I have a very strong “emotional brain”; that memory-jogging sensation you get from smells, which I’ve always thought was odd considering my penchant for sinus infections. I also put on weight like a sumo wrestler on a fast-food diet and so for the past few years, I have practiced–with varying levels of success–not eating lunch. Overall, it works. I’ve managed to lose, and keep off, about 5-7 pounds simply by skipping a meal. And no, it never gets easier.
By around 4pm, however, my will power has crumbled and though I tell myself I’m only going to the kitchen to refill my water glass, inevitably I end up with a snack. Having three kids, whatever snack I end up with is usually less about cravings and more about efficiency; what can I grab quickly and quietly before anyone else in the house hears me and comes down to the kitchen to stand and stare. Because I don’t eat during the day, having breakfast before the kids are usually up, I cherish the moments when I do eat and the last thing I want is to share–no, belay that, the LAST thing I want is to be judged for grabbing an Oreo by a 13-year-old.
The other day, as I came down for my usual “glass of water” I grabbed the pack of Saltines and went to make an old standby, “Saltines with Peanut Butter and Raisins” when, as I grabbed the jar of peanut butter, I found it nearly empty. Time being of the essence, I didn’t feel like scraping out the nearly empty jar with a silicone spatula, my usual cheap-skate dad-move, and then losing precious seconds getting another jar and having to remove the safety seal. So, instead, I quickly popped off the top of the butter dish and, using a Saltine, sliced off a slab of butter and stuck it in my mouth as I headed for the stairs.
I was immediately taken back to 1978. I was five. My parents had divorced the year earlier and since my dad, who we lived with, didn’t exactly cook, we were having dinner at a local favorite restaurant, LUMS. I knew nothing of LUMS’ history then, established in Florida initially as a hot dog shack specializing in beer-grilled dawgs. All I knew of LUMS was that they had the best hamburgers and fries; the burgers served up on thick buns that had been buttered and left to sizzle until golden brown on the grill.
But even before the hamburger came, there were packs of crackers and little foil-sealed packages of butter in plastic-wicker containers on each table, presumably as snacks while you waited. And I can remember opening those plastic cracker packages, usually with my teeth because I couldn’t quite tear them with my little pudgy fingers, and spreading some of the room-temperature butter (or Marjorine more likely) on the cracker and sticking in my mouth. Oh, the sweetness of those green-labeled Keebler Club Crackers combined with the saltiness of the butter–heaven!
I processed all of this in a micro-second as I took the first step up the stairs, heading back to my office. But then I stopped, turned back, grabbed a paper towel and a butter knife, and made myself just a few more. Along with my glass of water, of course. It also occurred to me that, by eating nearly a third of a stick of butter, I completely negated my afternoon of fasting, but some things are worth it. Not the butter and crackers I had that day in my own house, but the memory of the butter and crackers I shared as a 5-year-old boy with my brother and my dad.
As I consider it now, it feels like it was probably one of the last, truly good memories we all shared together before the life we knew it changed completely and before “things” began the slow, inexorable slide to complete shit. And I realize that it was one of the few times I can remember living in the moment. Truly enjoying an experience while it was happening without worrying about next week, or tomorrow, or even five minutes from now. That person packed up and left a long time ago, but I liked him a lot.
During the second year of my Air Force enlistment, having long-since tired of the drudgery of the Pentagon, I put in a request for a transfer somewhere, anywhere. The request was borne out of desperation for something other than the secretive dreariness of our basement facility, or if I was lucky, the solitary 8-hour shifts locked behind a foot-thick steel door in a metal box on the third floor of the world’s largest office building. My request, and the subsequent reassignment, was a mistake, or so I thought at the time.
I grew up hearing, briefly now and again, stories of my father’s time in the military. He too was in the electronics field in the Air Force. All told, he spent seven years in, only leaving it to care for his dying father, though he didn’t know at the time his father was beyond saving. But my dad was stationed in western Europe–Germany and Italy primarily–though he traveled all over during his free time.
When you join the military, enlisted personnel first go to boot camp and it is there you select your “preferred” job and where you would like to be located for the next two years. You select jobs based on your test scores and based on the open jobs available on that particular day, which may not be the same jobs available tomorrow or the day after. So what you end up doing in the military is very often, directed randomness. Directed in the sense that if you score highly in mechanics, you probably won’t be offered janitorial jobs, and random because the types of jobs available change regularly.
I scored very well in all four testing areas so I had a variety of jobs to choose from. However, because my father was also in electronics, I gravitated towards that field. I don’t remember all of my options that day, but I do remember that as I looked over my choices, I couldn’t help but glance over at my friend “Price.”
Jason Price and I joined up in Alabama together and were shipped to Boot Camp together. We hit it off immediately. Airman Price always looked as if he was waiting to see if you were going to eat the bug he hid in your sandwich. If you’ve seen the movie “Full Metal Jacket,” Price looked like a thinner version of Vincent D’Onofrio’s Private Pyle, but with the personality of Matthew Modine’s character “Joker.”
I glanced over at Price and we had both come to the same conclusion, “Pick jobs with really heavy security clearances. Those are cool!” And that’s what we did. We picked very technical-sounding jobs requiring a TS/SCI clearance. From the job descriptions we had very little understanding of what we’d actually be doing, but it didn’t matter. We thought then that having a high security clearance was reward enough in itself. After all, girls love mysterious guys, especially those in uniform!
After selecting your job, you are also allowed to select several potential permanent duty locations. I don’t remember exactly where I picked, but they were places I can remember my father talking about, so likely Italy, Germany, etc.
The thing about picking your job and permanent duty location in the military is that nothing is guaranteed. You are oft reminded of the motto, “Air Force Needs Come First.” Meaning, you can pick whatever you like, but if your government needs you in Ohio, that’s where you’re going. During the selection process, they do not tell you that “Job A is open in location A.” So you don’t know that if you select Job A, you’ll get to go where you want. Far more likely, the job you want to do is not even something that’s done where you want to go. So, for instance, if you select some niche job requiring a high-security clearance, but you want to go to a very popular place like Hickam AFB in Hawaii, well, good luck.
"Air Force Needs Come First"
Turns out Price and I both got our first picks, and after Boot Camp we were both sent to Keesler AFB in Biloxi, MS for training. Being assigned to different dorms in Keesler, we drifted apart, but we remained friends for many years. Just before graduation from Technical School, we received our permanent duty assignments. I got the Pentagon and he got the Azores (I think). At the time, I thought he got the short end of the stick. I would later realize it was the other way around.
Two years later, when my initial time at the Pentagon came up, I was eagerly awaiting word of my next duty station. I hoped that having put in my time at the Pentagon, the Air Force would take pity on me and send me somewhere exotic and far away. By then, my parents had divorced (only months after I left home) and had moved to completely different places. I’d broken up with my girlfriend, and frankly, there just wasn’t anything keeping me stateside.
I’d heard stories from the older people I worked with, stories of places in Germany and Austria, and I longed to go and explore the mountains and open spaces, or really anything that wasn’t the confines of Washington DC and the ever-oppressive Pentagon.
As I came to work one afternoon (I worked Swing shift from 3pm – 11pm), I found an official-looking form in my box. With eager hands, I broke open the seal and with a flutter in my stomach, began reading about my next, wonderful duty station.
It said, “Pentagon, Washington D.C.” I wasn’t going anywhere. I would fulfill my last two years in the Same. Damn. Place.
And so there I was two days later, standing in the Air Force administrative office filling out the form titled, “Permanent-duty, Voluntary Worldwide Overseas Transfer Request.” I had been told of this chance by a fellow I worked with, after lamenting my luck. This special form basically allowed you to appeal to a higher power in requesting a transfer. It was no guarantee, but from the Air Force’s standpoint, it was an opportunity to send some poor schmuck wherever the hell they needed him or her and there wasn’t a damn thing that person could do about it because they had asked for it.
And that’s exactly what my friend warned me about. He said, “Look, if you do this, you don’t have a choice at all of where they send you. It’s a complete dice roll.”
I rolled the dice and a month later, I found another letter in my inbox. With similar excitement and more than a little trepidation, I opened the letter and read aloud my fate, “Camp Zama, Japan.”
Japan? WOW! I didn’t know anything about Japan at the time, but I knew it wasn’t here. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends, which I did that evening on shift.
Turns out, I was in trouble, or not, depending on who you ask. For starters, I currently had to live on an Army base because I was single and worked in the DoD. At the time, if you worked in the DoD and weren’t married (meaning you could live off base), you HAD to live on Ft. Myer (an Army base, which sucks) because it had a bus running to and from the Pentagon. The military had to provide you a way to get to work if you didn’t have a car, which I didn’t. So, I was now destined to move from one Army base to another. And this Army base in Japan, had even fewer Air Force members, meaning I would be mostly working and living with Army people. Which, if you’ve ever been in the military, you know of the rivalry, and if you’ve not been in the military then just trust me when I say each branch thinks the other branches are morons.
Adding to my woes, Camp Zama was apparently out in the middle of nowhere Japan (two hours to Tokyo by train) and it was a pain in the ass to get anywhere; it was (and still is) a terribly ugly and squat little bit of a base with almost nothing to do, and you can forget about having your own transportation. All in all, I had gotten myself out of the frying pan and into the fire.
After chewing on my predicament a few days, I made an appointment to speak with my Colonel, a quiet but sharp woman of Asian descent. I presented myself in her office and explained what I had done and why, and respectfully asked her to try and nullify the request, something else I had been told was possible by my fellow Airmen. Again, no guarantees. With a knowing smile and a little nod, she agreed and a few days later she filed a counter-form stating that I had special training that benefitted the DoD facility in particular (which was true) and that my transfer would basically put her facility at a disadvantage for months until someone else could be found and trained to replace me (slightly exaggerated, but also basically true).
Her request was accepted and my transfer countermanded. I was back in the Basement.
I did spend my remaining time in the Pentagon. Nothing really changed. I turned 21, which helped me get out and enjoy the DC metro area more. I made friends with a similarly introverted loner, also afflicted with little tolerance for idiots, and he took pity on me and often invited me to spend the weekends with him and his folks out in Virginia Beach. I also got into fitness and spent most of my time running along the Potomac and pretending I wasn’t single and bored.
Near the end of my four years, I received my second “end of tour” transfer notice. The military assumes you’re staying in and so they go ahead and assign your next tour even before they know whether or not you are. This time, the letter said, “Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.” The advanced computer systems a few of us had been trained on in the Pentagon were now being installed in the highly-secure underground Cheyenne Mountain facility and since many of us in the DoD already had the requisite clearances, we were naturally good fits to move to Cheyenne, and a couple of my friends had.
But, the thought of moving from the basement and locked doors of the Pentagon, to a half-mile underground facility in Colorado, a place that was also a #1 target in a nuclear engagement, was enough to send me running for the hills, or the foothills of Atlanta as it would turn out.
I have always regretted my decision of not going to Zama and I often wonder how my life would have changed had I gone. Certainly, I wouldn’t have ended up working with the well-paid civilians I worked with at the DoD, many who had the exact same training as me and were making six figures, something that would weigh very heavily on my choice to leave the military.
But from the outside, I can also see how the Pentagon was, in itself, a special place. It is a microcosm of military irony, where the kinds of things that happen there simply don’t happen anywhere else in the military, and where the expectations for how the “Chain of Command” works everywhere else, is turned on its head. In the Pentagon, you can find Generals filling coffee pots with water in the hallway; at any other base a Captain is revered as the Second Coming. At the Pentagon, an E-3 Airmen with authority issues, who would be a lowly nobody anywhere else, is treated like a real person and respected for his work ethic if he knows his stuff.
Looking back, it was possibly the best years of my life, or at least the most memorable and formative. All in all, it was good for me. Maybe not as good as Italy would have been if the pictures of my father with his arms around two girls leaning on his baby-blue Porsche are any indication, but still not bad.
The English language has a good many words all basically meaning “tricked.”
On the spectrum from “benign tomfoolery” to “wilful deception” we have: deceived, fooled, misled, duped, hoodwinked, bamboozled, and my personal favorite, brainwashed.
We have all been tricked at one time or another by friends, co-workers, even family. But where do you draw the line? What is too far? When does messing with someone cross over from “we’re just having some fun with you” to “they’ll never even know what happened”?
When you knowingly misrepresent the facts to someone to convince them of something, and you have no intention of ever telling them the truth, that is called brainwashing and arguably, parents are the worst offenders. If you don’t believe me, think back to a time when you were trying to teach your infant to eat semi-solid food. Who among us hasn’t bait-and-switched creamed peas for apple sauce, or told your child those bland fruit bites were a new type of Cheerios?
Is it ethically wrong to trick kids into eating something they think is something else? Apparently not according to the 43 million search results for the phrase, “tricking kids into eating.”
But there again, where do you draw the line? Is it OK to do this with a baby, but not with a child that is 6, 8, or even 12? Well, right or wrong, it happens all the time and I’ll never forget the LAST time it happened to me.
It tasted strange. I remember that. Some of the other details may be fuzzy, but I definitely remember it tasting strange.
As regular readers know, my step-mom (Dad’s Wife #2) raised me the majority of my life. We don’t talk very much now, but that’s a different story for a different day. She was/is only 20 years older than me and I was 6 when she married my father, who was 18 years older than her.
Right after they got married in ’79, we moved to Montgomery, AL temporarily. Things were different for the year and a half we lived in Montgomery and, looking back, I suspect my dad was more miserable than the rest of us. I had no friends. Me and my brother started a new school. Everything changed in an instant. But kids are adaptable and at my young age, I made friends quickly and when I didn’t have someone to play with, I had my bicycle. Life wasn’t terrible. But dad was definitely a country boy, used to space and quiet-time. And in Montgomery, he had neither.
We lived in a sprawling, generic housing complex in a smallish house with little more than a 1/4 of an acre lot. At the time, step-mom wasn’t working, so her full-time job was keeping up the house during the day and cooking the meals at night. My brother and I were fairly self-sufficient, so we weren’t overly needy.
Without a garden for my dad to care for at home like he had back in Mobile, step-mom did her best to cook things that he liked. That meant vegetables; LOTS of vegetables. In fact, I remember many dinners without a protein, something I am loathe to do now, particularly with three growing kids at home.
To say our dinners were not what you saw advertised on television in the 70s and 80s, where the whole family sits down to a home-cooked meal consisting of a starch, a vegetable, and a protein, is an understatement. I can count on one hand how many times I ever had a friend over for a sleepover or to have dinner, and our diet was a big part of that. No kid wants to have the “weird family” label slapped on them at school. And so, instead of talking about my day at the dinner table, or cutting jokes with a friend, I ate my boiled squash quietly and concentrated on not gagging it up all over the table.
Dad loved his vegetables and he never met a part of a chicken that he hadn’t eaten more than once; neck, gizzards, heart, liver. Growing up in the hills of North Carolina, the youngest of 6 siblings, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
But even as an adult, liver was one of his favorites. And not just chicken livers either, but beef livers too. From a taste and texture standpoint, the two couldn’t be more different. While chicken livers are small and chunky, like the pre-chopped stew meat you get wrapped in sterile plastic and styrofoam at the supermarket, beef liver is long and flat, almost like a butterflied chicken breast. However, that is the only thing beef liver and chicken breasts have in common.
Dad liked his liver fried. Step-mom would first marinate it for several hours in milk to try and draw out some of the gamey-ness, a technique I’m not entirely convinced worked. But when it came time to cook it, for chicken liver it was a basic breading (flour, salt, and pepper)–not too much, don’t want to mask the flavor of the liver with too much breading. For beef liver, it was liver and onions all the way. Little to no breading, sauteed in oil and covered in onions. Both were served with a side of ketchup.
In my boyhood opinion, the only meal worse than liver was a meal of liver with a side of squash–an opinion I hold to this day.
But most evenings, either I or my brother would ask that second most reviled question, after “Are we there yet?” that being, “What’s for dinner?” But on liver day, you didn’t have to ask. You’d either seen it marinating in the refrigerator beforehand, all dark and quivery in its bath of stark white dairy, or you’d immediately smell it the moment it hit the hot, oily, cast-iron skillet.
On this particular day, I had been out playing and came in, as usual, around dark-thirty right as step-mom was starting dinner. I hadn’t yet become her “little kitchen helper,” so I breezed through the kitchen and headed to my room after she answered my query with, “steak.”
A half-hour later, dinner was called and I, along with my brother and dad, tucked ourselves in around the cheap table, awaiting step-mom to bring everything over from the kitchen.
Cooked liver has a particular smell, and while I had vaguely smelled what was cooking while in my room, I’d gone nose-blind by this point so I was going purely on sight now. Step-mom placed the mashed potatoes and green beans on the table, followed by the “steak.”
In the short time step-mom had been part of our family, I couldn’t ever remember her cooking steak. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’d ever had steak at that point, so when the plate full of small, round cubes of steak were placed on the table, I gave it little more than a curious look.
The blessing said and the plates passed, I began to eat. But something was off. Not being a steak connoisseur, I couldn’t put my finger on what was strange, but it definitely tasted “off.” It had a vaguely familiar off-ness that I couldn’t quite place, so I asked again, “What is this?” Step-mom replied, “It’s steak. Eat up.”
By now you know where this is going. But, I won’t lie and say that I saw through the deception immediately, because I didn’t. Even though my brain assured me step-mom said it was steak, and even though at that point in my life I’d never known my parents to openly lie to me, I knew something wasn’t right. I didn’t like this “steak.” I thought then and there that I was not a “steak fan.”
But, I finished my plate because that was what you did. Not like today where kids can leave food on their plate and we’re all like, “That’s OK; just eat what you like.” No, we had to clean our plate and so I did.
It was not until the end of the meal, as I was asking to be excused that step-mom said, “Did you like dinner?” Me, being a generally polite child said, “Yes, it was good.” Even though it wasn’t.
That’s when she sprung on me, “Well, it wasn’t steak. It was liver and you loved it! That just proves that you only don’t like liver because you think you shouldn’t.” Having been programmed by mom #1 not to talk back, and because I already knew from watching my brother interact with step-mom, that my dad would brook no disrespect towards his new bride, I said nothing.
For years step-mom would retell this story as proof of her superior parenting and it was many years before I pulled together enough gumption to tell her, “No, I didn’t like it. Whatever I thought it was, I knew it didn’t taste like steak. I only ate it because I had to and I only told you I liked it because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
We agreed to disagree. Either way, I will never forget that night; not because I ate all my liver thinking it was something else. No, I’ll never forget that night because it was a revelation that parents aren’t perfect. They too, lie. They too will do whatever necessary to maintain that hallowed alpha status in the home.
Still, I think about that night anytime I’m facing a decision where my will conflicts with my kids’. I weigh the gravity of telling them the truth versus giving them some watered-down version of the truth that makes me feel better for denying them something they want. Most of the time, certainly with important things, I think I make the right decision; the moral decision.
But who knows what’s going on in their heads. Maybe they too will have a “liver dinner” situation that forever stains our relationship. I’m endlessly fascinated by the thought of how our micro-experiences color our own relationships and decisions later, and how that snowballs generation after generation.
I wonder what made step-mom think it was cool to fool a kid like that? Maybe she too had to go get a small branch from a tree; a branch her daddy told her he was going to whip her with, but then didn’t, like my dad did my brother.
I guess we’ll never know. I’m not sure I want to either. Some things are just best left unsaid and unknown.
And hey, since we’re talking about food, one of my favorite topics, remind me to tell you the story about shrimp eyeballs! That’s a good one!
Hurricane Frederic swept across the Gulf Coast in September, 1979. At the time, it had the largest storm center ever measured: 50 miles across. Hammering the coast with 130MPH sustained winds, it passed over Dauphin Island, where my adoptive mom (and Dad Wife #1) lives now, a small barrier island just south of Mobile, AL., with wind gusts of 145mph.
Luckily, my family was not there at the time, having temporarily moved to Montgomery for a year and a half following my dad and his new contract job, which coincided with his marriage to Wife #2.
We kept our house in Mobile, only renting in Montgomery since we knew dad’s contract would eventually run out. When we returned home shortly after Frederic for a check-up on the old homestead, other than a pine tree now residing smack-dab in the middle of my swingset, crushing it like a frat-boy fist-smashes empty beer cans, we had little damage.
Back in Montgomery, our new step-mom was still coming to grips with suddenly having two boys to deal with and my brother didn’t make it easy. While the new couple went on their honeymoon, our new step-Grandmother, a quiet, somewhat aloof prayer-warrior of a woman, left her modular home and her soap operas long enough to come watch a couple of young kids, something she hadn’t done in 20 years.
Her short time there was the beginning of what I can only call, “Quite a Year.” Kicking it all off was the “fire incident,” which happened within days of our new grandmother coming to stay with us and while dad and Wife #2 were on their honeymoon. My brother took our father’s small, propane-powered torch and burned holes in various parts of the house. My parents were only then starting to realize what they had gotten in my brother, so of course, I was questioned about the burn holes, as was he. But, it was pretty obvious which of the two of us was most likely to have done it; the 9-year-old or the 12-year-old. When asked, I’m not even sure he denied it. It was a sneak peek into a long line of future shenanigans.
Another time, the newlyweds were chasing each other around their room and our new step-mom smashed her shin into a bedside table. Normally, this would just hurt like hell for a while. But, she ended up in the hospital with major bone trauma, requiring a leg brace for weeks.
Then, there was the time I got bit–I called it “mauled”, but Step-mom called it “bit”–by our neighbor’s dog. It was a large German Sheppard that normally barked threateningly at me as we cut through the narrow walkway between it and its neighbor’s fence on the way to school. This day, the dog was not barking at me and, wanting to be friends and not have it terrify me on a daily basis, I put my hand in his fence to pet him. You can guess what followed.
Undoubtedly, our new step-mom was questioning her decision to join up with our merry bunch when the 80s began.
But perhaps the most memorable thing to happen that year didn’t involve our parents. In fact, it’s questionable they ever knew about it, which was just fine with me. And to this day, they still don’t know about it, which is also fine with me.
Now, despite my age, I had always been very much aware of girls. I’d been good-naturedly chased around the playground by packs of them in elementary and growing up with a brother three years my elder, and hanging out with him and his friends when they would let me, exposed me to things usually reserved for the more worldly: dipping, smoking, cussing. By the time I was 10, I’d at least tried all of it.
Behind our white-bread neighborhood in Montgomery, and in fact, also behind our neighborhood in Mobile, was a series of drainage pipes. Some were completely underground, while others were half-pipes, split horizontally so that only the bottom was concrete. These were storm sewers that almost always had water in them, presumably from some upstream lake or stream that was being diverted away from the houses. We spent a great deal of time walking, or crawling when it got tight, all through these concrete pipes, hoping to escape the brutal summer sun while simultaneously praying we didn’t stumble on a water moccasin resting in the shadows.
One particular day, my brother and I were exploring a section of half-pipes with a couple of the other local boys. Passing a smaller, intersecting pipe, someone noticed something set back a few feet in the dark. Crowding around, one of the older boys climbed up in the pipe and after much dragging and scrambling, pulled a wooden box into the daylight.
Measuring about 16″ square, it was solidly built, with an oily exterior, presumably to protect it from moisture. Holding the lid tight, was a padlock. We all took turns touching the box and pulling on the padlock and making sure it wasn’t somehow unlocked. It wasn’t.
Finally, someone said out loud what we were all thinking, “Should we open it?”
Despite each of us having a healthy fear of what could actually be in a locked box stuck way back in a storm sewer tunnel, we all nodded in excitement.
My brother, maybe not the oldest, but certainly the leader based on pure grit and meanness, picked up the box and threw it on the concrete floor as hard as he could. The sturdy box cracked, but didn’t give up its secrets just yet.
Two more similar beatings and the box burst open, its content spilling all over the floor of the storm sewer, and changing my 9-year old world-view forever.
Within the confines of this plain, wooden box, were dozens of dirty magazines! Hustler, Playboy, Penthouse, and some I had never heard of; they were all there. In bright, pristine colors, every teenage boy’s second-most favorite thing lay spread out at our feet.
As the initial shock wore off, we descended on those magazines like vultures on carrion. There was plenty for everyone, but still, expletives flew and we shoved each other in our excitement to see “what we could see.”
We must have spent an hour thumbing through the slick pages; holding them up to show the other boys with a, “Look at THIS!”
But eventually, the light began to fade and, knowing we had all better be getting on home for dinner, we made a pact to never tell anyone else about our find, lest they come and steal the magazines, or worse yet, destroy them! And so, with our heads still in the clouds, we put the magazines back in the remains of the box as well as we could, put it back up in the recesses of the dark pipe, and we headed home.
That would be the first and only time I would see our secret stash. I don’t know what transpired over the next week, but a few days later, on our way to school one morning, we saw what we had all feared might happen.
Along the main road leading up to school, all along the grassy bank, someone had ripped from our beloved treasure, page after glossy porn-covered page, and laid them out on the bank of the roadside for all to see–driver and pedestrian alike. It was awe-inspiring and sad at the same time. As we and a dozen or so parents accompanying their kids to school walked by this travesty, this betrayal of boyhood promises, none of us looked at each other, partly out of shame and partly for fear we might give away the fact that we’d known about the magazines for days.
I never found out who was responsible for this act of teenage vandalism. Whether it was one of us who originally found the box, or someone whom one of us had told, I don’t know. My brother and I never spoke of it again. But, it didn’t matter. The damage was done. I’d seen things no 9-year-old should see, and I loved it!
My dad’s contract expired a few months later and we moved back to our home in Mobile. There, I spent many hours exploring the storm sewers hoping to find something even remotely as cool as that box; but, I never did. Like so many things that happen to us when we are young, it was amazing and brief. But oh the memories.