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LEAVING

I was riding my bike loaded down with as many of my possessions as I could carry when it hit me: there was no turning back. I was 17 and on my own for good. Forever. Period. When I made the turn down the hill onto Lehigh Blvd. it was a hot, sticky July day and the downhill breeze cooled me off—a real blessing after the long climb up Maine Avenue . I felt scared shitless and excited, feeling proud and free all at the same time, alternately singing and smiling to myself and suffering panic attacks, looking at my watch and thinking that if I could get home by 3 o’clock no one would know that I’d left. But I kept going straight ahead down into Rockmond Hill watching out for cars passing me and for drivers in parked cars who might open their door without looking. I tried to time the lights so I wouldn’t have to stop—getting a loaded-down bike going was hard work.     

It was Saturday morning, my father had gone fishing with his friends. They rented a boat and motor to go out for the day. That gave me plenty of time to pack up and leave. My mother had gone shopping—she walked to the bus and went into town. So she was out of the way as well.      

I got stopped by the light at 31^st Street which gave me a chance to take a drink from my water bottle, then stood up on the pedals to get going again. I reviewed the note I’d left: You said that if I thought I could find a better home, I should leave and I have. Don’t try to find me. I won’t come back. I have a new home now. My own. Z

I’d written the note a thousand times in my mind, first deciding that I should leave a note so they’d know I’d wanted to leave and wasn’t abducted or something. (Who the hell would want to abduct a 160 lb. 5’11’’ 17 year old?) This way I hoped they wouldn’t send the police to find me. Anyway, I thought of writing out a whole list of reasons why I left, a whole argument justifying my departure, but decided against it. I was finished explaining myself to them and trying to get them to understand. In the end I decided to just tell them not to look for me and that I wouldn’t come home. I meant it.

I was still on Lehigh Blvd. headed for my new home—a rented room clear across town from where I’d grown up (I tried hard not to say, “my home”) but it might as well have been on the moon. Nobody I knew ever mentioned Opal Park and few had ever even been there. It was the other side of the tracks as far as they were concerned, low class and maybe even dangerous. 

 The bike was really loaded down and it was hard work peddling, especially in that humidity. I also steered very carefully to avoid any bump or sharp stone which would puncture the tires—changing a flat would have been a major production. The panniers on the front were stuffed with clothes, tooth brush and other stuff. The back had my copies of “On the Road,” and “Catcher in the Rye ,” and my radio.  In the month before, I‘d secretly taken my winter coat and other warm clothes—as much as I could fit on the bike—over to my new place.  The landlady let me store a few things in the basement of “my new home,” a rented room with a bathroom in the hall and kitchen privileges in the house of a widow. The day before, I’d withdrawn $4,832 from my savings account—some gifts, allowance but mostly money I’d earned bussing tables at Island Italian. The place was always busy and I hustled plenty, you can be sure of that, but not so much that I didn’t see a lot of what went on at the tables. Just thinking about it made me hungry and I stopped at a playground, propped my bike up against a bench and took out the PB&J sandwich I’d made.

Anyway, at Island Italian I overheard one conversation in particular which sounded like my father. A woman at Salvatore’s table over in the corner said something about President Johnson looking like an honest man. The man opposite her, presumably her husband, ignoring the fact that I was pouring water, snarled, “Are you out of your goddamn mind? Stick to the kitchen and let people who know something talk about politics. Everybody but you seems to know he is a crook.” 

I took one more drink of water, and got back on the bike heading down Bright Blvd. lined with nice, brick, single family homes, but I was still thinking about how that guy in the restaurant sounded like my father.

Dinner at our house wasn’t fun. My father would feed our dog, a black mutt, at the table sometimes giving him bones which he would settle down under the table to chew. My mother would complain, “Please give it to him outside. The dog is getting grease all over the floor and it is hard for me to bend down under the table to wash up the mess.”  My father would turn on her, “Look, I pay the bills around here and I’ll do as I damn well please and you won’t have anything to say about it.” She’d turn red and leave the kitchen wiping her eyes on her apron. She’d wait until he was finished, clear the plate, serve him dessert and when he left she’d sit and finish her dinner. I’d just keep my eyes on my plate, finish eating, say “excuse me”, and leave.

I turned the corner of 150^th Street passing a stretch of stores, some empty, most with iron gates. I had to look out for garbage cans rolling around in the street and piles of junk.

For weeks after each blow up with my father, my mother ate before or after my father and silently served him dinner. I had the feeling that she thought I should have tried to protect her, and I wanted to protect her but frankly, I was afraid; and, even if I weren’t, I didn’t know what to do other than yelling at my father and I knew I could never do that.  To add to my confusion, she told me never to cross my father, “He’ll pay your way to college, that’s why I stay here—for your sake. If you cross him, he’ll write you off.” I’d always held my tongue.

 Once she told me that she almost died giving birth to me. They had to use high pressure forceps, whatever they were. They sounded awful. And then she’d told me that they didn’t bring me to her and in the middle of the night in the darkened hall way, “As sick as I was, I tried to make my way holding onto the wall to get to you, make sure you were okay.” Sometimes I felt that because she had gone through all that, that I owed her something special. Other times, it made me feel like it was my fault or something, even though I knew that wasn’t true. After one of my father’s outbursts, I’d sometimes sit with her and she’d tell me, “You are the only one I can talk to.” She wept and added, “I’m just the whipping boy, that’s all I am to him.” Or course I was mad as hell at him but I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I didn’t like being put on the spot and yet I had the feeling that I was responsible for fixing it.

It was getting really hot and my tee shirt was wet all through so I decided to stop for a rest. There was a shady spot under some large trees just off 150^th Street , so I just sat on the curb, took out a bag of peanuts, and drank more water. I wanted to leave all that bad stuff behind me, like a bad dream that lingers into the day but which I could finally shake.

I felt for my wallet—the check was there. On Monday I’d open a new account. I felt like returning the maybe thousand that was saved allowance. On Fridays I’d ask for my allowance and I’d get, “What’s your rush?” Or, “Don’t rush me.” So I’d stand there while he buried himself behind the newspaper, and then I’d go do something else for a little while and then come back, “Okay now?” and he’d say something like, “Could be.” and then continue reading so I went away and then I’d go back, “Dad, I need it because I’m going to the movies,” or think up some other thing and then he’d move in slow motion to reach into his pocket and pull out some bills, peel off the allowance and extend his hand very slowly. If I moved to take it too fast, he’d pull back, “What’s your rush?” Finally when his arm was fully extended, I’d look “Okay?” and he’d give an almost imperceptible nod and, feeling demeaned, I’d take the money. I wanted to give it back, leaving it in a pile on the table with a note: “Here’s the allowance you reluctantly gave me—I don’t want anything from you.” But I didn’t. It would have given me a lot of satisfaction but I was afraid that I might need it. Besides, I figured it was mine. Now, no more asking for allowance –I was free.

I got back on the bike and moved out into the hot sun. This load of clothes and books was the last lot of it. I left my key next to the note, and as I put it down on the kitchen table, I thought of how my father refused to carry a key to the house. He wanted to make sure someone was home when he arrived, as if he needed a welcoming party, or wanted to keep us on a short leash. My mother or I would have to be home by 6 when he came in from work. The key looked so small, so easy to carry, why couldn’t he just take it instead of obligating us to be there for him. It was a special pain on weekends. It only occurred to me later that perhaps he was actually afraid to come into an empty house. I put the key on the table looking at the scene of so many dinner times with me telling my father about something good that happened at school, a high grade on a test, becoming the sports editor of the school paper, my high score at the last basket ball game and he’d just mumble “nice” or ignore me altogether. I put the key down and let out a deep breath. I looked around quickly then walked out the door. It was over. I was done. I was free. I was scared. 

By the time I arrived at my new home, I was tired, hot and hungry. I knocked on the door and the landlady, Mrs. B, answered. She had introduced herself as Mrs. Blaszkiewicz  but I was grateful when she told me to call her Mrs. B. She was a short, gray-haired woman with a large mole near her left nostril, and who always wore a wrap-around apron with small flowers on it. I’d already given her a deposit and she asked for the month’s rent in advance, “It’ll be due on the first of the month from now on—don’t be late.” My room was on the second floor of the faded pink stucco house a few blocks from Liberty Avenue . I brought my stuff upstairs, locked my bike against the railing to the back stoop and sat down on the bed. It creaked and sagged. The walls were pale blue with nail holes from the last tenant still visible. The dresser smelled musty; I opened the drawers. The chair at the small table wobbled. The windows looked like they were smoked but only dirty—I could clean them. I went down to the musty basement where there was a washer and dryer and brought up the cartons with my winter clothes which I put into the closet. It smelled of moth balls. I went across the hall to the bathroom to wash my face. The toilet had rust stains; the sink faucet dripped leaving a green stain. The linoleum floor was chipped. I took a deep breath and went back to my room. I opened the one window that I could pull up. The screen was torn. I never felt lonelier in my life. I went down, unlocked my bike and rode a few blocks to get a slice of pizza and a coke, then rode around the neighborhood before I went to Caruso’s Continental Restaurant on Maple Ave. to begin my shift bussing tables—a six day a week job working 4 to 11 to cover my rent. Still, I felt free.