Early Transition to Nowhere in Particular (Excerpt 2 of 5) from "Looking through the Naked Window" (book 1 of the memoir)

Continuing on with this week's promotion of book one of my memoir series, Looking through the Naked Window, I bring to you passages from episode five.

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Gay. Hell, I didn't even know what I was feeling was called. I knew nothing about the subject of homosexuality. I just felt gay. And I suppose, to a certain extent, I was typical - almost stereotypical. I mean, I grew up listening to Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer, loved Disco, watched Cher, liked my mother's jewelry box and thought my sister, Anne, was a diva before I knew that word existed. I was certifiable and didn't even know why, where it came from or what it was called.

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Mrs. Davis, a short auburn colored woman, befriended me from down the street. She lived next door to Byron. She was an elderly, wise grandmother-type and she loved to cook. Well, that summer her husband died and she went through a bout of depression. Then, before I knew it, she invited me into her home one day when I went to see Byron, who was gone. So, I went in and helped her bake a cake. Actually, I helped by licking the bowl. I should have known then that I would battle weight, as an adult. Her cakes were phenomenal. They melted in my mouth like butter and were light as heaven. They were something that should have been in a recipe book.

Now, don't get me wrong my mother was, and still is, my favorite all-time cook in the world. Not everyone can say that about their Mom's cooking. My stomach and I were blessed by her cooking and I still miss it, but have the memories. However, Mrs. Davis' cakes looked like works of art and I really think I cheered her up. She even befriended my dad, swearing she had to have his permission for me to come over and help her. She capped off my stay at that east side neighborhood on a good note and I have never forgotten her wit, wisdom and incredible strength of will. She was an angel on earth.

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Then, we moved to St. Hedwig Street on the west side. It was the end of a hot July. I had learned a lot. I had begun to blossom, but quickly grew uncomfortable around my new neighborhood. It was a culture shock to say the least. It was a predominantly Polish and Hispanic neighborhood. The only good thing about it was that we lived across the street from the school. No more buses. The eighth grade came and went in a flash. I reverted back to my shy ways.

It was safer for me.

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In my life, I have always been weary of men who pass themselves off as "straight" by talking about ‘fags’ and such by trying to make them selves look stronger by putting us down. Trying to make us look like sissies, when they themselves are two steps out of a bugle-beaded, evening gown and lip-synching their favorite Carol Channing show tune. Bastards! They are the fags! They'd call me faggot and get all ill tongued and foul-mouthed with me. They'd want me to put my lips on their body and my face where the sun never shines. They'd make me touch them and they, in turn, would touch me. Think it's distasteful the way of how I am expressing my feelings, right now? I have years of rage inside of me from matters less offensive.

I felt violated living through it. Older men's hands touched me. They forced kisses and fondled my genitalia. I have cried myself to sleep many nights. I look at relationships as toxic - to this day - because, like my sister, I believe men are good for only one thing and one thing alone and most of them aren't that good at that either. They may think they work it good in bed, but I beg to differ with most of them. He had no right to touch me. Neither did any of the numerous unidentified males of my adolescence - young or old, black or white. My body was supposed to be a temple. At that time, I thought - no more being svelte. No more being modest and healthy. I used to have a cute shape. It was very appealing to the guys I would end up being toyed around by. So, I fattened up and have struggled with weight since. Yes. I admit it is an excuse, but it did work by turning some of them off. Over the years, fewer hands touch on me. Now I only have hands that touch me when I want them to. But the damage has been done.

~~~~~

It was very quiet... at that moment. Mom was humming... You could hear Dad singing happily under his breath... I interrupted the calm, quiet by running water over the potatoes Mom just peeled... Spot, our dog, was cheerfully wagging about... What was wrong with this picture? This wasn’t normal for us. We were becoming the perfect little family with the perfect little dog and this perfect little home… Bump grandfather clocks and family outings… Shit – it was unbelievable. I hadn’t gotten a whipping in over a year. Mom wasn’t being as bitchy as she had been year’s earlier, hell she was even chipper these days after losing like fifty pounds… We were becoming happy… and what the hell was wrong with that?

What was gonna spoil that apple cart, you could wonder…

Slow motion.

In an instant it happened. Could have taken my breath away it happened so dammed fast. I turned the water off… All you could hear was my parent’s humming/Spot panting/Water dripping from the potatoes in the colander…

CLICK!

B-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Crash.........................................

The kitchen window shattered. Mom fell to the floor. Dad, out of his chair, was running down the stairs faster than a track star. I crept shakily over to what used to be the kitchen window, only to see Mr. and Mrs. Z.’s house completely leveled. I helped Mom up onto her feet... She ran back to her bedroom (the first time I ever saw my mother run). I stood still. Then I surveyed where my Dad had gone... Looked out on the back porch – part of Mr. and Mrs. Z’s house was in OUR backyard.

I looked out the window again and saw one, single HUMONGOUS flame seductively licking the side of our house... I heard screaming from outside. The smell was terrible. I yelled for my mother. We had to get out of there! I was shaking. She came out of her room. We grabbed each other's hands and made our journey down the smoke-filled stairs to the back yard.
"SPOT!" She screamed.

We forgot our pet. I ran back up to get him. I came back out with dog in tow much more shaken, as I had seen the innards of our home being destroyed. I nearly cut my own throat by almost walking into a fallen electrical wire. Thank God my mother woke me up with a quick, blunt slap across the face - the one time I appreciated her slapping me, as it saved my neck, literally.

Then she cried, defeated, "What are we going to do?"

"Where's your father?"

We questioned... We were sure he was trying to help the firemen find Mr. and Mrs. Z. It was loud and crazy furious. This kid walked by us and said Dad had gotten caught in between the houses.

It looked like a war zone...

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Looking through the Naked Window: The Restoration Chronicles (Volume 1) is available in both Paperback and Kindle Editions for purchase at http://www.amazon.com/Looking-through-Naked-Window-Restoration/dp/1484950933/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

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