stranded in a zip code; first signs of the fall

In fact, it was precisely the range of his…Schizo Affectively shaped perceptions; that would come to serve as his ticket… to a trip that would leave him stranded; high, in every sense of the word; but far from dry…

It’s difficult for us to trace the exact origins of the notion; Our Young African American; Increasingly Confused (and confusing) Suburban Juvenile; grew more and more fixated on; as days slipped into weeks; his seventeenth birthday; quickly approaching; while his summer slipped softly along; at a pot fueled, casual enough pace; interrupted only by his occasional jog around the apartment complex, and other, more or less, informal workouts; ostensibly preparing himself; for his upcoming Senior, and thus final season; as a Defensive Nose Guard-Down Tackle for the Bloomfield Hills Lahser Knights.

Nevertheless, Our Boy was of the opinion; that his mother; choosing not to discuss the matter with either his sister or himself; had decided on moving the entire family; such as it was; back to Tulsa; in her mind; back home; as soon as she could make all the necessary arrangements; and there was something about that idea; something that just didn’t feel right; regardless of the fact that, indeed, she had never come straight out and said that was her intention.

Thus, this is where we might say, Our Young Man’s Autistic (Schizo Affective) formations of his ideas, first started to manifest themselves; and if that were true, it certainly wouldn’t be the last time these kinds of perceptions; made themselves known; particularly in how he made sense; in a world he felt more and more alienated from; as time went about its business; and Bloomfield Hills Township turned on its axis; underneath a slowly setting; and provincial sun.

To put it in simpler words; since Our Young (perhaps misguided) definitely non diagnosed; and therefore, self medicated, Black Man; gradually came under full sway; perhaps his own foolish way; laboring in the shadow of his perceptions; his reaching the conclusion; after much inner confusion; that his mother; was not necessarily his, nor his sister’s, best friend.

Although it did occur to him, from time to time, to check his guesses with his sister. At the end of the day; he never did.

For instance; was her laundered clothing, particularly her underwear, suddenly outstretched, the way his was beginning to look like; with increasing frequency; almost like somebody with large hips (much larger than his) had worn it; pushing the waist band far beyond it’s point of elasticity?

The odd thing was; he thought, that in some cases, he had just worn the briefs, a few days earlier. So how in the hell could they, literally be two, three or four times bigger than they were; when he last saw them.

Were any of her laundered clothes, similarly, stretched out of shape; to the point of no longer fitting; the way his gray corduroy pants were; as well as a couple of cotton T-shirts and more than a few pair of white socks?

He thought about checking his thoughts; if not with his sister, then perhaps, simply by asking his mother; that would suffice. Surely, she of course, would have a rational, logical explanation.

Just check and see if she knew anything about it; how his clothing had gotten stretched out; way, way out; especially, the way it was.

He could still wear the pants, if he cinched his belt tight enough; but the T-Shirts, socks and underwear were beyond salvaging.

He thought about it and thought; and like most everything else; We have come to know about this Young Man; Our Young Black; Soon-To-Fall-Inexorably-Between-The-Proverbial-Cracks-Adolescent; kept his questions; completely to himself; as if some part of him either knew the answer; or was afraid to ask.

Not out of fear of his mother exactly; more like fear; of all the things; about their family; about her father; about herself; all those nasty little secrets; she always wanted to believe; that if no one ever talked about; the abuse and the incest; that day, the boy (Our Boy; Robbie’s Boy) ran out of his grandparent’s home; covered in blood and the police were called; and the whole thing was explained away; even though, Our Young Friend had to be physically removed from the house; and taken away; for his own safety; until his mother could come and claim him; brought to distant relatives on his father’s side; relatives who had a connection; with Our Boy’s, Biological father.

If all these things; these shadows of past happenings; and regretful goings-on; remained properly ignored, then those kinds of things never really happened; and, if that were so; then this Writer; from where he sits today; is completely wasting his and the reader’s time; and trouble.

One would hope, that in the case of this Narrative; that is not the nature of the business; here on these pages; between these words; and here, in this time.

Moreover, back in those days; long before Our Young Friend, had more of the probable picture of his buried past; it was much easier (for all of the concerned adults ) to leave the hidden past behind; just like it never happened.

Since that was the case then; the worst thing one confused teenage boy could ever do; would be to press the issue.

This is what Our Young Friend, always came back to; using his father’s old maxim: If you don’t behave yourself, they’ll lock the door and throw away the key; and yet, as hard as he tried not to; he began to resent his mother and his father; as well as most of the adult world; which he began to see through Hyper-Cynical Eyes.

Not so much as a hatred of authority or authority figures; as much as he came to despise; authority’s contentment; with; what appeared to him; was a sense of entitlement to power; especially over kids who were; after all; only kids; not smart enough to be considered; just something that all the adults took for granted; his mother and father, teacher’s and counselors at school; every one, simply letting the past lie there; dormant; like an aching, open wound; that never fully healed; but stayed in the dark; alone; ignored; endlessly talking to itself; mostly about; nothing at all.

What was most most curious; was how both his mother and father (especially his father) lorded Our Young Man over his sister; and in some cases; his older brother as well; without ever stopping to ask the easiest of questions; when Our Young Black Man declared years earlier; for example; long after they moved to this Bloomfield Hills of Michigan; that he wanted to: “learn about life; when something along the lines of: What Do you Mean? What is it that you want to know; and what are you going to do with it; once you find it; might have sufficed; might have given Our Young Friend a chance to better form his ideas; to better plan out; how one actually goes about; learning life.

Instead, We are left with hindsight; here today; but is that all that we have; and are there any regrets?

Yes?

No?

Let’s take another look.

Let’s pick up Our discussion with the car ride, Our Young African American Boy, took with his mother; a day or two before his seventeenth birthday. They had just turned right; off East Fox Hills Drive in Bloomfield Hills Michigan; heading North on Bootmaker Lane; making a left at Hunter’s Ridge. It was early afternoon and his mother was so excited; she had a surprise for her youngest son; one that she was sure; would make him happy; but Our Young Man; with his skewed perceptions and sideways interpretations; was far too busy blaming his mother; at the time; believe it or not; blaming HER because HE didn’t have his own friends; while neither really knew; why.

Way back when, in those days of long before; it must have been her fault; at least, that was probably the gist of his thinking; as his increasingly confused; cognitive nuts and bolts and washers; turned around and around; much like chunks of fermented milk; clabbering in a churn full of holes; where back in those days of long before; this Writer may suppose; days of Elton John and Freddie Mercury; and all of those; boys of a dominating Queen; from rhythmic harmonies of: Tie Your Mother Down; to operatic refrains of: Some One Saved (Their) Life Tonight; when after all is said and done; God only knows; what the truth; ultimately was; and just who; it was really for; way back when; in those days before.

Looking back from where We sit; in the here and now; We can clearly see Our Young Man; riding in the passenger side of his mother’s 69 Blue Nova; mad at her for his own reasons; mad at the world really; but taking it out on her; reaching over to the gear shift lever on the steering column; while the innocent car made its way up Hunter’s Ridge; shifting the lever into park; not fully aware of how that might “drop” the transmission; ruining it; or maybe not caring; just the same; doing it anyway; as if she were to blame; the car lurching to a stop; Our Young Man’s mother; confused, concerned and frightened; but more hurt than anything else; as if her youngest son’s mistrust; of her; in her mind, had no place; no reason; no shape; no where with all.

“What are you doing?” she puzzled aloud; looking at him with searching eyes. He didn’t answer. How could he; he didn’t have the words; for he had long since let his tongue be tied; maybe by apron strings; which, if true, wasn’t her fault; as much as it remained; Our Poor Young Friend’s unwitting choice.

Since he said nothing; when both parents had said repeatedly; over the years; that the boy’s education took precedence over his sister’s; since all she was good for — was to get married and have kids; and when they moved to this Bloomfield Hills; when it was decided that he should have the biggest of the two bedrooms in the back of the apartment; regardless of his sister’s wishes to the contrary; again because he was supposed to be — special; and all the other times; when first his sister; then, after their oldest brother dropped out of college; him as well; Our Young Man’s parents had separated him; from his siblings; from other people in general; created a sense in him; that he should be “alone”; treated him different; and never told him; or anyone else; for that matter; why.

That’s how he let his tongue be tied; not just by apron strings; but all manners of things; that parents sometimes box; their best hopes and wishes in; when planning the lives; the very destinies; of their otherwise ignorant; children.

Imagine then Our Young Man’s surprise, as they made their way; through the housing development; adjacent to Fox Hills; turning right and going north on Fox River Drive; making a left at Oakbrook; taking the cut through to Opdyke; and driving north; through the light; all the way to 619 Opdyke; back then, a used car dealership; where his mother; by a prior arrangement with a salesman; had purchased; a Sky Blue, Two-Door 1972 Buick La Sabre; with automatic transmission, Rallye Wheels, Power Steering and Disc Breaks; Turbo Hydramatic 350 V-8 Engine, with Air; AM/FM Stereo; Power Seats; windows , doors and locks.

His mouth, literally fell open as the dealer, himself smiling ear to ear handed his mother the keys; who gently redirected his gesture; motioning that her son should have the honor. Our Boy was almost speechless. He had totally forgotten what a fool he was; the ten or so minutes it took to drive there; from their home; as had his mother.

Unfortunately, in this story, this wasn’t the last time he was going to act like a fool; to the contrary; this was only the beginning; as Bloomfield Hills would continue to spin along its axis; underneath the waning; of a provincial sun.

(to be continued)