Desire’s Wake
One day can change the course of your life.
If I imagine my life as a timeline, and various events as branching points upon that line, one stands out as the most impactful. This event, and the series of events it spawned, impacted me in such a manner that it changed me from who I was as a child to who I became. It took away my innocence, it directly lead to other events which opened my eyes to the depravity of men.
I was eleven years old. I lived a relatively good life with my mother, sister, brother and second step-father, Jim. One night while coming home from work on his motorcycle, Jim stopped at a gas station to refuel. He met a childhood friend, Brandon. They had not seen each other for years, and Jim invited Brandon to our home to meet his family.
Jim got him a beer. Brandon, a large, brutish man, sat on our couch staring straight ahead, never smiling or making any acknowledgment, as Jim presented all the blessings he had received in life. He had shown him his motorcycle, his van, his Camaro, his wife and children, his home, his television, his well-paying job. He was beaming, and Brandon listened without expression, and I watched Brandon.
It is only in retrospect, and with experience, that I came to know what I was seeing. Brandon’s visits became more frequent. Jim couldn’t get enough. For him it was an affirmation of his self worth, a vindication of his lowly origins, but Brandon wasn’t there for friendship or socializing.
Brandon started coming over during the day when Jim wasn’t home. He would take my mother, brother, and sister to the park. They left me to my own devices, busy with the life of an eleven-year-old boy. I know now they probably saw me as too risky.
Never underestimate the observational powers and reasoning skills of a young child. My brother, who couldn’t have been older than four, went up to Jim one day and deliberately informed him he had seen Brandon kissing my mom at the park. I know it was deliberate because both my brother and sister informed later that they knew what was happening and were uncomfortable with the situation.
The night everything came to a head, I had been out at a party for all the kids with paper routes in the area and didn’t get home until late. Jim and my mother were in the living room arguing, well more Jim pleading and my mother screaming. I went to my room and laid down, hearing and trying not to listen. I heard the front door open, and shortly after, Brandon’s voice entered the mix. The discourse was a stream of unintelligible ramblings with spikes of clear impassioned pleas and demands.
“Just leave, Jim,” my mother said.
Jim replied with a string of counter-rationalizing phrases. “You can’t be serious. You can’t do this. I love you. What about the kids?”
Brandon was silent. What could he say? But, as I mentioned, he was a large man, built in a way that only time in prison can build a man.
I could hear the activities had moved to the entrance of our home. I ventured to peer out my window. I could see the confrontation had become solely between Jim and Brandon. Brandon stood there, an impenetrable, silent force. Having maneuvered Jim outside the house, he now blocked his way back in. Jim’s pleading and reasonable objections became more desperate and eventually transformed to accusations and threats.
Which was just what Brandon wanted. This was a language he understood. As I got to know Brandon over the years, I came to realize this was the only language he understood. Intimidation and force were his first and last means of resolving even the simplest of misunderstandings.
With a single, effortless shove, Brandon sent Jim tumbling down our sloping front yard to the sidewalk at the bottom.
My relationship with Jim was complex. He mocked, ridiculed, and beat me. But there were a lot of good times. He would take me fishing and camping. He got me advanced tickets for the opening of Return of the Jedi. He was the only alcoholic I have ever met that was genuinely a better person when he drank.
Jim struggled to his knees, powerless and desperate. I don’t recall ever feeling so conflicted. The part of me that had cried and dreamed of retribution after his abuse cheered. But there was a part of me which had been newly conceived that night. A realignment had taken place between my eyes, mind, and soul. That part of me couldn’t help but feel rage at the injustice of it all.
Brandon took everything and took us down a path of ruin.
Nothing was the same after that. My life and the lives of my family changed forever. Some of us took years to recover, some of us are still trying, and some of us never did.
Years later, Brandon overdosed on heroin in the garage.
