Broken People (9 page)

Chapter 9

Father knows best

BRITNEY’S FATHER.
As a parent, I had always made decisions that should have been instrumental in assuring that my children grew up understanding the difference between what was right, and what was wrong. Children do not always understand the reason for the decisions that we make, but should always believe that we make them with their best interest in our hearts.

My daughter Britney is no exception to what has become a typical American teenager. She is disrespectful, lacks appreciation, and has a low level of understanding of what life, and a family offers her. She spends far too much time on the telephone, and has far too many friends keeping track of her p
rogress in life and in school.

When George called, I knew almost immediately that his concern with my daughter would be a matter of respect. Her lack of respect became apparent when she was about twelve years old. We have continued to give her what she needs, and
we provide her with quality way of life. Her car, her clothes, and her electronic devices are second to none. She does not appreciate or respect what we provide her. As a child, I grew up with nothing. She has everything, and no appreciation of what it is, or how much hard work goes into obtaining these things.

George expressed concern, and asked to meet to discuss Britney. When I asked that he explain what this matter pertained to, specifically, he didn’
t give me a definitive answer. His only reply was, “We need to meet and talk as soon as you are able.” I agreed, got into my Mercedes, and went to meet him immediately.

We met at the bar, where he was already drinking a Scotch. I ordered a Scotch and a cigar, and we began to talk of work, family, and life in general. George worked as an attorney, and has had a banner year at his firm. His two sons were children to be proud of, and always treated adults as they should, with respect. We hadn’t been at the bar for long, and as I was smoking my cigar, he began to talk about his sons.

“My boys are good boys, you know this,” He said, boldly. I agreed. He continued to explain of kids in school today, and the sharing of photos on internet sites. Kids take photographs, and place them on a Twitter website, and other children comment about the photo. He explained that the children today use this website as if it were a contest. They see how many of the other children will make comments on their photographs. From what he was saying, children today used this Twitter website as a form of a popularity contest. So far, everything he said made sense, but did not pertain to my daughter, Britney.

George continued speaking of his sons, and how they shared photographs of each other to other boys and, additionally, to other girls. He explained that it was common for children to take photographs of themselves, and text a copy of the photograph to other classmates. Classmates, if they liked the photograph, may choose to send it to another classmate, even if it was not a photograph of them, personally. Children, according to George, had become more apt to share photographs of others than of themselves.

The expression on his face changed when he took a phone out of his inner coat pocket and said, “I have a photograph of your daughter that is disturbing, and you need to see it.” His face expressed embarrassment and worry. After agreeing to remain and talk after seeing the photograph, he handed me the phone. I took a long pull from my cigar, and a drink of my Scotch. I looked at the phone. On the screen was a picture of my daughter, and she was not clothed. She was posing naked for the camera. My mind filled with embarrassment and rage. I placed the phone into my in
ner coat pocket and stood up.

“How many people have seen this?” I asked. He responded that he did not know. The photo had been sent to his son from another classmate. Only one of his sons had the photograph, the other son
did not have a nude photograph of Britney. I explained that I expected him to punish his sons for having the photograph, and forbid them to discuss it. He agreed, and requested his son’s telephone be returned. I disagreed, and offered that he accept $500 for a new telephone. After agreeing, I turned, filled with disappointment, finished my Scotch, and left the bar.

Upon returning to my
home, before I spoke with Britney, I got onto the home server, and blocked Britney from any internet access except her email, which she needed for her school work. All other internet was eliminated from her use. As soon as she returned home from school, I had a lengthy discussion with her about respect, and about boys.

“Men, especially the white boys at your school
, are pigs, Britney. I want to know who

took this pho
tograph, when, where, and why!”

After her initial denial of the photograph being her, we discussed the boy she had been sneaking around seeing. According to her, she had his phone number, and had been seeing him, but did not have his email address. She was forbidden from contacting him, in any manner, e
ver again. She was forbidden from use of her telephone for one year, and forbidden from any internet usage for one year. Other than attendance of school, she was forbidden from being seen in public. Until I decided otherwise, she was also forbidden from having any friends come to the house to visit. Any disobedience or disregard for these rules and she would no longer be a member of this family.

It is important that children, especially in the United States, be given specific rules to live by. The freedoms that are practiced by many families, and passed to the children here in America, are not for all fam
ilies, and are not always moral. Americans have lost touch with providing discipline and moral values in their children. The children grow up, do not have sufficient careers, and lack discipline in life. My children, God help me, will not adopt the mediocre standards and principles, and become like so many other undisciplined American children.

In my early years, I had nothing. My family had nothing, and we grew up disciplined. I learned the value of an education, hard work, and of respect. These values allowed me to provide my family with a good way of life in America, and I worked hard to obtain everything that we had as a family. I did not get to this point in time in my life to allow a child to embarrass me b
y posing nude for photographs.

That night, I did not discuss the matter with my wife, and I considered talking to the police the next day, and having the boys that did this to my family arrested. The next day, after much consideration, I decided against the police involvement, as I did not want my daughter
’s nude photographs shared with the police department.

The disrespect of this generation of children is going to be the death of family values. The death of disciplined young
adults, and the death of respect for their elders. I fell asleep that night ashamed of my daughter, and filled with disappointment.

Children in America just do not understand. My children will grow up with respect. 

Chapter 10

Broken people

FAT KID.
There is always that person that you see throughout the course of your day, and you seem to see him or her
everywhere you go
. Maybe a week passes, and you don’t see them, but, inevitably, you will see them again. And they are always doing
nothing
. You go to the grocery store, and look up.
There is that fucking guy again. That guy that is always wherever I go. And always just wandering around, doing nothing. What the fuck does this guy do for a living? Doesn’t he have a job?
I see these types of people in my process of nothingness, and I wonder what it is that they
do
for a living. Are they broke? Did they inherit a fortune, and live on the interest checks? A pimp? A drug dealer? Arms smuggler? Pornography?

As I pulled into the parking lot, Pavel looked
in my direction, and nodded his head. I waved at him and smiled. Pavel was five foot seven-ish, 160 pounds, athletic build, and always wore a dark blue track suit. The shiny type from 1990, with white stripes down the arms and legs. The jacket, as always, was unzipped to the waist, exposing a ribbed tank top, a.k.a.
wife beater
. Pavel was Bulgarian, and was a part of a larger group of Bulgarians that met at the coffee shop daily.
To do nothing.

The group had always treated me with the utmost respect and kindness. We spoke, sometimes at length,
about nothing
. I always wondered what they did for a living, but, I never asked, and they never offered. I had decided, years ago, that it was trafficking of some sort. Drugs. Firearms. Stolen art. People. Stolen vehicles. Something of the sort. Often, when speaking to Pavel, or to the group, I would have to allow them to complete a sentence, digest it for a moment, and try to decide what exactly was said. Although they spoke English, their accents were so strong it was as if they spoke Englarian. A mixture of both languages. It was not uncommon for any member of the group to toss in a few Bulgarian words into an otherwise English sentence. Interesting. It was always interesting.

I parked the car, shouldered my laptop, and got out to start my day. As I walked up to the outside patio area of the coffee shop, I pushed the key fob button to lock the car. The beepi
ng sound of the car alarm got Pavel’s attention. He turned, nodded, and spoke.

“Vaaht Keed. Come. Sit. Spend time
vith us on this vabulous day, no?”

I thought. I digested. After realizing for certain what he said, I responded, “Sure, let me get a coffee, and I will be right out.” Then, the lies started. “I have a ton of shit to do today, so I can only stay for a bit, okay?”

Pavel nodded. I nodded.

Upon entering the coffee shop, I was pleased that there was not a line. I did the typical search for the Nightmare, who was not present. Maybe today would truly be, as Pavel had said,
‘
Vabulous’.

“Hey, Kid. The usual
?” the doll face cashier asked.

I nodded, reaching into my left pocket. As I fished for my money clip
, she marked a cup, depicting my concoction, and handed it to the barista. I looked at my money clip and laughed. This being the first stop of my day meant that all I had available in my money clip was the cash that I placed into it to start the day. Hundred dollar bills. I handed Doll Face a hundred dollar bill.

Laughing, she extended
her arm to hand it back to me. “I’m sorry, we can’t accept this.”

“Look, you do fifty thousand
dollars’ worth of business a day. Simple mathematics. Let’s see, you’re open from 6:00 am until 11:00 pm. That’s seventeen hours. Fifty grand divided by seventeen,” I looked at the ceiling. “Three grand. Roughly three grand an hour, on average. That’s fifty bucks a minute. Sounds about right, especially when you’re busy.” I waved the back of my hand in the direction of her hand, as she held the money, as if shooing a fly. A line was forming behind me. I started to sweat.

“Kid, I’m sorry, we can
’t take it.” She attempted to hand it to me, again.

“Look. What is your name again?
” I looked for her name tag. “Uhhm, Gretchen. I have no other option. I have no credit cards. I use cash. Cash is king. Break the hundred, and give me the change. Fives, ones. Fuck, Gretchen, give me rolls of quarters.
I don’t care
.”

Incompetent and incapable, she stared, holding her arm extended, da
ngling the hundred dollar bill.

From the receiving end of the counter, the barista barked, “KI
D, AMERICANO AT THE BAR!”

I snatched my hundred dollar bill from her fingers, walked to the counter, got my coffee, and walked for the door. As I began to exit, I saw the Bulgarian mafia had formed on the outside patio area wi
th Pavel. I turned and offered Doll Face a smile, holding my coffee high in the air for her to see. She showed no sign of amusement.

I walked outside and approached the Bulgarians. Placing my laptop on the ground beside the table,
I looked at Pavel and nodded.

“Vaaht Keed. You know, I mean, you know everyone,” He began to point at the people sitting at the table around him. “Ivan……Sv
etli…….Svetlani……Yuri…….Demo,” as he pointed, they stood, shook my hand, and nodded.

I nodded back. And we sat. Pavel, Svetli, Svetlani, Yuri, and Demo could have easily been quadruplets. They were all the same height, all the same build, and all had the same one inch
long over-the-entire-head haircut. The identical track suits acted as garnishment. Ivan, however, was a different story.

“Vaaht Keed. Vaaaht dah fuck. Vaaht you do today, Vaaht Keed?” Pavel asked. The entire crowd looked at Pavel when he spoke. Upon his completion of the question, they all turned and looked at
me. I contemplated my answer.

“Well, I am
getting ready to get on my laptop and begin responding to emails on my Internet site. On my blog,” I responded. I took a drink of my coffee. Everyone shifted their eyes to Pavel.

“Vaaht dis blog? Vaaht for you
blog? For vaaht?” Pavel asked.

The crowd, again, turned my direction, waitin
g for a response.

“Well, it’s a blog for anyone that wants to talk about whatever may be bothering them. It has become a place for primarily teens and young adults that are having issues with just living life. They have me give them advice. Right now, I am talking to a suicidal girl, a pregnant fiftee
n year old girl, and a kid with parents that won’t attend his school functions, and he’s depressed,” I responded, admiring the six identical track suits that they were wearing.

The entire crowd, again, shifted their eyes to Pavel. Pavel didn’t disappoint them. “Keed, Vaaht money does this cost for some people? Vaaht zaay
pay you for advice?” he asked.

The crowd, once again, shifted to me. I studied Ivan for a moment. Six foot six. Probably 240 pounds. Not an ounce of fat. He stood military erect, waiting for my response. I took a drink of coffee. I wondered where this conversation was headed. I focused on Ivan this time, and responded, “Well, they do not pay anything. It’s free. I just do it to help them. Sometimes people need help, and they can’t get it elsewhere. So, I offer free advice.
For
free
.”

The crowd stared at me. This time, their eyes didn’t shift to Pavel. They stared at me as if they wanted more. A different answer.
Something.
I didn’t know what to say. I took another drink of my coffee, and dug into my left pocket for a piece of chocolate. They stared. I peeled back the wrapper. I took a bite. They stared. Pavel began to speak. Their gaze shifted. Thank God.

“Kid, vee talk. Vhee vonder. Vee talk. Vee vonder. Vaaht dah fuck. Vaaht dah fuck Keed do for the money? You drive Beemer. You never working. You come. You use laptops. You stay all day. Vaaht dah
fuck you do for the money, Keed?” Pavel asked, his hands buried deeply in his track suit pockets. The entire mafia, upon Pavel’s completion of the question, shifted their eyes towards me. Intently, they stared, waiting.

And, a
t that moment, it dawned on me. I was one of
those
people. The people that I detested. The jobless people that you see all of the time. The people that make you
wonder
. I pondered my answer, finished my chocolate, and decided that I would go fishing. In some respects, I lied. “I import weapons. I am a weapons smuggler,” I said, very matter of fact, as I took the last swig of my coffee. 

Immediately, all h
eads spun in Pavel’s direction.

“Vell, Vell, Vell. Vee must talk. Not
for now. Keed, have nice day.”

I stood. I picked up my laptop, shouldered it, and nodding to each of the men as I spoke,
I offered my departures. “Pavel, Svetli, Svetlani, Ivan, Yuri, Demo,” I walked away, stuffing my chocolate wrapper back into my left pocket. As I did, I could hear them speaking in Bulgarian. Turning to walk away, I wondered about the availability of a Rosetta Stone in Bulgarian.

Walking to the door, my hands in my pockets, I decided to try my luck at tossing my trash in the trash can. It was a huge steel can that sat at the entrance of the coffee shop. It was modern, and black, and looked exactly like a huge 250 pound black dildo. Shaped like a futuristic cock-like space ship, about twenty inches in diameter, and four feet tall. The opening at the top of the cone was about the size of a grapefruit.
Everyone
made fun of it. Standing fifteen feet away, I crushed my candy bar wrapper into a tight wad, and tossed. Without contacting any portion of the trash can, it fell inside. I turned and looked for witnesses. Not a soul saw this magnificent feat. Well, it satisfied me nonetheless. Today would, in fact, be
Vabulous.

Once inside, I found a seat. I retrieved my laptop from the case,
opened it, and logged onto the Internet. I knew better than to attempt to buy another coffee from Doll Face, so I went to the counter, and asked for an ice water. Doll Face Gretchen graciously filled my request, and I walked back to the table. Once logged into my email account, two emails immediately grasped my attention. One from Michelle, and one from Shellie. Shocked at my not knowing that I had received these emails, I unsuccessfully attempted to find my phone. Hoping that I had left it in my car, I opened the email from Shellie.

Kid,

My parents are livid. They have prohibited me from
use of the phone, social media networks, and from going out in public. I am afraid that I cannot make it any longer. Neither of my parents will allow me to even try to discuss things with them or try to explain. I no longer have friends. My life is over. Contact me as soon as you can, please.

Shellie

The date and time on the email confirmed that it was about two hours old. I considered my potential response, knowing that email was the only means of communicating. I opened
Michelle’s email as I processed Shellie’s email in my thoughts.

Kid,

Why I'm deciding to tell you this right now, I don't know, but whatever. You can
read it when you get a chance. Now, about Shellie. If I met her somewhere and she told me her story, a spark would go off in my heart and I'd just want to give her love. I've done it a million times. But sometimes I wonder if I do this because I have a selfless love for everyone, or if it's just because broken people attract broken people. That's a personal theory/belief. That broken people attract broken people. And not in a sexual sense, but just that they are drawn to each other. But if that's the case, then there's a problem. Because broken people shouldn't be helping broken people in that way. If you're whole, you're safe. There's no room for anything foreign to creep in. And I like to think of myself as strong, but am I really? I don't lie to myself. There are times where I have thoughts I thought I had gotten past. I guess that means although I am strong, I am not quite whole.

Three years ago, it was like my body was a shell, dragging m
y soul behind itself on a 100 foot rope. Now it's maybe 3 feet behind me. I am so close, I'm trying. I wake up every day smiling and happy to be alive, but there's still that little drag. The parts of me that still haven't learned how to be alive. I'm not saying that's exactly the case with you. But ask yourself...are you whole? You may very well be, but only you can answer that...so just be careful and know your limits I guess. I don't want to undermine your capabilities but you're still human like the rest of us. Make sure you're taking care of yourself first. I don't doubt that you can do her some good. But every once in a while just detach yourself and take a look at it all from the outside. If all is well, proceed.

I'm losing logical flow so I will shut up here… and umm, I don't really have a conclusion, because I don't even know what I'm trying to say. But I think I mentioned everything I wanted to. It's just, when you said you weren't planning to tell me, I thought maybe it
was because you didn't want to hear what I had to say. Which is why I'm telling you anyways, since you probably won't ask. Haha. I'm annoying. And this doesn't need to be a conversation if you don't want it to be. But those are just my thoughts.