Christopher Scum VS the Gas can
A bitter
love/hate relationship
As long as I can remember from the I‘ve been
intrigued by drugs.
I mean as young as
4-5 yrs old I would see the Anti-Drug commercials that came on with Sat.
morning cartoons. Scattered throughout Popeye, Bugs Bunny, Mighty mouse and
Super Friends were these commercials designed to scare kids the fuck away from
drugs of any sort. However it didn’t scare me it infatuated me. I remember the
actual commercials; One in particular
showed people smoking weed, I realized just a few yrs. while still an
adolescent how ridiculous this was as the tokers were just mad, wild eyed
beast, just sucking joints down as quick as possible fighting over it (Pot) and
just crazy shit as bad or worse than Reefer Madness. Then there was one guy
sitting on a porch, a black guy and it showed him with an oversized needle and
all of a sudden he goes into seizures, shaking foaming at the mouth, and
kicking his feet around. I remember wondering if he was high and that’s was
what was supposed to happen or if the drugs got him. I was fascinated, also I
felt really bad for the man because he was all by himself on a dingy porch, it
look cold. Somehow instead of scaring me, I wanted to try that and I still
don’t know why a five year old would think like that.
I guess my first
drunks were when my mom and 1st Step father Jack Anderson would have
friends over , playing cards in the dining room which could entered by living
room or kitchen. I would steal a couple beers and take them to my room where
I’d choke them down and get what I figure was pretty drunk. I only got caught
doing that once and that was because I took a beer outside and was drinking it
in front of the two girls that lived across the street. The younger one Shelly
didn't believe it was beer so I offered her a drink she wouldn't take it saying
she could get water out of her sink any time and laughed at me. I really hated
being laughed at, I hated being called a liar or any names. I was on Ritalin for
hyperactivity and constantly being ridden by the kids so as soon as the
water joke came out I
splashed beer on her face and T-shirt. Then I laughed cause she got to find out
it was beer but I got my ass busted
good with the belt for that one.
Fast forward
a year or so and you have a new step father, a new town, a totally different
life.
My mom met this
hippie guy, he played guitar, he even bought me a B.B. pistol.She had a couple
other men friends before him and they were nice but this guy was cool, he knew
Karate and played that guitar. I thought he was cool for about two days then he
started hurting us. Where step dad jack whipped our ass, step father Richard
was known for ass stomping. My little sister and I got whipped like we never
even knew could happen and before we knew it we lived on a farm with only one
neighbor with in a miles radius. We had no phone, no real friends and we’re put
to work on this shitty little farm.
I was 8yrs old. I
think. When we still lived in civilization I got a little Honda 50, Richard
bought it for me that I used to go over to the vacant lot and ride the trails.
By complete accident I had found out, while trying to siphon gas from the lawn
mower to the motor bike that gas got you high. So after we got down to the hell
farm every chance I got I spent with a gas can. This went on for years, mostly
in the summer as I had reason good to be
out then. Some times I rode my little mini bike back into the woods just far
enough to get out of eye sight. I had a track cut out of the tall weeds so I
could ride back to the very back of it where the trees met above from either
side of my trail so it was dark cool and really private. There I would settle
in and huff gas out of the tank for hours. I even had a little radio I carried
with me, it would pickup a couple stations there. One day I had been huffing
all afternoon when the song down on the corner by CCR came the radio on and
suddenly I wasn’t alone. I looked around the little clearing, that hadn’t been
there before and there were people all around. There were men with long hair
playing guitars and women wearing Tie Die T-Shirts on dancing along, everyone
singing bout being down on the corner and down on the streets. It was a great
feeling, one guy looked right at me and nodded. I started clapping my hands and
trying to sing too. It only lasted throughout that song and then I was back on
hell farm and the people were gone. But I wanted to go back there, I truly believed
my mind had went somewhere else very real and I wanted to get back there and
stay. So I kept huffing, I saw many other things that day but never went back
to the clearing where the hippies were dancing.
Another memorable
time with my friend the gas can, I was in the creek where I usually caught
snakes. I would pick up a rock an there was a good chance that a big old water
snake would be coiled up under it. I would catch them either by pinning there
neck with a fork stick or really fast with my fore finger and thumb. I would
only kill poisonous
ones, like water moccasins.
This day I had gas
on my mind not snake hunting. I sat on the big flat rock over looking the
little water fall into what used to be our swimming hole, over to the side enough
so I could sit in the shade.
I sat there in
the shade getting higher and higher as the fumes filled my lungs and were
absorbed into my body. The birds started chirping to me as I blacked out and I
knew exactly what they were saying. A deep voice tractor was grumbling out it’s
part too. It was all making perfect sense as I filled my lungs over and over,
the song going kill it dirty, kill it, dirty, kill it dirty then a lone bird
would shriek his line I’ll pull the plug on it, kill that dirty, I’ll pull the
plug on it. I heard something behind me like the rocks moving I turned to
looked. As I watched this pile of rocks come toward me they were taking the
shape of a man. Then as he got closer I relaxed, in my confused, gassed up
state I knew this old man it was Mr. Rock Bank. Hey, Mr. Bank, I said grinning.
What are you doing he ask in a familiar gruff huffing voice that gas again. Yep
I answered. I didn't know if old Rock Bank huffed gas or not but I thought I
should offer. I was just about to do so when his rock foot caught me right
under the eye in the cheek right on my cheek bone. I was shocked and terrified.
My brain exploded with light before I could respond another rock kick straight
to the side of the head, then to the back and the ribs. Punch after punch to
face and head he was screaming something. As I started coming out of the
hallucination I realized it was Richard and I was in trouble. He grabbed me by
the hair and pulled me to my feet screaming the whole time. You stupid little
fucker, what did I tell you about this, what the hell did I tell you, he then
sent me sprawling backward into the creek bank where I smashed my back into a
rock. Oh, That was my back, I screamed blinded by pain. Those were the first
words I spoke and he screamed I know it was you’re goddamn back. Now get up and
get home.
I can’t I yelled.
The hell you can’t he yelled back pulling me up by my hair
get home don’t come out of your Goddamn room until I get up there to deal with
you. He slung me forward across the moss covered rocks where I slipped and fell
again smashing my elbow into the mossy creek bed.
I said go he screamed
from behind me I got up and limped as fast as I could. I had to climb the creek
bank on a muddy trail under the little footbridge that went from our Hell Farm
to the road. Island Creek rd. it was called.
I painfully made my
way the couple hundred yards up hill to our house, climbed the stairs and went
in my room. I was hurting like hell and dizzy from the gas and being beat down.
I had one last problem. My bed was built up about 5 ft. off the ground so I had
to climb up into it and doing so hurt, bad. Once I made it I just lay there
hurting, physically and emotionally but mostly the deep dark hate I had grown
to know so well filled my soul. I got so angry at him for beating me like that
I never stopped to think that maybe sniffing gas wasn't the best way to spend
my time.
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