The Corruption of a Family (Part 2 of 5)

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The year was 1997 and I had moved to Colorado from Texas to start a new life. I had moved in with an affluent family who were set on assisting me in whatever way they could to make the transition as smooth as possible. I was way out of my element. I had never even seen snow and my mother would be spending the next three years in Venezuela. I was in Colorado to stay and these people I hardly knew I had little choice but to trust. Trust and pride have always been my greatest downfalls. My pride rears its blind head later.

I settled in well to my new home. I had a nice job working at Sears Home Life Furniture and was waiting on a date to take my college entrance exams so that I could attend CU. I had a cute girlfriend, a small circle of dependable and interesting friends, and my prior scrape with the law seemed a distant memory. I was finally away from the chaos that is Houston, Texas, but despite my seemingly "made" set-up, I often longed for the company of my old cronies and the familiarity of H-town. There would be no going back. I was well aware of the fact that I wouldn't last half-a-year on probation in the for-profit Harris County Criminal Justice System, and I still had five left from the golf club fiasco.

The father of my adoptive family had been in town the first week of my arrival. When he left a noticeable calm came over the remaining Thompsons. The daughter, who was seventeen and a high school senior and somehow managed to finish third at Miss Teen Colorado, was just pretty enough to make you look. If you ever had to listen to this young lady open her mouth though, you would understand my above reference to her managing to finish third. On top of all this, she had an immediate and transparent crush on me. Sex? No fucking way you could get past the diologue required for such an act. Nick's dick was not leaving his pants.

The other sibling of the family, a man in a boy's body who was the best swimmer in his high school as a freshman and relied almost entirely on his God-given physical gifts, was your typical 15 year old jock -- head strong, girl-crazy, extremely competitive, but somehow impressionable. We clicked immediately and before my first two weeks in Colorado were up, he already made it clear to me that he was quite the pot-head. I was more than curious about the dank I had heard about coming out of Colorado. In Texas in 1997, the only thing keeping hydroponic marijuana from being an urban legend was the full page centerfolds in High Times of the stuff.

As for the mother of the family, she simply enjoyed life, and though I cannot really pinpoint what the significance was for her of me arriving, something changed in her when I showed up. She drove a Subaru Forester hatchback, spent most of her hours running her online business consulting operation, and dressed like your typical married 37-year-old woman. After her husband left town for work and within a month of me taking up residence in her home, she had traded in the Forester for a sleek two-door coupe(I picked it out at the dealership and she payed cash.), had more than once flirted with me behind closed doors, and allowed her kids and myself to have a party of sorts in her illustrious house. The kicker -- she smoked a blunt with me in her master bathroom after having not smoked since college. Oh, and her son and daughter helped us extinguish it. Just wait until you find out where all of this craziness leads to. We already know I end up in prison, but what are you thinking were the stepping-stones for such? The tale is unfolding before your eyes and you won't believe what kind of situation I wound up putting myself in. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp: A Goodbye to Texas

The rest of boot camp had gone according to plan. I was in great physical condition and was excited about graduating and getting my life back on track. What track my life would end up on was not very clear, but I wouldn't be peering through barbed wire any longer.

Colorado was my destination upon release. I'd visit with mom and dad at graduation and for a couple of days after. Then it was back to Puerto La Cruz for them. Again, I wasn't permitted to go to Venezuela because of my five remaining years of probation. I could stay state-side however.

While in boot camp my mother had called in a favor to a friend who lived in Colorado to see if her family would mind having an extra guest for a few months until I started college. I had never seen snow before, and although I would have preferred the exotic locale my parents were heading back to, I was still pumped about the prospect of living near Boulder.

In the two days I spent in Houston prior to my big move, I had the chance to catch up with a few old friends. The only eventful occurrence I missed turned out to be a tragedy. Felipe, who I referred to in my story "Mike Tyson, a Chunk Of Ear, and a Dumb Bet", managed to roll his Blazer and return to the 4th grade. As cruel as it sounds, over the years, I couldn't help but wonder if karma had been a factor. His drunken miscue was a sure sign I needed a change of scenery.

As I climbed aboard the plane, headed for my new home in the mountains, I wondered when I would see everyone again. Spring break? Summer? Who knew? I just had to get "my" life together and everything else would have to be secondary. I never planned on losing contact with the people who had shaped my life. It has been over ten years since I've seen any of them and I just want them to know it wasn't because I was hitting the slopes in Breckenridge. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp -- Tug-Of-War, the Ropes course, and monkey-fucks.

Following my regression in boot camp everything else went well. My new platoon turned out to be very cohesive and the experience was both beneficial and enjoyable despite the circumstances. My mother's transfer still loomed in my mind but I was doing my best to distract myself with the world around me.

Every week the boot camp held an official field-day for the six platoons. The single-most anticipated event of these field-days was the tug-of-war competition. Many people have competed in tug-of-war events. I doubt, however, there were fifty people on either side of the rope, each in the physical prime of their lives. With such numbers a cadence is necessary for success, and if you can manage to get that many people working fluidly in conjunction it is almost impossible to lose.

The platoon who generally won this event was the dominant platoon of the facility. Out of six platoons, each separated by two weeks of seniority, the senior-most platoon "held" the rope ninety percent of the time. The weekly winner was allowed to take the rope back to their barracks and proudly display it until it was "taken" from them in a future field day.

My new platoon, the Bravo platoon, were winners of this event my last six weeks of the program. We were the envy of the camp and graduated without losing the rope back to anyone. It was interesting to see so many people of so many different backgrounds with so many different motivations all working together for a common goal which altogether depended on teamwork.

Another twist to boot camp in Texas, which will stand out blatantly in effectiveness from my boot camp experience in Colorado a couple of years later, was the on-site "Ropes" course. It would prove to be an interesting technique in promoting a teamwork mindset upon a group of individuals who likely would be trying to kill each other on the outs.

Bloods, Crips, Folks, and spoiled little crackers like myself all worked together in harmony to overcome the various challenges presented in the Ropes course. I witnessed several people terrified of heights defeat their fear; I witnessed sworn enemies depending on one another for success. I also witnessed perhaps the fastest descent of a zip-line ever when one of our 350 pound fat-bodies gave it a whirl.

One of the more memorable landmarks of the facility was a mosquito-larvae and microorganism infested stagnant wading pool which was reserved for days when your platoon was altogether fucking up. The condition of the water was far more of a punishment than any exercise they could have us doing in it. Keep in mind -- one of these exercises was called "monkey-fucking". This entailed squatting on the balls of your feet with your arms behind your calves and each thumb positioned inside your shoes. In this position you were then required to lift your ass up and down repeatedly. Try it some time if you are an exercise guru! The backs of your thighs and buttocks will hinder your walking for days if you do it right.

Monkey-Fucks seems like a good stopping point. In my next post I'll be discussing a few more aspects of boot camp, my graduation, and how I ended up in Colorado. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp -- Making the Call

Everyone in boot camp was assigned a job. The two best jobs -- working in the commissary building and working in the nurses station -- were indoors and had certain perks such as coffee and interaction with people other than drill instructors. I worked in the nurses' station which also gave me access to a phone. I had planned on using it to contact my family and was prepared for any punishment they would give me, although I never entertained the thought of being discovered.

I only worked about 5 hours a day total. A few of these hours came before lunch and the rest followed dinner for med-call. There was only one nurse on duty in the evenings and that would provide me with the best opportunity to call my parents and figure out what the hell I was going to do when I was released.

The night I chose to make my call I remember clearly. Brown Recluse spiders were rampant in our barracks and the surrounding countryside. Many recruits had been bitten, but that evening we were treating a patient who had been bitten on the ass. He didn't tell anyone about it until the bite had ruptured, exposing the decayed tissue beneath that the poison had been feeding on. I can recall nurses sticking one-sided Q-tips about four inches into the flesh of his cheek to remove the gangrenous bi-product of the bite. For three weeks we had to pack that wound with iodine and sugar.

With this grape-colored salve still drying on my fingertips, I made my way towards the rear of the clinic to make my call. I dialed quickly and the phone rang...one ring, two rings, three rings, and then four. No answer. I hung up. Dad was passed out on the couch and mom was immersed in a crossword puzzle avoiding the telemarketers. I knew the routine.

I then distanced myself from the crime scene and began sweeping the floor of the clinic. I had tried. I could always try again. It had been an easy enough attempt. Finishing up my duties I headed back to my barracks for the evening. A shower, maybe some mail to read, and some sleep would put my mind at ease.

Revelry rang distortedly through the wall mounted speakers the next morning at 4:30 sharp. Didn't they ever just feel like letting us sleep in a bit and having an extra cup of coffee before verbally raping one of our mothers, sisters, or girlfriends for breakfast? The sun wasn't even fucking up yet and half of the guys were trying to figure out creative ways to hide their morning wood with just boxers and a t-shirt on while standing at attention. No easy task! Every waking moment was its own unique experience.

We made our bunks and then headed to morning chow. This was followed with a few morning P.T. activities and then I was to report to the nurses station. When I arrived, paranoia already setting in, I was immediately pulled aside by one of the nurses. She informed me that my father had called the nurses office that morning asking for me by name. Some shit was about to go down. Blasted caller-I.D.! I couldn't believe he had called back.

I was written up for using the phone and about a week later went before a three person panel to discuss my actions and their consequences. Despite an applause-worthy effort at displaying my child-like distraught over mom's transfer, the panel was hardly impressed, and chose to regress me a month in the program. The decision would be announced to the camp at evening colors, where I would be reprimanded by the highest ranking staff member present and relegated to my new platoon. Despite this setback, mom and dad were still foremost in my thoughts. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Dear Mr. Ashcroft, Malaysia Blows and So Do You

A Malaysian man by the name of Razali Ahmad, a courier company clerk and first time offender, was sentenced to death for possession of less than two pounds of marijuana. This is considered trafficking in Malaysia and death by gallows is the mandatory sentence.

While I'll be sure to stay the fuck away from such a country, this event raises a few questions about the ongoing drug war, many of them specific to America.

The most obvious issue is that if being hung for getting high doesn't deter someone from either the trade or use of drugs, then what will? The Drug War is an obvious hoax, fascist-like in its focus on non-white offenders, and a pathetic left-over of two shit-head presidents. Nothing is going to stop people from victimizing themselves; if you can even refer to drug use as that.

If you are an advocate of the War on Drugs and are finding solace in the idea that America hasn't yet incorporated capital punishment for drug offenders and instead warehouses their ever-multiplying numbers, read the next paragraph.

In Texas alone, 120 murderers have been sentenced to probation since 2000. We like to refer to that as "misdemeanor murder". On the other hand, George Mortarano, a first time offender, was sentenced to life without parole for 2,600 pounds of marijuana. He has been incarcerated since 1982, giving him the honorary title of "Longest Serving Non-Violent Federal Offender In United States History". An American president given to grant clemency in such cases would be very refreshing, but I wont be holding my breath. If his niece is, I hope her lung capacity is better than mine. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Earning a Trip to Bootcamp.

My senior year of high school I spent a good part of the first two weeks of classes raiding a local mushroom field. I was the only individual of my clique to have not yet graduated. This doesn't mean that I was behind in my studies, but simply the youngster.

Most of my time during those first couple of weeks was filled with picking, boiling, trippin', and analyzing over and over again every nuance and perceived subliminal message of the movie Natural Born Killers. "Repetition works David...Repetition works!"

I'm pretty sure David, Mario, and myself had the dialog reverted to memory by day two. The memorization enhancement of hallucinogens was indeed remarkable. Quite a convenient counter-balance to all of the pot we were also ingesting. Yeah, right!

While in one of these drug-induced mid-morning skip sessions, we decided we wanted some beer. As a freshman and sophomore we would just steal beer; or "wahoo" as the locals dubbed it. In Texas, however, you become an adult at the age of seventeen. That was no longer our M.O.. Could you imagine going to jail for stealing beer? Us either.

All we had on us was our lunch money. Which meant MY lunch money, because I was the only one still in school. Five bucks wasn't going to get us many beers. Lots of $1 Whoppers, but not many beers. You remember when Burger King had $1 Whoppers? No, not Junior Whoppers. Fuckin' Whoppers.

I was driving my father's truck that day for some reason that I can't recall. My 300zx was probably in the shop. I really mistreated that car. Anyway, when I say that, "we decided we wanted some beer," I mean we drove past a house, saw some golf clubs sitting on someone's front porch, and we took them. David jumped from the truck and walked as inconspicuously as a black man can in a suburban neighborhood. While doing so, a brown astro-minivan had passed us, heading the opposite direction.

Tiger Woods tossed the clubs into the bed as he returned and stepped back into the truck. Just as I began to let my foot off of the clutch, the astro-van power-slid like a beaching whale into our pathway. Was this really happening? Super-Mom was here to save the day?

What I found out about a half-second later, while staring down the barrel of a gun, was that Mom was a Man, and this Man was on his way to work, which just happened to be the local police station. He just had to drop his daughter off at day-care first! She was still in the baby-seat though. Guess he got to work a little early. Can you imagine going to jail for stealing golf clubs? Pathetic, but that was our fate. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

(To be continued.)

Mike Tyson, a Chunk of Ear, and a Dumb Bet

One of my last memories leading up to incarceration, about a year and some change prior, was a little get together we had at my mother's house in 1997. It was the night of the Mike Tyson / Evander Holyfield rematch and some of my friends that I had grown up with would be attending.

There were approximately eight of us and one keg. Mario, my closest friend, though we were all connected through years of pick-up basketball, had a bet going with Felipe. I'm not sure now what the exact amount was, but it was more than I would have bet given I was a senior in high school at the time. I'd rather test my knowledge on some football picks. Too many variables in boxing for gambling, but that's beside the point.

This was the fight where Tyson infamously bit the ear of his opponent, spitting a chunk of it to the canvas, forever solidifying his pathetic legacy in sports. I have that asshole to thank for what the results of this disqualification would bring. Didn't he rape a woman? He did three years for RAPE?

I'm pretty sure everyone was wasted even though the fight didn't make it past the second or third round. Felipe almost immediately wanted his money. He had bet on Evander (Who I believe would have been the eventual winner anyway) and Evander, despite losing his ear, had won the fight. Mario immediately protested the payout. His argument was that they were friends and this wasn't a fucking casino. It was a "Disqualification!" I'd have to say that I agreed. I'm pretty sure everyone else did as well. Felipe had his two little brothers there with him and I bet they even agreed.

This playful argument quickly moved to the front yard, but I knew Mario wasn't planning on paying Felipe regardless. This eventually turned into a spirited argument which led to my friend Jason getting a bit too close to Felipe for one of Felipe's little brother's liking. We were standing on the inclined driveway and Jason was sucker-punched from behind. Jason was lanky and at his level of intoxication was a tree waiting to fall. Lesson #1 from this experience is not to let your obviously volatile 15 year old younger brother drink with your friends.

Jason crashed into the yard after backpedaling a few steps. He looked like Glass Joe from Mike Tyson's video-game. You know the simulation! Not too many men would have taken that punch well from behind though. I'd have been out like a light. Before Jason even knew what had happened, Felipe was ushering his two brothers into the Bronco to leave. It would go no further it seemed and I'd like to think that that was Felipe's intention.

Now, I haven't really mentioned it, but Felipe was a scary mother fucker. Better yet, he was a loose cannon, Scarface obsessed (Not the rapper but the movie; cocaine included.), Mexican pride, family before friends, mi vida loca son of a bitch. He was leaving and that was good. Everyone just needed to chill. This was about Mike Tyson and an ear. That shit was hilarious. However, Mario, who was emotional by now, wanted to go and talk to Felipe. They lived on adjacent culdesacs and had known each other the longest.

I was always bent on pleasing my friends and must admit the whole situation was out of control. Mario just jumped in to the back of my Dad's truck and we drove over to Felipe's house. It was pretty late and his parents had a sign on their door telling whitey to keep out. I never understood why it was in Spanish though. Anyway, I parked at the head of the street and allowed Mario to approach by foot.

Mario made it to the drive-way before disappearing behind one of those huge customized vans, which was parked out front. He must have only made it about halfway to the door, because soon after vanishing he reappeared, backing away from the house with his hands up. Felipe had pulled a gauge on Mario. I think his point was made, because I've never seen another Mexican run that fast in my life. Speaking of fast, my cracker-ass managed to get the truck into reverse pretty quickly and get the hell out of there too. I did wait on Mario to get in though.

About a week later I went to disciplinary boot camp somewhere in Texas near Houston. Little did I know how much my life would be changed upon completing it. My life would never be the same, and all of the people I had invested so much time in being friends with to this day can only be revisited in my memories. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)