Life at 15
The summer of 1973 I turned 15, one year away from that magic age of emancipation of 16, when one can finally drive a car. For me, the notion of ever having a vehicle to drive was absurd, since even my dad was most often without one. I of course dreamed of the freedom cars represented, something I thought would allow me to escape the cycle of negativity which had permeated my childhood. But my sense of the pragmatic drowned out any illusions I had about such a mythic change in my affairs. The real change that happened that summer was our yearly move-out/move-in dance. The difference in this instance was that it was a command decision made by my me and mom, with support from my grandmother. My dad was somewhere lost in the hinterlands, and without a home phone we had no idea when he would return. Fortunately, we found a much newer and nicer house about 15 blocks to the north which amazingly was the same monthly rent, and so by pooling my earnings with their bit of money we pulled it off. I wish I could remember how we executed the logistics of the physical move; perhaps it was so traumatic for me being the only relatively grown male in the family that I have simply blocked it out. At any rate, I felt going into my first year of high school a sense of hope that things were getting better, as they were for a while.
One of the few things I was able to purchase with my summer earnings after helping with the rent and food was my first legitimate stereo system. My first turntable having disappeared long before due to delinquent pawn payments, this was a happy re-acquaintance with my favorite mode of escape. I spent countless hours shopping the bargain bins of local variety stores, which closed out previous year's LP's at prices of 50 and even 25 cents. Since returnable bottles were still a thing, I could always afford adding 3-4 new music works a week even with my empty wallet. The music of the early 1970's that I was able to collect - the Who, Allman Brothers, Pink Floyd, early Fleetwood Mac, and Steely Dan - still to me seems preferable and superior to that of almost any other era.
I had kept slowly inching up in height, moved my body more since the walk to school was three miles each way, and didn't eat as much so my weight reversed its prior upward trend and began tapering off. I had new crushes and payed more attention to my grooming, but as usual that gear remained stuck in neutral. I had decided that the cliqueishness of band was too much of a burden, so I switched my arts elective to choir, and I didn't regret this as I found a new group of people to hang out with. Maybe not close friends, but certainly far better than the social isolation of the past several years. My grades stayed in the good-to-great range, and in general things seemed lighter, though there were storm clouds lurking in the near future. I developed a crush on a girl in choir named Cindy, and this was the first full-out infatuation of my life. Though she wasn't completely out of my league looks-wise, she ran with the rich kid crowd so I felt too intimidated to make a move. One March morning we had to meet at school at 5 AM to bus to a regional choir competition. I had settled into my seat when I saw a pair of eyes directly locked on mine from ten feet away.
"Hi" the owner of said eyes said to me. It was Cindy.
And here is where my penchant for self-sabotage kicked in, my propensity to say the worst possible thing at the worst possible time. "Goodbye," I replied.
48 years later, thinking about this, I still have no clue why of all things that was my reply. Her eyes registered shock, then she retorted with a "whatever" comment and spun around. And that was it, the end of my chances with Cindy, though I would carry the torch for at least two more years when an ironic postscript to this unrequited love would happen on yet another bus. But that tale is for "Life at 17."
My parent's marriage fractured this year. This was not surprising, but how it went down nevertheless caused distress. My dad was yet again pursuing another scheme, this one with a significant amount of my fingerprints on it. He had asked me to brainstorm a way to resurrect the "YES stamp" concept, and I came up with the idea of having gold tokens instead of stamps, ones that would fit into slots on a card then when full it could be taken to the bank and deposited for some figure, perhaps $20. "Christmas Gold" I christened it, and with very few modifications Dad quickly found some people to seed the enterprise with enough money that he could stay in Fayetteville while selling the concept to retailers and planning what would in today's terms be called a beta test. So once again we had the +/- of Dad being gone. He popped up in April and asked me to make the 60 mile drive back north with him: there was someone he wanted me to meet. On the drive up, the reason fell into place - he had met a woman and had fallen in love and supposedly she felt the same. I didn't really know what to feel so I just went along with it. We went to a community center where there was a meeting of the now-infamous ACORN group, and my father's new love was apparently the leader. She was at least ten years younger than him, and there was no doubt as to why he was physically attracted to her.
I munched on the crackers and cheese provided, while observing my dad gaze at her as she was speaking with that "look" that I now know meant he was thinking with the brain down below. She introduced the guest speaker of the evening, a tall man in his 20's who ambled in with that "aw shucks" demeanor that would later become so known to the world at large. It was one William Jefferson Clinton, newly appointed professor at the University of Arkansas law school, just months away from his first trial run political campaign. He regaled the audience for about 15 minutes, then was grabbed by my dad's side piece and whisked away. On the drive home, Toby acted like he had just rubbed shoulders with John Wayne as he continued to sell me on his new love and his new-found buddy Bill Clinton.
Ah the ongoing irony of Toby Miller's life. It would be only a few weeks later that his soulmate would dump him for ... you guessed it, Slick Willie, who even at that age never missed a chance to wet his wicket. My dad was destroyed, and I recall vaguely that there was suicide talk which of course remained only that. Quite the cuckold though, he remained a supporter of Clinton almost to the very end. I endured decades to follow of rah-rah Clinton talk and would get angry resistance whenever I wouldn't go along with his hero-worship of Bill and Hillary. Deliciously though, in one of the last conversations I had with him, he confessed that he had become disillusioned with the Clinton cabal, asking me rhetorically "She (Hillary during her Secretary of State days) really is evil, isn't she?" "Well, yeah Dad, kinda like the sky is natively a blue hue and the Pope is Catholic" I wanted to say, but realized it was enough to have this small victory.
The trial for the bank robbers whom I had helped capture the previous summer finally came round, and I received a witness subpoena. This was my first courtroom experience, and of course I was nervous, but once I was on the witness stand I was able to collect myself and answer the questions of the prosecutor. That part had been prepped before hand, but I wasn't expecting the intense cross-examination of the defense attorney as he kept a rapid-fire stream of questions coming at me designed to question my identification of the driver from the witness stand as he was seated at the defense table.
"How can you be so certain after so long?" he asked.
"Because he looked so different" I replied, and he had - the guy bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain animal with a scrunched-up face and big mouth. The intervening time had not improved those looks. "He looked like a weasel."
The courtroom spectators burst out in laughter. The defense attorney was mad, and started yelling "Objection!" The judge had to put his face in his hands to keep from smiling at my characterization of the man because he did damn well look like a weasel! After this bit of humor, the jury retired and quickly came back with guilty verdicts for both. The prosecutor thanked me afterward, saying that since I was the only person to solidly ID the driver, he may have not been convicted without my testimony.
The year wouldn't have been complete without another address change, this one being a return to the apartments of Allied Gardens where we had lived briefly when I was 13. The four bedrooms and two baths, along with our return to central air conditioning was yet another upgrade. As 10th grade ground to a halt, I signed up for a third year of youth corps work, this time being assigned to Kimmons Junior High doing janitorial work. I actually enjoyed the air conditioned comfort of the work inside, even though cleaning was quite tedious. One afternoon, I was picking up trash and a group of three black teen boys started harassing me. I refused to take the bait and tried to walk back into the school. They blocked me, and one shoved me.
"Why won't you fight, white boy?"
"Because I don't believe in it" and this was true. I had grown weary of so many scuffles I had over the years that never seemed to resolve anything nor bring anything but punishment or self-recrimination. But I wasn't dealing with philosophers.
"Well we do motherfucker" he spat in reply and then backed it up by punching me in the stomach, instantly joined by the other two who started kicking me as I collapsed to the ground. This went on for awhile until my boss came out when he heard the commotion and the cowards ran away leaving me a mess. I felt equal parts pain and shame, and though the physical part of my experience healed soon, the psychic part left scars. One outcome was that although I have rarely fought since, when required I do and do so without fear. After a childhood of torment, I finally concluded that fear is an unlivable emotion, and any physical consequence of fighting is far preferable to it. You want a cure for bullying? Fight back with all guns blazing and fuck the consequences!
As 15 was about to morph into 16, I finally committed to ridding myself of the excess fat that had been on me for a decade. My method was simple: I simply stopped eating, and though it was tough for a few days it wasn't long before I had to remind myself to eat at least one small meal a day. From April to July I lost 68 pounds, and at my lowest I registered 154 on the scale. There was a family intervention just before my birthday, since all were concerned that I had what is now known as anorexia, though no one had that formal understanding then. I listened, and began to eat more, and quickly my appetite returned and I stabilized at a more reasonable for me weight of 180.
.
One of the few things I was able to purchase with my summer earnings after helping with the rent and food was my first legitimate stereo system. My first turntable having disappeared long before due to delinquent pawn payments, this was a happy re-acquaintance with my favorite mode of escape. I spent countless hours shopping the bargain bins of local variety stores, which closed out previous year's LP's at prices of 50 and even 25 cents. Since returnable bottles were still a thing, I could always afford adding 3-4 new music works a week even with my empty wallet. The music of the early 1970's that I was able to collect - the Who, Allman Brothers, Pink Floyd, early Fleetwood Mac, and Steely Dan - still to me seems preferable and superior to that of almost any other era.
I had kept slowly inching up in height, moved my body more since the walk to school was three miles each way, and didn't eat as much so my weight reversed its prior upward trend and began tapering off. I had new crushes and payed more attention to my grooming, but as usual that gear remained stuck in neutral. I had decided that the cliqueishness of band was too much of a burden, so I switched my arts elective to choir, and I didn't regret this as I found a new group of people to hang out with. Maybe not close friends, but certainly far better than the social isolation of the past several years. My grades stayed in the good-to-great range, and in general things seemed lighter, though there were storm clouds lurking in the near future. I developed a crush on a girl in choir named Cindy, and this was the first full-out infatuation of my life. Though she wasn't completely out of my league looks-wise, she ran with the rich kid crowd so I felt too intimidated to make a move. One March morning we had to meet at school at 5 AM to bus to a regional choir competition. I had settled into my seat when I saw a pair of eyes directly locked on mine from ten feet away.
"Hi" the owner of said eyes said to me. It was Cindy.
And here is where my penchant for self-sabotage kicked in, my propensity to say the worst possible thing at the worst possible time. "Goodbye," I replied.
48 years later, thinking about this, I still have no clue why of all things that was my reply. Her eyes registered shock, then she retorted with a "whatever" comment and spun around. And that was it, the end of my chances with Cindy, though I would carry the torch for at least two more years when an ironic postscript to this unrequited love would happen on yet another bus. But that tale is for "Life at 17."
My parent's marriage fractured this year. This was not surprising, but how it went down nevertheless caused distress. My dad was yet again pursuing another scheme, this one with a significant amount of my fingerprints on it. He had asked me to brainstorm a way to resurrect the "YES stamp" concept, and I came up with the idea of having gold tokens instead of stamps, ones that would fit into slots on a card then when full it could be taken to the bank and deposited for some figure, perhaps $20. "Christmas Gold" I christened it, and with very few modifications Dad quickly found some people to seed the enterprise with enough money that he could stay in Fayetteville while selling the concept to retailers and planning what would in today's terms be called a beta test. So once again we had the +/- of Dad being gone. He popped up in April and asked me to make the 60 mile drive back north with him: there was someone he wanted me to meet. On the drive up, the reason fell into place - he had met a woman and had fallen in love and supposedly she felt the same. I didn't really know what to feel so I just went along with it. We went to a community center where there was a meeting of the now-infamous ACORN group, and my father's new love was apparently the leader. She was at least ten years younger than him, and there was no doubt as to why he was physically attracted to her.
I munched on the crackers and cheese provided, while observing my dad gaze at her as she was speaking with that "look" that I now know meant he was thinking with the brain down below. She introduced the guest speaker of the evening, a tall man in his 20's who ambled in with that "aw shucks" demeanor that would later become so known to the world at large. It was one William Jefferson Clinton, newly appointed professor at the University of Arkansas law school, just months away from his first trial run political campaign. He regaled the audience for about 15 minutes, then was grabbed by my dad's side piece and whisked away. On the drive home, Toby acted like he had just rubbed shoulders with John Wayne as he continued to sell me on his new love and his new-found buddy Bill Clinton.
Ah the ongoing irony of Toby Miller's life. It would be only a few weeks later that his soulmate would dump him for ... you guessed it, Slick Willie, who even at that age never missed a chance to wet his wicket. My dad was destroyed, and I recall vaguely that there was suicide talk which of course remained only that. Quite the cuckold though, he remained a supporter of Clinton almost to the very end. I endured decades to follow of rah-rah Clinton talk and would get angry resistance whenever I wouldn't go along with his hero-worship of Bill and Hillary. Deliciously though, in one of the last conversations I had with him, he confessed that he had become disillusioned with the Clinton cabal, asking me rhetorically "She (Hillary during her Secretary of State days) really is evil, isn't she?" "Well, yeah Dad, kinda like the sky is natively a blue hue and the Pope is Catholic" I wanted to say, but realized it was enough to have this small victory.
The trial for the bank robbers whom I had helped capture the previous summer finally came round, and I received a witness subpoena. This was my first courtroom experience, and of course I was nervous, but once I was on the witness stand I was able to collect myself and answer the questions of the prosecutor. That part had been prepped before hand, but I wasn't expecting the intense cross-examination of the defense attorney as he kept a rapid-fire stream of questions coming at me designed to question my identification of the driver from the witness stand as he was seated at the defense table.
"How can you be so certain after so long?" he asked.
"Because he looked so different" I replied, and he had - the guy bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain animal with a scrunched-up face and big mouth. The intervening time had not improved those looks. "He looked like a weasel."
The courtroom spectators burst out in laughter. The defense attorney was mad, and started yelling "Objection!" The judge had to put his face in his hands to keep from smiling at my characterization of the man because he did damn well look like a weasel! After this bit of humor, the jury retired and quickly came back with guilty verdicts for both. The prosecutor thanked me afterward, saying that since I was the only person to solidly ID the driver, he may have not been convicted without my testimony.
The year wouldn't have been complete without another address change, this one being a return to the apartments of Allied Gardens where we had lived briefly when I was 13. The four bedrooms and two baths, along with our return to central air conditioning was yet another upgrade. As 10th grade ground to a halt, I signed up for a third year of youth corps work, this time being assigned to Kimmons Junior High doing janitorial work. I actually enjoyed the air conditioned comfort of the work inside, even though cleaning was quite tedious. One afternoon, I was picking up trash and a group of three black teen boys started harassing me. I refused to take the bait and tried to walk back into the school. They blocked me, and one shoved me.
"Why won't you fight, white boy?"
"Because I don't believe in it" and this was true. I had grown weary of so many scuffles I had over the years that never seemed to resolve anything nor bring anything but punishment or self-recrimination. But I wasn't dealing with philosophers.
"Well we do motherfucker" he spat in reply and then backed it up by punching me in the stomach, instantly joined by the other two who started kicking me as I collapsed to the ground. This went on for awhile until my boss came out when he heard the commotion and the cowards ran away leaving me a mess. I felt equal parts pain and shame, and though the physical part of my experience healed soon, the psychic part left scars. One outcome was that although I have rarely fought since, when required I do and do so without fear. After a childhood of torment, I finally concluded that fear is an unlivable emotion, and any physical consequence of fighting is far preferable to it. You want a cure for bullying? Fight back with all guns blazing and fuck the consequences!
As 15 was about to morph into 16, I finally committed to ridding myself of the excess fat that had been on me for a decade. My method was simple: I simply stopped eating, and though it was tough for a few days it wasn't long before I had to remind myself to eat at least one small meal a day. From April to July I lost 68 pounds, and at my lowest I registered 154 on the scale. There was a family intervention just before my birthday, since all were concerned that I had what is now known as anorexia, though no one had that formal understanding then. I listened, and began to eat more, and quickly my appetite returned and I stabilized at a more reasonable for me weight of 180.
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