NAVIGATING DARKNESS (eBook)

Chapter Two

The thrill of my amazing discovery that day in the library didn’t last long. As the bell to change classes rang, my thoughts quickly turned to those of skipping the next class, finding someone to hang out with, and getting drunk. Besides, what could I do with what I had learned? Would I tell the police, alert the media, or better yet, call a priest? I don’t think so. After all, I was a pleasure seeker, not some psycho prophet.

After school, I met up with some friends. We talked about going downtown and polishing off a bottle of whiskey that Sammy had tucked away in his backpack. You see, Sam also went by the nickname “Bernie,” which was short for Saint Bernard. And like the dog with the barrel under his neck, he too would come to the rescue. Only Bernie’s barrel was in his backpack.

“Sorry, fellas,” I grumbled. “I gotta work tonight.”

“All right man. We’ll catch you later,” they agreed, without giving it much thought.

Then, rather than taking a walk with the others, I caught the bus and headed for home. I wasn’t happy though. I wanted to drink. But to make matters worse, I had to look forward to putting on my ugly, ill-fitting uniform, and spending the rest of the night stocking shelves while sober.

Once I got home, I threw a burrito and a couple of leftover “pigeon wings” (compliments of the local Chinese take-out) into the microwave, grabbed a can of cola, and went upstairs to my room.

This sucks, I thought, turning on my stereo and cranking up the volume. I liked it loud, and there was no one around to complain. Mom was at work, and my sister was nowhere to be found, which was typical of the way things had become. My mother had recently divorced my father and life changed forever. But even with him gone, the rest of us were still suffering the effects of his presence.

My room, however, which for so long was a place of isolation and fear, had become my refuge. In it, I no longer feared the “Pig Man,” as my father used to call him. When I was little, he was said to be waiting for me upstairs in the blackness of my room. My father would send me up there, usually after a “beaten” with no hope of coming down for the rest of the night.

I remember this one night when my father had been drinking. The living room smelled of farts and stale beer, and I had just come in from riding my bike. He was sitting on the couch with the ballgame on TV. He had a beer in his hand and an incredibly angry look on his face. Immediately, I was afraid. I’d seen that look so many times before, and I knew he was mad at me. He was ready to explode.

“Where’s your bike?” he asked.

“I left it on the side of the house,” I said nervously.

He just nodded.

Then he asked again, “Where’s your bike?” as though the answer might change.

“On the side. . .” I tried to answer. But he jumped up and shouted, “Get over here!”

Filled with fear, I slowly walked over to him. Quickly, he grabbed me by the arm and turned me sideways.

“Where’s your bike?” he asked again, in a voice unlike his own. But before I could answer, he smacked me off my feet. Only, I never touched the ground. He was still holding me up by my arm.

“Where did I tell you to put it?” he growled.

Again, I was unable to answer as he began hitting me over and over again, until I was crying so hard that I could barely catch my breath. Finally, he threw me to the ground. Then he told me to stand up before he hit me again.

“Get upstairs. . . GET UPSTAIRS,” he yelled.

Scrambling to my feet and awkwardly reaching out to find balance with my hands, I managed to quickly crawl up the steps without falling, expecting at any moment to feel the sting of his hand on my ass.

“Get in bed. . . and don’t turn any lights on,” he commanded from the bottom of the stairs.

It was black. And yet, I easily found my way across the room to my bed where I collapsed. Sobbing quietly, so as not to be heard, I wrestled with my emotions.

“What did I do?” I cried to myself.

I knew what I did, but I didn’t understand it all. I was young and still trying to make sense of a system that seemed twisted and unfair. It was as though he would tell me that black was white and white was black. And even though I knew this wasn’t true, I wasn’t allowed to object. Any action or inaction that was even perceived to be in conflict with his will was immediately met with twisted logic and more beatings.

As the night wore on, my self-pity gave way to something else. It was late, and I knew that everyone had gone to bed. And with the passing of time, I had become much more aware of my surroundings. I was afraid. Outside my window, on the other side of two large pine trees, was a street light. It was comforting. Along with the headlights of an occasional passing car, the light offered hope in the dark. But on this night, the curtains were closed. The obvious answer would have been to open the curtains, but I couldn’t. The house was old and the floorboards creaked. And I knew if my father heard me walking across the floor, I was in trouble. So, I stayed in bed. I felt helpless. I thought something was in the room. I pulled the covers over my head, but the fear was still intense. So much so, that even though I was hot and having trouble breathing under the heavy blanket, I chose suffocation, rather than face the Pig Man.

My spirit was broken.

Years later, just after my father left the house for good, I found myself trying to make sense of the madness. Oddly enough, the answer came (at least in part) not through years of psychotherapy, but rather while doing laundry. I was waiting for the washing machine to spin out and poking around in a box of old books my mother stored in the basement. One book, in particular, stood out. It was a book of accounts from Holocaust survivors. Once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down. The authors spoke of years of abuse they endured as prisoners in Nazi concentration camps during World War II. At one point, they shared how, when they first arrived, they’d watch in horror as other victims were beaten unmercifully. And yet, if they reacted in any way or even looked like they were getting upset, they would be beaten as well. Over time, having witnessed so much mistreatment and never being able to respond, they were left feeling numb. Some even reported feeling as if they were “dead already and yet still alive.” I could see how when you’re forced to live in dysfunction, it becomes your way of functioning.

My time of reflection had ended. I finished my food, took a quick shower, and left for work. Along the way, I passed by several bars with their neon lights beaming for business. I even caught a glimpse of a neon beer sign in the window of the store where I scored my beer. God, I was dying for a drink! But my death would have to be a slow one, as my shift hadn’t even started yet. I was a few minutes early when I punched in, so I sat in the employee lounge, waiting for someone else to show up. Sadly, I watched the full-timers leave for the day as the part-time help slowly arrived on the scene.

“Joey!” I yelled as this typical long-haired, cigarette-smoking “headbanger” type walked through the door.

“What’s going on, man?” I asked.

“What’s going on?” he said. “I’ll tell ya what’s going on. I want to get the hell out of here!”

He was obviously just as thrilled about being at work as I was. And in an effort to ease the pain, he suggested we get some beer after work. And that was just what I needed to hear.

The time passed quickly that day. Between goofing off, taking breaks, and actually doing some work, our “tour of duty” was over before we knew it. We couldn’t wait to get out of there. And once the manager locked the door behind us, we hit the ground running and never looked back. The truth is, we rode to the store and bought some beer.

“You wanna hang at the Armory?” I asked, with the twelve-pack under my arm.

“Cool,” he answered. And we started our trek across town.

I knew Lincoln was closer, and I really wanted one of those bottles. But Joey lived across town, and the Armory was across town. So, I thought it was the right thing to do. Anyway, it was a great night to ride. Clear skies and smooth sailing made for great expectations. So much so, that I couldn’t wait anymore. We weren’t even halfway there when the sound of my handbrakes squealing behind him was the signal to Joey that something was about to happen. We had been riding along the main street of town when the moment seemed right.

“C’mon,” I called, as I turned into the parking lot of Shamrock’s, an old abandoned moving company.

Perfect, I thought, as I rode around back and into the corner of the building, just beyond the reach of the street lights. I was already off my bike and digging through the bag when Joey rode past.

“Joe,” I cried in a loud...