 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
here.
The 1960's were perhaps one of the most turbulent decades in world history. The world began to experience a dramatic shift from the relative naivete of the '50's and moved toward the hedonism of the 70's. The Berlin wall was constructed, America went through the Cuban Missile Crisis, screen icon Marilyn Monroe was found dead, JFK was assassinated, Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life in prison, Malcolm X was assassinated and the Black Panther party was formed to carry on his vision, Che Guevara was killed, RFK was assassinated... I was born on a sultry summer evening in Michigan. The second son of a blue-collar Irish family, my father worked in an auto manufacturing plant and my mother stayed home to raise their family. The house we were raised in still stands on a rural gravel road in Lake Orion, a small place that might've been equally at home in Dorothy's Kansas. It contained several architectural quirks that were quite endearing. The chimney rose up through the middle of the hallway. There was a "secret" trapdoor cut into the floor in that same hallway that led to the dirt crawlspace beneath the house. Family life reflected the times. I have always been of the opinion that mother didn't raise a family so much as she did an ant colony. As soon as we were old enough, we were put to work. I had my first paper route at the age of eight, the money that was earned taken and used to feed and clothe us. I was a severely introverted kid, uncomfortable with the rambunctiousness of my brothers, preferring a book over playing. I was easily bored by the mundane antics my siblings could provide. My parents had long suspected that I was autistic or suffered from some other type of brain damage, as I pretty much refused to participate in anything. This was the first inkling I had of a deep well of creativity that lay untapped within me. Though I could not put a name to it, in retrospect, it was always there. Christmas, the year I turned nine, we became orphans. Our lives were never the same again. I withdrew from the world in dramatic ways, retreating further into books and writing my own stories that depicted the turmoil inside. I raided the school library for reading material, and when that became depleted, I graduated to adult novels. Sidney Sheldon, Thomas Tryon, John Farris, John Saul, and eventually, Stephen King. The horror in King's stories made me realize that I could withstand the abuse heaped upon us by those into whose care we were placed. And it was King's stories that enthralled me, held me in rapt attention for hours - days even. It might've also been that the darkness and evil that King so skillfully portrayed mirrored a growing suspicion that I harbored a similar darkness. It was while reading The Shining that I first knew I would become a writer. King's characters were so realistic, the story so vivid and imaginative, I wanted to be able to do for others what he was able to do for me through writing. Of course, I was constantly told that I would never amount to anything, that I was worthless and should never been allowed to live. A child doesn't understand the reasons for being told such things, especially by those we're told we should always trust. The seeds of my self-destruction were planted. In spite of this growing inner darkness, I excelled. There were people and events that attempted to keep me from finishing school, but finish I did, graduating at the top of my class and earning a place in Who's Who Among American High School Students. It wasn't the first indication that all those adults might've been wrong. I became one of the youngest first-chair cellists in the state, and a short story garnered a scholarship from the University of Michigan. With several different dance partners, I entered and won various dance competitions. But no matter how much I tried and succeeded, it seemed that it only served to draw more negative and violent criticism from those from whom I seeked only validation. Success felt like failure. By high school graduation, I had already become a fairly heavy drinker. The lesson I took from this period was that I should simply give up trying. No one else cared, why should I? PART TWO After graduation, I packed what few belongings I had into the 1969 Buick Skylark I'd bought with money earned working at fast food restaurants and ice cream parlors, and headed west. I had long dreamed of seeing the ocean and set my sights on San Diego. Perhaps the water could cleanse me of dark thoughts and of the desire to hurt myself. Destiny had much different plans for me. The Buick broke down just outside Grand Island, Nebraska on the first night. I was forced to sleep in the car on the side of the highway. A vicious storm broke out and I lay awake, alone and afraid, wondering if I had the strength to make it through, for the storm was an apt metaphor for my life thus far. The next morning, I forced the car into town, only to find that the night's storm had spawned a killer tornado that decimated much of Grand Island and killed 150 people. At one of the few local businesses still intact - an auto mechanic, no less - I spent what little money I had left to fix the car. There was no way I would make it all the way to California, and so had to change my plans. I knew of a distant aunt living in Colorado and hoped I would have enough gas to get me there. Thankful to be alive (and not the last time this feeling would strike), I left Nebraska, entering Colorado later that afternoon. I'd only ever seen mountains in picture books. When I got my first real look at Colorado, I had to pull the car over. I sat and sobbed for nearly an hour. I was exhausted, hungry, and so taken by the raw beauty of the mountains, it overwhelmed me. A couple hours later, the car broke down once more. The final time. Abandoning the car was hard, but I knew I had to make it to Boulder before nightfall or risk sleeping outdoors in an unfamiliar place. After the storm the night before, there was no way I wanted that. So I took a few clothes and walked away from the Buick, bidding it goodbye. Hitchhiking got me into Boulder late that evening. I located the aunt's house and stood on her porch, wondering if she would even remember me. That's when I realized that it was my birthday. I was 17. I remember very little of those first few weeks. I was in awe of Boulder and knew deep in my heart that I would make my home there. It's difficult to do, though, when you're out of money and staying with people you barely know, who you've only heard stories about. I had a real opportunity to start my life again, not knowing how accurate that would be. My first job was as a night clerk at a local convenience store. The graveyard shift was all that was available, and in spite of my abhorrence of staying up all night working, I took it. Soon after, I learned something that rocked my world. My aunt's husband - her second - was allegedly the eldest brother of a prominent mafia family, having escaped to Colorado to avoid having to inherit the 'family business.' I learned this when he offered to create documents that would make me old enough to get a "real job." His words. The idea thrilled me. Not that I wanted to be indebted to him in any way. It was bad enough that I felt like I was mooching off them already. But I accepted. Several weeks later, I had the documents in hand. Possibilities unfolded in my fertile imagination. Several days after that, I was offered a used car, paid for by said "uncle." I felt like a kid on Christmas...but not the same kind of Christmas during which you learn that your parents are gone. The kind on which you receive presents, real presents and not just socks or underwear or school clothes. Life was turning for me. I had little idea what would happen next. Maybe I would've made much different choices for myself. Or maybe the darkness that lurked within was influencing my every thought and decision. I was naive enough to believe that good things would happen, that my benevolent aunt and uncle had my best interests at heart. For a change. Boy, was I wrong. |
| John F. Kennedy and the Cuban Missile Crisis |
| Childhood home, Lake Orion, Michigan |
| Shy boy, Christian |
| 1969 Buick Skylark |
| Graduation Day with maternal grandparents |
| Grand Island, Nebraska |
| First real glimpse of Colorado |
| Boulder, Colorado |