So, not to come off sounding all inspirational and shit, that’s not what I want this to be. I actually don’t have an end-game here, other than providing entertainment through the haunting memories that are my child-hood.
I mean, who am I to inspire anyone? I’m just some dude who was wandering around aimlessly until I got my bearing. Due north! Or was it west? Shit.
Back to what I was saying. I was stumbling through life sorta the the same way a drunk, blind and half-lame grizzly bear might stumble through a campsite when I decided that some shit had to change. Seriously. I started out promising, all things considered. I began working when I was fairly young, somehow managed to keep my ass out of trouble and accidentally acquired an education along the way.
So while other kids my age were out doing juvenile-delinquent shit with their juvenile-delinquent friends, I was working. Seriously. I started earning money before I even reached third grade, and have been working ever since. I wish I would have listened to some of the older, more wise people telling me “don’t grow up too fast,” and I was all “I’m almost nine! I think I know what’s good for me!” Well psyche motherfucker! I really didn’t know shit!
I got my first taste of what some call “responsibility” when I was around 8 years old. No, that is not a typo, I did not absent-mindedly forget to place a “1” in front of the “8.” Just 8 tiny years old.
I had not even experienced a decade’s worth of life on this planet when I begged my mother for permission to start earning my own money. She was reluctant, but I was persistent. She finally caved and I started working that summer. I was a real-life paper boy!
It was the summer of ’88. DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince were enjoying their very first hit single “Parents just Don’t Understand” and I was fresh out of 2nd grade and ready for a summer filled with fun and excitement and …WORK!
SHIT! I forgot all about my campaign trail-like promises that I made to our local newspaper waaaaay back during spring break! So had my parents as I’m sure they were experiencing their summer through a haze “Mary Jane.”
Really a bit of a shock when you get dragged out of bed at 3 o’clock in the morning by your mother. This chick stuffed me into a Camel Cigarettes t-shirt that was about three sizes to big, shorts and sneakers. She then hurried me out the front door like an un-welcome Mormon Missionary who virtually forced their way inside and ignored all social cues indicating “No thank you, you people are crazy.”
I was roughly crammed inside a yellow Chevy cargo van with no windows… wait, wasn’t there one of those “after school specials” about kids climbing into windowless cargo vans with strangers? And this was 19-freaking-88! I didn’t have a smart phone with GPS tracking. I didn’t have a way to check-in anywhere or with anyone… I was alone in a van with two people I did not know and was still very much groggy when we pulled up at a whorehouse. Wait…damn auto-correct! Sorry. Warehouse.
So I would hastily fold, stack and stuff newspapers into four or five of these messenger-type shoulder bags. Then, after being dropped back off at my apartment complex, I would fling papers at doors until all my bags were empty. Usually about three hours worth of walking.
Obviously this didn’t last long. I mean, who the hell can depend on some 8 year-old to be punctual? I did however, arrive at that “a-ha” moment that I spoke of earlier. I learned very quickly that if I want something, I have no one to depend on but me. I have to make shit happen. Did this always soak in? Nope. Have I had to resort asking for help or advice occasionally? More than I like to admit.
One thought on “Life doesn’t get easier…You have to get better at it!”
“No one to depend on but me”? Are you kidding? They DROVE you to the site. We had to pedal our little asses all over town. (And by pedal, I mean pedal a bike, not the other kind of pedal. Preevert.)
LikeLiked by 1 person