew. I
would take an assortment of ant-acids. My medicine cabinet looked like I
had every stomach ant acid there was. I came home after working late, and
held my aching stomach as I drove home. Oh, God this hurts, I thought, as I
walked inside and collapsed onto the bed. I reached to the bedside table, and
drank some “Pepto Bismol”. More pain...
I was getting weaker and hurting more, so I drove to the local hospital
called, “Shands at Lake Shore”.
I held my stomach as I crumpled into a seat in front of the woman who was
to admit me in the Emergency room. “What seems to be the problem”? She
asked as I leaned forward holding both arms over my gut. I think I’m dieing,
I said.
To which she responded, “Of what may I ask?”
Stomach cancer, I snapped.
“Why stomach cancer she asked?”
Everybody in my family dies of cancer. I must be my turn. I said, before I
passed out,
I woke up in a hospital bed, in a room. I was wearing the “ass-less gown”
and laying still. I was no longer hurting and that was a good thing, but I
now had to use the bathroom, and pressed the nurse call button, to help me
out of the bed. The nurse came into my room and helped me up, only to
notice a rather large spot of blood where my ass had been. She said, “I’ll get
someone to change these sheets for you, and call the Doctor”.
While I was in the bathroom I heard someone pulling the sheets from the
bed.
As much as I tried-I could not defecate, so I flushed, and walked out of the
bathroom to find a woman changing my bed linen. I felt suddenly weak and
put my hand on the broad arm of a chair, which was in the room.
Suddenly the room was filled, with the sound of water being poured onto the
floor. I felt the warm water.... it was blood and it was squirting out from my
anus and spreading around my feet. The woman changing the bed linen
scream and then said, “Oh my God”. Then, followed that with this,
“HELP!!
I NEED SOME HELP DOWN HERE!! SOMEBODY GET IN HERE
NOW!!!”
By now I had this thought. This is the most embarrassing, and the most
disgusting way to die.
I heard the running feet, as the blood had spread about 6 feet away from me,
and continued to fall freely, like water from a sink. The woman who
answered the emergency cry said this, when she saw my blood-covered legs,
as I stood in a puddle of blood, which continued to pour out from me.
“Oh my God”.
I keep hearing that, I said, and continued, it does not instill confidence at the
moment.
One must always have a sense of humor. I did not feel any pain, when my
lower intestine decided to rupture, but I was overcome with weakness. That
was the last thing I remembered, before I awoke in the Intensive Care Unit,
with a Colostomy bag attached to my side, and a tube down my throat, and
one up my nose, as well as 18 pumps and assorted bags hanging around, like
the laboratory of a mad scientist, or at least what I thought might be in a mad
scientist laboratory.
One was pumping the bile from my body. That was the one that was stuck
down my throat, via my nasal cavity. That was the one I decided in my
post-surgical/ drug enhanced mode, to pull out.
That was a mistake. Then, they had to put it back. That was unpleasant, and
I shall spare you the details.

I also had a “Foley catheter” and a morphine pump. The morphine stopped
my bladder from functioning like a bladder should, but that didn’t matter
because I had a Catheter. However, it became a big issue when they decided
to remove the catheter. My bladder continued to fill, and fill until I was in
excruciating pain. The nurse in charge of my care told another nurse to put
the catheter back in. Therein lay the most unforgettable pain imaginable.
The catheter had been inserted a few days prior, after it was removed, I had
become swollen and inflamed along my urinary tract. When the nurse began
pushing the tube up inside my penis, the pain defied imagination. As the
pain of my bladder becoming more and more full increased-I had to wait for
a Doctor to call in a shot, which would allow the Foley to be reinserted
without said pain. Finally, the shot was given and my Foley was reinserted,
and then came the sweet relief of an empty bladder. Two nurse and one
assistant stood in the room for the procedure to take place. As my bladder
emptied, I heard a comment that was almost stupid. It went like this.
“Wow! You really had to go. I’ve never seen that much in a bag before”, as
they switched bags

Doctor Robert Pendrak performed the “Lower (G.I.) Gastro-Intestinal take

down.
After I awoke from surgery, a nurse walked into my room and said,
“Everybody is calling you the one % er”. What’s that? I struggled to ask.
“That means that you have a 1% chance of living for 24 hours. Your body
has just suffered a tremendous shock”. “You went into septic shock, and
most of your lower intestine had to be removed”. She continued, “We
counted over 300 Ulcer polyps which were in your lower intestine that had
not burst yet”. She then asked, “Who do you want us to call?” She asked in
a very soft tone of voice. I made a motion for a pen, with my intravenously
fed right hand. She quickly left and brought back a pen, and a pad.
I could not move any part of my body except my hand, which was strenuous
to say the least. I wrote, “Joyce Sutton” and gave her number, because I
knew she would have access to my address book, and also that rent was due.
She must have started calling my friends and family in order of addresses,
because Jim “Archambault” was the first to call the hospital, and was angry,
because they would not let anyone but “family” speaks to me. He told me
that he told them that, “we were closer than bothers”, but concluded that,
“the woman who answered the phone was a real bitch; for not letting me talk
to you.” He then asked, “What can I do for you Mike? Just say the word
and I’ll make it happen...whatever you need, just say the word”.
Those words almost made me cry. The man who started me on my path to
sobriety, at the risk of being ostracized from his family and friends, was now
asking ...what more could he do to help me in this.... my final hour. I spoke
slowly, and painfully as I struggled for each letter, of each word, and each
breath. I said this. Jim, You live, and then you die. Now it’s my turn...I
don’t need a thing, but thank you for talking to me...it meant a lot.
Saying that, must have taken its toll on my body because I don’t remember
anything further..
I recall over-hearing my Doctor, (who as far as “hear say”, lost his license
to practice in the state of Florida) make a comment on my condition. All I
heard was this “...heavy drug use”. I wondered if all the paranoia from the
crack I had smoked, had caused the polyps to accumulate, or was it the anti-
inflammatory which caused them to accumulate?
Maybe it was the “State imposed” stress, that caused them to grow.
I can never know for sure. Who can know these things.
Later, my friend “db” called, and said, “We’re coming down there, so you
can’t die yet and continued,
“After you get out, and you are able to walk around again, we’re going to do
something that we’ll both remember for the rest of our lives”.
What’d ya have in mind? I asked. He could hear the agony in my tone and
replied, “Get some rest, and we’ll talk about it later”.
My sister called, and told me that she would be there, if I wanted her to.
I told her not to bother, and that I’d be o.k.
24 hours passed, and now I was promoted to “2 per center”.
The nurse who was there during the daytime, asked me if I wanted anything?
I told her I wanted to die with some dignity, and requested some pajama
pants, instead of the “assless-gown” that they make everyone wear. I also
requested a t-shirt. Later the next day, she brought me some pajama
bottoms, and a T-shirt. This went beyond being a nurse and was pleased to
know that there were such people still on the planet. I spent eighteen days in
the Intensive Care Unit, and 14 in a regular hospital room.
A “Home Health Care” professional gave me a ride home, and helped me
walk inside. I had no appetite, and now there was a bag attached to my side.

It was called a Stoma pouch. It was degrading to know that a feces was
pouring out of my side without any feeling. My side would just get warm,
as it filled up.
A home health aide would come by my place twice a week, to change my
stoma pouch. There was an adhesive that allowed it to stick to the skin, but
not allow the skin to be torn off, which I would (or the home health aide)
apply. Maybe I forgot, or maybe I didn’t cover the entire space where the
stoma was to be placed, but on one painful day, as I tried to remove the old
stoma pouch and put a new one on, something went wrong.
As I pulled at the edge, my skin started ripping from my stomach, in a layer
that was thick enough to be quite painful. Now I understand a little bit more
about the expression, “skinned alive”.
After what seemed like an eternity in bed, I was able to walk in a couple of
weeks...but slowly.
Although Joyce (my land lord) was empathetic to my needs, she gave me a
deadline on rent.
After six weeks I was scheduled to return to the surgeon, and have my
“Colostomy Take Down” reversed. This entailed re-opening of stomach
section, and re connecting what was left of the jejunum to the ileum.
That’s each end of the lower intestine. The original incision in my stomach
was a sickening 10 to 12 inches in length. The pain was altogether different
but just as uncomfortable and unfathomable, as pain can often times can be.

Two more weeks and I returned to my old job, but now I had diarrhea at
every bowel movement.
The company for which I had done support for, had started a new division,
and they put me in a position as a financial support agent. That job lasted 2
days. I saw how the convenient Computers corporations’ interest was far
beyond what I considered normal, interest rates, and told the customers, that
they should not do business with a company that stole from the common
person, by using exorbitant interest rates.
I was warned by the manager, and sent home the first day. The second day,
I told the manager that I did not need his job anymore. I said it, in my own
special way. A way that; in a time of more innocence, went above and
beyond, the call of reason.
Speaking words that were pure, and simple to understand.
If my Father had been alive, he would surely have laughed, until tears
flowed from his saddened, and cruel blue eyes.
Vegas. Yes and yes. That is all I will say, about the greatest trip imaginable.