Suzi: A Homeless Person's Story

(A True tale)
(As told by Suzi Styrofoam & Miles "Ampersands-R-Us" O'Neal)

Miles: I had just started out for work at Solid Waste Systems (Not Its Real Name) on my Interceptor, when I saw her laying beside the road in the grass.

Suzi: I'm not really sure what happened. I just woke up really disoriented, with no idea how I got there or anything. Just totally weird.

Miles: I stopped to check on her. She was kind of battered. What kind of creep would do that to someone and then just discard her like she was rubbish? It made my blood boil.

Suzi: He was really nice. He checked me over, asked where I wanted to go. I said I really didn't know, I didn't have anywhere to go.

Miles: So I put her on the back of the bike and took her on to work. She seemed really interested - she just sat there, didn't make a sound. She watched me work on a nasty code bug all day.

Suzi: I always thought computers would be boring. But they were so awesome! Daddy was an Assistant Undersecretary of COBOL Programming to the US Soviet Attache, or something, and his job just seemed totally boring!

Miles: Later that day, She Who Must Be Obeyed (the only truly evil person I ever worked for) came around to harass me about project status. She'd marked me as her next victim. I'd had about all I could put up with but I wasn't ready to chance getting fired. In a fit of inspiration, I discussed the project status with Suzi.

Suzi: At first she just looked back and forth between us, kind of like she was lost. Then she interrupted, and demanded to know the technical details of why the project still wasn't done...

Miles: ...which she was totally incapable of understanding, but she wanted to needle me...

Suzi: ...so Miles just started discussing it with me again...

Miles: ...and she asked what I was doing. I apologized, and introduced them. "Jezebel," (Not Her Real Name) "this is Suzi, my new administrative assistant. We were just discussing the project status. Suzi, this is Jezebel, my boss." Then I want back to discussing status with Suzi...

Suzi... he'd occasionally tell her something...

Miles: ...her eyes got real big, and she backed away, and left, and never got very close to me again.

Suzi: She seemed to think he'd gone crazy. I think she was afraid of him! Silly woman.

Miles: I found another job a few weeks later, and hightailed it out of there. I was one of the few people who managed to leave that company without getting fired. I could never have done it without Suzi.

Suzi: So he let me be his admin, and I learned engineering and software from him, and I've just sort of been hanging around ever since.

Sharon bought her sister, Matilda, out of bondage. She lives with us, too. We'll have to interview her one day.

My Sheep Story

(To get the full effect of this story, you need to make the animal noises. Better yet, read this with friends, while one of you plays me and others play everyone else.)

Let's go back to second grade for a bit. (A chorus of "No way!"s fills the air.) Our beloved Dolphin Terrace, still practically brand new, was already bursting at the seams and had gained portable buildings to handle overflow. Second graders got the portables that year. Each portable had indoor plumbing (I guess they were semi-portable or something) complete with a bathroom. In our class, if the bathroom was occupied, you wrote your name on a sheet of paper on the bathroom door. After you used the bathroom, you crossed your name out, and the next person on the list went in, locking the door as the bathroom was zoned for single occupancy only.

One Monday morning I really needed to go, but there were several names on the list. By the time I got in, I was going to be a while. Naturally, being me, hating to waste time, I started daydreaming. The day before in Sunday School we had learned about a shepherd boy named David, taking care of his sheep, defending them against all comers, such as lions and bears. (Possibly Injuns and rustlers as well, but they'd never been mentioned. Still, I'd seen enough movies to know you had to watch out for these tricky types.)

So while I was waiting to see how things came out, I was being David, guarding the sheep, herding them up the Chisholm trail, protecting them from lions, bears, coyotes, whatever (no Injuns or rustlers that day). As far as I can recall, Goliath never showd up, either.

Outside, or rather inside the classroom, the teacher eventually noticed a disturbance. This mainly took the form of laughter in the corner nearest the bathroom. She spoke sternly, and the group managed to mostly scale back to snickers and giggles. Above those, the whole class plainly heard, "Baaaa! Baaaaa!" with an occasional wild animal growl. Bedlam ensued. I later heard that one girl literally fell out of her chair she was laughing so hard.

Meanwhile, David, oblivious to second grade, was happily taking care of the sheep when a sudden pounding, a deranged thunder, shook him from his reveries. As he stared, perplexed, at a white ceramic basin in front of him, wondering where he was, a voice (not the voice of God, but the next thing to it) called, "Miles! Miles! Are you all right in there?"

Huh? Oh. yeah. Of course! " Yes, ma'am! Be out in a little while!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Well, hurry up!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Uh oh.

As quickly as possible I finished my business. I unlocked the door, opened it, and was nearly knocked down by gale force winds of laughter from my 23 classmates. [1] I would have closed the door and locked myself in but the face of the Teacher who sits at the right hand of the One who sits at the right hand of the Father made it clear I'd best get to my desk PRONTO.

The laughter refused to subside for somewhere between 15 and 30 minutes despite the best efforts of our (truly wonderful) teacher. Even after order was restored, every few minutes, a "Baaaa" would float gently from a random part of the room and everyone would lose it again. By mid afternoon, I think we finally went 10 minutes with no laughter, when the teacher got a funny look on her face, and went, "Baaaaa...." I think I even laughed at that point.

That day was one of the longest years of my entire life.


[1] 4 rows of 6 chairs... Amazing what a geek will remember.

Growing Up Miles: The O'Neal Dynasty

Another installment of the O'Neal Siblings' Saga.

Dad is a brilliant man. I'm quite certain he's a certifiable genius but as far as I am aware, he has never taken an IQ test. He doesn't care. That's a healthy attitude; he's content to just be him. I freely admit, though, that I always wanted the bragging rights.

Being a PhD, a college professor and an accomplished researcher, Dad naturally hoped his children would follow in his footsteps to some extent. He never pushed us to get PhDs, but I know he hoped some of us would. He is, after all, a Dad, and that's the sort of thing a well educated, bright Dad hopes for.

While none of us has attained a PhD (only Kathleen has more than one degree, Bill and Sharon have one each, and I have none) his four, oldest children did establish an educational dynasty of sorts at Westside High School.


In the late summer of the Year of Our Lord 1970, Westside High School of Richmond County, Georgia, USA opened its doors to students for the first time. I was among those entering 10th grade (the lowest class served). I had the great fortune to be placed in the sixth period English class of Mrs. Francis Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson was a physically diminutive lady I estimated to be in her fifties. She was an old school teacher who brooked no silliness or trouble in her classroom. I generally got along well with my teachers but somehow got off on the wrong foot with Mrs. Johnson. I felt she was too harsh. She felt I wasn't living up to my potential. She, at least, was dead on in her evaluation.

A hopeless romantic, an insecure sophomore, a dreamer, I did what I usually did in uncomfortable circumstances and retreated into my imagination. Contrary to popular belief, the worst that can happen is not that one gets in trouble for being off in fantasy land when one should be in the real world. One can get in far worse trouble when one drags fantasy land into the real world.

This is especially true when electricity is involved.

While I generally loved the subject material (the language itself, grammar, reading, writing, diagramming, all of it!) if I had a teacher who didn't inspire me, I struggled to care about the material or my grades.

I should also point out that I sat in the middle of the back of the class.

I'd started carrying a pocket screwdriver with me, the type with a hollow handle holding several, detachable drivers. One fine day when Mrs. Johnson was having us read something I didn't care about, I noticed that the electrical outlet was right beside my seat. Since all things electrical and electronic were near and dear to my heart, and since I never seemed to have enough money for such things, I did what any idiot would do-- I decided to steal the outlet.

The cover was a brushed steel plate. I stealthily removed my pocket screwdriver, quietly opened it, and lovingly installed the flat head blade. I surreptitiously, oh so slowly, oh so carefully, moved it to the outlet cover. By feel I found the screw. It took a minute or so of slow, easy going, but the screw came out. I removed the cover. Carefully, casually, I placed it on the floor beside my chair, the screw sticking out of the hole in the middle.

Then I waited a couple of days.

Friday afternoon I reassembled the screwdriver, more confidently this time. Staring at my open literature book (it was most likely Dickens or Shakespeare but who knows? It wasn't Poe; I would remember that for sure.) I moved the screwdriver down. I chanced a glance, not wanting to find live wiring with my fingers! Once I had the tool in the screw's slot, I stared studiously at my book and started turning the screw.

After only a few seconds, all Hell broke loose at my fingertips.

There was an extremely loud crack and buzz-- a cross between a firecracker and a fire alarm-- but only for an instant. Great, beautiful, golden sparks flew, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, from the outlet to every part of the room. I distinctly recall watching some hit the farthest corner. Girls shrieked. Guys roared. People jumped in their desks.

The screwdriver, apparently of its own volition, found its way deep within the coils of one of my notebooks under my literature book. My hands were on the desk. I was jumping and yelling with everyone else. Why not? I was as startled as they were.

But the best reaction, the very best of all, was poor Mrs. Johnson's. She bolted upright as she jumped, hit her knees against the bottom of her massive, wooden teacher's desk, fell back into her massive, wooden backed teacher's chair, jumped up and banged her knees again, fell back into her chair, and she and chair fell to the side together, her hand fiercely clutching the broken halves of her pencil.

After the worst of the pandemonium calmed down, the girl in the farthest corner (whose huge fro had caught a couple of sparks) started yelling. "Mrs. Johnson, he did it! He did it! It was Miles! I saw him! I saw him!" What she saw I was never sure, but she was sure she did, and that was that.

I tried to explain that I had noticed the outlet cover on the floor for a couple of days and decided to reinstall it. Mrs. Johnson didn't buy it. The tattler said she'd seen me putting a huge, yellow screwdriver in my pocket. Mrs. Johnson made me turn out my pockets and checked my sleeves and socks. All were, of course, devoid of screwdrivers, huge or otherwise.

Mrs. Johnson returned to her desk, up-righted her chair, threw the pencil away in disgust and picked up another. "Back to work!" We back to worked.

After a moment curiosity got the better of me. I pulled the screwdriver out and examined it, hidden by my book. Half the tip was gone, with a large blob of copper in its place. Too much damage for that brief instant, but there it was (We later found the school had been mis-wired for 30 amp service in a 15 amp outlet.)

I put the screwdriver (still warm) in my pocket. After a minute, paranoia made me move it to my sock.

Or perhaps it was my guardian angel.

A moment later Mrs. Johnson jumped up, rushed back, and looked through my books and notebooks. She stared at me intently, returned to her desk, called me up, and scribbled furiously on a hall pass. "Take this to the office, find out what class Hank is in, and bring him here." Speculatively she watched my face. "He's the only other person with that seating assignment, and I want to hear what he has to say. Empty your pockets again, please." She was disappointed that the screwdriver hadn't found its way back to its presumed lair.

On the way to get Hank, I put the screwdriver in the several inches of papers mashed into the bottom of my locker. I explained to Hank what had happened, and asked him to say he'd seen the plate on the floor (which he had). But Hank was stoned, and afraid to admit anything to anyone in authority. He stammered his way through his denials. My one consolation was that now at least half of Mr's Johnson's rather sharp mind was on Hank's nervousness rather than my culpability in electrical terrorism.

She then remembered to check my socks again, finding only inadequately hairy legs (from my perspective; I've no idea of hers) and more disappointment in terms of finding actual evidence of malfeasance.

Our relationship, needless to say, was rather strained the rest of the year. Fortunately for both of us, I wasn't in her class the next two years. One day during my senior year I found her walking beside me in the hall between classes. Except for a few lines on her face and some gray in her hair, she could have been a student. She startled me with a very school girlish, warm, friendly smile.

"You know, I never could prove it, but I always knew you shorted that outlet and caused that electrical storm. What were you really doing?"

Stunned, I could think of neither witty repartee nor anything plausibly deniable. I smiled what I hoped was an enigmatic smile and said, "Why, Mrs. Johnson, what ever do you mean?" She laugh, I laughed. She went into her room. I cringed my way to my next class.


The following year, my sister Sharon entered Westside, having of course heard all my friends' and my stories. Sharon wasn't as studious as I was (and I had been nowhere near the top of my game that year). She was also dealing with a lot of insecurity and loneliness. Like me, she had begun to blur the line between reality and her happy place-- sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

Naturally, she drew Mrs. Johnson as her English teacher. She sat (I forget whether it was wittingly or un) in my old seat. When Mrs. Johnson got to her name while calling roll the first day of class, she paused. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be Miles O'Neal's sister?"

Sharon smiled brightly. "Uh huh!"

Not even a "Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Johnson took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

A few days later the class was exposed to the first of many pop quizzes (they bloomed like wildflowers in Mrs. Johnson's realm). As was her habit, she walked the room watching for any sign of cheating. As she came beside Sharon, Sharon bolted upright. In her best southern drawl, she nearly growled a warning. "Don't you step on his tail! He'll kill you!" She bent back over her quiz.

Mrs. Johnson froze in her tracks, amazed. What was this O'Neal child up to? "Don't step on whose tail?"

Sharon sat back up wearily but patiently. "My pet black panther. Right there. If anyone steps on his tail, he kills them. His tail's right beside your foot." She pointed helpfully at a spot near one shoe.

Mrs. Johnson looked at the floor. She looked at Sharon. "You know perfectly well there's nothing there."

"He's invisible." Sharon shrugged and gave the teacher a pitiful look. "I tried to warn you. Watch out for his tail." She went back to the quiz. After a few seconds, Mrs. Johnson went back to pacing the classroom. She gave the O'Neal and her Pet Panther a wide berth.

If I recall correctly, she pretty much left Sharon alone the rest of the year, though Sharon kept providing evidence of the O'Neal strain of insanity.


The following year our sister Kathleen entered Westside for the first time, having of course heard all our stories. To her great delight, she ended up in the fabled Mrs. Johnson's class. Happily, the O'Neal seat was open. (I'm surprised it wasn't roped off with a sign reading "Already Disturbed"). She claimed it and waited patiently for roll call. She was not disappointed.

Mrs. Johnson trailed off halfway through the last name, then repeated it. "O'Neal... I don't suppose you are the sister of Miles..."

"Yes, ma'am!" A mischievous, delighted gleam in her eyes, Kathleen grinned and nodded, her curly hair flouncing.

Hopelessly the trapped teacher continued. "...and... Sharon?"

A bigger smile and nod. "Yes'm!"

Mrs. Johnson looked like she'd cry. Kathleen, a good student, went through the year pretty well ignored by her English teacher except for an occasional congratulatory remark on her excellent grades and scholarship. Kat never did anything beyond her over-eager first response, but that was enough. She had cowed the tiger.


Two or three years later Bill arrived at Westside High, having heard all our stories. As he took his seat in Mr. Alford's home room he scanned his schedule. To his utter dismay, he did not have Mrs. Francis Johnson for English. With the three of us having helped water and fertilize his imagination (never mind traumatizing it) Bill easily rose to the occasion. He introduced himself to Mr. Alford (with whom I'd gotten along famously my senior year). As the home room bell sounded, Bill asked if he could be excused for a minute.

"Why on earth would I do that? Surely Miles told you we stick to the rules in my class!"

With a wicked grin, our brother explained what he wanted. Mr. Alford started writing with a flourish. As Bill finished, Mr. Alford handed Bill a hall pass. "What are you waiting for? Why are you still here?" I never found out why, but Mr. Alford and Mrs. Johnson, while hardly mortal enemies, were certainly not on good terms. That was all we needed to know.

Bill sauntered into Mrs. Johnson's room as she called roll. She spared the tardy student a withering glance and kept going. A chair in the middle of the back of the class sat forlorn and empty. It called to O'Neals like gold called prospectors to California in the 1800s. As always, O'Neal gallantry stepped up. Bill sat on the O'Neal throne, confidently, buoyantly, happily, beaming at his hapless victim.

Having finished the roll, Mrs. Johnson asked the expected question. "Is there anyone whose name I didn't call?" Bill's hand was in the air with the first word. "I meant anyone who was on time", she replied menacingly.

Bill dropped his hand and sat quietly, beaming away. No one else responded. No
one else moved. They all knew this teacher's reputation.

Mrs. Johnson glared at Bill, straightened her notebook, and raised her pencil. "And your name is...?"

"William Floyd O'Neal. But I go by Bill."

Silence fell like summer rain. Time slowed to glacial speed. Nobody else understood but they knew something was wrong. Mrs. Johnson understood. Or thought she did. She tried to speak. She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried again. "O'Neal? As in Miles?"

Bill nodded. "Yes, ma'am!"

"...and Sharon??" A beam and a nod. "Kathleen?" A nod and a beam.

"Yes, ma'am. They're my brothers and sisters!" Innocently he cranked the smile up a notch.

"Mrs. Johnson, looking as if she would cry, put her head on her desk, softly saying something sounding suspiciously like, "Why me?"

After a perfectly calculated interval Bill jumped to his feet. "Well, if that's the way you're going to be, I'm leaving and never coming back!" he stalked moodily from the classroom, leaving the O'Neal throne empty at last.


We never heard what happened afterward in her class, but the amazing thing is that Mrs. Johnson-- a stickler among sticklers for discipline and rules-- apparently never looked into it. Bill told Mr. Alford (and later all of us) in loving detail what happened. Mr. Alford barely managed not to howl and slap his desk, unlike the O'Neal clan (including not just Mom, but that bastion of schoolness, Dad, as well,

Mr. Alford kept his ears open and even made discreet inquiries. In the teacher's lounge, nothing untoward had happened, although Mrs. Johnson seemed a little nervous for a day or so. But she quickly returned to her normal good cheer.

I like to think the chair escaped to a better place, perhaps a verdant mesa on a planet where school chairs live in peaceful harmony with enema bags and other things most of us are glad to never see again.

Looking back, I hope Mrs. Johnson had a happy, uneventful career after she was through with the O'Neals. She certainly deserved it.

And God help any O'Neals in her class after we'd gone through.

Lost in Albania (OK, Not Quite)

I left Durres, and Abi (I hated that, knowing it would likely be months before I'd see her again) around six on a Sunday afternoon. Right after boarding the bus I realized I couldn't recall what my stop in Tirane looked like. Getting back to the Qendra Stefan had seemed easy Saturday morning, but suddenly it hit me that I was a foreigner, alone in a country where I could say little more than please and thank you, and that Tirane was a decent sized city. Worst case I could get a taxi, or just stop on every street corner and say, "Qendra Stefan?" in a loud voice. How pathetic.

Instead, I did the obvious thing, and prayed. "Please help me get there without any problems. Thanks!" Notice I didn't specify how. I really didn't care. Why limit God to my imagination in these things?

Within a minute or so, a man around my age sat down next to me. He looked like an Albanian businessman. He nodded, I nodded. That was it. I spent about half the trip writing in my journal. I write small, and most people can't read it. I suppose it's possible he saw that. I don't know. I spent the rest of it looking out the window at my second home country.

Once in Tirane, I looked up whenever we'd slow down. Eventually we got to a spot that looked familiar. Was this it? I wasn't sure. I debated walking up front and asking the driver, "Qendra Stefan?" The man next to me spoke.

"Do you know the city well?" The accent was Albanian, but his English was clear. How did he know I American?

"Not really. I'm trying to decide if this is my stop or not."

"Where are you trying to go?"

"The Qendra Stefan."

"Ah. Do not get off here. The next stop is closer. And I live near there. Come with me and I will show you."

The next stop did not look familiar. The more I thought about it, the last stop was where we had taken the bus yesterday. But he seemed like a good guy. Let's go.

The walk to the Stefan took maybe five minutes. We chatted along the way; he was a former veterinarian. Such jobs went away after the fall of communism and during the civil wars, so he now worked in a bank (I ran across several such stories of vets becoming bankers). He and his young wife and child lived in Tirane, but he worked quite a bit in Durres, and sometimes had to go down on weekends.

"There is the Qendra Stefan". It was across the street, half a block away.

"Where do you live?"

"About 200 meters that way." He pointed away from the Stefan.

I thanked him, and he assured me it was nothing. I wanted to offer something, but was sure that doing so would be insulting. He'd simply been hospitable. I realized later I should have at least let him know he was an answer to prayer, but I suspect he knew.

Maybe he was an angel. Maybe he was simply a nice guy, either perceptive or nudged by the Spirit. I really don't care. I was just happy to be back without having to make Americans look absurd, stopping on every street corner, going, "Qendra Stefan? QENDRA STEFAN? HELP!"

Trailer: Jerusalem Jones & the Temple of D00M

So I had this vision[1], like Kelley Reilly from the ridiculously awesome heavy band Jerusalem was in _Jerusalem Jones and the Temple of D00M_. And this demon fella reaches into Kelley's chest, and pulls out his beating heart. Kelley just smirks at the ugly freak. Ol demon guy realizes there's a crank on the side. He rotates it, and it plays a song we all know, and POP goes the Jesus! right out of that beating heart into his smelly face.

Hell spawn falls over screaming and vanishes in a puff of nasty smoke. The heart grows legs and scurries back up onto Kelley's belly. Just before leaping inside, this big ol glowy flying sort of thing comes screaming in from another dimension, carrying tongs with a coal so bright it makes white hot look like a black hole. It drops the coal into Kelley's chest and coalesces back whence it came. The hole glows like the coal. The heart leaps in after the coal, Jesus' head on a spring smiling with raucous joy dropping in chasing the heart, and Kelley's chest seals up like nothing ever happened, except now it sports a tattoo of some cat named Joy who seems to be thrilled to be on fire.

Kelley whips out a pair of drum sticks and starts wailing on nearby 55 gallon drums to wake the dead and... wakes the dead.

I'd watch that movie. Oh, wait! I just did!

[1] Not that kind of vision, you know, just seein' stuff inside my head.

(This is partly Kelly Reilly's fault.)

Growing Up Miles - Siblings, Part 2

Being the oldest child has its perks. It also has its responsibilities and... un-perks (anti-perks?), for lack of a better term. One of the more mixed blessings occurs when you are old enough to be Left In Charge. This is basically the same as child sitting, only with less respect from those being sat. Plus, you may not get paid for it. You may not always have an option whether you do it or not. I guess one could argue the case that it prepares you for real life...

I don't believe I was a tyrant. Feel free to ask my siblings for their perspectives, but I really did try to be fair. On the other hand, I've always had a pretty strong sense of right and wrong (which I admit, I have locked away in a box (my sense of right and wrong, not my siblings)) from time to time, and a strong sense of justice. It's entirely possible I was a little too zealous in enforcing the rules, and in demanding that they do things my way. Especially at 13 or 14, when it was fairly common to be asked to take care of my sibs when our parents went out.

We lived on the Hill in Augusta. Most of the homes were older, nice, two story houses on a half acre. Once The Place to live in Augusta, it was still pretty nice. We knew the neighbors and they knew us. It was a Respectable Neighborhood. Things simply don't happen in Respectable Neighborhoods.


It was a lovely, late spring night on the Hill. The weather was typical for Augusta-- pleasant, with azaleas, honeysuckle, roses and various wildflowers and grass scents everywhere. Most people kept their windows open nights like this. Why pay for A/C when it was free? While a little more humid, it smelled delicious.

My parents had gone somewhere, leaving me in charge.

I don't recall too many details of the evening, which means we probably ate, watched TV, maybe played a game or read, talked, bathed, and got ready for bed. Just a typical night or I'd recall more about it. Of course, being the oldest, I didn't have to get ready for bed, but the others did. And there began the trouble.

Nobody really wanted to go to bed. Frankly, I didn't blame them. It was a gorgeous night, a weekend night, a night made to stay up late. But Mom and Dad had given bedtimes, and that was The Law.

Bill argued. He railed. He joked. He ignored me. Eventually I ran out of my limited options and a switch flipped somewhere inside. I went into Tyrant Mode. Bill eventually got in bed. By now the girls were in bed as well. Maybe they were just more compliant. Maybe I scared them more. Not having shared a room with me and kept me awake night after night until Dr. Miles became Mr. Revenge, they weren't immune to my wrath.

Finally, the house was quiet. My duty to parents and siblings fulfilled, I settled down to watch TV and read. I heard footsteps. "What are you doing?" I roared. Bill ran back to his bed, laughing. After a couple more episodes, the footsteps didn't return. Ah, peace...

Not so much. I heard the girls laughing. I trod firmly up the stairs, only to find Bill running back to his room. I turned on the lights. I lectured as best I could from memory as my parents might have. I don't think anyone laughed, but I recall a couple of smirks and grins. Lights off. Down I went. Ah, peace...

Giggling again. I stomped upstairs. Bill ran to his room. Lights on. Lecture. Mild argument. Lights off. I barely stomped going back down the stairs. I held my breath.... Quiet... Quiet... Ah, peace.

Raucous laughter. Weary with the cares on my poor, teenage shoulders, I trudged upstairs. Running. A body hitting a bed. More laughter. Snorts of hysteria. Lights on. More laughter, apparently at my besieged and weary, once noble countenance. "Mom and Dad... How can you... Why... You'd better... Or else..." Up til now, it was as fine a speech as the perfect, teenage, surrogate parent might give. But that last phrase has to come from either a true parent or a dangerous sibling. I was neither. I was a geeky kid with horn rim glasses, the muscle development of roadkill, and the menacing demeanor of baked trout.

And Bill had learned the truth about Space Robot.

"Or else? Or else what?", demanded my brother between howls of laughter. He bounced on his bed. He pounded his pillow as he laughed. He jumped out of bed and danced. It was too much. Another switch flipped. I was no longer in Tyrant Mode. I was now in Sad Punisher Mode.

"You leave me no choice. Mom and Dad told me I could if I had to. I'm going outside to get..."

Bill stopped. Out of the corner of my eye, through the connecting door to their room, I sensed my sisters hold their breath.

"...a switch."

My sisters gasped.

Bell was in denial. "No you aren't! You can't do that! You wouldn't dare! You better not!"

"I have permission. They said to do it if I have to."

"No! You won't!"

I turned around. I walked out, leaving his light on. I turned the girls' light off. "Lie down and go to sleep. I don't think he'll bother you any more tonight."

"Miles, do you have to?" Bill sounded sorry.

"Yeah. I do." I was angry. I was sad. I was miserable. But Bill was going to join me there. I stalked downstairs. He called something after me. It made no difference. I ignored him. I was steeling myself. Part of me, Dr. Revenge, was ecstatic. But part of me was afraid. I'd never whipped anyone before. I hated the switch. Man, was this what my parents felt like? I was amazed when I found myself preparing to speak an age old truth to Bill. "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." Knowing it was true, and that it couldn't possibly be true.

Out by the sidewalk, I chose and broke off a wisteria branch. As I began to strip the leaves, I heard my brother speaking loud enough for me to hear. "Miles, please! I'll stop. I'll be good. I swear!" I looked up and saw him in my sisters' room, standing at their open window. It was too late; I knew how this worked. Once punishment was promised, it must be imposed.

"I have no choice." I shook my head. "Get back to your room. I'll be there in a minute."

The beautiful silence resting upon the Hill was ripped to shreds by the tortured cry of a lost soul. "No, Miles! No! Please! Don't hit me, I'll be good, I promise! I swear! AHHHH! Ow! Stop! Please! Don't beat me any more, I'll be good! AHHHH! OW! OW!"

I stood frozen, mortified, the switch half stripped in my hand, as my brother-- an excellent actor by now-- went on and on and on. I saw lights come on in other houses. I heard a window slam between yells. As I looked helplessly around, a couple of neighbors stepped onto their porches to see what was going on.

You know in the old Frankenstein movies, the huge, double bladed knife switches? The ones they throw to let the lightning's current bring a monster to life? Well, Bill's theatrics threw several of those at once, and a monster roared to life inside me. I ripped the rest of the leaves off with a single stroke, not realizing til later I had cut my hand. I stormed the house, waving the switch like a sword over my head, a war cry on my lips. "Death! Death to the infidel!" Well, not quite, but something close to that.

Thankfully, Bill hadn't take the simple step of locking me out. I nearly ripped the screen door off its hinges, bounded up the stairs, grabbed Bill by an arm, drug him from our sisters' room, slipping and sliding across the polished wood floor (hoping he got lots of splinters), sat on his bed, threw him across my lap, pulled his pajama pants down, and started to beat the tar out of him.

The switch broke after a couple of licks. Shrieks turned to laughter. Bill escaped as I stared dumbly at what little wisteria remained in my hand. Bill locked himself in the closet or bathroom or somewhere similar, I turned the lights out, went downstairs, went outside, and talked to the night until my parents got home. God, the stars, the trees, the flowers, the darkness... none of them answered me that night. But I'd calmed down somewhat when Mom and Dad walked up from the car.

"What are you doing out here? Is everything OK? Did the others do all right?" As we walked inside, my story poured out, I was nearly crying with rage and embarrassment. The whole Respectable Neighborhood had heard! That little brat! It was a wonder the police weren't called! What would the neighbors think? How could he do this to me? I've never been so humiliated in my life! You left me in charge and...

My parents couldn't hold it back any longer. It wasn't incredulity at my brother's disobedience and disrespect that strained their faces. Grins tugged the corners of their mouths. They glanced at each other and burst out laughing. They laughed until they cried. Mom sat down, but Dad fell to the floor and rolled around.

I was wrong. I only thought I had never been so humiliated in my life. This was worse. Far worse. Betrayed by my own parents when I had kept their trust. I was unloved. Unwanted. Doomed. Alone in the world. I couldn't help it. At 14, I started to cry.

Seeing this, my parents mostly quit laughing. Mere giggles remained. Their faces softened. Dad spoke. "Son, I'm sorry."

Mom added, "So sorry. But now... at least you know..." (was she trying not to laugh again??? "...what it feels like..." Yes, she burst out laughing.

"...to be a parent!" So did Dad.

It was years before I forgave them.

Growing Up Miles - Siblings, Part 1

It's time to introduce my siblings. For the moment, I'll skip my sisters, but I don't think they'll mind. In fact. there's a pretty good chance they'll try to bribe me not to write about them. We'll see.

My brother, Bill, is 6 1/2 years younger than I. That makes him 4 1/2 when we moved to Augusta.

We moved in November. We stayed in a motel until the furniture arrived on a moving truck, but Dad took us to see the house that first night.

It was a two story house built in the mid to late 1800s. It had an attic and a basement. Storm windows. A huge, brick chimney topped the slate roof. A front porch with columns. Electrical fixtures right out of a Frankenstein movie. Somewhere there were bound to be hidden passages.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the power was off at the house. We took the tour by flashlight. It was pretty cool. It was pretty creepy. With no power, barren of furniture, the house was right out of a scary movie. A massive (to us kids) fireplace. Ancient, wooden floors. Dark corners. Cobwebs. What little outside light there was that night cast eerie shadows as branches outside the windows waved furiously in the wind. That wind howled through the chimney, whistled under the doors, rattled the wooden windows in their casings-- windows with old glass that distorted things just that little extra bit Alfred Hitchcock would have loved.

Mom and Dad, of course, were impervious to the mood. I don't recall what the other kids thought. I was excited. I was nervous. It was even money whether we'd find a cut throat like Injun Joe, or a dancing skeleton. Either would have been excellent. I loved every thrilling moment of it.

Then we opened the basement door. It was pitch black down there. A musty smell wafted up the steps into our faces. Here was some serious adventure. Bill darted ahead into the darkness, holding onto the rail, running down the steps, and

Bam! Whap! "Aaahhh!" Bam, Blat! Thump! Roll THUMP roll Bump! Bump!

Silence.

Mom screamed, and drug Dad and the flashlight down the stairs, yelling something like, "My baby! My baby!" Their feet pounded on the wooden steps. My heart pounded in my chest as my sisters and I groped our way down after them, expecting any moment to fall down a well or be nabbed by witches or cannibals.

Suddenly they stopped. I heard Bill laughing. "Do it again! Do it again!" His thick coat and hard head had held up just fine. The steps turned to the right, getting very narrow on the inside. He'd fallen, bounced and rolled to the landing, shot across, bounced off the door to the outside, bounced across the landing and down two more steps to the dry, red clay floor. And loved it. To him it was a carnival ride, the Dark Steps of Doom, and he was ready to ride again, reaching for that brass ring.

Mom decided we should leave and come back when it was daylight.


During the nearly 7 years I lived there my parents changed my brother's and my sleeping arrangements several times, alternating between us sharing a room and not. Why they ever thought us sharing was a good idea I have no idea. At least after a year or so.

Even back in El Paso, when Bill and I were in the same room it could get wiggy. But once I got to about 12 or 13, it was a really bad idea.

Many were the nights Bill would keep me awake when I needed to get to sleep because I had to be up a lot earlier for school than he did. He'd tell stories, cut up, whatever, just to entertain himself. Or to get my attention or taunt me, I'm still not sure which. After a couple of hours he'd start winding down. By then, however, I'd be wide awake. Second wind wide awake. Can't go to sleep for hours awake. Vengefully, cruelly, mad scientist laughingly awake. This was payback time.

Many nights I'd get completely under the sheet and get really quiet. Eventually he'd bite, whether out of boredom or nervousness. "Miles? Are you awake?"

(monotone, bad movie robot voice) "No. This. Is. Space. Robot." Space robots would come for all sorts of heinous reasons, usually involving ghastly death, horrible humiliation, and ultimately the eating of younger brothers. Every now and then Space Robot would beam back out and I'd return, and console Bill, only to be replaced again. Once Bill was too terrified to sleep, but especially to move or talk, I could go to sleep.

Occasionally he'd scream in sheer terror. I became very convincing at either sleeping through it (once awakened, "He must be having nightmares again!") or being startled out of a sound sleep. Falling out of bed was a specialty.

Other nights I'd have a spare, light colored sheet or towel hidden somewhere in or near my bed. As he'd wind down, I could tell when he was almost asleep. Then a ghost would sail across the room. Inevitably, he'd yell, and typically hide under the covers. Exactly like lightning, only without any flash, thunderclap or electrical destruction and ozone, I'd retrieve the ghost, stash it somewhere safe, and be asleep before anyone was there.

But my favorite revenge, my very favorite of all time, was when I hatched a long term plan. We talked off and on for weeks about what lived under our beds-- monsters, witches, ghosts, tarantulas, scorpions, vampires, mummies, invisible brains, and... Space Robots. One night I feigned sleep through probably a half hour of his usual monologue, after which he kind of wound down. (Had I learned this tactic earlier, we'd both have had a lot more sleep and a lot less trauma.)

Once he was in that gentle, quiet, cozy valley between wakefulness and sleep, where moonbeam dreams graze the cheeks and lips of our minds with gentle lover's caress, yet we can still hear, taste, see, smell, feel the real world, I somehow found myself slithering gently off the bed, gliding beneath it, moving Ninja-like across the polished, antique wooden floors.

It was late spring and the windows were open. Far off noises-- a dog barking, a car motor, a door slamming, faint voices-- wafted in on the dark, dreamy breeze along with hints of every flower in Augusta, especially honeysuckle. Starlight and moonlight, as well as a scattered, few ambient rays creeping upstairs from the living room played across the floor. I knew that floor well so I moved without a sound. It probably took me a minute to go six feet. I'm not sure I breathed more than once during that time.

I was beside Bill's bed. I was half under it. I wasn't afraid of anything under that bed. I was the nightmare under the bed, the monster, witch, ghost, tarantula, scorpion, vampire, mummy, invisible brain, and... Space Robot. My hand crept up beside the bed. I recalled exactly how he'd been laying, where his arm was. I grabbed that arm, made some sort of quiet, menacing noise, and yanked down as if to drag him under the bed.

Between the time he started to react and the time the scream came out of his mouth-- perhaps a tenth of a second-- I teleported back into my bed. A tenth of a second later, as his eyes went well past wide open, so open I was certain his eyeballs would pop out of his head, I had snuggled under the covers, resting peacefully. The scream went on. Where did he get all that air from? I jumped up. screaming, twisting, getting the covers all tangled. With impeccable timing, I fell out of bed just as Dad flew into the room. As an afterthought I whacked my (incredibly hard) head against the floor for good measure. (Seriously.)

The light came on. Mom and Dad ran to Bill, then stopped, staring back and forth. One of them (so many details are vivid, but not this one) was holding Bill. I think it was Mom, which means Dad helped me untangle. Having whacked my head, I could play dazed as well as confused. Eventually, of course, they decided Bill was having a nightmare. It took a while, but they got him calmed down, made sure I was OK, got Sharon and Kathleen calmed down (they'd been sound asleep when all Hell broke loose in the room next door), got me back in bed and convinced me to stay there, that it wasn't time for school (it was a Friday night), turned out the light, and headed back downstairs.

I snuggled down under the covers and got really, really still. I wasn't even a Ninja now. I was like a heard of dust bunnies, inanimate, no substance, practically non-existent.

Except to Bill. After a minute or three, a quite voice hissed. "You! You did that! I'll get you for this!"

"Space. Robot. Is. Hungry."

Silence.

It was golden.