I returned home elated. I had a job and would soon be able to afford whatever I wanted. The future was wide open and my mind was filled with possibilities. Reality would soon smash my youthful idealism.
When I arrived at five I was told that I was the new busboy. My uniform was an apron that looked as if it might have once been white in previous years. I distinctly remember using my fingernail to scrape off pieces of eggshell that were cemented to the front of it. After putting it on I was shown to the kitchen, where I witnessed a vision from the very bowels of hell.
This restaurant was the only place on earth I’ve seen that was filthier than prison. You could have literally vomited on the floor and no one would have noticed it. They would have stepped over the puddle and kept right on walking. The place was family-owned, and the family consisted of a father, mother, and three children. The hunchback who hired me was the father.
The mother was a 250-pound lump who never made eye contact with anyone and never spoke a word. She was filthy from laboring day and night in this kitchen. The three children—two boys and a girl—were hell spawn. The youngest, a boy about two years old, wore nothing but a pair of filth-caked underpants. The older son, who was about three or four, usually wore shorts but no shirt or shoes. The little girl couldn’t have been older than five, and she wore a set of superhero-themed underwear and T-shirt every day. All three had crud-smeared faces, runny noses, and tangled hair.
The kids had to be kept in the kitchen and out of sight of any customers at all times. They weren’t even allowed to use the restroom. Instead, they used a five-gallon bucket with a toilet seat balanced precariously atop it. This meant there was a five-gallon bucket of shit and piss sitting right in the middle of the kitchen at any given time.
The kitchen itself looked much like a room from the house in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The walls were greasy and stained black from smoke, the countertops looked like tiny garbage barges, and the entire place carried the aroma of rotting fish. As a matter of fact, my first task was to clean about ten pounds of spoiled fish out of the sink, which I did while swallowing my own vomit. More than once I walked in to find the mother giving one of the kids a bath in one side of the sink as fish fillets or crab legs soaked in the other half. On my first night, I moved a large bag of cornmeal only to discover a large rat nursing a litter of hairless pink babies.
I had been working there about three weeks when several of the other workers showed up at my door. They said they had to round everyone up and get to work quickly because someone had called the health department and they were coming to inspect the place. We cleaned, scrubbed, and hauled garbage from two-thirty in the afternoon until after eleven that night and still seemed no closer to making the place presentable. At that point I knew I couldn’t take this for another second. I stood before the hunchback with my clothes looking as if they had been plucked from a dumpster and every inch of my body covered in sludge, filth, and crud that defied any attempt at description. I told him that I was going home and would not be returning. I couldn’t escape that place in my nightmares, though. I dreamed about it much longer than I worked there.
* * *
Brian and I began to drift apart once we started school again. One reason was that I had once again failed and would be spending another year as a freshman. This meant I’d be celebrating my seventeenth birthday in the ninth grade. Coincidentally, one of my childhood heroes had managed to do the same. His name was Andy, and he was the only guy in eighth grade with a five-o’clock shadow. He paid no mind to trends or changing fashions; he always wore jeans with the knees ripped out and a battered green army jacket. He had shoulder-length black hair and wore a long, dangling earring that looked like a crucifix. Andy was the most laid-back guy in the school, and he’d either sleep through every class or draw. Nobody messed with him, and he didn’t mess with anyone. During the summer Brian and I had gotten rides from his little sister, Dawn, who was our age. She loved both of us, and was great just because she was so normal. She didn’t care about high school politics and didn’t fit into any particular group. She also consumed more vodka than a teenage girl should be able to.
Brian advanced to tenth grade and grew closer to the freak crowd. I completely quit skating and became what people now call “goth,” though I had never heard the word, and there were no goths in our school. I did what I did because it was aesthetically pleasing to me. In addition to Slayer, Testament, and Metallica, my musical taste expanded to include things like Danzig, The Misfits, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Depeche Mode. All the old skateboarding posters disappeared from my room and were replaced with old prints I found in odd books. Most of them looked a great deal like images from Goya’s etchings and sketches. I caught a couple of filthy, vindictive pigeons and allowed them to fly around the room as they pleased.
I spent much less time with Brian and found myself falling back into the old patterns Jason and I had established. Brian was becoming much more melancholy. One day in the fall we found ourselves standing on Ashley’s street. He was looking at her house, lost in thought, when he asked, “Do you miss it?” I knew exactly what he was talking about, but still asked what he meant. “The way things were during the summer.”
I said, “No,” and realized it was true. Of all the people, times, places, and things in my life that make me nostalgic, that was not one of them. By that time I had other things on my mind. I was in my first real relationship.
Ten
My sister could not sing to save her life, but that never stopped her from trying. The problem was that every song sounded the same as the last one when it came from her mouth. My mother said it was because she was hard of hearing, but I have my doubts. I’m more inclined to believe it was simply a lack of talent, but no mother wants to tell her daughter she sounds like a bag of cats being beaten with a stick. Michelle was allowed to join the school choir only because the policy was to refuse no one who signed up.
The choir director had thought it a good idea to hold the first concert less than two weeks after the beginning of the school year. My sister put on her best dress and my mother prepared to drive her to the gymnasium and stay to watch the show. Normally I had no interest in extracurricular activities, especially if it was a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls caterwauling their way through “Amazing Grace,” but that night something compelled me. At the very last minute I decided to go along.
When we pulled into the parking lot, my mother, sister, and Jack all hustled inside to take their places. I stayed outside for a while longer, dragging my feet and exchanging words with people I recognized. There’s something very odd about being on a school campus at night. It doesn’t feel the way it usually does. It’s an entirely different place, and there’s a crackle of excitement in the air. I was feeling this more than thinking it as I finally made my way to the gym.
I could hear the piano playing and people singing as I approached the building. There was a greasy yellow light shining through the front windows that suddenly made me feel as though winter had arrived, even with the temperature close to eighty degrees. When I pulled the front door open and stepped into the foyer, the click of my boot heels on the hard tile only increased the winter feeling.
Ten feet in front of me were two large wooden doors that covered the entryway into the main part of the gym. There was a girl standing with her eye pressed to the crack between the doors, looking in. Her back was to me. When she heard me enter she let the door slip closed and turned to ask, “Would you like a program, sir?” She grinned at me like she knew something amusing I didn’t. Not a smile, a grin.
I’ve thought about it since, and there’s a difference. A person smiles when they’re happy. A smile indicates warmth and friendliness. A grin is a whole different animal. A grin implies pleasure. A person who grins is usually someone who is being pleased, even if it’s your misfortune that pleases them. My grandmother used to say that when I grinned you could see the devil dancing in my eyes. That’s what I saw that night�
�the devil dancing. It wasn’t a waltz, either. More like a mosh pit.
The girl had skin as white as my own and shoulder-length hair that was just as black as mine, with no help from dye. (Over the years many sources have erroneously stated that I dyed my hair black. That is indeed its natural color.) She was wearing a pair of slacks that were so tight many would call them vulgar, and a low-cut blouse one could only say matched the slacks. She had a handful of programs for the choir concert, and I refused the one she offered.
I never went in to see the choir that night. Instead I stayed out in the lobby with this girl who reeked of sex. It emanated from her like static electricity and was present in every gesture—the way she stood too close and looked up at me, the way she hooked her arm through mine, and cocked her hip to the side as she talked. She didn’t seem to be able to control it, like a cat in heat. It wasn’t me that brought out this behavior—it was any man. I spent the evening entertaining her, and the sound of her laughter twice brought someone to the door to cast us a warning glance.
Her name was Deanna, and she informed me that if I’d bothered to look back I would have seen her in at least three of my classes. I didn’t understand how I could have sat in the same room with her for almost two weeks and never even registered her presence. We had lunch together every day after that night. We sat alone at our own table at first, and gradually a small but loyal group of people formed around us—other couples, two younger guys who had started trying to dress like me, and a large gentleman by the name of Joey, who claimed to be my “bodyguard.”
In the evenings I often went to Deanna’s house. Her family was very pleasant, a proper and quiet southern family. They invited me into their home and allowed me to take part in their routine. Sometimes we’d watch movies, play games, or listen to music. Nothing harder than country music was allowed in the house, and watching MTV was an offense that would get Deanna and her two sisters grounded. Deanna’s parents could be very strict and even intolerant at times. After all the bad stuff went down, I thought they were evil tyrants who wanted to force religion down the throats of their children while ruling them with an iron fist. I still believe that’s an accurate picture in many ways, and I often heard Deanna make declarations of hatred against her mother, but all the years that have passed have given me a new perspective. They were looking out for their children in the best way they knew. I can see both sides of the coin now.
In the beginning they accepted me as family. I didn’t realize the honor I was receiving, because I’d never known anything like it before. I’d never met a girlfriend’s family. Every time there was a family gathering I was invited. It was so long ago that most of the memories have faded away and only the feeling remains. I can recall only a few of the more powerful ones. I remember being at their Christmas party, where Deanna gave me a stuffed gorilla and a tin of Hershey’s Kisses. We sat next to the fireplace eating chocolate while the rest of the family laughed and celebrated all around us.
Deanna was secretly a pagan, she told me quite soon after we met. What was called a witch in the old days. A Wiccan. I had never before heard the term. All that I knew of “witches” was what I had read in the old books that said they flew to meetings where they danced with the devil and cursed crops or caused babies to be born with birthmarks. I knew only the nonsense—that all religions outside Christianity are at best misguided, and at worst, satanic—passed down by the Catholic Church and the Inquisition. She kept a small green diary filled with all sorts of things: names of ancient, pre-Christian goddesses; plants and their medicinal purposes; and prayers written in flowery verse.
This was just before Wicca exploded in popularity (and notoriety) in the United States. Now there are many books written on the subject every year, and it is recognized by the United States Department of Defense as a valid religion. Times have changed. Back then I had no idea that such a religion existed. I was amazed and flabbergasted.
I began doing my own research into Wicca, reading about it and even meeting a group of local teens who were followers of the religion. They were a good source of information, but I couldn’t stand being around them. They were all extremely flaky and melodramatic. I felt embarrassed for them, as they didn’t have the sense to realize how socially inept they were. Wicca is a beautiful religion in theory, but I distanced myself from anything to do with it because I couldn’t take the people. Many of them are people in their thirties who still try to live and behave like teenagers. Wicca seems to draw a great many people who cannot or will not grow up.
It did serve as a springboard into other areas of knowledge later, though. I’ve since learned much more about Kabbalah, Hinduism, Buddhism, meditation, yoga, the tarot, Theosophy, Tantra, Taoism, the Rosicrucians, the Knights Templar, and the Hermetic practices of the Golden Dawn. At the time, I couldn’t get enough, and devoured what I could on Wicca. I found it infinitely fascinating for a great while, not knowing my curiosity and interest would one day be used against me in court.
The beginning of the end came when Deanna’s parents found out we’d been having sex. We would get away with it for a while, but a simple mistake gave us away.
The very first time, we planned it out. When she was dropped off at school I was there to meet her. We immediately left and walked to my place. We took a back path, following railroad tracks that kept us out of view of passing cars but also tripled the distance we had to cover. It took an hour to get there, and when we arrived we went straight into my room, where we stayed for the rest of the day. My mother and Jack both knew, but neither cared. Fittingly enough, the sound track that played in the background was Suicidal Tendencies singing “How Will I Laugh Tomorrow When I Can’t Even Smile Today?” This became our routine.
We’d been together for most of a year when the slip occurred. The problem was that one day we arrived back at school a few minutes later than normal, and her bus had already left. I had no idea, so I left her there and returned home. She had to walk home. Her mother asked her why she hadn’t told someone in the front office, so she could have gotten a ride. Instead of giving the typical teenage response of “I don’t know,” she said she had told someone, and they refused to help. Her mother promptly went to the school to complain, only to discover that her daughter had not been in school that day. That’s when the proverbial shit hit the fan.
After Deanna told her mother the entire story, she was forbidden to ever have anything to do with me. She wasn’t even allowed to speak to me. They couldn’t stop us during school hours, but they made it impossible for us to meet once she was at home. I tried, though. I tried everything I could think of, but they weren’t stupid. They even informed school officials to call them if she was ever absent from school.
We tried to work it out for months, but her parents were relentless, and it was like beating our heads against a wall. Early one foggy, gray morning Deanna met me and said she couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t take the pressure her family was putting on her, so she was breaking up with me. This was the last thing I was expecting to hear, because all we had talked about were ways to make it work. We had never even discussed the alternative. I was in shock, and my mind was having trouble comprehending her words. When the pain came it was like being stabbed in the chest with a blade of ice. I said nothing, so there wasn’t a great deal of talking. She severed everything as quickly as a razor. “I can’t do this anymore.”
I turned and wandered away like someone who’d been in an accident. “Wander” is the perfect word for what I did, because I didn’t really go anywhere. I just walked. Walked and walked and walked. It would become a hobby for me. I was the Forrest Gump of Arkansas.
The nights were the worst. Every night I’d wake up racked with sobs because of the dreams. It was the same general dream, with slight variations: Deanna comes to me and says it was all a mistake, that she’s back now and the hurt will all be gone. Each one seemed so real that waking up would drive me almost to the point of madness.
In addition to h
aving to deal with this, I had to deal with Jack, who had quit his job and was always home. Not only did he never leave the house, he never left the couch. He festered with hatred and made everyone’s life miserable. The only time he spoke was to spew venom at someone, and he and my mother fought constantly. She complained of a new ailment every week because the stress was wearing her down. Jack always managed to make us the most miserable when it was time for supper. He’d sit at the table with a hateful expression on his face, daring anyone to speak. I just tried to stay out of his way, but it was impossible. He made sure everyone was as miserable as he was. It was hard to swallow a single bite, much less make it through an entire meal, when he was present. My sister later claimed that he molested her during this period, but I wasn’t aware of it at the time.
I stayed out as much as possible. I didn’t really care where I was; I just drifted from place to place, hoping to dull the pain. I took up smoking because the nicotine helped me fall asleep at first. Later it would keep me up.
Grief sometimes causes people to do strange things. It once caused me to plant a pumpkin patch. I didn’t tend it like a farmer or anything; I just left it to grow wild, like a baby raised by wolves. I had saved every love letter Deanna ever gave me, as if they were a priceless treasure. Perhaps they were, in a way. Over the years I’ve searched my brain trying to remember what words were inscribed on those pages, but I can only draw a blank. Whether the letters were playful, passionate, or filled with longing, I’ll never know. Not that it matters much now, but it just seems like I’d be able to remember something about them because I once thought they were so important.
I needed to create a doorway through which I could enter the future and leave the past behind. I needed closure. I drifted through the days brooding and sullen, heartbroken and at a loss. My favorite holiday, Halloween, came and went. That year I didn’t feel the sense of excitement and possibility that the season usually exuded. It didn’t make me happy. Normally Halloween was like Christmas for me. I would anticipate it for weeks, decorating myself and the house, as well as strolling around the neighborhood, admiring everyone else’s decorations. Nothing lifts my spirit like a scarecrow in the front yard.
Life After Death: The Shocking True Story of a Innocent Man on Death Row Page 11
