In a downstairs flat, during a 2 year stay in the Tremont area of Cleveland, OH, a one speaker transistor radio lay in the window of a small living room. A living room in name only, with poorly strung window curtains separating the space from the drafty entryway and the rest of the flat. This curtain was the only defining feature allowing any privacy from the 8 year old boy's 3 sisters, mother and step-father, all residing in the cramped space, a space rented from his step-dads drug buddy.
These days, Tremont is a upscale neighborhood long since having an inner city renaissance, but in 1983, Tremont was borderline ghetto. Tremont park, the town square, was a bustle of movement in the summer days, with kids of all ages occupying the city's pool, break dancing on impromptu cardboard dance floors, and trying their very best to be "fly" to all in eyeshot. As a witness, it was amazing, as a kid, it was dangerous. If you were weak, you could be fed upon by neighborhood bullies looking to up their street cred. I was tall for my age, but skinny and goofily growing into my knee caps and elbows. My height made me a good target.
8 years old in the summer of 1983. My world was small even though THE world was big. I may have been a loner even then, becoming lost in interests other kids in my neighborhood would never understand. There were some standards, to be sure. Star Wars was part of my daily thought process, as was Marvel Comics. Many afternoons were well spent at the library, deep diving into (then) lesser known titles such as Hawkeye, Powerman, Iron Fist, and Cloak and Dagger, while also developing a deep appreciation for the alcoholic Tony Stark and the James Rhodes tenured Iron Man of the early 80's.
Missing from my daily life was appreciation for early hip-hop fashion dominating the streets at the time. We couldn't afford fat shoelaces and parachute pants anyway. To really be a b-boy, you needed to own it. I had no choice but to be a radio head, finding some solice in top 40, popular 80's music through the one speaker transistor radio on my windowsill. As an 8 year old, escapism was equal parts imagination and exploration of the city around me.
The distractions were needed. My parents slept most of their drug infused days away.
Cleveland was a good port for their lifestyle due to the ease of access to the downtown methadone clinic. In the early 80's methadone was not handed out in every city. Many of the numerous moves we made early on were strategic in an effort to live in close proximity to an inner city methadone clinic (and the drug culture surrounding it). The intent of this legal heroin replacement (Methodone) was to ween an addict off of the hard stuff, slowly lowering the dosage until a person no longer had horrible withdrawal symptoms. The not so dirty secret was most users continued to use hard drugs while on methadone. If you were absolutely broke, methadone could greatly reduce dope sickness until the next welfare or SSI check came, but in order to stay on methadone, one only had to relapse. It was a government run crack house. You don't have to be an adult to see truth of addiction: an addict will always find a way to score.
Most of the clothes we wore came from church donation centers, which were pretty prevalent in our neighborhood at the time. Meals were also typically eaten at one of the many church basement soup kitchens bordering Tremont Park. Attending an actual Mass was not required, thus making it a normal stop for the non-committed family of 6. It was after one of these meals at the church rec center, walking home through Tremont Park, I met my then Best Friend, Maggie May.
Maggie was in a cardboard container not much bigger than a shoebox. She had white curly hair, and the appearance of what we now would call a Labradoodle (albeit a bit smaller than a standard). There were several dogs of all colors in the box, but Maggie was special. The kid holding the box was giving away these pups, which was not really unusual for the time. If you owned a dog in Tremont circa 1983, it was either a Pit Bull, a Pit Bull Mix, or a Mutt. Spaying or Neutering a dog was something poor people did not do. So a kid with a "free puppy" box at the park was pretty normal. What was different about Maggie? I don't really know. She seemed to be mine, that's all I can say. She whimpered, but she didn't run. She just sat there, staring back at me.
I collected my new dog, but immediately sweated taking her back to our apartment. My step-father was usually not in a good place on any given day. He had horrible mood swings depending his level of withdrawal, and greatly resisted the idea of a pet. I pictured getting belt sores across my legs for even thinking of bringing a dog into HIS home. That was his darkest period, for sure, but none of the children in his care were strangers to his drug induced verbal and physical abuse. It was an accepted part of being in his family.
This particular day proved to be a lucky day indeed. Step father was in a good mood, and my mother embraced this puppy right away. The two of them named her Maggie May after the Rod Steward single from a decade prior. I received a threatening speech about taking care of and cleaning up after her, but the empty words about a future ass beating occupied no room in my young mind that day. I had a dog. I could not believe it, I had a dog.
Maggie, as I remember her, was very loving toward the kids in the family, but as kids, we had no idea how to house break her. Accidents in the house were so frequent, that we were continually berated for it, but despite numorous threats to give her away, she managed to hang around long enough for him to somewhat accept her.
As gentle as she was, she knew her people and was defensive of them. Somewhere around 8 months old, I was walking her through Tremont Park when a hood bully came up and started making sarcastic remarks about my "poor kid" attire. Maggie sneered, growled, and let out a vicious bark loud enough to strike fear. The bully turned to leave the premises with some parting words about keeping my crazy bitch dog away from him. She was with me always from that day forward.
Maggie would lay with me on the floor, listening to that one speaker transistor radio. Always content to just be in the room with her people. In return, we showered her with praises and affection. I do not recall a time when we had an abundance of dog food, so Maggie would eat whatever scraps we could muster up. She never complained, always seemed happy, and always content in our presence.
During our brief time together, Maggie made a move with us from our flat to a house a mile away. The situation was better because the yard was fenced. There was a house directly behind the one we rented that was occupied by a man called Frank and his family. Frank was another drug buddy of my step-father, and was able to vouch for him in order to get us this house at a discounted rental price. It was ideal for us. It had 4 bedrooms, and I had my own room, complete with a door!
Once, the light bill didn't get paid, and old Frank let us run an extention chord into his house until it was settled. It was dark for a week or so, and I imagine my Grandpap came to Cleveland to bail us out, but I have never forgotten the decency of the act. Honor amongst thieves?
Frank's family had a dog, and Maggie instantly became friends with the beagle mix. They shared a small fenced yard, so they really didn't have a choice, but them getting along was a critical hurdle for me, as my step father constanly threatened to get rid of her, and fighting with his buddies dog would have been a sure fire deal breaker. Unfortunately, this would ultimately lead to her premature demise.
One afternoon, the dogs got out from under the fence. Maggie made it about 10 feet from the house, running into the street when she was hit by a car. I watched in horror, unable to comprehend what was happening, and not at all ready for what was about to happen.
Maggie crawled toward me, and I did the best I could to pull her onto the sidewalk. She was hurt bad. I know now the she was bleeding internally, as I saw her underbelly turning bluish purple as I was trying in vain to drag her out of the street. She whimpered, but she couldn't walk, so she just layed there, staring back at me. She was probably dying.
I was hysterical. I ran into the house and woke my mother up. Everything happened so fast from there. My step father came outside and ordered me into the house. He said I needed to calm down and he would take care of it.
I didn't see what happened next, but I heard it. I was sitting the couch. In denial, praying it was not what it sounded like.
He came in the house with a bloody baseball bat, sawed off at the thickest outside diameter. A weapon he kept by the front door. He called it his equalizer. I heard the blows delivered, heard her cry, but still didn't believe anyone could be so cruel.
"Is she ok?" I asked through hysterical sobs. "She is now," he said holding up the bat. "She is now."
This was a mercy killing, she was dying and in pain. I have always known that. There were no vet clinics for poor, ghetto mutts, and the step-father knew that. He did what needed to be done. However, this was not an honorable lesson for a young man, as there was no comfort in his tone, just sarcasm aimed at breaking my heart. He lost me forever that day. I sat in my room, listening to that single speaker transistor radio, eventually falling asleep. Maggie May was buried in a shallow grave on the side of the rented house before I awoke.
Over the course of the next three years, my mother and step father divorced, rehabed, and walked separate paths on the rocky road to recovery. Eventually, this man earned his MBA and had a successful career as an engineer, while his ex-wife never fully recovered, abusing pain meds to this very day.
His self abuse caught up with him eventually, and cirrhosis set in. Not long after he was signed up for the transplant waiting list, he was hit by a car while crossing the street. His injuries were not typically life threatening for a person of good health, but his cirrhosis kept doctors from treating his injuries for fear of liver failure. His organs shut down, and he left this world with his daughters, step kids, and ex-wives surrounding him 3 days later.
Through my childhood years, my story followed a path set forth by the examples laid before me. Foster homes, detention homes, teenage parenthood, binge drinking, theft, running away and street fights. Insubordination speeches and zero respect for authority were part of daily life. I have been put away. I have cheated and been cheated. I know the thrill of the chase, and I have been on the losing end of a brutal ass kicking or two.
Somewhere along the way, I figured some of it out. Somehow, I ended up with amazing sons of my own, who probably grow tired of me telling them I love them. Somehow, I found a way to work hard enough to have a rewarding career and a home. I attended college, I have recorded 4 L.P.s over a 15 year span do to a knack for songwriting. I have a blog going on 6 years old with hundreds of entrys. People ask me how I am? My answer is "always good." When I wake up early each day, I smile and embrace it.
After my step father died, I helped my sister with the details of the estate and the planning of the funeral. I did my best to be dignified through the process. His second ex-wife revealed to me that he felt remorse for the life he led, he was proud of the life I was living, and the father I was. She said he was deeply religious, and read the bible every night, asking his Lord for forgiveness.
I am hopeful he did not remember that awful day in 1983. He was sick from addiction, and I pray he blacked it out. It was never required for him to acknowledge any of the bad shit, not by me anyway. I let most of it go with him. Some days, it's good to remember. Today is that day, I suppose. For some reason, I was thinking about Maggie May.
Nago
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