i woke up when I wanted to-
a 16 year old with no job, no responsibilities
other than to show up on time for
band practice.
that was easy enough, as our band practiced
in the basement of my mom’s house.

“you had better come home with a job today. If not, say hello to living with your father!”
that was the worst thing I could hear from my mother. whenever my brother or I truly fucked up,
it was the final threat to bring us back in line.
“DO YOU WANT TO LIVE WITH HIM!”
moving into my fathers house was a death sentence,
not in a literal manner,
but rather within the long term scope of our lives.
my brother and I were acutely aware of that,
a curious side effect of divorce.

at 11am that same day, Alex called me. he had found “the amp” that would
catapult our nascent rock group to the next level.
his search led him to an ad in the Bargain News,
a weekly print magazine that was the craigslist of it’s time.
455 Whalley Avenue. New Haven.

we set out in Alex’s 1971 Pontiac in search of the near future.
as the salesman moved four dust ridden amps out of the way,
the Roland JC120 was revealed to us.
it was a shining purity amongst the detritus of the other equipment in the room,
no doubt bought and discarded by a wealthy gold coast family
who had succumbed to the momentary whims of an obsessed teen.
that was as far from our reality as possible.
Alex was the actual recipient. he had paid his early dues.

after more cash changed hands than I had ever previously witnessed,
we loaded the amp into the Pontiac. unfortunately, the car wouldn’t start,
even as Alex valiantly attempted to get the engine to ignite.
i tried not to be overbearing as the episode took shape,
but after the first hour, I couldn’t help but plead with him,
as if my words could somehow transmit the power to start the car into Alex’s hands.

“i have to get a job today before I go home tonight! we have to get back to town!
i’m seriously jeopardizing everything here…..”

the engine started.
we should be back in town by 6pm.

my 6th grade teacher spent his summers
as the maître d’ at one of the local restaurants.
with less than an hour to spare
to secure my first position of employment,
i had no choice but to plead with Mr. Z to help me
procure a dishwashers job
at the restored Inne, where he charmed each diner
with an effortless grace, his voice illuminating the spaces of any conversation.

i was introduced to the head chef and his assistant,
my outstretched hand was not reciprocated in the dark of the
basement tavern.
that traditional slight made no difference to me,
as I walked up the steep valley side
from the riverbed
to our house on the ridge. i was ready to confront my mother, having the gold
coin she needed as proof,
in my handmade canvas pouch.

“did you get a job today?” she shouted at me as I entered the kitchen, mired within the expectancy of
payback time.

“i start at the Packer Inne, doing dishes, tomorrow night.”
“i’ll call your father and tell him you won’t be coming over tomorrow.”

the drive seemed to be endless,
and my mother seemed to be lost.
in Norwich, on the northernmost edge
of our secluded world.
it was Christmas Eve,
and we were trying to find a holday party
that we were actually invited to.
a party with promises
of gifts- to fill the void
of tomorrows anticipated vacancy.

we eventually found the house,
and my mother pulled off an incredible parallel parking maneuver
in the snow and ice, on the slight hill.
it didn’t seem that we knew anyone at this party, uncomfortable
to the extent that even being given a
gift seemed like charity.
my mother prided herself in not giving in. on this night, it seemed as if we were.
it never happened again.

in town, there was a famous
Christmas Night party, which I was
now old enough to participate in.
i had just. enough. status.
to be invited.

the first guest I would encounter had an original screenplay in production.
in Hollywood.
that afternoon was the first time my step-father let me drink beer with him-
a conference with both elements of our families that
became a rallying cry between the two of us.
for the first time, we had an unspoken certainty,
that found it’s conclusion in his reassuring words:

“have another. you’ll be fine”

my father and his first roommate, after leaving home,
collected miller lite cans from the first sunday
of football season, until the holidays- their goal
was to decorate an entire tree in nothing but
miller lite cans
as part of a contest
for the brewing magnate.
they stole two shopping carts from the local supermarket
to store four months of empties,
before they were to deliberately hang each can
from a proper, ornament hook.

i had to be escorted out at 11.30 pm
from the party. beyond drunk ….
passed out on the “dance floor.”

i was thinking to myself, after a bleak sunrise-
“you have embarrassed everyone!”
there certainly were more elegant ways to leave a lasting impression.
but wasn’t that the point? to make a mark?

i would never be invited to the party again.
i could hardly blame them.

i was in my room
preparing a self-addressed stamped envelope
to Magic Johnson
requesting his autograph. i wasn’t even sure why,
other than he was Magic.
Celtic playoff games were the one time
my father let us stay up past our bedtime,
a specific
benefit
of being a child of divorce.

the older kids in the neighborhood taught me how to collect autographs.
there was a specific way you needed to write the letter, and how the envelope should be addressed.
these guys had Pete Rose autographs, so surely i should believe in their process.
i decided to follow the same procedure in my attempt to procure Magic’s autograph,
which was certainly to be a victory within
our small collectors group.
Magic happened to be a fixture of the Celtic’s rival team.

As I wrote the address of the LA Forum on my humble request,
the smell of smoke began to fill the room. I was on the second floor
of our house. instinctively, i knew my brother was up to no good.

he had decided to warm up last night’s pizza
within the confines of it’s paper box, in an oven set to 300 degrees.
by the time I realized we had an emergency on our hands, I raced out to the garage
to fetch a pitchfork, as it seemed the most likely tool
to remove a burning pizza box
from an electric oven.

balancing the fire on a pitchfork.
i was able to lay it to rest on a small concrete pad in our backyard,
the remnants of a grill that my parents
had brought to ground level
after my brother lodged his head in the chimney one autumn afternoon.

my mother left work at the nursing home
at exactly the same time that I had placed the burning box
on concrete in our suburban back lawn,
which we were clinging to

by the time she took a left turn at the head of our street,
and then passed within sight of our house- smoke was
pouring out of the open front door, an escape clause I had established hoping to
hide the disaster from her.

years later, I found out she had simply drove the car for another four blocks, to the elementary school
on our street, before turning the car around to address our catastrophe.

“let those kids burn…….” she told me, with the conviction of a thousand yard stare.

how could I blame her?
fortunately,
i had extinguished the fire.