Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  Melissa said, “No problem,” and started off the new part of the evening, getting to know Tony.

  He was so dreamy she had trouble hearing the words as his soft lips moved while he talked to her, or his friend, or the group they were sitting with. He was next to her, though, and she had noticed how he moved his friend aside when they started to sit down. Melissa could no longer remember how many drinks she’d swallowed, but she did know she was feeling very strange. Her head seemed to roll with the gusts of wind that burst through the air in unison with the ocean waves. How lucky they were to live so close to the sandy beaches with salt-filled air sprayed by the water wafting upwards so near their little party.

  Tony pulled two joints out of his pocket and offered them to everyone, lighting the first and taking a long hit himself. When he finished he passed it to Melissa. Melissa was still a novice pot smoker, and she found herself getting more and more out of control from the alcohol. She inhaled deeply, sucking in the smoke through the non-filtered leaves and felt the searing heat burning as it penetrated her throat and lungs.

  She started coughing heavily, gasping for breath as she dropped the burning joint in the sand and rolled over, hitting the solid ground with her fist feeling like she was going to vomit. She couldn’t stop the coughing as she continued to hack, trying desperately to catch her breath. Tony rolled over in the sand, laughing with his friend, pointing in her direction as they grabbed each other. Melissa pushed herself to her feet, and she shakily walked away from the group.

  It didn’t matter where she went, she just needed to stop the coughing. Her head was circling, spinning like a yo-yo that is in never ending motion. She looked back, and Tony was following her. He still seemed to be laughing. She was not going to make it much farther, so she sat down and in doing so fell backwards on the sand. He approached her not saying anything and slid down next to her.

  Little girls’ fantasies are never really matched closely with reality. They fantasize about how things might end up, how life might be if things were perfect. Maybe this is why so many girls dream of their wedding day. The day that they find Prince Charming. He rides in on his white horse and lifts them away to his castle, where they both live happily ever after. Melissa wondered if happily ever after was real. Would she ever feel that wonderful? Maybe that was why she loved movies so much. The fantasy of how life might end up if everything possible worked out in the end.

  Melissa voluntarily lost her virginity that night, as voluntarily as one on drugs and alcohol might. It wasn’t what she anticipated, and she was left alone once it was over. She sat on the beach, crying, looking out at the ocean, wondering why her life had ended up the way it did. Was it something she had done? Did she somehow attract bad people, or was she attracted to the bad crowd? What even defined a bad person?

  She sat, crying to herself, picking up her clothes, and finally attempted to stand up. At that point, she vomited, dropping down to her hands and knees, gagging as she tried to control herself. It seemed to last for hours until she finally heard Sarah calling her name and running on the beach towards her. Sarah reached her and helped her put her clothes on. Melissa just couldn’t stop crying. Sarah asked if she wanted her to call somebody or do something but Melissa said no.

  She just wanted to go home. Home to her bed. Curl up and remember what it was like being that little girl. She didn’t want to think about anything anymore. She had thought too much, and she just wanted to sleep.

  They stumbled back to Sarah’s, and Melissa went on alone from there. She assured Sarah that she would be fine walking up the hill. It would take her a while since she still felt so nauseated, but she would be okay. Her big night was over. The party was nothing like she thought it would be, yet her life was nothing like she thought it would be either. Nothing really seemed to matter anymore.

  Father

  I was to pick up the girls for the evening, and we were all going to the movies. We had not started the custody battle yet, so there was still no set schedule. It was a constant tug-of-war, trying to get them on any occasion at this point. Even when they agreed to come over it seemed as if Cheryl was tempting them with any form of activity or trinket to get them to stay. Cassandra was probably the lone exception. Maybe her age helped her make the transition easier than the other two.

  Picking them up at the house was difficult lately. Melissa did not look well. It was tough trying to explain this to her in a positive way. It just didn’t look like she was taking care of herself. She was not participating in any activity, she wasn’t doing any sports, she seemed to just lie around the house. She slept a lot, watched TV, and ate junk food in her room. Every time I tried to bring up an alternative, it met with confrontation. Her favorite line of late was asking me who I thought I was. I had no right to control her life. I had no say in what she did. She lived with her mother.

  This subsided a bit, but you could still sense the unhappiness in her. I think, as teenagers, you don’t realize how easy it is to sense someone’s feelings. Teenagers wear their emotions on their sleeves anyway. Your outward appearance and demeanor are nothing more than a reflection of your inner self with no age-created façade to hide behind.

  In looking back I still struggle with decisions I made. It breaks my heart to think I let her slip away. Maybe it was me slipping away, and she was simply fighting for her own identity in a broken world. I am now so confused on who was right and who was wrong. I sit for hours just staring at the walls doing nothing more than writing about our past. Walls that don’t move. Walls that have no feeling or warmth. Maybe it was me who was the one lost in a world of obscurity.

  I see her in my mind, lying there hoping that she will be ok. I imagine reaching out for her as I always do, but we can’t seem to ever connect. What are drugs and alcohol? Who invented them? Why are they a part of our social life? Will anything ever be the same?

  To think I would never hold my children again. We would never be a family. By the time this debt is paid, where will they be? Who will they be? I was so close to having it all, and yet was I really? Is life worth living if you have lost everything? How can you ever see a future stifled by the constraints of your mistakes if those mistakes are fatally scarred into who you are? Everyone says learn from your past and move forward, but there are no longer any lessons in my life to be taught. I am not sure what I have could even be called a life.

  I am crying again, as I so often do.

  I cry all the time, for the daughter I once knew.

  When did I lose her exactly? Does anyone know?

  I feel alone, maybe deservedly so.

  You tend to reap what you sew they say.

  As you live a life of hell every day.

  If you ever find yourself confused.

  Just gaze carefully, in a bottle of booze.

  Twain Harte

  Father

  What is it like, growing up in a small town? I grew up in a little village of less than 2,000 people. Damn, I think there are more people in my neighborhood now than were in my entire town as a child. I remember being related to everyone, knowing everyone and everyone knowing me. You feel comfortable and secure as a child, but are those feelings based on anything real? Is growing up in a small town just a blanket covering your eyes? Is it an illusion of serenity that gives you this false sense of being safe, only to see the weak and the frail get devoured just like any other place you might call home?

  When I was growing up, it was necessary to work for money, even as a small child. You were taught the value of labor and how to earn a buck. As a 9 year old, I mowed lawns. I remember the beginning of my little neighborhood business and seeing these tiny hands clasped on the handle of the mower rising about three inches above my head. I was not that big when I was young, but still, are there any 9 year olds that ready for the capitalistic endeavors of running a business?

  I think of my daughters in today’s society, and they really don’t have any idea what work means. Granted we live in California, so they don’t h
ave a lawn to mow. It is so different in this state versus the vast openness of the Mid West. Different life, different values, different culture. It is amazing how much variance there can be from one state to the next. It is amazing how much life fluctuates within some states. How many people from the Bay Area in San Francisco don’t understand or even agree with their L.A. counterparts, and we all live within the same territorial borders.

  I spent many hours mowing lawns in the neighborhood where I grew up. Still, it just did not provide me with the funds that I needed to keep my pre-adolescent lifestyle moving in the right direction. Being a young entrepreneur, I decided to look around for some more lucrative work, something more substantial. Luckily for me there was a man advertising by word of mouth for some lawn boys to help out with his landscaping business. Landscaping business in Southern Illinois consists of mowing the grass and trimming some bushes. Since there are no day workers in the southern tip of purgatory, children are used to supplement the need for keeping the economy moving forward.

  I asked around, and several other boys from the neighborhood were working for this guy. I asked my dad, and he gave his approval. Interesting how he didn’t even meet this man. I wouldn’t allow my daughters anywhere near a strange guy. I guess small towns are known for their southern hospitality.

  So, this dude picked me up in his old white Chevy, which was laden with a myriad of yard tools and mowers. There were a couple of other kids in the back, so I jumped into the bed of the truck, and off we went. There is nothing that can transplant male bonding, no matter what your age.

  I had quickly signed on and now entered my first Saturday as a child laborer. We spent the day mowing, trimming weeding, and earning our $2.50 per hour. I started to realize how little I was actually earning. I could mow at the same pace on my own, and yet I would get to pocket the full amount of money from a job. Here, I was making about one-third of my normal pay, and the work was a little more difficult as he pushed us from one yard to the next. I guess since he was an adult, he had the work and could negotiate what he saw fit. But, it made me more disgruntled as the day wore on.

  Finally, we took a lunch break. My grandmother had faithfully packed me a sandwich and some snacks. Lunch back then wasn’t the prepackaged Oscar Meyer special it is today. You actually had to make your own sandwich. There were no all-inclusive cardboard solutions to all of life’s problems. What exactly does a “Lunchable” do for kids and parents today. Making a lunch is about as easy as making dinner. Everything comes in a disposable box that we attempt to recycle for the next generation, as convenience finalizes its supremacy over substance.

  As we were sitting down eating lunch, relaxing from a few hours of hard labor, the cold water from my thermos felt good sliding down the back of my throat. The other two boys were a couple of years older than I was, and I precariously held a fleeting feeling of shared maturity. As all kids desire, I, too, wanted nothing more than to be older and accepted by the “big kids.” I guess that was why I didn’t really understand the conversation when it veered toward masturbation and pleasuring oneself.

  The man in charge of our excursion must have been in his late fifties. He was single, bald as a bowling ball, and for some odd reason, he was as white and pale as any accountant. You would think that being out in the sun might have made him bronze, but he almost had a sickly feel that was offset by his beer-belly gut. Even as a kid I remember feeling uncomfortable as you peered into his sunken eyes. There was something behind those murky fluid-filled orbs that was a little off-center.

  Our supervisor commenced telling us about drinking beer, taking showers and rubbing his penis in the water of his bathtub. He didn’t feel it was wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. If it made you feel good, then it must be something worthwhile. The other boys were shaking their heads in acknowledgement, but everyone seemed hesitant and less than exuberant in their participation. Children are blessed with an instinct that gives them a warning sign when something is just not kosher. Not that I am Jewish, but it doesn’t take pinching a penny to find yourself on the wrong side of insanity.

  We finished our day of hard labor, received our cash payment that seemed as light as the day was hot and headed home. In the process of packing, our fearless leader asked if anyone would be interested in coming back to his house for a cold soda and watching some TV before he dropped us off. He was interested in rewarding us for our endeavors and while we had received our pay, a little extra never hurt anyone. I was not sure about the other kids, but I declined rather quickly feeling the need to get home as soon as possible. I had this alarm in my head that was banging louder than a church bell, and I wanted nothing more than to be back in the safe harbor of my grandmother’s house.

  He dropped me off, I told my dad what happened, and that was the last time I worked for him. I can’t say anything bad ever occurred, and even if it did, it was a small town. Most of the time you don’t talk about things like that. Somehow solutions are found, and people are not seen again, and life goes on in the quiet manner to which you are accustomed. Some things are better brushed under the table since most people are related to everyone else, and at some point, cousins are always connecting to cousins. That is what country living is about, right?

  Twain Harte reminded me of my little town, minus the freakishness that accompanies an old man who thinks it is appropriate to talk about masturbation with kids who were not his own. We were headed up for the weekend. We, being my three daughters, yes all three, and three friends of my oldest daughter. Teenagers seem to only be happy when they are in the midst of getting what they want, and even then it is fleeting. I think you can measure happiness with a teen in the span of seconds. As soon as they get something, no matter how big, they move on to the next request and misery. Drama with hormones, it doesn’t get much better than this.

  So we were headed up to the mountains for a weekend, and my oldest had talked me into letting her bring three friends. All three were good girls, for the most part, and I didn’t mind them tagging along. Sometimes it kept them out of my hair as they perused the village streets, looking for something to keep them occupied. It allowed me time to focus on my two youngest as we hung out at the lake and played games in the ice-cold mountain water. Damn, the water in mountain lakes never seems to warm.

  Melissa

  Melissa was excited for the trip to Twain Harte. She hadn’t thought much of the rinky-dink little town in the beginning, but after her dad let her head off on her own, trusting in the small town atmosphere, she began to see possibilities. Most of the local kids spent their days getting high and sneaking alcohol. It was like a match made in heaven for her and everything she held dear. She had begun getting high more often at this point. She spent almost as much effort trying to snag alcohol as she did attempting to find her next joint. The joys of being a girl meant there were several occasions when guys would even give her stuff for free.

  Sarah was with her along with Michelle and Beth. Beth was extremely tall, enjoyed basketball, and Melissa’s dad constantly referred to her as “pot girl.” He had heard a rumor a couple of years back about Beth getting caught with pot. Despite it not being true, he just couldn’t let it go. Melissa’s dad had a difficult time letting anything go. Michelle was a friend that Melissa had known most of her life. She didn’t get along with her on all occasions, but currently they were hanging out. She would be fun to have along for the ride, as well.

  In addition to the three city girls, Melissa knew a couple of locals in Twain Harte. Her father referred to them as the twins, Twin 1 and Twin 2. She thought this was mimicking the Dr. Seuss book, but with her father she never really knew anything for sure. He thought up nicknames for everyone. He was constantly saying things like, “I don’t make up the rules, I just follow them.” Her friends enjoyed him, but at times he was just flat-out annoying. The twins had blonde hair, were very skinny, and had a cute country twang to their speech. They also shared Melissa’s zest for herbal delights, which made them especially valu
able.

  As soon as they pulled into the driveway all four girls jumped out of the SUV and asked if they could go to Brenda’s (Twin 1) house. Her dad gave the OK, and they were off. It was as if freedom suddenly sprang upon four girls who were full of pent-up energy, ready to explode. They bolted off through the back yard running the one block to the waiting house. Brenda and Lisa were both anxiously anticipating their arrival. The joy of cellular technology lets everyone keep in constant connection. Brenda and Sally knew exactly when the car had been set to arrive.

  Brenda had two older brothers, both of whom were constantly in trouble. The family lived in a tiny house, with Brenda’s dad spending most nights drunk on the couch. Her mother was a cocktail waitress at the Indian Casino a few miles down the road. You shouldn’t judge any household, but this one had the makings for some Kids Gone Wild episodes. With her brother’s connections, Brenda never had a difficult time grabbing a joint here and there, and today was no exception. She had a few prepped and ready to go as Melissa and her posse ascended to the waiting good time.

  At this point Melissa was getting better at handling the smoky inhale, and while she still coughed, it was not nearly as severe as her previous attempts. Of all the things to be excited about in life, this accomplishment was about all she had going for her. Her grades were not even average. She skipped showers, and her jeans had not been washed in several wears. She didn’t smell, but she just was no longer looking fresh. Life as a teenager is hard enough, but when you lose control of your judgment, it can go downhill quickly.

  The six girls sat around getting stoned for what seemed like hours, but in reality was, at most, maybe one. It was still sunny outside when they decided to walk to the local pizza hangout and get some food. They were all hungry after their latest ingestion of drugs. Melissa had recently noticed her pants were getting tighter and tighter around the waist. It wasn’t like she was fat, but she was no longer slim and fit like she was a few short months ago. Cutting out all activities was having its effect on her waistline, but who really gave a shit anyway?