The Autobiography of Me

         

Hardin          8

The Autobiography of Me

Where Were My God Damn Parents?

         I cannot believe I am still alive. My life has been ridiculous as far back as I can remember. My earliest memory was one in which I was so tiny. I remember a tall-standing wooden dresser, tucked so perfectly into the corner of someone's room, and beside that dresser was me. A new person on all fours, still sporting a diaper and one sock. We weren't alone though. To my right there was a bed, on top of the dresser was a giant CRT television, and under the dresser was my baba. I had to get it. I stretched out my body, and started to wiggle under the dresser, but the next thing I remember, I was stuck. To make things worse, I was tangled in cobwebs. I could have called for help, but as a baby I was no sort of quitter. I think I struggled for about five minutes before I was finally able to free myself from that Indian Jones deathtrap. After adjusting myself into a 90-degree bend, I plopped my diaper on the shag, and took a moment to come up with a better plan. I did not want anything more to do with those nasty cobwebs. I sat, and thought for however long it takes a baby to come up with a reasonable plan. Shortly afterwards, I was ready for round two. I wiggled my legs to scoot myself forward. Then I began to slide my head behind the dresser. It fits! I backed my head out, and decided to lead with my right arm. I squeezed my head in after my arm, and even though it was a tight fit, the more I pushed the further in I was going. I was so close to my prize. It was only another arm's length away. At that point if I could just get my legs in I could surely reach my baba. I gave it an extra good go after a few failed attempts, and Lo and behold, it was almost as if it dresser had moved itself just slightly out of my way. I squeezed my legs in, and I was closer than I ever thought I would be to reaching my baba. I could already taste the reward, but if only I had. The things I had failed to realize as a baby was that gravity exists, tall wooden dressers are not that stable, and CRT televisions make very loud noises when they come crashing the ground. Of course, thanks to this memory I know these things now. However, this is when that memory goes black.

         Had I learned anything from my first memory, it was not much more than the fundamental principles of physics. Which leads me into another time during my younger days. Like before, in this memory I will be learning a little bit more about physics. Although, reader beware, this next paragraph will be slightly grotesque. If you like cats, as I do, I would skip this one. I have scattered memories of this evil black cat throughout my toddlerhood. I one of them said black cat had punctured my wrist on both sides, in four places. I have no idea if the black cat from this next memory is that same evil black cat, but every bit of my conscience hopes that it was. If I had to guess, I would say I was only two years old when this happened. My parents had just bought a new pleather couch. The cushions were still brand new and extra fluffy. Who could possibly have resisted the temptation that was jumping on the clouds. Not me, I do not remember what I was doing before I had started jumping on the couch, but I will not ever forget the look on my mom's face when she walked in the living room to catch me. I did what every kid would have. I made one last jump with all the power my little legs could hold. Maybe for a moment I thought I was Superman, but the last time I checked Superman was one of the good guys. Things were about to get messy. As I flew up over the arm of the couch I had planned to land crisscross applesauce right where a normal family would keep an end table. I never saw the cat laying there. I did not even know about death at that age, but I learned. I would have to say, if there is anything that I have ever regretted, this would be it. Although, the story is sad it taught me a lesson that was inevitably important. If I had not learned about death at that moment, in which moment would I have learned about it.

The Father Files

         Throughout my childhood, I have scattered memories. For the most part, all of them involve my dad. I remember he and I went fishing a few times. He was a short-tempered person, with a lazy personality. Let that soak in for a second, then try to picture him on a boat with a child. I think I was only there to bring him Mountain Dews, and tie the knots on his hooks. Which I was not good at. I wish I could remember the stuff I did with my mom instead. Although, as I grew into my teenage years I began to realize why I had no memories with my mom as a child. She really didn't have anything to do with me. I came to that realization sometime around the age of fourteen. I had made the connection between asking my mom to spend time with me, and the rate at which she gave me money. It did not matter what I asked her to do with me. She had been buying me out twenty dollars at a time ever since I can remember. I guess I'm my own boss.

         My dad had a way about him that I will never quite understand. Though through his "lessons" I certainly learned one thing. If nothing else, I learned how I am not going to treat my child. The amount of anger and remorse that I felt towards my dad was beyond a child's hormonal imbalance.

         My dad wasn't always unbearable. I won't ever know what really changed him, but I know that every memory I have with my dad before the age of five was quite pleasant. I had all the coolest toys. One of my favorite toys was a completely metal X-Wing Fighter from Star Wars. I don't remember when I got it, but I know my dad got for me, and I absolutely loved it.

         I was sitting in my mom's Pontiac, Grand Am with my body firmly placed against the seat. My hand was covering the seat belt fastener so that no one could reach over to unfasten my seat belt. I had been struggling to keep my dad's hands away from it.

         "Get out of the car!" He yelled. Spit was flying everywhere, and veins pulsated on the side of his head.

         "Fuck you!" I replied. I was doing everything I could to keep his hands away from the fastener. My mom, who had been trying to convince me to get out of the car decided to step in.

         "Okay, Justin that's enough." She said, "I think Harley should stay with me this weekend." She shut my door, and locked the car. Of course, my dad was not having it. As my mom rounded the car my dad followed her. She managed to get into the driver's seat, and throw the car into reverse, but my dad had already leaned up against the car as to talk to her.
         "You're not going anywhere." He told my mom, as he put his foot behind the front tire of the car.
         It was at this moment in my life that I learned how to deal with my dad. I had never heard my mom speak in such a serious tone prior to this. She looked my dad dead in the eyes, and said, "We're leaving." Just as she did, she let her foot off the brake, and quickly slammed it down onto the gas pedal. Hearing the tires slipping over the loose gravel, followed by my dad crying like a little bitch as his foot was fused with the rocks is one of my most savored memories. Before this moment, I do not think my mom believed me when I told her about the times I had spent with my dad. Every weekend's end I would return home with a new horrifying tale.

Fun With Fiction

         Disclaimer: Every story written in this section should be viewed as a work of fiction in which I star myself as the main character. Do not believe for a second that I am anywhere near cringey enough to have experienced any of this. My life is just as boring as your life, I swear!

         The night fell, and the business day was over. It was just like any other day in the trap house. Everyone who had any kind of decency left in them had gone to their jobs for the evening. Me and my roommate, T, were in the kitchen checking the numbers and weighing up the inventory. I counted as T pulled each bag out of the cabinet, "One pack, two packs, three packs, and a half."

         T lifted his head up, and held out his hand. Inside his hand was one of the most pungent buds I've ever smelled in my life. "Hey will you roll this up?" He asked.

         I was the best at rolling blunts out of all my friends. In fact, for the longest time none of my friends really knew how to do it right. Their blunts would either tear, be to loose, or be to tight. I never really had a problem rolling all the blunts. Even if it was a daunting task because it meant rolling a blunt every thirty minutes. It just meant I would be able to enjoy the blunt.

         "You bet I will." I eagerly replied.

         "Awesome, here's a swisher." He said as he emptied the bud into one of my hands, and placed a swisher in the other. I laid the swisher down on the counter, and began to break up the weed. I started with the very top of the bud. The crispy crackle it made as I twisted it apart was ecstasy to my ears. A sandy colored cloud of dust rained from the bud onto the counter.

         The smell of the weed was pungent. Every breath I took made the tips of my nostrils tingle. It was the same feeling that a person gets when they must sneeze. Except it makes your eyes water without ever bestowing you with the satisfaction that comes from the sneeze itself. It was the beautiful skunky aroma of the White Rhino that I had been basking in throughout the day.

As I finished breaking up the bud into small chunks I reached for an empty sandwich baggy, and the swisher. I placed the sandwich baggy on the counter, and made sure top of it was wide open. I didn't want to have to deal with opening the baggy after I had already split open the swisher. Afterwards, I rotated the swisher, and pinched it several times as to find the perfect area to begin splitting it apart. Once I found the sweet spot right next to the original seam, I pinched even harder until I saw the swisher split open. The sight was disgusting, the swisher was now revealing the dark brown strings of tobacco entrailing it. I continued this method until I reached the end of the swisher.

                   "This stuff smells so good!" I exclaimed to T.

He responded with a smirk, and a deep chuckle. He wasn't listening. T was always wrapped up his head. No one could ever tell if he was actually listening to anything they were saying to him. He is one of those people that will look you dead in the eye, and nod throughout your part of the conversation, but once you have finished speaking he'll laugh, and tell you that he wasn't paying attention to what you were saying.

I scooped the tobacco out of the swisher into the sandwich baggy, and used my pinky to scraped the weed into a neat little line about the size of the swisher. I had always done this before putting the weed into the swisher because it gave me a good idea of how much to put into each section of the swisher.

I filled the swisher from end to end. I always loved the way green and orange colors of the weed popped against the brown leaf of the swisher. It was the taste of the leaf that always got to me. The unpleasant stinging sensation that the swisher leaves on the tip of your tongue, almost always made me gag. I wanted to puke so badly. It wasn't always this bad though. Sometimes the swishers aren't cruel.

It was at this point where I closed the last fold of the swisher, and thus our blunt was fabricated. In our house it was tradition that the person that rolled the blunt got to light it, so I wasn't hesitant at all to grab my lighter, and fire it up.

         My mouth filled with the thick flavor of the White Rhino as I pulled my tongue back into my throat. I opened my mouth, and slowly inhaled. The smoke filled my lungs completely, and began to expand. I tried to hold it in for as long as long as I could, but the weed was kicking my ass. A second hadn't passed before I was grabbing my knees coughing vigorously. This was one of the best strains of weed I had ever indulged in pre-Colorado.

         It wasn't long after I had lit up the blunt that there was a knock at the door.

         
         It was inevitable. I had no decent parental figure; however, I did have an undisclosed amount of money, and the imagination of the average sixteen-year-old. Of course, I did illegal things, with my illegal friends. As to not incriminate myself or my friends, this is about as much of the story you're going to get. In fact, I cannot think of a single memory I have post age sixteen that I could share until age 21. Sometime during all my illicit activities, I realized that at the rate I was living my life, I would either be dead before I ever had my first kid, or a very unfit parent in the case that I did. For some reason that idea did not set right in my head. I had to change something, and so I did. I distanced myself from my usual activities, and enrolled myself into school. So long as I stick to the only plan I have ever created in my life, my kids should have the good childhood that I never got to have. Maybe even someone to reach under the dresser for their baba.

         Dear reader,

Excuse my lack of a plot. Not only is this writing a forever lasting work in progress, it has also been censored, and portions have been removed in this version due to lengthiness. If the plot was hard to grasp it is really at the fault of life itself, and how absolutely random it truly is. When I began writing this I had no intentions of it sounding so dark or demeaning. Unfortunately, this is my life, and no matter what that will not change. The only thing I can do is work as hard as I can, have kids, and try to do things over with their lives.
Sincerely, Harley Hardin