teens

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rudy and the belt

IMG_2614Something happened at dinner, some kind of confrontation. Maybe it was something he did, maybe it was his brother, or maybe his mom was in a bad mood because of something that happened to her during the day. But, it didn’t matter the reason  because all Rudy knew was he was in big trouble.

He left the table, said he was going to go to the room downstairs, had to get out of there, away from the negativity. His mom didn’t let it go that easy. She grabbed a belt and followed him down the stairs, down to where the guests stayed and where she did the laundry.

His mom wrapped the belt tightly around her wrist, around her hand, leaving just enough leather to whip him. Rudy surprised her by grabbing the belt and yanking it away from her, saying he wasn’t going to take spankings anymore. That he was beyond too old for such discipline. That didn’t stop his angry mother. She grabbed a piece of wood, determined to make a point. But, that too, he pried from her hands. And then he walked away, walked back upstairs, up into his own room, and locked the door. And out of anger, he smashed some glass, breaking apart the bottom half of an otherwise functional slated glass window.

He could hear his mom on the phone, the phone right next to his bedroom, calling his dad, telling him how awful Rudy was behaving, how out of control he was. Rudy’s dad listened to his wife, told her he’d be right home, that he just needed to say goodnight to the client he was having dinner with.

He heard his dad approach, and opened his bedroom door when asked to do so. Rudy’s dad asked him what was going on, what happened. Rudy began by apologizing for breaking the window, but then he told his dad he didn’t do anything wrong, he didn’t know what his mom was so mad about, and that in no way, no how was he going to let his mom spank him with a belt. “I am 15 years old,” Rudy told his dad. “Enough is enough.” His dad wasn’t angry. Didn’t try to dispute Rudy. He simply listened, then nodded. Then his dad walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

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empty-nesting

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Our nest was empty today.

And it felt sort of like when Rudy lived in Arkansas.

And I lived here, in California.

So many days came and went.

Both of us experiencing life without the other.

Mostly, only words said how we felt, or what we were thinking.

Gestures and body language played an intermitent role in our relationship.

Those are days that will forever be distant.

Days that cannot be redone.

Days that are, thank goodness, over.

But.

Today.

I am reminded of those distant days.

Because.

Here I am. Here we are.

In the house. Together.

Without kids.

No one is mumbling on the phone with friends.

No one is singing along to the lyrics booming from a computer.

No one is chatting. Talking about a day in the life of.….

And it hits me.

Both softly and a bit aggressively.

That life will be sort-of-like-yet-not-exactly-like-but-in-a-way-it-will-be-sliced-up-similar-to when Rudy lived there and I lived here.

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boys of summer, too

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Brad, once again, asked if he could go the beach with a different set of friends than those from the boys of summer at Arch Rock in Corona del Mar. And once again I said sure. This time he was heading to Huntington Beach to partake in the festivities planned for the last day of the US Open of Surfing.

The enormous crowd of people was overwhelming. Bare and flip-flopped feet seemed to cover every inch of the paved and sandy ground. Yet, under the heat of the sun, everyone seemed to be anticipating an awesome day. Fist bump greetings and smiling faces filled the area near Main Street, directly across from Huntington’s famous pier.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic, though, was not cool, so as I neared the boys’ destination, I told them to jump out here! In the middle of traffic. They did. Quickly. Yelling, thanks for the ride! as I maintained my stationary position. I waved, unsure if they even noticed my farewell as they were swallowed by the crowd.

As the day at the beach neared its end, as I was driving down Pacific Coast Highway, and noticed a few helicopters circling above, Brad called. Mom! There’s a riot going on here. On Main Street! After his brief explanation of what had happened I found myself, once again, tangled up with all the other vehicles in the area. I had to back track, go behind the main area so that I could find Brad and his pals on the other side of the action. Cruising along, snail-like, my jaw dropped, taking in the sight of the two rows of cops, 15-20 in each row, that I had to drive through. Brad wasn’t kidding! I mumbled to no one.  The officers were brandishing weapons of all sorts, blocking the line of cars from turning left or right onto Main Street, and also keeping an eye on all the pedestrians that were hanging around.

A bit intimidating, I admit.

The further I drove the heavier the crowd. People yelling, screaming, hoot and hollering. People caught up in the energy of the riot, saying that it was the cops fault, that they ruined everything by shooting tear-gas pellets into the crowd. When in fact, it was a fight that broke out. Some guys trying to up one another. Then other drunk and and not so drunk people started jumping in. Fighting. Arguing. Ironically, the cops used the tear-gas as a last ditch effort to dispel the chaos. They were hoping to regain control of an out-of-control situation. But it didn’t work. People became even more heated. People were nowhere near settling down.

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The boys jumped into the car, energized. I’m so hyper right now!, one of them yelled. Oh, my god, dude, that was so crazy! another added. And on it went during the ride home. Boys who got caught up in the energy of the night. The craziness of it all. They even fashioned masks made from their t-shirts wrapped around their faces, so they could breathe without sucking in the chemically induced tear-gas. As usual, I simply listened, occasionally asked a question – which they were more than happy to answer – and embraced the fact they were safe.

Yikes! I sighed under my breath.

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boys of summer

Recently Bradford asked if he could go to the beach with a few friends, just to hang out.

“Yea, sure,” I responded.

He’s thirteen, soon to be 14 years old. An age where the strings begin to loosen, allowing him to explore his world without mommy and daddy constantly breathing down his neck.

“Cool, thanks Mom. And don’t worry, I will be safe. I will check in with you regularly,” Brad tells me, knowing I need that peace of mind.

Later. Much later, after the sun had set and the day’s activities had been expended, Brad told me about Arch Rock in Corona del Mar, California; a natural structure within the confines of a private beach, solely for those multimillionaires who could afford such a lifestyle.

“Nice. You climbed it, then jumped?” I asked.

“Yep. So cool!”

“But, wait, you said you were at a private beach? How’d you get in?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Oh, well, we dodged a security guard and jumped the gate!”

Gulp! But, I figured the day was done, and lecturing, at this point wasn’t going to happen, not when, at that moment, I really was more interested in Arch Rock.

“Pictures?” I inquired.

Brad shoved his phone towards me, pictures ready to be browsed through.

“Oh, Arch Rock is HUGE!” I exclaimed.

“I know, right? It was awesome!”

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size

Image

he had barely joined the ranks

as a teenager

when he walked into his favorite skater store

strolling along, passing shirts, pants, and boards

heading straight to the shoe arena

where he browsed, walked back and forth, inspecting various styles

until he made his choice.

so, he grabbed the single shoe off the wall display

and sat and waited for someone to help him.

hey, man, what can i help you with?, a young guy asked.

in response he casually answered

can i get these in a size 11? 

not realizing the impact that question would have on an older guy sitting nearby

the one who jerked his head in the young boy’s direction, observing his big feet.

then, he looked down at his own feet

and quietly, so very quietly, asked for his shoe choice in a pint size

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kissed

kissing

He stood there. Looking at her. And she stood there. Looking at him. I thought you were going to do it, her friend challenged her. So she leaned in and kissed him. On the cheek. And, well, he returned the affection, kissing her cheek, gently. Then she and her friend walked away. She slowly turned back, toward him. And smiled. He smiled back.

Not five minutes had passed when she returned. She stood in front of him. They looked at each other. Go on, her friend encouraged. She closed her lips. Puckered them. And closed her eyes. He responded. He, too, formed his lips into a kissable formation. But he didn’t close his eyes. He wanted to see it happen. Their lips carefully pressed against each other. And, slowly, they backed away from one another. He looked at her. He smiled. She looked at him. She smiled. And then, again, she walked away with her friend. Never looking back. He watched her go. A dreamlike expression plastered on his face.

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job

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You are 16 years old. The age of first time employment. So independent. So fun.

Until. Someone with your same last name makes some big mistakes. Money mistakes.

And. Unknown by you. It’s your name that gets marked. As in strikes against your work ethics.

Over time. Not too much time, though. You get called into the manager’s office. Told your register was under the receipt amount. How can that be? you wonder aloud.

But you assume he doesn’t care. Or just doesn’t want to listen to your excuses. (Which aren’t even excuses. just facts).

But.

Because.

You have so many demerits next to your name, the assumption is you are not a good employee at all. So you’re fired.

Later. Months later. The person with your same last name mentions that you got in trouble because of her. But she neglected to say anything because she needed the job. Even though you did too.

You will forever believe that it was another employee who, for whatever reason, sabotaged you. By stealing cash from your work station that particular night. Let you take the blame and lose your money making employment.

And to this day. Whenever you think of your first job.

Other than the memories of eating a fish filet on your break, greeting customers who went to school with you, and having a crush on the nice, young manager (not the one who fired you), all you recall is being told to turn in your greasy uniform. And don’t come back.

Then you smile, because you really don’t care. And probably never did.