Painful Looks (Final repost)

I.

I was only twelve the first time I had an altercation with law enforcement. I remember riding my bike back to my friend’s house on an icy cold night. My friend and I had earlier had a little too much to drink, and it wasn’t soda. We took a long time getting home and even longer sneaking back into my friend’s house. We were unsuccessful; my friend’s dad caught us. I recall only bits and pieces of what happened next, but I do remember that the cops were called, and I do remember the fighting and yelling, and I clearly recall the arrival of the police. I remember there being a lot of people, not faces but voices, a deafening clash of sounds that fought each other for superiority as I tried to single out what my fate would be. Out of the clatter there came an officer who became my focal point in the sea of chaos around me. He looked me up and down and didn’t say one word, just looked at me. I don’t know how this man made all the noise stop, how his very presence made the world stop spinning; he was something solid in a world of wavering vision. He asked me a question, and even though this man caused all other sound in my world to stop, I cannot recall hearing what he said. I just looked at him; and he at me, stuck with me in a sudden world of silence. He reached out and spoke again, and again I did not catch what he said. Without my permission I found my hand reaching up to his. He gave me a piece of paper, turned and walked out. I was left without an understanding of what he had said to me. I was left with just a piece of paper and some questions.

I remember the ticket he handed me, yellow, folded, red and black print. The print was blurry, so I gave up on reading it and looked around to see why it was still so quiet. I don’t recall handing that paper to anyone, but somehow I found it again in the hand of my mother. And when she spoke there was no confusion in the meaning of her words. “Get up, and get home now!” she said. She could have said this in Latin or ancient Greek and I would have understood. I did not hesitate; I was on my feet and out of that house as fast as I could manage.

I know that the walk we had to make was only a couple houses down the block, but it seemed much farther when walking with an irate and very hurt mother. During this walk I experienced pain just by looking in someone’s eyes. That is what is most clear in my mind, the expression of utter disappointment and hurt on my mom’s face. The pain it caused me cut me deep, leaving a wound that I would aggravate many times later in life. That was the first time I ever had seen that look, but it wasn’t the last.

II.

At the start of my High School years, my friends and I wanted to go to the mountains and party, but we wanted to party in a new way. So the five us loaded up in a car and went straight to an area we knew. We brought with us a newer type of party that we had discovered, a new experience that we wanted to share together.

When we reached our destination we were both excited and scared. We had tried these before but never in the mountains! What would happen? What might we see in the camp fire? How might we act so far from cities? People? Police? We thought nothing could stop us. Or so we thought. We didn’t even get out of the car before the police cruisers surrounded us. We never had a chance.

How did they find us? What’s going on? How did they know? These thoughts spun through my head like a revolving door as they pulled us from the car one by one. I was the youngest and therefore separated from my friends. They continued to keep me apart from them; I was so shocked and confused. Where did they come from? What’s going to happen? How am I going to tell my parents? That was the primary process of my thoughts, one more than most: How am I going to tell my parents? How am I going to tell my parents?

As it turns out that was the one question that was answered for me. I was taken to their little station and put into a holding cell by myself. I can recall that cell: brown carpet, light blue cinder block walls, dirty white ceiling, narrow window that they looked through to check on me every so often. But most of all I remember how cold it was in there. When the officer came in, he looked at me with a smug and overly satisfied expression. I remember thinking about that expression. It was like he had caught a murderer or something. When he spoke his voice matched his expression. “I contacted your father,” he says to me. “He sounded really upset. Said he would be here to get you as soon as he could.” This is when his smile got deeper, “How’s that make you feel? To know that your father has to drive for an hour or so in the middle of the night to come get you?” I was silent, not wanting to show this man that he hit the nail on the head. I must have been unsuccessful, because he shut the door laughing and walked away with a lighter step. It was as though twisting the knife was the bonus to his night. There I sat already wounded and scared, and dreading the confrontation that is to come.

It really didn’t seem like an hour before I walked from my blue cell, down a white hall and right in to my dad’s care. Dad looked at me for just a moment before returning his attention to the police Sergeant who was explaining the circumstances for me and my friends. He listened to all the man had to say, grabbed the paperwork and bid the police farewell.

The drive home was the rough part. When my dad had me alone in the car, it wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t say much at first, just kept his attention on the road and off of me. About half way out of the mountains he turned and looked at me. And it was a look so familiar, a look that ripped open the scar from when I was twelve. I had seen this look before, first from my mother and now from my father. He followed the look with a barrage of admonishments: “What the hell were you thinking!” “How could you be so stupid?” This is what I most remember hearing on that ride home, but what I was still thinking about and what I was feeling was the pain of the scar that was just reopened.

III.

It’s Friday, payday, and I just worked thirteen hours and am ready to relax with some friends. As I sit down to write my time sheets, my boss approaches me. He says, “Hey Frankie! We’re heading out to the bar to grab some beers. After you’re done you should come join us.” I smile, tell him to count on it and get back to writing with new vigor. I can’t wait to go join in some fun and let the day’s hardships wash away with a drink.

I pull up to the bar, and see that it’s not just my boss Vince, but also Richard, Holly, and Moe. Whenever we are all together, it always leads to good times. My heart soars; I smile even more and walk in with a swagger. We start off by ordering a pitcher of beer each, and set to them like starving wolves on a newly found meal. We move into our joking and playing time. We laugh, shout, jest and dance for quite a few hours before our days start to catch up with us.

Holly is the first to say, “I don’t know about you guys but morning comes real early for me.”

Vince, Richard and I snicker as Vince says, “You start work at nine. By then we will have been working for four hours.” This he says as another pitcher is delivered to us.

“You go on and get some beauty sleep; looks like you need some.” Richard says.

Vince and I are spouting twin streams of beer as we choke with laughter from Richards’ drunken wit. And as we choke and gag with mirth Moe stands and walks over to Holly and says, “There’s a little too much testosterone here for one woman to handle. I’m leaving with you.”

We guys leave it at that. We hug and say our goodbyes to the girls and sit to finish our drinks. We talk about work and shoot pool for another couple hours before the day starts to wear me down. As I return from the bathroom with the intent of excusing myself for home, I find that another pitcher is waiting at the table and Vince already has the cups filled. So I sit and join them for one last round.

When I am putting on my jacket Richard asks, “You okay to drive, bud?” I assure him that I am fine and that I will see him bright and early in the morning. I say my goodnights to Vince, Richard, the older bartender, and the cute waitress, pay my bill and head out to my truck.

When I climb in my Toyota I realize that I am pretty drunk. I take my time and get everything in order so I can put my full attention on the road. I fasten my seatbelt, set the mirrors and radio to comfortable positions, start my truck and pulled out of my parking spot.

That is all I remember until I am climbing out of my truck at Taco Bell for a meal my stomach so badly needs. As I walk toward the building I hear a man say, “Sir, can you come back here for a minute?” I stop and turn to see if the voice is addressing me. I see a cop car with the lights flashing and a police officer definitely looking at me.

“Is this your vehicle, sir?” he asks.

“Yes,”

“Sir, are you aware that you struck a light pole on the highway just now?”

“Wasn’t me,”

“Look at the front end of your truck,” he suggests.

As I walk over to look at my truck I realize that I may be wrong. The front end is crushed in, the windshield is broken and the hard shell over the bed is cracked in half. I stare at it dumbfounded, the officer moves behind me and says, “Put your hands behind your back please, sir.” I obey without thought, and as I do I realize that my forehead really hurts. He bends me over the crumpled hood of my truck; I feel I tickle go down my forehead, past my eye brows, down the ridge of my nose and I watch my blood drip on to my hood. I am focused not on the drops of blood nor the ruined hood of my vehicle; instead, I’m seeing my reflection in the paint, and I’m hurting as the realization of what I had done becomes clear. As I think of it again I feel the blood flowing, only it’s not from the wound on my head; it’s from the reopened scar on my heart, the scar that won’t ever heal, the scar that hurts the most.

IV.

It’s my friend’s wedding, and I’m dressed nicely and really excited. We are done with the wedding, itself, and have moved on to the dinner and after party. I really love my friends, because they thought of everything. They chose our tuxedos, what courses we would have at dinner, and they even thought far enough ahead to pay for the open bar. What I recall best about the wedding is a group of friends, drinking, laughing, cheering, and celebrating the union of two of our own.

That is also one of the last things I remember about the actual wedding. After that my mind is blank; I can recall only bits and pieces:

I’m out in the golf course arguing with my friends.

Now I’m walking through the golf course. I’m angry, but I do not know why.

I am wondering why my feet hurt and why I have no shoes. How did I get here under the highway a mile from the golf course?

And now only darkness.

I hear voices. They sound hurried and urgent. I cannot understand them. They seem loud and clear, but the words mean nothing to me. I try to move, but I can’t; something is holding me down! I panic and sit up yelling. I’m pulling with my hands trying to free myself. I can’t! I’m scared now. I look around. Everything is blurry and white; the sources of light are numerous and bright. “Where am I? Why am I tied up? Please someone help!” I say. Only my words are not comprehensible. I am uttering grunts and groans, complete babble to those listening. I start to thrash wildly for freedom. I want to go home.

As I am thrashing a pair of hands shoot out of nowhere and grab me by the sides of my face. They turn my head to make me see the only clear image I have seen since my awakening in this situation. I am looking at the eyes of a woman. Experience, knowledge and command look back at me. She holds my head still with the grip of a titan, forcing me to keep my eyes locked on hers. She speaks, and for the first time the voices make sense to me. “Your skull is fractured and you are bleeding on the brain. You need to lie back down and stay still so we can work on you.” She says this in a voice that is not harsh or scalding, but in a tone that tells me that this is no time to argue. As I lean back her hands never leave my face. She guides me back to a gentle landing on the pillow behind me. Once again the noise stops, the lights dim, and the darkness settles over me.

I wake up knowing only what the lady the night before had told me. I am in a hospital; I’m injured somehow and the injury is serious. As I look around I realize that I am not alone. In the corner a nurse is writing on a clipboard unaware that I am awake.

“What happened?” I say.

“Oh, you’re back,” she says as she walks forward and begins to look in my eyes with her flash light. “Where should I start? You came in three days ago. You had gotten into a fight with some police officers, and I would say you lost. When we received you, you were in bad shape. You had a cracked skull and were bleeding on the brain. We had to run CAT scans every three hours to make sure the bleeding had stopped, and we weren’t going to have to operate. You also had a broken nose, cracked wrist and sternum, none of which is bad enough to require a cast. You also have numerous scrapes and cuts from being wrestled to the ground. Now that you are awake we will look into getting you discharged and released into police custody.”

As she was saying this to me I was looking past her at the mirror on the wall. Beyond all the cuts and scrapes, the black and purple head and the now crooked nose, I was looking at the eyes of that reflection. In those eyes I saw the look I had seen so many times before. Only this time it wasn’t the pain I had caused someone else that looked back at me; it was my own pain I saw in those eyes.

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