Crack Head, Part I

I ride the bus with a writer with whom I have a lot in common. Same type of wanderlust, adventurous, tons of tales to tell. He’s almost sixty, and has a son about my age, and a wife about my age, too. John’s from the south, has an accent like Woody from Cheers. That slow drawl that a good ole boy ought to have. The kind that takes you in, slows you down. Meanwhile, his brain is working a mile a minute, processing what you say and about a half a dozen other threads. Most importantly, he is enthusiastic. He listens and appreciates what he hears. It has a way of getting you to open up, say things you might not want people to know. Its dangerous, a bit, especially for folks like me who have a habit of talking more than we listen.

John used to wrestle in college, was captain of his team, in fact. I wanted to tell him about my cousin, the national champion wrestler. Really, just to look good, though how being related to someone who did something makes me look good escapes me right now. I probably sensed that as I was speaking (especially because I couldn’t remember anything about Billy’s wrestling career, other than his name) Which is most likely why I ended up telling him about the my first long-term hitch-hiking adventure. I've been trying to write this for a while, so I think I'll just post what I have, then pick it up again later.

I was fourteen, no longer a virgin, but still a pimply faced, long haired baby. I was several months into a new attempt to define myself. In middle school, I had found safety in being different from everyone by wearing a tie and carrying a briefcase. I had tried to change my name, but no one would call me Alan. That summer, after failing biology, I had spent the summer in remedial classes with my cousin, Sarah, who had to take an English course. She took me on as a project, giving me new clothes (ripped jeans and tie-dyed t-shirts) new music to listen to (Grateful Dead and Aerosmith) and a few bad habits (Camel Straights and Bong Hits). The transformation was dramatic. I entered high school as a new kid. Girls were interested in me, classmates wanted to hang out with me, even teachers somehow liked me more in this new mask. Fall of 1987 was an adventure for me.

The one constant was my increasingly hostile relationship with my father. Now, 20 years later, I can’t even remember what we fought about. I still feel the rage, though. I look at my two year old daughter, who has inherited the same will, and understand some of the conflict. She sits in the tub and stares at me. Suddenly we are locked in a contest, who will look away first. After almost a minute, she looks away. I win!! These are the seeds of my life. She doesn’t yet have the power of speech, yet we struggle.

Imagine me, almost six feet tall, yet gangly, awkward and completely indomitable. My father, about whom, even now my fingers itch to denigrate, probably the same when he was younger. We were two together, alone in a large house (not large enough). Perhaps the argument that day was about taking out the garbage, or cleaning my room. Maybe it was about what TV show I could watch. Anger usually flared up about the silliest things.

Anyway, I remember saying I was leaving and never coming back, he said “great, you want me to pack your bag?” (jeez, even writing that makes me angry all over again). Then, he disappeared into his office for an hour (he’s a shrink, working out of the house). I went up to my room, packed a bag (making sure to bring my camera and $152 worth of quarters) and started walking down route 42 (Delsea drive). It was January, so there was snow on the ground, and it was pretty cold out, but I don’t remember feeling cold. I just remember the anger.