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Love. Life. Live.
Oprah. She has taught me valuable lessons as well as many facts from where our crap actually goes to what to do when my car’s breaks suddenly freeze while driving down on the freeway.
Ellen DeGeneres. I have been introduced to the eye catching dance moves that are ahead of my time filled with high kicks and contagious laughter.
The women on The View have led me to keep my eyes at all times waiting for any kind of argument to erupt in one of their round table talks. I am a sucker for good female estrogen filled drama where I mentally imagine a large scoring screen during a verbal catfight.
And you cannot forget good ol’ Jerry. Jerry Springer has opened my eyes, teaching me one good thing. That there are other people who are living much more… uneasy lives, to say the least.
See, television has taught me a lot about life and what to expect in the ever populated planet earth. Who ever said television was bad for you is insane, seeming that daytime programs have influenced my knowledge of everyday life and what to expect when the ticking clock of my life goes by, second by second.
I really haven’t really experienced anything in life that has taught me valuable lessons, never learning the hard way from my mistakes or taking the plunge in something that could risk my life. Never have I had an adrenaline rush or was ever filled with excitement that I nearly pissed my pants. Never. You could say I was brought up to be the poster child for any parent in North America. As the only child in my family I was taken care of profoundly by my old fashioned mother and father, having a curfew that cut into my weekly intake of medical dramas as well as watching the rated R movies on late time movie networks. At school I was known as goody two shoes who did everything the teacher expected, having my homework complete and crossed referenced, handing in projects a week ahead from the deadline and volunteering to whack the black board brushes outside of the building. The only friends I really had were the chess team and some of the math geniuses who seemed more interested in solving equations from past Pascal contests than actually look up from their text books and start a decent conversation. I better terms I was a social outcast who was the butt of some crude jokes and punching bags to the rather muscular guys who could kiss their biceps and crush coke cans with their quite scary looking pectorals.
That was who I was a month ago as I paid my dues in high school, a total of four long lasting years. Some say it can be the best or worst experience in someone’s life. In my opinion, it really didn’t mean anything for me except influence my goal of getting through the name calling and god long lectures from the teachers who cared for my future. I just wanted to get out. Out of the building where I felt imprisoned. Out of my parents house where the internet was parentally controlled making face book’s homepage a large caution sign gawking at my lack of freedom. It wasn’t as if I was going to search inappropriate content or anything. That’s why I wanted out and actually become somebody that wasn’t known as Michael and Katherine’s perfect son. And that is what I did a couple of weeks ago.
“I’m taking a year off.”
There, I had said it full of confidence staring straight into my father eyes. I swear I might have even puffed my chest for effect, controlling my instant fear of getting one of his long, very loud lectures. Hey, even his scary hand gestures could make my weak heart stop. My father, Michael Adams, was a doctor, gynecologist to be exact. He spent his days between his patients legs taking about their “problems” and the obstacles it created. Dealing with that for six days a week leaving his free time tight on his schedule I knew he found it relieving to come home and have a meal already set for him at the table. Later he would smoke on of his cigars telling himself that they were totally different from cigarettes. For a doctor he really was in denial with the medical facts. I always thought he looked like a member of the Sopranos, the mustache identical to his raven curled hair while sitting in his black leather seat. For the last eighteen years of my pathetic life I have noticed his rear work indented into the poor dead cow, now turned very expensive leather, that over goes the torture of my father’s smelly behind.
But that was the last thing on my mind. The Sopranos comment, well I was sure I was going to get the first hand feel of becoming the next target. The way he was looking at me made my member jump inside me wishing I didn’t contain the male anatomy where it hurt when kicked in the nads.
That was his only answer mixed with the exhale of smoke. I wanted to just yell at him, tell him that he was committing a slow suicide (my guidance counselor’s exact words over smoking) with the his ‘healthy’ intake of nicotine. But that was off topic of discussion, if there was anything to discuss at the point. He had obviously made it clear how he felt by the two letter word that I had grown accustomed to living under his roof.
“I have already thought this through and my decision is made. I am taking a year off before heading to college whether you like it or not.” Damn, I had finally composed a sentence that did not follow his command of being the obedient child. I had actually used words that often were referred to as “talking back”.
My father was surprised as much as I was, sitting up In his seat, hearing my mother gasp behind me having finished with the dirty dishes.
“Beau, you do not ever talk to your father like that.” My mother’s soft voice scolded, the click of her once inch heels heard as she headed towards me. She was a petit woman just in her mid forties just like dear old dad. She had the look of a stereotypical school teacher. The dark set of hair in a bob as well as her classic taste of pearls always worn around her neck. Right now she was acting like a teacher, telling me what was right and what was wrong. I knew she had the right at some extent seeming she was the one who carried me for nine months and was tortured in twenty three hours of labor before I was wiling to enter the world through…you know where. She had the right, I knew that but I was on a roll. On a roll to standing up for myself and actually putting my plan into action. Step one to my plan: getting the hell out of the house with my parts still intact to my body.
“I am an adult and I want to be treated like one.” I explained. Talking this out would be good. Compromise would be even better hoping my parents would go for it. “I want to take a year off as I said and—“
“And what? Become a stone head who impregnates a girl and becomes a father who could have became a doctor but decided to be nothing but an ‘adult’!” Why does he feel the need to do those air quotes. His voice hold enough mocking words as it is. “ Is that it Beau?” He really did have a way with words as well as his temper. A long vein popping out of his neck as if it was ready to burst from all the hot air in his head.
“Michael.” My mom trying to calm him down before he did erupt. He was like a dormant volcano, sleeping for years until something, or someone in this case, would trigger the lava deep inside and just explode creating a huge wreck.
“Do you not hear him Kat? We raise him the right way and now all of a sudden he’s gone all stupid.”
“I have not gone dense-“ or maybe my expectations were stupid. There was no way my very upset (and wildly angry) looking father and little miss school teacher would actually listen to a single word I said and go for it.
“Have you been taking drugs? Drinking? Because this is not you. This is not my son talking.” He huffed shuffling in his seat, inhaling like mad on his cigar.
“I’ve been taking nothing. I swear, and I have not gone dense in better words. I need to do this before I become some lonely man who’s has a bunch of cats and sews his name in his boxers.”
“But I thought you liked that dear.” My mom sighed.
“It is thoughtful mom, really, but I am too old for that. I am to old for having a curfew at the earliest hour and not being able to go out and sneak vodka into school dances. I am too old to be your little boy who you can manipulate as if I as some kind of wooden toy. I barely even make it out of this house. I don’t even know who our neighbors are and we have been living on this street for eighteen years. I barely know me.” I sighed, letting out a breath. Letting everything out.
Everything seemed quiet for the longest time after I spoke, my father eyes softening just the tiniest bit while he played with the end of his lit roll of death his larger finger tips while my mother finger the tiny balls of pearls that added perfection to her life. There was really nothing left to say as I turned on my heel, the faded rubber soles of my puma shoes leaving a dark mark on the hardwood floor just polished making my way up the stair well. Before continuing on I stopped and turned around seeing my parents figures still in the exact same spot between the time I was standing right in front of them to where I was situated safely on the third or fourth step. “And I’m moving out.” I quickly added before running up the step nearly tripping I the process. Moment of silence was definitely over.
Yup, that was me three weeks ago standing my ground.
I am Beau Adams, eighteen years old and am proud to have notice that faint hairs are growing on my face.
I never had a kiss that actually counted.
There was a time in the third grade where I was invited to Chrissie’s birthday party at her house. She was a girl who I barley knew but she decided I was worth inviting just to receive more gifts. Well, one thing led to another and I was forced to sit in on the large circle of boys and girls nervous about the spinning bottle in the center, our eyes following it’s very spin. Chrissie landed on me and we kissed. It was simple little thing, our lips barely even touching since everybody was quite paranoid with the whole cootie infestation that usually got out of control when girls and boys learned they had different parts than one another.
As I said, that kiss didn't count.
I have never smoked, never.
I have been tempted at time when seeing my father’s cigars laying in the den untouched and just calling out to me. But I resisted, never really touching one before. I also have never drank any alcohol in my life. I know many people my age who have got the technique of getting wasted without passing out before heading home, and who also can handle some of the most hardest liquors I have heard about. I even heard people drink off one another. Now trying to imagine that image has gotten my quite intrigued about all the possibilities alcohol can come from. I am well aware of the horrible outcomes such as drunk driving and becoming a total pig at inappropriate times, but maybe I am just stupid like my father has said numerous times since out last talk. I want to experience everything. All the good and the bad there is to discover.
I want to meet new people who don’t know about my past behavior or any of the names I was unfortunately dubbed since the age of fourteen. I want to do so many things that I am already excited for the year to come, even if I have been cut off from my bank account which my parents have been investing money since I was just a tiny little toy to them. As for my college fund. Can’t even go there. My only source of money is the past birthday and Christmas checks I received from aunts and uncles who used to pinch my cheeks until they were red and leave their crusty lipstick marks on the side of my face.
Although I don’t have that much cash on me I have come into this with a purpose. Leaving home, not going to school has probably the best thing I could have ever done. Saying it right now not sound very smart, but in the long run things will work out for the best after I pass through obstacles and problems.
Or at least I hope so.