2005-12-12 - 9:57 a.m.
I shaved my beard last night – shaved it off.
That’s right. I know you didn’t expect it, but hey…that’s me. I’m a swashbuckler. That’s right – I’ll jump right off of something and laugh, “Ha HA!” I’ll cut a rope and swing from here to there, while brandishing a cutlass or saber.
And I’ll shave my beard off just-like-that…without giving it a second thought.
I’ll drink milk AFTER the expiration date.
Don’t mix with me unless you’re ready for some serious adventure, because that’s what I’m all about – I’m a swashbuckler baby.
***
It was around 8 pm and I was just getting home. I opened the front door of the four story, Cape Cod style house and was greeted by the sounds of an argument, on the one hand, and pleas to stop arguing, on the other.
I don’t even know how my mother and I came to live in that place. It was a boarding house of sorts, inhabited by a couple of vagrants (squatters) and run by a woman who had lost touch with her sanity years before. She was Anna May Westcott and she was listed among Ellsworth, Maine’s crazy folk – dressed in two or three polyester skirts and a pair of pants and sporting horned rimmed glasses. She was a meek woman, quiet and unassuming, and being taken advantage of by some old bums that had found their way into her house. I think mom decided to move in so that she could rescue Anna May and set her straight, as is her calling in life. After a year she had the bums gone, Anna’s finances in order, and the old woman on medication for whatever condition plagued her brain.
The one-sided argument was taking place in the living room, behind the closed sliding door. I stood at the base of the stairs for a moment listening to my mother trying to find a way out of the argument and her latest boyfriend, Wesley, shifting positions to try and keep it going. I think Wesley was suffering from some form of sexual frustration and it was manifesting itself as anger – plus he had a small man’s complex, which probably fueled his anger further.
I felt like I should do something, but I walked up the stairs instead, heading into the darkness toward my bedroom. As I reached the top of the stairs I slowed, my ears and my brain holding me back.
I listened for a bit longer; I felt angry and frustrated and I wanted him to stop. He had my mother cornered and kept verbally side stepping to keep her trapped. I went into my room and sat on my bed for a moment – I could still hear him badgering her.
I wanted him to stop, but what could I do – a boy of 16? I got up and went to the stairs, resolved to do something. I told myself to go down the stairs – I’ll count to 10 and then I’ll go.
…9, 10…
I stood, frozen in place; I was afraid. I had seen a great deal of conflict in my life and some violence and I had never come to terms with it. I never liked confrontation; because the outcome I was accustomed to seeing was generally bad. I recall once in Head Start the teachers had set up a boxing ring in the classroom and chose two students to box and one to referee. When it came my turn to go into the ring, I put on the gloves and moved into the ring – it seemed like fun. I struck the other boy in the face and his nose burst like a strawberry; there was blood everywhere. I ran into another room and hid beneath a workbench in the dark. I never liked conflict.
I’m bigger than he is, I thought.
I have to stop this, because she can’t and he won’t…I have to stop this.
I went down the stairs and stood before the door; like Bilbo Baggins going down the tunnel toward inevitable doom, going down the stairs was the bravest thing I had ever done. I opened the door and stood there – Wesley’s face was twisted in anger and he shouted at my mother, his finger in her face. She looked over at me and her need was written in her eyes.
I stood there.
“Wesley, you’re going to have to go.” He stopped abruptly and stared at me. He started to speak again, but I spoke up, “I’m sorry, but you’re really going to have to leave.”
He looked at me and beneath the anger I could see confusion, question and then, for just a brief second as he sized me up, fear. I saw it though it was fleeting, like a spark, he was afraid. Wesley grabbed his coat and pushed past me to the front door. He started to go at my mom again, but I opened the door, “You have to leave Wesley.”
He sized me up again – I could tell he was trying to decide if he could spill his anger onto me and I could tell he knew that it was a bad idea. He glared at me in anger and frustration and then he turned and walked off the porch sputtering words of anger. I closed the door, said good night to my mother, and went up to bed. I lay there in the dark shaking, thinking of what might have been.
Wesley kicked a headlight out on Mom’s Le Car; we found it the next morning.
I still don’t like conflict.
