Life at 16
I began my junior year in a much happier frame of mind than any previous one. My weight stabilized in the mid 160's, and I was able to buy new clothes to take advantage of my new svelte self. People walked by me and did double-takes, claiming to not have recognized me at all. Nearly 70 pounds shed tends to do that. Since my family had abandoned picture-taking for the prior several years, I have few pictures of me from this time. The two below were nabbed from a yearbook site on the Web.
Another amazing development was that I was no longer invisible to the fairer sex. Fancy that, fat acts as a filter that blocks the vision of women! Anyway, it was at first disconcerting as I still felt awkward trying to make conversation with others, but I learned to enjoy the process. Without a car though, I was inhibited from asking anyone out, and instead all of my social activities for a time were solely with groups of people from choir.
Then I was allowed a brief burst of celebrity, due to the robbery I had been a witness to years earlier. I was summoned to the dean's office, where the president of a local bank was waiting for me since he had failed to make contact otherwise because our phone, as per usual, was disconnected for non-payment. He wanted me and my co-worker Jim to come to the bank the next day to present us with an award. I wasn't expecting the hulaballoo there when I arrived the following day: there were newspaper reporters and TV camera crews. The president made a speech extolling our character and bravery (ha-ha) and gave each of us checks for $500. The sum was staggering, as that amount of money in 1974 was worth well over $1200 today. When I went to first period the next day, I was the center of attention since we were featured in the TV news segment. I had to recount the blow-by-blow of the robbery and aftermath in that class and all the successive ones. Things went back to normal afterward, but I felt like I had moved up a level in the pecking order.
I was able to pay two months of rent, buy Christmas presents for everyone, and still had enough left for the crown jewel - my first car, a 1965 Chevy Impala.
It's hard to imagine that I could buy a running vehicle for $140, but that's what happened. The freedom I suddenly experienced was overwhelming, but there was one small problem - I had not been trained properly to drive since my dad was absent most of the time. I didn't even have a learner's permit, so I was riding outlaw baby! My lack of experience struck back the second night I drove. I stopped for gas at a nearby station and didn't allow for the turning radius, so I hit one of the pumps and left a fair-sized dent in its underbelly. I was shaking as I went into the small office and confessed what had happened. The old attendant walked out with me to survey, took a quick look and said:
"Looks OK to me kid. They don't pay me enough to give a shit."
Waves of relief came over me as I drove away. That pump would remain a sort of marker for me over the years as the station changed hands multiple times, but somehow no one saw fit to fix the dent though it was easily visible from the road. In years to come, I would point out my handiwork to people riding with me as I passed it when I visited Fort Smith over the years, all the way until the early 2000's when finally the whole enterprise was wiped out and a new building replaced it.
I had mentioned my aunt Pauline, Dad's half-sister, and her wild streak earlier. She had always been good to us though as she went through a string of men and marriages, taking me and Liz when we were younger to the annual fair and in general being the prototype of what an aunt should be. The wheels on her life began to come off a few years before this time. After another failed relationship with an older "sugar daddy" she was apparently down on her luck enough to turn to prostitution to make ends meet. Dad had the year before brokered sending her daughter Marcella to my Uncle Harry's in CA since the revolving-door-of-men lifestyle was obviously a horrible one for a child, and Harry and Mary were willing to quasi-adopt her in the aftermath of the loss of Jeri. So this Christmas Eve we received a message that Pauline was asking for her brother to come to the jail to bail her out. Apparently she had been plying her trade at an infamous brothel in town called the Como Hotel, and when one of her tricks didn't pay up after the act, she chased him out of the building and down the street - in her birthday suit! We picked her up and I could she that she was shivering more than from the cold: it was some kind of substance withdrawal.
But the experience did not teach her anything. She began calling Marcella, claiming she had never agreed to let her go (a lie) and that she needed her to come back. 13 year old Marcella took action in this regard by not once, but twice, setting fire to Harry's house. At wits end, they gave up their Pygmalion quest which was reaping dividends as she was excelling in school and in learning social graces, and they flew her back. Pauline by now had hooked up with a man who it was later revealed to be a child molester, convicted eventually of that offense against his own children. There's no doubt in my mind that the same evil fate befell Marcella, because years later she herself became a drug addict and prostitute. A terrible ending to a terrible story.
The early months of 1975 were when the wheels finally came off my parent's
marriage, and the rest of us almost went off the cliff with them as well. The Christmas Gold situation in Fayetteville had finally imploded, and he had laid low most of January. One bad Saturday he started drinking early, and didn't stop as usual. Around 8 PM he demanded that I take to the liquor store for another bottle. I refused. He demanded my keys. I refused. He then unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse on me that made me finally not give a shit about protecting him from himself anymore. 12 year old Liz wouldn't give that ghost up though as she left with him.
Hours passed, with no word. Finally, they came back, sans my car, escorted in a police car. He had been stopped failed a sobriety test and was charged with a DWI. It was only days later that he asked me, in a much nicer tone, to take him to Clarksville about 60 miles to the east, so he could have a better chance of hitchhiking a ride to Memphis, where he had a friend who was offering some sort of nebulous opportunity. As I dropped him off and turned around, I could not know that this was the end of all of us as a family - he would never live with us again.
The next several months were chaos, with no communication from him and no money. One day a friend of his showed up at the apartment and handed $50 to Mom, This was how Toby managed being a father of five. These visits became fewer and farther between and the rent became overdue. Mom had to ask for help from various churches to get food. Since we had no home phone, she would have me go to the pay phone at the office to try calling one of a few numbers he had left to contact him with. Those people started refusing calls and I returned without any notion of what further to do.
He answered and of course was shocked that it was me. And then I unleashed the verbal hounds of Hell upon him. Every resentment, every slight, every abuse I had suffered by his action or inaction burst forth in a several minute rant of emotion. He was crying on the other end. That moment demarcated the end of seeing him as my father, and the beginning of seeing him as an adversary, one who was all the more dangerous because of the pretense of familial love.
Another amazing development was that I was no longer invisible to the fairer sex. Fancy that, fat acts as a filter that blocks the vision of women! Anyway, it was at first disconcerting as I still felt awkward trying to make conversation with others, but I learned to enjoy the process. Without a car though, I was inhibited from asking anyone out, and instead all of my social activities for a time were solely with groups of people from choir.
Then I was allowed a brief burst of celebrity, due to the robbery I had been a witness to years earlier. I was summoned to the dean's office, where the president of a local bank was waiting for me since he had failed to make contact otherwise because our phone, as per usual, was disconnected for non-payment. He wanted me and my co-worker Jim to come to the bank the next day to present us with an award. I wasn't expecting the hulaballoo there when I arrived the following day: there were newspaper reporters and TV camera crews. The president made a speech extolling our character and bravery (ha-ha) and gave each of us checks for $500. The sum was staggering, as that amount of money in 1974 was worth well over $1200 today. When I went to first period the next day, I was the center of attention since we were featured in the TV news segment. I had to recount the blow-by-blow of the robbery and aftermath in that class and all the successive ones. Things went back to normal afterward, but I felt like I had moved up a level in the pecking order.
I was able to pay two months of rent, buy Christmas presents for everyone, and still had enough left for the crown jewel - my first car, a 1965 Chevy Impala.
It's hard to imagine that I could buy a running vehicle for $140, but that's what happened. The freedom I suddenly experienced was overwhelming, but there was one small problem - I had not been trained properly to drive since my dad was absent most of the time. I didn't even have a learner's permit, so I was riding outlaw baby! My lack of experience struck back the second night I drove. I stopped for gas at a nearby station and didn't allow for the turning radius, so I hit one of the pumps and left a fair-sized dent in its underbelly. I was shaking as I went into the small office and confessed what had happened. The old attendant walked out with me to survey, took a quick look and said:
"Looks OK to me kid. They don't pay me enough to give a shit."
Waves of relief came over me as I drove away. That pump would remain a sort of marker for me over the years as the station changed hands multiple times, but somehow no one saw fit to fix the dent though it was easily visible from the road. In years to come, I would point out my handiwork to people riding with me as I passed it when I visited Fort Smith over the years, all the way until the early 2000's when finally the whole enterprise was wiped out and a new building replaced it.
I had mentioned my aunt Pauline, Dad's half-sister, and her wild streak earlier. She had always been good to us though as she went through a string of men and marriages, taking me and Liz when we were younger to the annual fair and in general being the prototype of what an aunt should be. The wheels on her life began to come off a few years before this time. After another failed relationship with an older "sugar daddy" she was apparently down on her luck enough to turn to prostitution to make ends meet. Dad had the year before brokered sending her daughter Marcella to my Uncle Harry's in CA since the revolving-door-of-men lifestyle was obviously a horrible one for a child, and Harry and Mary were willing to quasi-adopt her in the aftermath of the loss of Jeri. So this Christmas Eve we received a message that Pauline was asking for her brother to come to the jail to bail her out. Apparently she had been plying her trade at an infamous brothel in town called the Como Hotel, and when one of her tricks didn't pay up after the act, she chased him out of the building and down the street - in her birthday suit! We picked her up and I could she that she was shivering more than from the cold: it was some kind of substance withdrawal.
But the experience did not teach her anything. She began calling Marcella, claiming she had never agreed to let her go (a lie) and that she needed her to come back. 13 year old Marcella took action in this regard by not once, but twice, setting fire to Harry's house. At wits end, they gave up their Pygmalion quest which was reaping dividends as she was excelling in school and in learning social graces, and they flew her back. Pauline by now had hooked up with a man who it was later revealed to be a child molester, convicted eventually of that offense against his own children. There's no doubt in my mind that the same evil fate befell Marcella, because years later she herself became a drug addict and prostitute. A terrible ending to a terrible story.
The early months of 1975 were when the wheels finally came off my parent's
marriage, and the rest of us almost went off the cliff with them as well. The Christmas Gold situation in Fayetteville had finally imploded, and he had laid low most of January. One bad Saturday he started drinking early, and didn't stop as usual. Around 8 PM he demanded that I take to the liquor store for another bottle. I refused. He demanded my keys. I refused. He then unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse on me that made me finally not give a shit about protecting him from himself anymore. 12 year old Liz wouldn't give that ghost up though as she left with him.
Hours passed, with no word. Finally, they came back, sans my car, escorted in a police car. He had been stopped failed a sobriety test and was charged with a DWI. It was only days later that he asked me, in a much nicer tone, to take him to Clarksville about 60 miles to the east, so he could have a better chance of hitchhiking a ride to Memphis, where he had a friend who was offering some sort of nebulous opportunity. As I dropped him off and turned around, I could not know that this was the end of all of us as a family - he would never live with us again.
The next several months were chaos, with no communication from him and no money. One day a friend of his showed up at the apartment and handed $50 to Mom, This was how Toby managed being a father of five. These visits became fewer and farther between and the rent became overdue. Mom had to ask for help from various churches to get food. Since we had no home phone, she would have me go to the pay phone at the office to try calling one of a few numbers he had left to contact him with. Those people started refusing calls and I returned without any notion of what further to do.
Finally, my emotions overwhelmed me with the burden of daily existence, and I became determined to find him. I spent hours at the pay phone, begging one operator after another to place a call without it being collect so the person on the other end wouldn't be able to reject it (Reminiscent of the Jim Croce song "Operator" - none in the current generations will ever experience our interaction with phone operators in those days). Finally, my piteous story stirred the heart of one operator who broke the rules and dialed straight through even though I didn't have the money for the long distance call. The man who answered at least let me know that there was a number he could be reached at and a code - one ring, hang up; two rings, hang up; a third time let it ring and it would be picked up. Now exactly what kind of nefarious shit does someone have to be involved with to be hiding out in this manner? Answer - Toby-level shit.
He answered and of course was shocked that it was me. And then I unleashed the verbal hounds of Hell upon him. Every resentment, every slight, every abuse I had suffered by his action or inaction burst forth in a several minute rant of emotion. He was crying on the other end. That moment demarcated the end of seeing him as my father, and the beginning of seeing him as an adversary, one who was all the more dangerous because of the pretense of familial love.
His solution was to send yet another friend the next morning with a small sum to tide us through until he popped up a week later with enough money spread around to tide us through a few more months. Because I had missed so much school due to the insanity, I failed English for the semester, but I was becoming increasingly apathetic about all of life so this was just a blip whereas before it would have been devastating.
I worked a second summer at Kimmons and no longer dreamt of college, but instead a way to escape the Hell that Fort Smith had became for me. But there was one devilish year waiting before that; one that I felt if I survived I could face anything else life had to throw at me. My poor, naive young self!
I worked a second summer at Kimmons and no longer dreamt of college, but instead a way to escape the Hell that Fort Smith had became for me. But there was one devilish year waiting before that; one that I felt if I survived I could face anything else life had to throw at me. My poor, naive young self!
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