My Heaven

Part 2: Sunset Volleyball

When I was around three years old, my mom would tell me how she and dad raised me in various motels around Jersey. Rent was a real bastard when they initially lived in Ocean Township. She said the landlord chased us out when he found out dad was doing side hustles for some shady outfit in New York.

I didn't know much about them, only whispers about how they had a reputation on being "boogeymen of the night." They even had an iron grip on New York's criminal underworld for some time. I found that hard to believe. No one's heard of these guys; any obscure info about them had "fan fiction" written all over it. No matter how hard things got however, mom made sure nothing illegal came knocking. I remember most nights it was just me, her, and a sawed-off shotgun she would keep under the pillow.

In quiet moments, she would tell kiddie versions of horror stories, how these "ghouls" with eyes blazing orange would steal money the tooth fairy left behind. The homeless shelter we stayed at was, for me, a haven for storytelling. Mom thought it best I interact with other kids that were downtrodden, too. There were a few broken families that were there by "special circumstance."

"Sweet face, your daddy's doing a public service," mom said. "Once he chases the bad ghouls away, the tooth fairy will grant him a wish." Her voice then lowered to a jaded tone. "If he's smart, he'll use it to get us out of our situation." Some of the kids came from domestic abuse as well as those raised on the street. I won't lie. While I learned to be self-reliant, being around people at the shelter did not make me feel safe.

Dad would drop by every now and again, breaking up fights I was thrown in. The man was a giant with two distinguished eyes: one that was tired, and the other held anger brimming around the eyelid. You never knew what he felt. Some of the timid kids my age knew it.

As an average six-year-old with not much muscle, I fought like hell to keep tears rolling down my face. Now, he was never abusive... not physically anyway; could not be bothered with all the shit he dealt with. At one point he pulled me aside and said, "Jesus, kid, you know how to make my life difficult. When are you gonna wisen up?!" I tried telling my side. I barely engaged with the other kids, but there was always a few who had it in for me. Dad of course didn't want to hear it as his voice turned thunderous. "Over and over again, I find you tussling with the other kids. And I keep tellin' you, if those little shits want to throw down, you run the other way. This bullshit needs to stop!!!"

The shelter had loud acoustics that could tear into you. A lump formed in my throat. All I could do is look up at him. He then took a minute to collect himself as the red on his face subsided.

"I know it's been hard on you and your mother." He got on one knee. "The tough bird's been to hell and back with me, even before you were born. Not gonna lie, I'm a trainwreck of a father. I own that." No one's perfect, but why did he not step in to defend me while I was getting my ass kicked? It felt personal. Were these kids' parents connected to those "ghouls" mom told me about? When I was older, I learned the hard way.

"You listen to me. Going forward, only thing you need to hit is the books, you get me? I'm working my ass off to get us outta this shelter, and I'm getting close to pulling it off. Just... try and keep your head on straight a little longer, okay?"

I never started half the fights that went down at the shelter. All I wanted was to learn geography, take care of my mom and eat green apple jell-0. I guess you can say my mom's fighting spirit sparked something fierce. Whenever some punk tossed my food tray, I stood up for myself.

If I was territorial over anything, it was the green apple jell-0. The sweet and sour combo left a euphoric taste with each bite. I remember they served it on Wednesdays and Fridays.