Teen Age Bull Shit

Teen Age Bull Shit

1978

The judge called us, “The product of divorce”, pounding his gavel on his Mahogany desk. I never felt so small. “Two years, suspended sentence, supervised probation, and you will be reprimanded into the custody of your father.” My heart sank. I held back the tears in defiance. My brother, Joe, received the same sentence, even though there was no evidence against us.

Stacy, my best friend, I thought, got busted smoking a joint in the girl's room. She ratted us out to save her own ass. She could have lied.

I was skipping history class, in the woods, getting stoned with dozens of other freaks. We all saw the cop cars in front of the school. I saw my brother being dragged away. It was the end of the day. The bell rang, busses started lining up. The cop car with my brother drove off, lights flashing. The rest stayed. Several officers began stopping kids boarding the busses.

“They’re looking for someone,” Reggie said, as three cops headed towards our party spot. “Run”!

“Holy shit! They’re looking for me!” I gasped, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, full of baggies of pot. I looked into Reggie's baby blue eyes and saw panic. Kids scattered in all directions. Reggie, Sam, and I ran deeper into the woods. We could hear heavy footsteps: jingling of handcuffs and keys, and voices on walkie talkies gaining on us. We shimmied up some bushy pine trees, as the cops ran by beneath us. They tackled, cuffed, and dragged away some other kids. We waited, until the sirens faded and the last bus drove away.

The three of us headed down the railroad tracks. Reggie and Sam balancing on the shiny rails, me alongside, trying to keep up with the boys, unable to balance because my bellbottoms were too long.

“Oh my god, my parents are gonna to kill me! I wailed, “and poor Joey!” Reggie stopped, walked over and patted me on the back.

“I know, this totally sucks. If I get busted one more time, I'm up the river for three to five!” he said, rolling those blue eyes.

Sam waved his arms above his head; pointed to the nuclear power plant behind a fence across the tracks, then ran off into the woods. We quickly followed.

Sam informed us “I saw the security truck. I think he might have seen me too. Shush, hurry.”

We disappeared, swift as deer, trotting and leaping through the woodland. We were always running; being chased by some authority. All we wanted was some peace, some space, to enjoy a good smoke with good friends. We raced across the cattle field, stopping at the old well house. The greying wood door was hidden under some bramble bushes. Reggie pulled it open revealing our treasure trove of stolen booty. We had cases of Heineken from our runs on the beer delivery trucks: there were car stereos, home stereos, bags of jewelry, and cans of food. It was our crews back up plan, if anybody had to run away, or the nuke plant had an accident, or the commies attacked. We were prepared.

I put all the weed into a metal box and closed the lid. Reggie added his new watch to one of the treasure bags. We climbed out and with a deep sigh I said “Well, guess I better get home. I’m over an hour late. I’ll get an ass beating.” I buried my face in my hands, “I’ll try to call ya later and tell you what happened, or catch you guys tomorrow at the bus stop.” I said walking away.

Approaching the driveway to our restored Victorian house, seeing a squad car parked there my heart sank and I puked. I went across the lawn and tried to sneak in the front door. I thought I would slip in and run upstairs to my room. The old Oak door squeaked, sending chills up my spine, and there was Mother, with her hands on her hips, shaking her head in disapproval.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, dragging me into the kitchen where two cops sat drinking coffee with my stepfather.

“I, I was at the nurse's office and missed the bus, I had to walk home." I sniffled.

My stepdad slammed his fist on the kitchen table, causing me to jump. He towered over me, so close to my face I could smell the coffee and Winston's on his hot breath. I began to tremble.

“And why weren't you in History class?” he snorted. “Joe has been arrested for the sale of Marijuana, on school property!” His face was red, his eyes bulged, spittle flew from his foaming mouth into my face, leaving spots on my glasses. “And your next” he yelled.

“What for. I didn’t do anything”

A cop, with brown curly hair and a mustache too wide for his face, opened a file and cleared his throat. “We have two signed, sworn statements, saying that you, Daisy, and your brother Joe sold marijuana to Stacy Smith, her statement and her mothers, this is all we need to press charges.

“She lied, they lied!” I cried, as a blond cop grabbed my arms, I heard the handcuffs click and felt the cold metal dig into my wrists.

“You lying little Bitch”, my stepfather grunted, “You reek of pot!”

“It’s patchouli,” I snickered.

“You’re not gonna make a fool out of me!” I felt his backhand across my mouth and the warmth of blood run down my lip.

Starsky and Hutch loaded me into the back of the squad car. As they backed out, I saw my mother crying. I don’t know who I felt worse for: my brother, my mother, or myself.

During the interrogation, I exercised my “Right to Remain Silent”, which enraged the detective. He stood up, pacing back and forth, charging at me, demanding I confess or rat out my brother.

I remained stoic throughout the booking process: finger printing, strip search, and mug shot. The ugliest photo of an ugly life. We were both expelled from school. We were grounded to our rooms.

“For the rest of your life”, my stepfather snorted, “Until your father comes and you leave my house!"

We could only come out to do chores and eat.

That day came. My father drove up in his tan Subaru, we loaded our belongings into the hatchback. Our boxes of records and Joe's Fisher stereo system wouldn't fit in the car. Our father growled, “Leave that shit here and get in the damn car now!” Joe rode shot gun and I crawled into the back seat. As we drove away, I couldn’t choke back my sorrow. Mother stood on the porch crying, our treasured albums and stereo at her feet. I waved good bye to her, and The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin; our Rock and Roll gospels and anthems of rebellion.

The crew was there to see us off: my younger sister, hugging Sam, bawling her eyes out, my cousin Ellen and her boyfriend, Lorie, Michelle and Reggie. They followed behind the car on skateboards, down the hill, trying to keep up, until we turned the corner and drove out of sight.

In my mind I heard Janis’s mournful voice, “Go on, take another little piece of my heart.” I cried all the way to Upstate New York, feeling like I was dying. Good Bye sparkling beaches and keg parties: good bye High School, sneaking off into to the woods getting stoned, good bye climbing down the roof at night to run wild beneath the starry sky, feeling as high as the moon. Good Bye to all my cool friends. Good bye blue eyes.

Life at our fathers was regimented. He’s an ex-marine. “A lean, mean, fighting machine” He demanded obedience. Joe got a full-time job and paid room and board, even though he slept on an old army cot out in the old barn. Being a bachelor, my dad lived in a small two-bedroom trailer. I was assigned the duties of house keeper and cook. Everything had to be done to perfection and pass Dad's inspection. Supper time was six O’clock sharp, when he arrived home from work at the Nuke plant as a supervisor, shouting out orders all day.

It’s was always the same routine. Dad would come home take a shower and we would eat in silence. He was a man of few words, unless he was angry, then it was a plethora of insults, commands and cussing. He would fall asleep on the couch, watching the news, unless he had a rendezvous with some woman, then I could go hang out in the barn with Joe and drink Boones Farm Wine and plan our escape to Arizona.

Joe saved up and bought an old Chevy Van. We worked hard caking Bondo on the rusted body, spraying on layers of primer. We pulled out the rows of seats and Joe began drawing designs for a bed and small kitchen. We just needed some plywood.

Dad came home late that Friday. I had fried chicken, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob, ready and waiting. He slammed the door behind him and grumbled something before going to shower. We sat statuesque at the table.

“I made a chocolate cake for dessert”, I squeaked. “Today is Joe’s eighteenth birthday.”

“Oh, good. Now you can get your own apartment. Time to be a man”.

He picked up a chicken leg, gnawed it down and dug into a forkful of mashed potatoes.

“It’s fucking cold and taste burnt!” he roared.

The plate flew past my head, mashed potatoes stuck to the wall. He rose up and hunched over the table. “And this cake looks like a pile of shit” He huffed, and puffed, grabbing handfuls of the cake throwing it at us. He stomped out the door and tore down the driveway kicking up dirt.

I was too angry to cry. My hands shook as Joe and I cleaned up the mess.

“It’s O.k., I got a plan, Joe reassured. “Come on, let's go for a drive”.

We drove a few miles, around some neighborhoods and scoped out a new home construction site which had a stack of plywood. We drove a couple blocks away, parked and waited.

“Alright, it’s 11:00. Everybody should be in bed, let’s go.” said Joe.

I followed him through back yards, under a barbed wire fence, and across a cow field with several cows out grazing in the full moon. We came up behind the construction site and took two sheets of plywood. It was all we could carry. We hauled it off, slide it under the barbed wire and started across the cow field. We heard thundering hoofs and snorting, as a raging bull ran towards the odd sight of plywood running through the night. We ran as fast as we could, we had to drop the wood and jump up a tree. The bull charged, and stomped on the plywood. We sat up in that tree till dawn, when the cows returned to the barn and the bull followed.

We climbed down, retrieved the wood, and ran through backyards, loaded the van and sped home. Dad had returned before us, so we parked at the end of the driveway. Walking up we saw him standing in the door, belt in hand.

Joe and I worked hard on the van. It had a bed in the back, with storage underneath: a table that folded into a bed, a sink that drained out the side, a mini fridge and green shag carpet. Joe sprayed on the final coats of black gloss. It looked beautiful.

Joe and I headed south, then west, into a red sunset. I thought it looked as red as the eye of a bull, or an angry man. I watched as that red eye sank into sleep, beneath a deep blue, velvet horizon.