In the Year of our Lord of COVID Issue #18 The Story of Chuck and His Creepy Son

Apr 11, 2021

Weight: 316.8
Days in lock down: 394
Mood: Rainy

My therapist and I have decided it was time to start dragging up the past, getting a clarity and closure, and moving on from my traumas. Now that I’m (mostly) stable, it seems like a good time to work on things so that I can live a mentally and emotionally better life.

She told me to think about and sit with when memories come up and how do they impact my life now. What else better way than to tell these story to my newsletter?

This is the story of Chuck and his creep son.

My mother, who was also bipolar and unmedicated, met Chuck at a car dealership while she was getting an oil change. Mother would leave my 10 year old bother and I, who just turned 17, alone in our apartment, no car to be had, while she stayed at Chuck’s nearly every night. She would drop off money for groceries (she still paid the bills) and grab her clothes. My brother and I would walk a mile to Meijer to pick up our weekly rations. Jeff and I got to school by our buses, so we didn’t really need a car. We could entertain ourselves and we had friends in our complex, so we weren’t completely fucked other than not having a mother who lived at home.

Chuck was, to put it mildly, a character. His past remained fluid and my mother didn’t seem to care. He was in his early 60s to my mother’s late 40s. Chuck stored his ex-girlfriend’s household belongings and was non-plus about her picking it up. He retired early but we were not quite sure from what.

A few months after “dating,” Mother let the lease expire on our apartment and moved us in with Chuck and his early-20 something creepy son who lived in the basement, locked away in his room smoking pot every day. I’m not sure he even had a job.

Chuck lived in the Black Hills, an avowed “bad area.” During day light, the streets seemed quiet and peaceful enough, but we were warned to not go out after dark and if we did, to always protect and arm ourselves. A friend had recently died by playing Russian roulette so the last thing I wanted to do was “protect and arm” myself.

The Black Hills was in a different school district, but it was decided then rather pull my brother and myself out to switch schools, mother or Chuck would take us to and fro our individual schools. I was working part-time at Little Caesar’s and my best friend at the time took me to work. All our bases were covered.

I was not allowed to have a key to the house.

Sometimes Chuck would “forget” to pick me up or show up between 4-5PM when the last class got out about 3.

Once when he “forgot,” it was freezing, and a blizzard was coming. I was able to track down my BFF, who lived in the burbs, who came and picked me up from school. When we get to the house, the door was locked. I went across the street to the neighbor’s house, and she told me in no uncertain terms was I specifically allowed to have the key per Chuck’s rules.

I wrapped my hand up in my scarf and punched a hole in the glass above the lock and let myself in. The damage to my hand was just a few scratches and nothing warranted stitches. I cleaned up the glass and went about my busy. The screen door had the winter windows in so it wa not terribly cold in the kitchen. Chuck and mother came home not long after and nothing was said about the broken glass or what happened.

Chuck’s creepy son used to spy on me.

I did not have a bedroom but slept on a bed in the finished basement, not far from the tower of boxes of Chuck’s ex-girlfriend’s things. I had an old dresser for my clothes and hung my Polo button downs (this was the late ‘80s after all and the horses on my socks matched the shirts) and jeans on a pipe in the laundry room. I would change in the basement when the son was not home or the bathroom when he was. As my wardrobe was button downs, jeans, and deck shoes, I dressed pretty modestly.

The creepy son decided one day to tell Chuck and my mother, or maybe it was Chuck who “found it,” that I was keeping pot in the dresser. If you are to understand anything about who I am, for all of my tattoos and piercings and the ever-changing hair color, I’m pretty quiet and a book nerd. I had problems in school (another story) but I read a lot and wasn’t much of a partier. So, the idea that I kept drugs in the house, let alone my dresser, was laughable and downright absurd.

The accusations came one night before dinner and I told my mother to get me drug tested. Right then. Right now. She demurred but the threat of being kicked out, in a long winter of 1989 in Michigan, hung in the air.

No one would answer why Chuck, or the creepy son were snooping through my things.

This cat and mouse game went on for four long months until we moved into a house in our original school district in February 1990.

My bed was one of the last items to be brought over from Chuck’s place and he promised my mother he would set it up for me. Instead, he dumped the pieces and the mattress in my room and left. I called on a girlfriend who lived a few blocks away. While chain smoking and drinking Diet Coke, I was able to sleep on a fully finished bed that evening.

Mother and Chuck broke up not much later.

(If you’re new here, welcome!, you’re probably thinking, “Jesus Christ! this is not quite what I signed up for!,” but old comers know this is exactly brand.)

As you have probably sussed, I’m not a fan of telling these stories.

But I have to agree with my therapist that these experiences shape me, another thing she wants me to think about, into who I am now. This story gives me pause about public perception and the male gaze. When I write about these things, less now than then but still here, I am controlling the narrative. When it is thrust upon you, pun intended, the loss of control is frightening and demoralizing.

If we have learned anything about the libel case, is that I have no problem standing up for the voiceless because if I don’t do it, who will? Even if the cost of that standing up is dangerous for I see myself as someone who can happily carry the burden. So, for this, for every person who has had a Chuck and his creepy son in their life, let me speak for you.

it will be I,
it will be the silence,
where I am,
I don't know,
I'll never know,
in the silence you don't know,
you must go on,
I can't go on,
I'll go on. – Samuel Beckett

Wonderful Thing
After the depth of today’s newsletter, I’m going to keep this week’s wonderful thing short and to the point: I was introduced to Barry’s Gold Blend tea a few years ago by an Irish friend when I stayed with her and her husband the last time I was in the UK. Now that I’m caffeine free, I miss Barry’s but thankfully they create a decaf blend that is a staple in my cupboard.

(I do recommend the Gold Blend if you’re into black tea that will kick your ass in the morning or whenever you have your tea.)

Interesting Things (or things to buy)

I’ve added computer parts and electornics (Chromebook, Google Mini, and so on) to my Pops collection on eBay.
A friend reached out that they were into buying the TomboyX bras I mentioned a couple of issues back and wondered if I had a referrer code. Turns out I do! ($20 off your first order!)

Links to Read That are Not (Terribly) Depressing
(Since I’ve been quiet these last few weeks, lots of links!)

As always, don't be an ass. Wear a damned mask.

lisa x

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A Most Unreliable Narrator

In the Year of our Lord of COVID Issue #18 The Story of Chuck and His Creepy Son

Image depicting the black death in a book by French chronicler and poet, Gilles Li Muisis (1272 - 1352). Artist unknown.

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