Primordial

In that place, that place wherein my brain was not yet fully formed, and my heart knew things it could not say, it would whisper of another time and other things that made me weep, and let me see what came before, and what was yet to come. This is the truth that never changes, and clings to us and to our awareness of the places we have been, and of the places we are going. It is the settled me, and there, I find no questions left unanswered.

The fear has fled from beneath the bed-dwelling, closet-lurking monsters with the clumsy feet, their heavy breathing like cat’s breath on my pillow, purring contentedly, my ear warm with the exhalations, smelling slightly fishy and feral. The frightening thoughts are moon-borne and of the dark hours. Once the sun has flooded bright upon my bed, bathing my feet beneath the covers, the startling blue of morning sky revealed is too horrible to see, and my tummy feels sick and empty, but bloated, and I resolve never to allow that sapphire light to touch my eyes, or live upon the many bookmarks that litter the word-journeys I essay from this room to every and any where else that I imagine. Dickens and Dumas and Terhune are there to guide me and my imaginary human and animal companions to other worlds, alternate realities.

So, like an alarmed tortoise, my head retracts to the safety of the blanket-cave which my knees and the back of my head propped upon a pillow have made upon the bed. My left hand reaches for the book that rocked my world to sleep, after the crystal radio sounds from a single primitive earbud lulled my brain with pounding Beatles and crooning Patsy Cline melodies.

I left Holmes in the middle of his search for the Blue Carbuncle, wistfully regretting that with each successive mystery unraveled, I would have fewer and fewer to reread; for this was the third time that I had made the journey through the creative thicket of Conan Doyle’s mind, to the land of Satisfying Conclusions, where all mysteries vanished in the light of pure reason via the singular mental talents of his chief genie.

“Mark! Get up!” My mother’s voice shattered the silence of my ruminative fugue state, and unless I moved quickly, she might ascend the stairs and jerk me to the floor. I brought my own trained focus to the business of shocking my bare feet upon the cold morning deck, dressing in a flurry of real fear, unlike the night terrors, for these could not be abated or banished by imagination.

“Okay. Coming!” I yelled, trying to squeeze my head through the still-buttoned collar of my favorite shirt, and failing. I hoped that my voice was clearly audible to the dervish that beat eggs and fried bacon and roasted toast and liked to slap the boy of the house should he rise or respond too slowly to the exhortations of her perpetually angry self.

“Mark!” she yelled again.

“Just putting on my shoes. Coming.”

No sound of dreaded footfalls upon the stair, so I might just exit the house this morning without an angry rosy hand print on my cheek. Compliance was called for, and would be well-managed, so long as I attempted and succeeded in delivering my replies evenly, without a hint of anything clever. But this was a difficult thing indeed, for I read a great deal, and my mind swirled with many words, and was accompanied by an almost irresistible urge to wield them smartly, and perhaps ironically.

But that wouldn’t do. Not at all; as even a tinge of detectable sarcasm or insouciance would not be missed, and would not fail to be punished.

In my hurry to get to the kitchen, I slipped upon the last step of the stair to my garret lair, to which I was often banished amidst arm-yanking and screaming, and which I now thought a refuge against the inexorable tide of malcontent that inevitably placed me there. As providence would have it, the door was not ajar, and my right shoulder slammed painfully into its stout, unyielding latch, producing a yelp from me, and a “Don’t be in such a hurry!” from the drill sergeant of this boy’s inescapable enlistment, which was ironic, considering my alacrity was a requisite component of swift submission.

“Sorry, Mom,” I said, and meant it, as I could barely move my damaged arm it hurt so much.

I detoured to the bathroom, where she almost never followed, and where urinating became a doubly enjoyable ritual, with relief to my swollen bladder, coupled with a few quiet, tinkling moments alone and unassailed.

“Wash your hands!” she yelled, again, even though there was no need, as I was no longer on the floor above, and perhaps only a scant 12 feet or so from her demanding mouth; but also because I always washed my hands.

“I expect good Citizenship marks this report-card period,” she said as I entered the kitchen, taking my usual place by the door. “Otherwise, you’ll be grounded, but not before you have been spanked by both myself and your father.”

“Okay, Mom,” I said, feigning sincerity. But I knew that my marks for Citizenship would be dismal, as I could not seem to refrain from conversing with my neighbors. I was simply irresistibly compelled to speak at any moment during the long elementary school day. I was curious about everything, and since suppression at home was a given, I would not indulge or embrace a reluctance to engage anyone who might listen and discuss. And no topic was too mundane for examination. And nobody was immune to my attention. In retrospect, I suppose that it was a tad pathological, as it led inexorably to home-based remonstrance and violence upon my person.

  Perhaps the word ‘irrepressible’ would best describe my budding character at this point in my life, though truth be told, nothing since has been discovered to subvert it. The curse of what we are and cannot avoid being, is one of the burdens under which we all labor. And if we are not causing harm to others, what on earth is wrong with that?

My Mother was a serviceable cook, though it would be years before she abandoned the typical 50’s and 60’s stultifying, insipid, repetitive, uninspired, and dangerous cholesterol-laden meat and potatoes oeuvre of home-based culinary chefs the country round.

Her scrambled eggs were good, always. She beat them with milk (whole milk of course, unhomogenized, and with cream floating on top of the long-necked, thick-lipped bottles which were delivered unfailingly to our milk chute twice a week by the Swanson guy), and she saved bacon fat in an empty coffee can atop the gas stove which was used to produce the best homemade crinkle-cut French fries you have ever tasted. I quickly became quite pudgy during the fall of my ninth year after breaking my leg, unable to walk but for crutches; and having no normal boy-based exercise, and nothing to eat but her animal-fat-laden diet, I soon swelled like a plump, fattened duck. But that and other facts comprises the narrative of a different chapter.

My Dad had already fled to work, no doubt fortified with eggs and coffee of his own, anxious to be away from the incessant demands of inquisitive children and one very dissatisfied woman. He was part of an engineering cadre of white-shirted, long-sleeved, tie-bound draftsmen, who slaved their hours fitfully but faithfully for GM, that monolith of obedience to the Motor City’s factory-fed demands. His sacrifice made our lower middle class life with its attendant perquisites possible.

I envied my father his early escape, as the less time spent in dread and in-house the better. The purview of my morning’s expectations was narrow, and usually quite focussed: Flee quickly and without bruising. The sooner I was at school, the sooner I could begin afresh my foreordained march to discipline of another sort, seemingly eager to wear the mantle of Poor Citizen proudly. Why fight it? It was bigger than me, and I was unable to resist its tempting tug.

I was slightly more than halfway through my morning’s repast when my sister appeared, neat, barretted, and quiet as the proverbial church mouse. Mom and she had exchanged no words, but smiles flitted between both when they glimpsed and acknowledged each other. A scant fifteen months separated the accident of our births, and I was very protective of her, my little sister.

Like night and day it was, the difference in attitude and approach my mother assumed with Anne. Could it be due to my sister’s almost ethereal quiescence, and painfully shy demeanor? Was shared gender the reason, or the fact that she was the youngest? Alas, I would never be able to test the latter speculation, as Anne proved to be the last infant that graced our small family; and that fact settled simultaneously any further rumination regarding feminine bias, as there would be no additional control subject of either sex upon which to test the various theories.

I used to accompany my sister every morning on the short five-block walk to school, during our younger years. But lately she had become fond of asserting (rather haughtily, I thought) that “Boys with the boys, and girls with the girls,” like a mantra of proud sexist segregation. And that was okay by me, as the giggling, pointing, whispering, castigating nature of girls of her age were upsetting to me, as I more often than not assumed that they were all talking about and denigrating me.

They had their reasons. First and foremost among them was my awkward gait, facilitated by an undiagnosed condition known as external femoral torsion. In lay terms, at birth my legs were rotated outward at the hip, and no amount of walking could ever hope to straighten my stride. I was destined to be victimized my entire life with toe-out, which may have been a desirable condition for a dancer, but which forced me unerringly into the eager, taunting hands of bullies, at every stage of my existence.

In order to compensate, I attempted constantly to force my feet forward, which as a consequence, placed great strain upon my reluctant, non-compliant knees, and probably produced a walk that was even more unusual, and which would cause me no end of problems in my twilight years. Additionally, my hair was red, and we all know what that means. Every school child knows it is far better to be dead, than red in the head.

The final nail in the coffin of my dubious notoriety was my personality, which was bookish, and articulate, and endlessly curious about everything, and unabashedly opinionated. Only one of this mélange of non-conforming characteristics would have been more than sufficient to induce vilification from my peer group. But considering all of them, I was a virtual smorgasbord of taunt-worthy delights, to be consumed eagerly by every would-be, diminutive, underage Caligula lurking at Pitcher Elementary.

Running to escape was not an option, as my legs wanted to move me sideways, instead of forward, and then I really looked odd. More akin to the humble crab, whose fate I can hear my Scottish Grandmother’s voice lamenting, “Och, the peer wee beastie.” Besides, I was conditioned by my mother for physical abuse, and so standing my ground and conversing my way from conflict to peace was a challenge I welcomed. At least it was familiar territory. I could (as the commercial asserted) take my licking and keep on ticking.

You might well imagine my fascination then with the better athletes to be found on the school grounds, where the ability to run fast and well, often separated the boys and the girls from the also-rans, present company excluded. And that was how I became interested in Cecelia, who ran swift as the wind, and as light-footed as a faerie during our 50-yard dashes.

Indeed, the fair Miss Isabel ran faster than almost anyone, male or female, at our school. She was a delight to watch, gazelle-like, fleet, graceful, with the budding seductive beauty of an opening flower. Girls tended to greet and embrace puberty much sooner than boys, and as a consequence, matured more quickly in the enigmatic arts of romance and love. The prodding presence of hormones and genetics, no doubt obtained; but also a fair measure of the mysterious and the spiritual. In short, I was a fan.

But, she was also sweet, and unassuming, and bright, and the bright bits about people were what captivated me. Her voice was soothing and feminine and welcoming, and we could talk about almost anything. I could concoct any number of plausible rationales for accepting anyone regardless of outward appearances, if only I was allowed to peer within their souls, and behind their eyes. There delights were revealed which were superior to almost everything else, and which transcended the ordinary, ascending to the sublime.

I wanted for friends, but I would never grovel either to obtain, or to retain one. Life at home provided me the strength of resolve necessary to carry me forward, no matter what. Being misunderstood, or berated counted but little in my assessments, because I knew the truth of things, revealed in my books and in my heart.

The muddled particulars of physical love may have caused me great wonderings and perplexing conundrums, but the captivating charms of heart-borne romance held me warm and enraptured, like a familiar pair of socks, or a soft pillow, or a swaddling quilt. My books had forever transformed the poetic side of my inclinations, and my need for feminine acceptance and malleable fondness was eclipsed by nothing else.

I am unable now to recall the exact nature of our first meetings and conversations, but I cannot forget the surge of excitement when first I held her hand. I thought my heart was in danger of flying from my breast. But being cool and at least twelve years of age, I probably and predictably did my best to assume an outward air of easy camaraderie.

I often walked her home, and I remember those of the springtime and summertime best. I never wanted them to end. But she lived there, and I lived elsewhere, and we would drift apart eventually, never to be forgotten or replaced.

After junior high school, we moved several miles to a fledgling subdivision in Warren, ostensibly to be closer to my Dad’s workplace. And because I had since childhood felt alienated at home, it heralded the beginning of a truly detached and wretched unraveling of our small family, now displaced on the outskirts of Detroit, where everyone had at least two cars, and two kids, and a new home, and no time for intimacy.

But Cecelia lives in the small, bookish neighborhood of my imagination and my heart, and could I stay or return to her porch, and swing with her upon the comforting rhythms of our love, I would be at her side once more, forever.