Chapter 6
The Grass Is Always Greener
My father took a new job working as a custodian in the only LDS church in Santaquin, Utah; it was just five blocks from Mecums Trailer Park. The town, which was known as a farming community, boasted a population under two thousand. The farmers raised corn, wheat, hay, and fruit-bearing trees such as apples and cherries. Payson Jr. High and High School were twelve miles south, and the home of the Payson Longhorns.
Springville, Utah, is where my Grandmother lived, and was over fifty miles away. Santaquin, like most towns, had its own middle and elementary school; K-3 and K-7; they would bus the older kids to either the junior high or high school in from the surrounding areas of Genola, Goshen and to as far away as Mona; the town was so small that if you blinked; you missed it.
My parents had bought a single wide trailer, and it had something called a tip-out; meaning the living room was larger than the rest of the trailer because of the overhang. It was small, cramped and boasted two small bedrooms and a master bedroom that included a bathroom which excluded the tub and a shower pointed north. The other two bedrooms pointed south. The bathroom was between and shared space with a washer and dryer.
They built it in the late sixties, and it came with ugly brown shag carpets and diamond laminated tile painted a nasty yellow and orange. It went from the kitchen, that held matching olive-green refrigerator and stove, and down into the bathroom. Each room had dark mahogany wood-paneling, which didn't help. This was a bargain eyesore if I had ever seen one and I only saw it as my new prison.
Our parents had flipped a coin to decide who got the bigger room as if I didn't know it was a double-sided coin. The girls won as usual and squealed with delight. Personally, I thought Aaron, and I got the better bargain in the end, but don't tell them that. We didn't have much, to begin with. I had even less considered my father took it upon himself to give everything that was left behind to Goodwill including my bike. So, everything I owned was in my small suitcase. We shared a bunk bed. I took the top, and he had the bottom.
The room had very few items, except for a few toys he kept in a cardboard box. These toys were nothing more than broken bits that someone should have thrown away years ago. We both used an old beat-up wooden dresser and a small closet. My sister's room was full of pictures, posters, stuffed toys, and dolls of every size. With a closet chucked full of nice dresses and clothes plus two dressers stuffed with even more. While ours held almost nothing but five to six shirts or less that didn't even fill one side of the closet.
It wasn't long before Susan had barged into our room while I unpacked what little I had to inform me that her and the kitchen broom killed personally my "pet rodent". Quote. 'The glass cage fell off the dresser and broke into a million pieces. I was so scared that I screamed, fearing for my life. That rodent was going to eat me, so I killed it,' skipping merrily out the door.
Buttercup was gentle as they came and loved to sleep in my shirt pocket while I watched TV, not once has she ever bitten anyone? There was no way the cage could have fallen from the dresser as heavy as it was. But there was nothing I could do about it, even though I would have loved to have shoved that broom right down her throat. But throwing my shoes hard against the wall seemed to help, ending up with a fat lip from my father and another whipping. What a great welcome home present.
I would like to say things were great, but that would be a lie. It was bad enough that school had already started and having to change schools in the middle of the school year once again plus having no friends. I was beyond depressed, to say the least. My friend Jeff had been shadowing me ever since I had left the Steeds residence. He was coming to be the only familiar face I knew.
I stopped caring altogether because people pushed me around so much. My grades were nonexistent while the homework piled up and became long overdue. Without really noticing any signs of life, I walked to class. I would enter the classroom and find my assigned seat. Placing my head on my desk, I would shield it with the back of my jacket. I was invisible to all that saw me. "A nobody," going nowhere… I wouldn't talk and only answer with a slight shrug of my shoulders. Teachers would pass out assignments, and I would quickly crumble them up into a ball and toss them into the garbage can.
The principal's office was my second home and with a counselor's office a close second. They would threaten to call my parents again and again. I would shrug like I didn't care or answer. "Go ahead, they couldn't care less if I lived or died. Just kill me and put me out of my misery." Threats didn't scare me; it didn't matter anymore. All I was, was a disappointment. They would beat me regardless.
To say I hated my life would certainly be true. People say that God never gives us more than we can handle. I laugh. Wondering if he even exists at all and if he does then, then what in the hell did I do to deserve this personal hell I live in? To make matters worse, they say we had chosen our earthly parents knowing full well the life we would have. I always thought even now that this was a load of crap. And somehow when they had this war in heaven some went to hell and the others left behind got to come down to this paradise. Well, somehow my so-called parents and my sisters must have been hiding and cowering in some corner when it was all said and done. Or their souls escaped from the very bowels of hell itself.
Since my return from Arizona, I learned the new definition of the word; "bonding." The word "bond" is used to bond or tie an object to something, or a person bonded to a contract. "Bonding" refers to someone owning said object. Words like. 'To make a man out of you,' and. 'Let's see what your worthless ass is made of,' is used with the same definitions as "bond and bonding."
When dealing with my father, I had learned early on not to call my father…Father or Dad but Sir. "No Sir, Yes Sir." After a beating when I came home from school suspended for a week after causing a classroom disturbance, by throwing my books and shoes against the wall when asked to follow along with the class and punching a student in the nose for calling me a name "re-tard" and other names. Yes, I know I deserved it, but I was so low and deep in depression I didn't care anymore. I would let bullies beat me just to feel anything. Hoping they'd kill me and find my worthless ass buried next to a dumpster, like the trash I was.
To say life had no meaning after being beaten at school or beaten at home seemed moot. I hated my life and the world that I was in. The church was something to skip not to attend as it became a reminder of the things of the past and the present. Jeff presence became my only salvation; I wished for death, I craved it as the dark thoughts intruded my mind and my very soul.
Every day, my father would forcefully wake me up at the crack of dawn, sometimes even earlier. Not for school, but hard labor once again. My father, being a custodian for the church was to be my worst nightmare. He had me scrubbing toilets and floors over and over with a toothbrush. He would make me do them again and again until they met his specification.
If I so much as growled underneath my breath or complained no matter how small, he would deck me until I was beginning to see stars. By daylight, I would mow the church grounds. Back then they had a lot of grass and shrubbery, unlike now it is sparse. By noon and the heat of the day; I would weed and prune every bush. My only meal was an apple, or sometimes an orange, and a small bottle of water. During hours five and six, I would vacuum and washing all the chairs.
This became my life and didn't end. I had more chores at home that would keep me busy until ten at night. To gain more money, my parents would take the job of supporting the trailer park. My parents would send me out to mow and weed the trailer park we lived in.
I had no time for friends, no time for homework or anything except work. While Susan and Becky played with their new dolls and had nice clothes and dresses. I had nothing but the rags that I wore so threadbare they rip just by putting them on each day. Aaron didn't escape it either when he became considered old enough at the young age of nine; he would work beside me. No, I hated my life and had run away enough times trying to escape it.
It was even worse once my mother decided that I needed a haircut after she'd finished shaving Aaron's head, stub short again. Normally, I would pay for it myself, but since I had no money and wasn't given an allowance or even a chance to earn any, I was screwed. I reversed my direction and headed for the front door. But as luck would have it my father was waiting for me and growled. "Boy! I told you I will take none of your lip! Now sit in that God Damn chair and do what your mother tells you!" it was one of many of his favorite words. He enjoyed swearing more than anyone I knew.
I said. "No, sir! You can go straight to hell. I refuse to be touched by her or you. If I need a haircut… fine! But there is no way in hell or come high water will I allow you to touch me." I knew I was about to die, but I stopped caring a long time ago. I had no friends and this so-called God had abandoned me since the day I was born. The only consolation prize I had taken the clippers off the table and threw them against the wall as they broke into several pieces.
His face was red with anger as he growled. "How dare you, you God Damn murdering worthless brat talk back to me? After we give you a home and put food in your mouth and clothes on your back. How dare you disrespect me and your mother?"
With each word, he punctuated as the spit drooled down his chin like a mad dog. Yes Sir. I was making history and had reached my breaking point.
He charged me first, and I fought back with a kick hard enough to make him take a step back. Which gained me the room I needed as I swiped his legs from underneath him and waited for him to come back up doing a little footwork circling my prey…A move my, friend Rocko taught me and little boxing starting with my left hand with a quick jab right below his left eye and with a right jab to the stomach. Then a left jab to the nose I finished it with a good right hook to the jaw.
If it weren't for my father, I wouldn't have had the strength but working in the cotton fields and moving freight plus all his hard labor. I was a lot stronger than I used to be and became street smart when it came down to nothing but fists. I could hold my own as long as it was one on one, and my opponent was the same size or weight. Either way, I wasn't completely defenseless anymore. Rocko would have been proud, but my father was tougher than any bully in the playground. And was lethal when came to his belt.
He was madder than a wilder beast as he wiped the blood with the back of the long-sleeved shirt. My mother and sisters were shocked, and Aaron started crying. Running down the hall to his room to hide in the closet, fearing the punishment that was about to take place. He knew from experience if I got beat; he was going to get beat as well. The closet or under the bed was the only place you could hide until the end of the broom found you.
My father growled angrily as his belt came off in one fluid motion. His cold eyes narrowed on me; he charged me like a mad bull. A belt in one hand, a fist in the other. The belt hit first; I screamed, taking the flesh with it when the sharpened buckle, a specialty of his, causing it to dig deep as the belt buckle made contact across my chest. The belt caused my shirt to become ruined and torn in long strips. I made the mistake of looking down and seeing the long gash, watching the warm blood trickle down my bare chest. It caught me off guard long enough for my father to come back with an uppercut of his right hand of his own; he knocked me out cold as ice.
As soon as I woke up, I discovered I was bound to a metal folding chair with a dog chain tightly wrapped around me. He must have borrowed it from my mother's dog named Frosty who had mysteriously gone missing. For he was gone when I had come back from Arizona, like most pets we had over the years. They went for a one-way ride and dropped off at the side of the road, or taken to the pound and destroyed, I never learned what had happened to the dog named Frosty, but it was safe to say he was dead, just the way my father liked it. He, like my sisters Susan and Becky, hated all animals.
When I woke, I was only wearing my boxers. They made me wear only my boxers to embarrass me and make me feel like an immoral freak, but living in the desert those past few months only made it feel uncomfortable, nothing more.
My brother Aaron was doing dishes and doing his best to avoid my mother's wooden spoon against his bare bottom. His sisters witnessed him being chastised more severely for what they consider being immoral. While my sisters seemed content playing with their dolls. At least that's what I could see through my swollen eye. Apparently, my father must have kicked me in my ribs several times, adding to the bruises that were already there and literally beat the living hell out of me. Even though I was out cold with no way to defend myself, I didn't stop the beatings in any shape or form.
All he said was, "You should have known better to pick a fight with me. Boy! If that was the best you could do."
The smart mouth that I was, I growled. "Go to hell!"
Earning me another punch in the mouth as the blood trickled down. And a slap across the face from my mother when she charged over with a wooden spoon, bad enough to send my already painful body to outer space. The chain broke, and I quickly went out the front door, back into the cold, cruel world.