Where there's a will, there's a way

Wayward son

Things had changed in the childcare environment, the rules were more relaxed, and seeing as we were in all our teens, they actively encouraged us to spend weekends with our parents, but only if we wanted to.

Sometimes we’d reluctantly get farmed out to prospective foster parents. Some good, some bad, but mostly indifferent. Kind of makes you wonder why they bothered in the first f**king place.

Scum-sucking bottom feeders (sorry, I meant to say religious groups) always seemed to want to spend time with us as well, but we were too smart for that s**t.

If I was at mom's, rather than at a mate's place, she doted on me. She gave me enough rope to hang myself, and I came really close, way too many times. In hindsight (and with hindsight being the wonderful thing that it is) the time I spent at mom’s was probably the worst thing that could have happened to a smart, streetwise, young teenager.

If I wasn’t slinking through the streets late at night, I’d be at either one, of two, tearoom bioscopes (bug houses), the Roxy or the Capri. They were both dark, dingy, decrepit, bug-infested cinemas (audience included). Getting in would cost you 15 or 25 cents, depending on your age, and you could buy sweets, ice cream, burgers, or hot dogs, if you were hungry. A feat only attempted by the brave or fearless few.

Ceiling fans, yes, air-con, not a chance. To make things even better, you could smoke inside. Back in those days (jeez, it makes me sound like a f**king dinosaur) the average working-class adult was a smoker. F**king great!

They showed movies all day and all night long, always a double feature. During my many visits to the Roxy and Capri, I got accosted by all sorts of oddballs, deviants, freaks, and weirdos. I was never really frightened though, but it sure as f**k made me pay attention, making me both cautious and cunning. I learned how to hustle while I was still a youngster, and I grew up real f**king quick. My threats to s***h anyone who came too close, with a carpet knife, probably helped as well.

Meanwhile, all my rich friends from school were fast asleep at home. Safe in the knowledge that if anything went wrong, their mom or dad would be there to take care of them. Was I jealous? Would I have liked to trade places with them? You can bet your last f**king cent, I would!

Mom could hardly be considered as an exemplary parent, not even on her best day. On my thirteenth birthday, she not only allowed me to, but actively encouraged me to drink as much beer as a young boy could, which was awesome. I couldn’t f**king believe my luck, but then it all went pear shaped.

The only thing I vividly recall about my birthday, was spending most of the night with my head in a bucket, puking my lungs out (that’s what it felt like anyway). A lesson well learned, you’d think, but oh no, mom’s plan backfired. It’s true, I never went anywhere near a beer again, not until I was in the army, but in the meantime, I developed a taste for hard liquor. Brandy became my first-choice drink.

Brandy & coke, and then, of course, I started trying other types of booze. I’d drink anything other than beer. In one of my dumb f**k moments, for a five-buck bet, I downed a small bottle of gin at a New Year’s Eve bash. It hadn’t even touched bottom before it came straight back up in a fountain of spew. I don’t drink gin to this day, or anything that smells of coconut, but that’s another story for another day.

As you know by now, mom officially worked as a cashier at the New Rand hotel, but I never really knew how she was making ends meet, couldn’t figure out why all these uncles would give me five bucks to f**k off for an hour or more. I just took the money, went out and spent it on doughnuts for my sisters, movie tickets and pinball for me. Excuse the pun, but I was having a ball.

The New Rand hotel was still Reggie’s local, mom’s ex-boyfriend, so he was still part of the scene all these years later, and now’s probably as good a time as any to talk about some of the things involving him and his crew. There were five of them if you excluded my dad.

Big Bill Grady was a man mountain. I saw a police officer break a wooden baton over Bill’s head with my own eyes, and instead of going down like a mere mortal would or should, he went f**king berserk, single-handedly upending a police van, and then proceeding to smash policemen about, as if they were a handful of bowling skittles. It took them a while, but with the help of several officers, they eventually managed to bundle him away.

The big guy was back with us the very next day, bloodied and bruised, but in one piece and in good spirits. The man was an animal and in the very distant future, we’d meet again, not him personally, but a younger, more volatile version of him. Same place, different time. I’m at mom’s work, still the New Rand, and this real, honest to god, larger than life Yank, walked in, loudly proclaiming that it was his intention to kick butt from ‘Monday to Saturday and that any and all takers were welcome.’

Without even stopping to think, Big Bill walked up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and as the Yank spun round, said to him “Hey Dude, my name’s Sunday,” and knocked him clean out. The man in question bounced off the wall like a f**king crash test dummy. I thought he was dead.

Next up, we’ve got the delightfully psychotic Meth brothers. They were both bouncers at the New Rand hotel. I witnessed one of them lying down next to a guy in the street and proceeding to beat the s**t out of him ‘cause he wouldn’t get up and fight.’ This was after knocking him down in the first f**king place.

Errol Moss was the fourth and last of them (excluding Reggie). Errol was the smallest by far and had gotten himself into some stupid argument with a bloke who had a broken foot. The bloke in question must have thought, hell, no one’s going to hurt me, not when I can’t defend myself. He even went as far as to say, “what you gonna do, break my other foot?”

Errol just f**king glared at him, and then stormed out without saying a word. Ten minutes later, he walked back in with this great big building block and dropped it on the bloke’s good foot. Job done. The Meth brothers were laughing so hard, I thought at least one of them was going to piss himself.

I don’t remember any incidents involving Reggie, other than one small altercation at the Smugglers Inn, when the five of them had a somewhat violent disagreement with a bunch of Japanese sailors.

After Reggie, mom's next boyfriend was Ricky, a car mechanic, who seemed like a nice enough guy. Always good to me and my sisters. But when it came to men, it appears that mom had a real good eye for useless, no-good, deadbeats, my own father included. Ricky ended up in jail on attempted r**e charges, not mom, but her best friend. He'd offered her a ride home. Surprise, surprise.

Tommy, a self-employed sign writer, followed soon after. Tommy and I never really gelled, but he made mom happy, even after she’d stabbed him a few times, and he was there until he died. Mom died soon after.