In My Memory

I swear to God, I have no recollection of (most of) my life. I don't remember when things happened, if I attended some event, or what something felt like when it happened. But, the memories that I've somehow managed to collect and sort of massage into truth are all just terrible. Really terrible memories.

Top Worst Memories:
1. At 6 I was cracked in the mouth with an aluminum baseball bat. For real. My four brothers, my sister and I, along with some neighborhood roustabouts were across the street from my house. I wanted to be the catcher, but refused to wear the catcher's face mask. Even then I knew being cute didn't entail a Hannibal faceguard. And I paid the price with my freckled cheeks. I don't remember the pain. I don't remember how many teeth I lost. I just remember that it happened. And my brother Larry was the culprit.

Larry, in the Anderson's front yard, with a bat. I hope he's never forgiven himself.

2. The year was 1996. I was 10, I think, riding my bike up town to Burger King with my brother Sean, cousin Brian and perhaps a few others (can't remember, clearly). They sped ahead leaving me to clean up their dust. I had to hop off my sweet black and blue (foreshadow) Schwinn to walk it across the street. The boys were much further ahead, per usual (from what I recollect), and a gurthy woman was in the way. My precocious (shocker) self couldn't just wait for her to shuffle out of the way, so I thought to go around her by lifting my bike over the curb. Again, my face was at risk. Somehow the handle bars flew up, smacking me straight in the mouth. Blood spewing everywhere, down my face, on the lady, soaking my shirt. A reverse curb stomp brought on by stupidity, just like gang violence, yeah? My top row of teeth sliced down, and straight through. There's a scar there now, on my lip, underneath it as well.

The interesting part about this tale is how sentimentally 'small town' it all was. It occurred right in front of Northern Trust bank, on what was essentially our Main Street. Western Avenue. Mr. MacFarlan, my down the street neighbor, who's dog, Toby, I regularly walked, was about to enter the bank, upon finding me looking like I'd gotten in a bar fight with myself. He handed me a handkerchief and brought me into the bank to make his deposit (in the vault, what?), before finally taking me to Highland Park Hospital. I can only imagine the site: a pretty ratty looking tween, blood drying around her mouth, strutting into the bank, tears still free falling, with ole classy MacFarlan. I'm sure he was wearing straight leg khakis, a Polo blazer with a yellow collared shirt, and boat shoes. Quite the odd couple. I ended up getting 14 stitches that day. Holy smokes.

3. Somewhere in middle school I got a new pair of jeans. Mavi jeans. They were very cool. And, I got them myself (i.e. with my parents money, but without them monitoring my purchase) at E-Street, a store run by bitches. Not just bitches, they were the sort that reveled and embraced their hot obnoxiousness. You know the sort.

Well, I thought I was awesome for a day in these pants, but I should've known. No extremely petite girl with albino-esque skin and just a mess for hair could ever be awesome. Molly Ringwald lied to me. The scene was a typical day in the lunchroom. I was sitting with a few kids I wanted to be better friends with, I'm sure. And across the lunchroom a storm was brewing. The attack was launched by a young douche named Bryan (a different Brian from my cousin). Slathering a corndog with ketchup and mustard, and adding a douse of whatever other free condiments were available, it flew above the heads of students and teachers, only to find it's victim. Me.

It nailed me. Right on my thigh. I didn't have a lot of patience for assholes then, a quality I have been fortunate enough not to extinguish in my adult life. At the time, I was prone to not resolving problems with peers, instead investing in adult relationships where I was in fact a fucking tattle-tale. It didn't matter though. Bryan never got any sort of punishment from my (albeit terrible) records. He ended up getting a concussion at some point that same year, which I did not pray for, even if the stain in those pants never came out, and he might have deserved it. (We were all thinking it.)

These memories are all the worst. Maybe if I think hard enough I'll figure out a way to access the lovely sweet memories amidst all these misdeeds and occurrences. We'll see.