Chapter 7: Cycle of Abuse

We, my mother, me, my mother’s partner, his two children, moved into a bigger house, two blocks from the house he’d been living in, in a Miami suburb, to start a new life.

The cats that I’d chased moved with us but pissed everywhere in the new house and were banished to the basement, not allowed out. The cats lived down there like subterranean beasts. Eventually they were euthanized. (Though I’m sure they were of the opinion I should have been the one euthanized.)

Upon moving into the new house, I continued my role of miscreant.

And while doing miscreant things, burning things, chasing our new housecats, I felt enjoyment, sure, but I wasn’t sure why I did them.

Once, watching “Diff’rent Strokes,” I saw Arnold get in trouble in school for throwing an eraser at a classmate. The next day I went to school, I also threw an eraser at a classmate and got in trouble for it. Was the TV to blame? I can’t say. I’m sure I’d have committed another mischievous act if I hadn’t thrown the eraser.

Doing these acts, these evil, stupid things, it sometimes was as if I wasn’t the one doing it. Like there were ghosts, demons in me. I was now the zombie. I was the demons’ being, I was their puppet, obeying their unspoken commands. There were times, too, it was an out of body experience, I was watching myself do it, observing my behaviors, indifferent to the mischief, an apathetic, yet deviant voyeur.

And more evil would transpire in the new house. Far, far more insidious than before...

We moved into a larger house, three storeys, an old, pale white, southern, Victorian style architecture type dwelling, with Grecian columns, and a wraparound front porch picture perfect for sipping mint juleps.

It had a gravel driveway and a small tropical backyard garden that was brimming with lantana, hibiscus, and bougainvillea flowers.

Being a somewhat big house, there was plenty of room for my mother and her partner, who I guess I can call my “stepfather,” a 50 something, stout man a few words. A man who bore a striking resemblance to the actor Fred Dreyfus, and who had two kids, both older than me, who I guess I can term a “stepbrother” and “stepsister,” the stepsister being the eldest.

The parents both wanted to work from home, not have to rent offices, and so each had a room in the house designated as an office, to see patients. There was even a tiny nook on the second floor, big enough to be used as a waiting room...

On the first floor, there was a vestibule, with an antique armoire. A narrow hallway led to what was a small kitchen, far smaller than you’d expect in a three storey house.

The kitchen had a pantry nearly the same size as the kitchen itself. Perhaps not the most efficient use of space, design.

To the right of the kitchen was a large dining room, which was rarely used. Neither of my parents cooked much because they worked so often. Nor did they eat at home much; mostly they ate out, in restaurants, often at a local Chinese restaurant that my parents dined at so frequently they named it “The House of Boring.”

My stepfather was constantly on call for a mental hospital he did rounds at, in addition to his private practice, and would eat at the hospital a lot, in addition to “The House of Boring.”

My mother taught a couple classes at a local university, in addition to her private practice; sometimes she’d eat at home, cooking mostly vegetables and lentils, which she’d cook for me, too- until we moved into the new house.

Once we moved in, my mother proclaimed that she’d be too busy with work and couldn’t cook anymore. My stepsiblings and I were ordered to use the microwave, and attempt to learn to cook for ourselves, or use our allowance to eat out.

Mostly we ate out. Tons of pizza especially. We’d frequent the local pizza parlor so much that I got to know the family that ran it, the owner being an immigrant from Sicily, his son a former U of Miami offensive lineman, nicknamed “Bam Bam.”

I’ll never forget Bam Bam. He was a larger than life character. And really, he was larger than life, 6 foot something and pushing three bills. Yet, despite being a walking mountain, he was jovial, a wisp of a smile always crossing his lips. His babyface and red puffy cheeks and flattop haircut somehow making him more cuddly than threatening.

The first time I walked into the pizza parlor, again, I’m not sure why, thinking back on it, though I believe it’s because of CTE or TBI from my car accident, or my demons, or PTSD, maybe a cocktail of all of them, but the first time I went in there, I waltzed in like Clint Eastwood, and saw Bam Bam, all three hundred pounds of him, working the counter, taking customers’ orders.

I swaggered straight up to him, this mountain of a man, and started busting his balls. I’m this nine-year-old kid, this pipsqueak, and I’m calling him “fatboy” and cracking fat jokes.

He was shocked. This runt, this little shit, fucking with him, there in the store, and everyone there, all his friends, friends of friends, were shocked, pointing and laughing.

He snarled and stepped away from the counter. Towering over me, he seized me, his meaty paws under my tiny armpits and he hoisted me airborne, pinned me up to the cold, humming refrigerator and was like: “So what do you say now?”

I only laughed, and I knew deep down he wouldn’t do much more than that. However, after being hoisted to the Heavens in such fashion, I did relent my verbal abuse.

Amazingly, after that, we became close. I think on some level Bam Bam respected that I’d had the gumption to step to him. Not many did. And we quickly bonded, as we both liked a lot of the same action movies.

Bam Bam, his dad, mom, sister, became like a second family to me. I got to know them well. I got to know and would joke around with the guys in the kitchen. They were good people. They looked after me, called me out on my bullshit, pushed me to do well in school, pushed me to join a local little league baseball team. And during this time, with Bam Bam assuming a positive role in my life, I halted my malicious activities, mostly.

For the first few years at the new house, I didn’t get into too much trouble. But later I did. It was around puberty that the demons returned, and I was back in the demons’ claws, back to being a delinquent, a devious zombie.

And right as I started fucking up, at age thirteen, Bam Bam, and later his father, accosted me on the street, and once in the restaurant, getting into my face, because they’d heard of me smoking cigarettes, being a hoodlum.

Of course, at the time, I laughed it off, was a smartass, but now, looking back at it with the wisdom of time and age, I’m grateful to them for caring.

Tragically, Bam Bam, being so overweight, died young, from heart failure.

He wasn’t even thirty and had suffered a similar fate that’s befallen many former football players. The game, the lifestyle of an offensive lineman taking its toll.

For many years after, a memorial picture of him hung in that pizza parlor, hanging atop the spot he always sat.

After he died, I didn’t go back there for many years. It was too difficult, but later I did, and I would sit in his seat, underneath his picture.

I wonder what would have happened if he’d not died. He could have been the older male figure, a positive role model that I needed; perhaps he could have stopped my downward spiral.

It was unfortunate my stepbrother couldn’t be that guy. He never cared about me. He bullied and teased me, beat me, grabbed me and farted in my face. Yet another sadistic older brother prick. (Seriously, why was every older brother so malicious back in those days?)

My stepfather, too, didn’t want to be that guy. He never gave much of a fuck. He was never around, always working, and when he was around, he was taciturn, remote, physically and mentally abusive as well.

He’d return in the evenings, after seeing crazy people, seriously mental, suicidal, psychotic, schizophrenic sorts, and he’d retire to our living room, listen to blaringly loud opera, sitting with his eyes closed, chewing ice cubes. There he’d sit, alone, and I guess that room was perfect for solitude as it was at the far end of the first floor, behind the living room and kitchen, and had been built, before we moved in, as an addition to the house, and was rather large and spacious and had sprawling panoramic windows and vaulted ceilings, as well as a potbelly stove that didn’t make much sense in Miami...

(The house had burned down, partially, many years ago; its backyard bigger at the time; a horse stable in the house’s rear had caught ablaze, spreading its way to the house.)

((I always wondered if anyone died in the fire, because I’d be home alone and would hear strange noises, footsteps, doors slamming, and once a strange light hovered above me, while I was in bed, and floated through the ceiling. I told my stepsister about it, and she and her friend had seen the exact same thing. Was it a real ghost or a mental demon? Paranormal energy? Demons must come from somewhere, right?))

Back to my stepfather, it’s true what they say about psychiatrists. They are some of the most fucked up people.

He had a twisted upbringing, though, so it’s sort of understandable why he’d himself have mental issues, and why he’d want to pursue his profession. Perhaps he wanted to fix himself?

His story is graphic. As a child, his mother had serious mental health issues. She and his father divorced when he was young, and my stepfather stayed with his mother, who, as well as having mental issues, was a raging alcoholic.

His mother was perpetually drunk. She’d frequent local bars and bring home lots of strange men, a couple of whom would slap my stepfather around.