Never Gonna Get Me
People frequently wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. Then they wonder where in the hell my parents went wrong. It’s usually around this time that I tell my parents to stop with the goddamn questions.
The short answer is that I’ve been fucked up since I was a child. I was frequently in trouble with my parents because I would get caught doing stupid shit. This would result in me being grounded for anywhere between one week and thirty-seven years. Somehow though, I managed to get away with all of the shit that would have got me in serious trouble. And all the shit that would have involved words like “police,” “restitution,” “juvenile delinquent,” and “prison rape.”
I was about eleven or twelve and living in Connecticut. There was a lot of new construction going on around where I lived. As every eleven year old boy out looking for trouble is want to do, my friend “Mike” and I would go around to all the places as they were being built, find a way to get inside the house and just snoop around and occasionally fuck something up.
One of these construction sites had a backhoe parked behind the house. This presented the perfect opportunity for everyone involved: a rock throwing competition. We decided to see how far we could throw rocks over the roof of the backhoe. The answer to this is “pretty far.” Soon, that game became boring. So I decided to up the ante.
My new goal was to bounce a rock off the top of the backhoe. With no regard for danger, consequences, or my apparent lack of aim, I wound up like a seasoned pro and let my fastball fly (in hindsight I definitely shouldn’t have waved off the catcher’s sign for a sinker). My rock flew. It was beautiful; nay, it was glorious. I could see just how perfect the throw was. I was going to be a god among men. I closed my eyes and waited for the metallic “clang” that accompanies rock on metal action.
Then the sound came: CRASH!
Whoops. Apparently the rock decided to deviate from the intended course of bouncing off the top of the backhoe and instead, through no fault of my own, decided to bounce right through the windshield of the backhoe. I looked at Mike; Mike looked at me; I could by looking at him that we were both thinking the exact same thing.
We turned around and hauled ass out of that fucking place and ran back to his house. I thought we were perfectly in the clear. “How would they know it was me” I asked myself. Apparently, my young mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around the facts a) that my parents and Mike’s parents both knew we played in the construction sites; b) that the construction site with the, now injured, backhoe was directly across the street from my house; and c) that maybe the owner of said backhoe might become slightly irritated when he found a broken windshield with a dusty rock sitting on the seat of the backhoe.
We were at Mike’s house when my mother came over. She looked me dead in the eyes and asked me in a very accusatory tone, “Did you do it?”
Even at that young and inexperienced age I could tell exactly what my mother was doing. But I wasn’t going to take the bait. Instead, I looked her right back in the eyes and with a look of confusion coupled with flowers and puppies and I answered my mother with, “Did I do what?”
She repeated her question: “Did you do it?” I countered with, “I don’t know what you’re talking about?” She jabbed with, “Don’t lie to me.” I dodged with, “Lie about what? I have no idea what you’re asking.” Sufficiently placated my mother cautioned, “If I find out you had anything to do with this you’ll be in a lot of trouble.” I just smiled sweetly and with a look full of sunshine and rainbows told her, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about but I didn’t do anything.”
I thought I was in the clear after that. Until the next morning of course. When, around ten in the morning, while lying in bed I heard a knock on the front door. I peeked out the window of my room in an attempt to see who it was. I couldn’t see who was at the door, but I could see that whoever it was drove a blue Crown Victoria with a light bar and “POLICE” painted across the side.
I did the only thing I could at that point: I stayed as quiet as I could so my parents thought I was still asleep and in an attempt to hear what was being said. I could only hear mumbles such as, “broken window,” “across the street,” “goddamn kids,” “I don’t know officer,” “I don’t think it was him,” and “I have no idea where that marijuana came from.” It seemed like that goddamn cop was there for six hours, but it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. I cowered under my covers thinking, “I’m not ready for jail; I don’t want to join a gang; I look horrible in orange.”
The officer finally left and I stayed in my room for another two or three hours thinking maybe they were pulling a trick on me to get me to confess. Finally I decided to descend the stairs. I came downstairs and then............
Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. My mother said something along the lines of “morning sleepy-head” and I sat my ass down on the couch. I had gotten way with it. I fought the law and I fucking raped the law.
The downside to this, however, was that I just realized I could lie to my parents about important shit and get away with it. Sure, I had lied to my parents before, but those were just lies like “No, I did not eat the last cookie.” Now I was lying with, “No, I did not commit a felony.” This was probably the worst thing that could have happened to me because now I knew I was able to lie with impunity.
Things would escalate the lies would become more and more frequent. I would lie about going to school (when I actually skipped school to have sex); I would lie about being sick so I could stay home from school (in order to have sex); I would lie about spending the night with a friend (in order to have overnight sex); in eleventh grade I would create an entire fake overnight field trip (in order to have sex; in a hotel; and a swimming pool). Some people did drugs in high school; I just fucked a lot.
It was basically that fateful day over ten years ago when I stopped being scared of my parents and realized that I could deceive them just like everyone else. And it was beautiful.
Nay. It was glorious.
The short answer is that I’ve been fucked up since I was a child. I was frequently in trouble with my parents because I would get caught doing stupid shit. This would result in me being grounded for anywhere between one week and thirty-seven years. Somehow though, I managed to get away with all of the shit that would have got me in serious trouble. And all the shit that would have involved words like “police,” “restitution,” “juvenile delinquent,” and “prison rape.”
I was about eleven or twelve and living in Connecticut. There was a lot of new construction going on around where I lived. As every eleven year old boy out looking for trouble is want to do, my friend “Mike” and I would go around to all the places as they were being built, find a way to get inside the house and just snoop around and occasionally fuck something up.
One of these construction sites had a backhoe parked behind the house. This presented the perfect opportunity for everyone involved: a rock throwing competition. We decided to see how far we could throw rocks over the roof of the backhoe. The answer to this is “pretty far.” Soon, that game became boring. So I decided to up the ante.
My new goal was to bounce a rock off the top of the backhoe. With no regard for danger, consequences, or my apparent lack of aim, I wound up like a seasoned pro and let my fastball fly (in hindsight I definitely shouldn’t have waved off the catcher’s sign for a sinker). My rock flew. It was beautiful; nay, it was glorious. I could see just how perfect the throw was. I was going to be a god among men. I closed my eyes and waited for the metallic “clang” that accompanies rock on metal action.
Then the sound came: CRASH!
Whoops. Apparently the rock decided to deviate from the intended course of bouncing off the top of the backhoe and instead, through no fault of my own, decided to bounce right through the windshield of the backhoe. I looked at Mike; Mike looked at me; I could by looking at him that we were both thinking the exact same thing.
We turned around and hauled ass out of that fucking place and ran back to his house. I thought we were perfectly in the clear. “How would they know it was me” I asked myself. Apparently, my young mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around the facts a) that my parents and Mike’s parents both knew we played in the construction sites; b) that the construction site with the, now injured, backhoe was directly across the street from my house; and c) that maybe the owner of said backhoe might become slightly irritated when he found a broken windshield with a dusty rock sitting on the seat of the backhoe.
We were at Mike’s house when my mother came over. She looked me dead in the eyes and asked me in a very accusatory tone, “Did you do it?”
Even at that young and inexperienced age I could tell exactly what my mother was doing. But I wasn’t going to take the bait. Instead, I looked her right back in the eyes and with a look of confusion coupled with flowers and puppies and I answered my mother with, “Did I do what?”
She repeated her question: “Did you do it?” I countered with, “I don’t know what you’re talking about?” She jabbed with, “Don’t lie to me.” I dodged with, “Lie about what? I have no idea what you’re asking.” Sufficiently placated my mother cautioned, “If I find out you had anything to do with this you’ll be in a lot of trouble.” I just smiled sweetly and with a look full of sunshine and rainbows told her, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about but I didn’t do anything.”
I thought I was in the clear after that. Until the next morning of course. When, around ten in the morning, while lying in bed I heard a knock on the front door. I peeked out the window of my room in an attempt to see who it was. I couldn’t see who was at the door, but I could see that whoever it was drove a blue Crown Victoria with a light bar and “POLICE” painted across the side.
I did the only thing I could at that point: I stayed as quiet as I could so my parents thought I was still asleep and in an attempt to hear what was being said. I could only hear mumbles such as, “broken window,” “across the street,” “goddamn kids,” “I don’t know officer,” “I don’t think it was him,” and “I have no idea where that marijuana came from.” It seemed like that goddamn cop was there for six hours, but it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. I cowered under my covers thinking, “I’m not ready for jail; I don’t want to join a gang; I look horrible in orange.”
The officer finally left and I stayed in my room for another two or three hours thinking maybe they were pulling a trick on me to get me to confess. Finally I decided to descend the stairs. I came downstairs and then............
Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. My mother said something along the lines of “morning sleepy-head” and I sat my ass down on the couch. I had gotten way with it. I fought the law and I fucking raped the law.
The downside to this, however, was that I just realized I could lie to my parents about important shit and get away with it. Sure, I had lied to my parents before, but those were just lies like “No, I did not eat the last cookie.” Now I was lying with, “No, I did not commit a felony.” This was probably the worst thing that could have happened to me because now I knew I was able to lie with impunity.
Things would escalate the lies would become more and more frequent. I would lie about going to school (when I actually skipped school to have sex); I would lie about being sick so I could stay home from school (in order to have sex); I would lie about spending the night with a friend (in order to have overnight sex); in eleventh grade I would create an entire fake overnight field trip (in order to have sex; in a hotel; and a swimming pool). Some people did drugs in high school; I just fucked a lot.
It was basically that fateful day over ten years ago when I stopped being scared of my parents and realized that I could deceive them just like everyone else. And it was beautiful.
Nay. It was glorious.
posted by Naked Drinking Coffee at 1/29/2007 09:26:00 AM
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