The Jacklyn Smith Confession

Huh....ink dried about a year ago. Explains why I am passive aggressive. Each person's past trauma is all relative, ...oneshould suppose. Fun times bifurcated. 

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 =================== THE JACLYN SMITH CONFESSION 

 Often, I believe life's greatest steps are taken when least expected, or when the road ofwisdom presents us with a crack to step over. If you want to call it wisdom. Perhapsmore so, it's just an everyday street of experience, and only that. Our problematic episodes in our personal backgrounds... are all relative. A homeless person, a 13-year old guerilla freedom fighter, some upper-class 15 year-old girl in Old Greenwich CT, the Prime Minister of Japan, and everyone else you know all have a psychodramatic shopping cart filled with perishable items, that..., though they are well past their due date, still seem to get rung up, and taken home every so often. 

Not a great work of theoretical psychology or whateverology to point out that everyone's problems are relative. It just points out, and sets the context, for the childhood thoughts of a 10 year old boy amongst the hilly urban sprawl in the fog. So at least here, ...for now, ...I will get my reward points, and present my membership card. Maybe when all is said and done, I receive some big shopping spree. 

Another spree, to fill up with more perishable items. 

 _=_=_= 

The movie we saw doesn't matter. Besides, this was commonplace during the summer months.Karl's mom would take he and I to some Disney or, even better, a PG flick. Usually, winding up with Karl getting emotional, and "interactive", yelling to the screen characters to "watch out" and "no, don't do it". In the past, we'd probably go back to his house, in his backyard, and re-enact whatever we saw on screen. 

A definite relief, coming from a group of kids, that recited whole episodes of SWAT, Emergency!, Lost in Space, and even worse, The Love Boat. Karl and I, being the youngest, always seemed to get stuck with the child characters, or the buffoon characters. In "Lost in Space in Karl's garage"...he got stuck with having to be young Will Robinson, and I... wound up being The Robot. I think I got the short end of the deal. Due to he and I being the youngest, and I guess ...being 3 months even younger than Karl,... I got it even worse. More so, everything we did was at his house, ...so the older kids, must of recognized that, in all their pre-pubescent wisdom, and were careful not to upset this adolescent goose who laid the golden egg. What made it even worse, was when additional older kids would come over, and all the parts of the show got filled, they had to make up an additional character for me to wreak havoc on the Jupiter 2 (more so, the downstairs room in Karl's basement that was partly and eternally unfinished). Of course, I got stuck with the improvised character. What else to have on a family spaceship, but a monkey. So a number of times a year, I was relegated to being, a space monkey. Feeling even more left out, as most 10 year olds do... (which is just about every other day, over one thing or another, especially as the youngest). I was often scorned for speaking out in human dialect, ...but what well-rounded space monkey shouldn't be able to converse in Modern English? I guess not. 

 The shopping cart was beginning to fill up. However, it was getting late, and despite getting loaded up on the seminal theater concessionary harvest that Karl's mom would sow each and every time, I was hungry. We climbed out of the VW, said our goodbyes,... whatever that surmounted to 20 years ago, and I was on my way up the street. The same route I had taken 1,000s of times.

 Yes, thousands. 

Past the Browns, with their pebble driveway divider,

...then the Wongs, getting spooked by their Chinese pakua "spirit mirror" above their Westerly-facing window, under the tree, past the firehydrant,

...past the Ramirez', 

...then Troy's old house (what ever happened to Troy, he moved away so long ago, I don't even remember what he was like, only recollecting the experience from the older kids on the block),

...then the Johnson's (fuck you Mr Johnson, here's a foot on your lawn). I was an f-bombadier at 10 years old, being both the youngest in my entire family, and on the block. Course, the bevy of pinup mags that Karl's dad inadequately hid, provided me with most of the real world, adult vernacular. 

 No, that doesn't go into the shopping cart... but instead as a supreme schoolyard advantage. To call out another 9 or 10 year old kid as possessing a "millimeter peter", and knowing how devastating of a blow that was, and even better, knowing that he really didn't understand it fully, and you did... made it even more powerful. 

Ali... one , two , huh! It was a blacktop atomic bomb, first the initial hit, and then the mental fallout, probably resulting in some uncomfortable questions being brought up over now cold spaghetti on the dinner table of some cul-de-sac home of a Serramonte family.

 So, in goes the foot, into Mr Johnson's pristine lawn. The buzzard even put a strip of concrete down the middle of it, so when we'd ride our bikes over everyone's driveways and lawns, we were supposed to spill over his stone impedance. All it got him, was us doing a good 'bronco' up and over the divider, digging into his meticulously watered and groomed lawn, even more. (note: bronco is a BMX move, whereas you pull up the front wheel, and before it comes down, you pull up the back wheel). 

... then past Fred and Helen's, and I'm home. Oh cool, my uncle is over. 

Often, my uncle would always drop by our house, after he went to the mall, or car dealership, or wherever that was near our neighborhood. He and my mom, would play cards, or talk about family adult things. Nothing really cool, ...more around work benefits, freeway extensions, and the lot of topics that are often the prime result of why kids get devastatingly bored at "adult events". He would always screw with us, and tease us, but it was still fun, because we could still try to make comebacks and call him names. Not the sweet uncle, but the uncle you could fuck with. 

 I trot up the stairs. By now, I can skip stairs, so five steps are only needed to go up the 11 stairs and make it to the landing. Doing the usual "10-year old barging in", and grab the door handle, and, It's locked. 

Shoot.

 Knock. 

Knock. Knock. 

 Wait. 

Wait. Wait. 

 Knock. Knock. 

 Wait. Wait. 

 Knock. 

 Wait. 

 Dangerously, try to stand on the edge of the second to last stair, grab the raingutter of the kitchen window, to try and peer in and see if they are at the kitchen table. Same window my mum's rapists reality checked me with.

 The table was the spot for dozens of card games over the years. Nope. A Texas Rummy game was at sometime this afternoon, underway, but not right now. Maybe they went somewhere. Maybe mom drove, as his car is still here. Or they are across the street talking to neighbors. Or in the backyard, as my uncle is looking at our 15 year old fence that is falling over. Maybe they just can't get to the door. Doesn't matter, I'll just go through the garage. It's always unlocked (moreover, I'm telling you it's unlocked, because that was just given... it was just an alternate route into my house). 

I slide open the heavy lumber assemblage that was garage door clanging loudly in it's track, and saunter across the basement, to the "basement stairs". 

Up the basement stairs, I trod, in the dark, as the light for the basement stairwell had it's switch at the top, not the bottom. 

A usability flaw in those homes, ...and a single mom, usually isn't apt to rewire a house. 

Shoot. The basement door is locked. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Wait. 

Wait. 

Wait. A pointless exercise, to replicate the amount of summoning that was attempted at the front door. So I turn tail, and head back down. With no game plan in sight as to what I'm going to do. But, I do hear some creaking noises, and they are coming from upstairs. So I follow the noises from below, to figure out where in the house they are located. It gets louder towards the back of the house. So I head over there. 

On the right side. 

Over in the corner. 

Loud, and clear. 

I'm below my mom's bedroom. I'm below my mom's bed. My mom's car is still in the garage. 

 Often I believe life's great steps are taken when least expected, or when the road to wisdom presents a crack to step over... (oh wait, I already went over that). The great big book of revelations, (there we go... much better) that form the scriptures of adulthood are usually painful, or awkward, or humiliating, or enlightening, or confusing, or unclear, or uncomfortable, or disenchanting, or unexpected, or conflicting, or nervous, or disheartening, or dramatic, or misunderstood, or understood VERY WELL, or unfortunate, or strengthening, or weakening, or just because. 

For me, all those revelations were eight feet above me, pounding away. 

 I understood very well what was going on. Hell, after all, we were ALREADY doing the same thing to the dirt in the hills behind Karl's house, as each one of us and our not-yet-developed units were pleasuring the company of the weeds, clay, and pebbles from Underneath our pants, as being specifically, one of Charlie's Angels. 

Once again, I got screwed here and wound up with Sabrina (Kate Jackson). Go figure. Why can't a space monkey kid get Jaclyn Smith or Farrah Fawcett??? And why was it, when a fourth, and olderkid, joined the backyard orgy, that somehow Cheryl Ladd came back for a special visit, and I was still stuck with Sabrina? 

 It's funny, how throughout life you know certain revelations of adulthood will come intoplay, ...and most often, not how you expected them to turn out (death, birth, marriage, virginity [and the discarding thereof], booze, drugs, work, death, birth, the 6th grade). Moreover, the revelations themselves ...you wouldn't of thought to be as the were/are (winning the lottery, losing a limb, your mom screwing your uncle). 

 Panic. Confusion. Anger. Nervousness. Hungry. 

Alone. 

I understood it, but was emotionally, a stranger in a strangeland. Despite all that, I had the goddamn courtesy, and wherewithall, to worry if they heard me or not. Shoot. I interrupted. Down the stairs I went, walking along the rail of my foot, and along the side of the stairs to minimize stair creakage. Shoot, they must of heard me. She knew when the movie would be out! She knew, that despite the hundred and eighty seven times I'd been late for dinner, more often than not, due to playing the great fuck fantasy in the dirt, that I should of been coming home around then.

 What have I done? How uncomfortable for them? How uncomfortable for mom? What's going to happen? I was starting to get stunned by everything. Just staring at the post in the center of the garage. Thinking and looking, at all the intricacies of what made our garage, our garage. The crack that started from the middle divider, ran up about 3 feet, took a leftmanother foot, then needed another 4 feet in a 45 degree angle to find it's trailhead. The crack that you can, plan ahead riding your bike, ...to ride right on, and use as a road center to try and stay on. Save for the screw that is wedged in the crack and always has been there, so you know exactly that it's about 2 inches down from where the crack takes a turn, and where you can "turn off" off on your bike, or use as a slalom. Notice how, in childhood, the attention to trivial detail in your surroundings is absurdly intricate. It was like breathing. Automated. Secondary.

 I, this time, re-opened the garage door with pristine delicateness. Knowing all the noisy components- where in the track it squeaked, careful not to let it bounce around and against the lip of the garage floor, and to hold on to the mechanical lock and give it slight clockwise turn, as the third screw was loose, and had been loose since I could ever recall.

 I quickly ran away from the house and down the alleyway, two houses up from me, that lead to the street behind us. Glancing back about 6 times in the 4 seconds it took me to get there, making sure that my mom was not looking out the window, and indeed, signifying that I had "gotten in the way". 

 When the pastor asked if anyone wanted to speak at my uncle's funeral. I once again, in my 30's, saw another item go into the shopping cart.

 Panic. Confusion. Anger. Nervousness. Hungry (cause I was running late, and hadn't eaten yet). Alone. His children were in grief, and I wanted them to know just who their father was. I didn't care if it hurt, but I was worried it'd hurt them. This isn't the place to get out your laundry. What about my aunt? My aunt who looks so much older now. God, she is my grandmother. And Stephanie is her daughter, and is my grandmother's daughter, and Stephanie's daughter is my aunt, who in turn, ...the cycle is endless, so I'll stop. 

How would I approach it? "Uh, I have something to say..." No. Lame. I'd choke up so hard, I wouldn't be able to get a word out and look like a pussy. "I'd like thank..." No. That's selfish. 

Let sleeping dead dog uncles lie. After all, he probably didn't use my mom. It was probably her idea from the get-go. How long had it been going on? Was that a one time thing? I don't even want to try and figure out the when and wheres. Did everyone already know? Does my sister know? My aunt? Does everybody know? And they've thought they've kept it from me all these years? "Ah ha, the joke's on you. We've known all along and wanted to protect you." 

Space monkeys don't get much pull on big adult topics, especially those that deal with infidelity of relatives and the participation of your own mom. My aunt needs to know.... She probably does. My mom wasn't the first, nor the last. Probably. Who cares. It's so scoreboard, as to how piss poor of a father he was. His eldest son, has been in jail at least a half dozen times, is in his forties, and can't even be here now. His youngest didn't even graduate from high school, lives in his basement. His daughters are only slightly better off. I guess prisoners cry too, when the warden of thirty years dies and leaves only memories. My poor aunt, she deserved so much better. Wait, this sounds like I'm taking all this too personal. Screw that, everyone knows. My sister probably has the same take as me, and everybody else. Does she know? Did she come home, to find the door locked? Or is the door locked because she came home frothe movies and walked in on something? It's not my business. Besides... I just had to wait a little longer for a dinner I probably wasn't going to finish anyways. 

Doesn't matter anymore, my mom is a vegetable now. A skeleton of the strong person she was. It's not like I need to stick up for her. Shut your trap. Stay seated and don't say a word, even though you weren't going to anyways. This isn't the place. Not now,... and probably, ...not ever. Joanne is speaking now, or is that Connie, ...Jackie... or is that Maria? Wait, there is no Maria. I can never tell the six Sicilian sisters apart. 

 As we go up and down the aisles, we add and subtract things from the shopping cart. Sometimes, putting the same things back in. It's what makes us who we are. You sometimes get sick from eating those perishable items, but more often than not, we recover. 

 Although I always wound up with Kate Jackson against the hard packed dirt, I was secretly screwing Jaclyn Smith like mad.