Sync, page 2
I’ve Been Locked Up Before
And I’m relatively sure
it will happen again.
Don’t know when or why.
But it’s waiting for me.
I’ve never expected anything else.
Some people are born marked
by fate, time-stamped
by destinies
beyond their control.
Life never offered
me many choices.
I’ve been prodded
toward trouble by people
I’ve known and by total strangers.
My only decisions
seemed to be how low
I was willing to go
and whether to take
someone with me.
So, no. I’ve never believed
in some fairy-tale future.
But I’ve always hoped
for happiness.
I’ve found a small measure
recently, with my current
foster, Jim, who’s not only
decent, but he’s cool with me
seeing Jaidyn, who lifts the storm
clouds and lets her light in.
But I’ll never feel whole
without my sister.
It’s like a piece of me
has been excised,
carved out of my heart,
hidden away. If I find
it again someday,
can it be reattached?
When we were little,
we mostly only had each other.
We grew up without many friends.
Who’d want to hang out with us?
They could see it
in our thirdhand clothes,
in our unwashed hair,
in our vacant eyes.
I swear mothers would shoo
their kids across the street
to avoid passing us on the sidewalk.
As if neglect was contagious.
We were untethered.
Until the system anchored
us, “for our own good.”
Maybe it was.
Maybe it wasn’t.
How would we ever know?
Mom Was Happy
The caseworker took us away.
I remember Mom leaning
against the building, relief
in her slanted smile.
Devin wouldn’t let her inside
while he stuffed our clothes
in black garbage bags, told us
to grab our toothbrushes.
We were hurt. Confused.
Oh, we knew why we were
being removed, why the school
counselor called the police.
It wasn’t how thin we were.
No one ever noticed that. No.
It was the fist prints we wore
on our skin like tattoos.
But at ten, that was our life.
Mom went after us from time
to time, but mostly it was Beverly.
She didn’t like to be called Grandma.
Beverly watched us when Mom worked.
They traded shifts at the club
where they “danced.” That’s what
they called taking off their clothes.
Yes, our grandmother stripped, too.
That might seem weird, but she was
only sixteen when she had Mom,
who was seventeen when we were born.
Fortyish strippers get day shifts.
Mom got nights, which was better
for her bank account, but not
so great for my sister and me.
Beverly drank at night.
Sometimes that was good.
If she passed out in her recliner,
we could raid the refrigerator.
We were always hungry.
Other times, something would
set her off—a dish left on a table,
a stray sock, a random whim.
She always came for Lake first.
I was her brother, I swore
I’d protect her. I managed
to save her a bruise or two.
Mom pretended she didn’t see.
But she just didn’t care enough
to stop it. So maybe that’s why
she didn’t bother to say goodbye.
That Is Branded into Memory
Mom stood there, just outside,
under the eaves, dodging
the steady bullets of rain.
She looked down at us
with frosted-glass eyes.
“Mom?”
One three-letter word.
That was my entreaty,
not that it mattered.
It’s for the best, she said.
I turned my back
on my mother,
like she’d turned hers
on my sister and me.
Devin loaded us into
the back seat
of his ugly white car.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
To my office for now. We’re looking
for someone who can take the two
of you for a couple of days.
Then we can go home?
No, Lake. Not for a while.
But we need to keep you safe
until we secure a longer placement.
It was the first time
we heard the word placement.
It wouldn’t be the last.
The Toys
In Devin’s office were meant
for littler kids, so he put on
a Disney movie while he made
about a hundred phone calls.
Finally, success.
We drove across the city
to a little house with a broken
fence around a potholed yard.
Inside, the place was neat,
but threadbare. The furniture
looked overused, and the carpet
needed to be replaced.
But Kelly, the lady who lived
there, was pretty nice. She held
a baby, and a girl who was
maybe three clung to her pant leg.
Come in, come in, she said.
Bet you’re hungry, huh?
It was almost eight by then.
I hoped she meant she’d feed
us and said, “I’m starving.”
Lake didn’t say anything,
but she ate every chicken
nugget and french fry.
After that, Kelly made us
take showers and brush our teeth,
and then she put us to bed.
I’m not really supposed
to let you sleep in the same
room, she told us. But since
this is an emergency placement,
I think I can make an exception.
What about school?
Lake was always worried
about being late and was
proud of her zero absences.
No school for you until
we settle you in somewhere
more permanent, I’m afraid.
Will we go to the same one?
And who will tell my teacher?
I don’t know if you’ll go to
the same school, but someone
will tell your teacher, okay?
Nothing would be the same
after that day. Nothing at all.
There were two beds, but once
the lights were out, I pulled
my blanket and pillow over
next to Lake’s, slept on the floor.
It was always my job
to keep her safe.
Two Days Later
Lake and I, aged almost eleven,
moved in with Molly and Pete,
their daughter, Alora, and Rex,
the best dog in the universe.
The Whittingtons made us
feel like we belonged
in a storybook family.
A mom who baked.
A dad who mowed the grass.
A big sister who played with us.
A K9 who aced tricks.
Too bad, like anything too good
to be true, it didn’t last longer.
Too bad it was the first step
toward our separation,
not that we knew it then.
I learned a few things there.
I love amusement parks.
I prefer dogs to most people I’ve met.
Maybe I have a talent or two.
Including debate, denied me before.
Pete said I should be a lawyer
because I argued so much,
and more than once I actually won.
It was the happiest year
of our lives, or at least
it was for me, right up until
I moved in here with Jim.
Jim’s Old Guy Cool
Smart, but not a know-it-all.
Kind of quiet, but funny
as hell when he does talk.
He used to be a reporter
for the San Francisco Chronicle,
“back when writing for a newspaper
was a dignified profession.”
Started fostering with his wife,
and when Brenda died, he kept
right on caring for hard kids like me.
I try not to get in his face.
In the almost year since I’ve been
here, we’ve only gotten into it twice.
I’ve been working on my temper,
but once in a while I lose it.
Jim doesn’t back down, but neither
does he threaten to send me packing.
He’s good about handing over
my monthly allowance, and even
gave me a phone, the first foster
who’s ever been that generous.
Plus, he’s got a dog.
Not a great dog like Rex.
Morley is a cocker mix, more
couch surfer than ball fetcher.
But he’s okay to watch TV with.
And the fact that Jim
takes excellent care of Morley
makes me respect him more.
Between the Whittingtons and Jim
Came several years.
Several placements.
Including the one
right after they ripped
Lake and me apart.
What I witnessed there
taught me justice
isn’t weighed with a balanced scale.
It was a random placement,
one I knew right away would be
transient. Too many boys—six—
with a single house parent,
a squirrely dude named Russ.
One day I found this guy
Sammy rifling through my stuff.
Wouldn’t have minded
much if it was only my clothes.
But he’d opened the envelope
of pics I kept, my only solid reminders
of Lake and Molly, Pete and Rex,
who I missed almost as much
as my sister. Rage mushroomed.
Sammy was bigger, but I lit
into him. I connected a punch
or two, and so did he.
Russ broke us apart, could’ve left
it there. Instead, he called the cops.
My first lockup was sixty days.
I was officially a “problem kid.”
The Problem
With locking up a “problem kid”
is you grow up real fast
in “residential placement,”
also known as juvenile jail.
First-time offenders
with real parents who care
might wind up on probation.
Without them, you’ll end up
killing time behind bolted doors
and plexiglass windows,
like animals at the zoo.
And like them, you pace,
think way too much
about all the wrong things,
or seek unhealthy ways
to relieve the boredom.
You could walk on out
of there in better shape
than when you arrived.
But it’s likelier you’ll tumble
straight down into the repeat-
offender gopher tunnel.
(Some visual, huh?)
Mostly because of the other
stuff you’ll learn, if you didn’t
already know it.
I hope none of this has touched
my sister. I hope it never will.
It’s way too late for me.
Age Thirteen
First time in lockup, I learned
the Five Commandments.
One:
Mind your own fucking business.
Whatever you see.
Whatever you hear.
Look away, plug your ears.
Two:
If trouble knocks, answer the door.
Don’t run. Don’t hide.
Make no excuses.
Wade straight on in, fists flying.
Three:
It’s easier to get by when high.
Scoring meds in lockup requires acting.
Act edgy. Like you can’t focus.
Pretend you just might pounce.
Four:
Almost anything can be a weapon.
If it can poke you. Slice you.
Even a book, if it’s heavy
enough, can cause severe damage.
Five:
Trust absolutely no one.
Not your fellow detainees.
Not the guards or social workers.
And not the judges who are supposed
to dispense justice with an even hand.
Clue for the clueless: They don’t.
Post Detention
Count on a new placement.
It won’t be decent.
Not for a problem kid.
Not even if he’s only thirteen.
I knew I was in trouble
when my caseworker, Pam,
wouldn’t look me in the eye
on our ride to the condo-from-hell.
I got out of her car, eyed
the listing stairs, littered
with cigarette butts and
pigeon shit. What kind of foster
“parent” lived in a place like that?
It’s temporary, okay?
“They’re all temporary.”
I mean, short term. It’s difficult—
“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”
But I wasn’t totally prepared
for a stand-in “father” like Desmond.
He was an ex-Marine
(picture soldier “buff,” gone
flabby) surviving on disability
and whatever money
he could make from the state,
taking in hardcore strays.
Boys like me.
I Was the Only One There
All good, since his “apartment”
was more like one big ratty room
with a curtained-off “bedroom,”
and a bathroom the size of a closet.
The fridge, hotplate, and microwave
worked, but the chipped kitchen table
served as Desmond’s office. We ate
on TV trays sitting on the sectional
sofa I also slept on.
Social services looked the other way,
if they bothered to open their eyes at all.
Seems doubtful because Desmond
was a scammer, cruising dating sites
targeting hungry older women.
He claimed to be “deployed overseas,”
and the unretouched photo he sent them
was actually him in his uniform, fifty
pounds lighter and twenty years younger.
He played them patiently.
Convinced them a lonely Marine
half their age was crazy about them.
Once they were totally hooked,
he’d reel them in with more lies.
Tell them he took leave
and was on his way to see them.
Except he got rolled.
Lost every damn thing.
If they could just send him
a prepaid Visa, he’d reimburse
them with his next paycheck.
Unbelievably, it worked every time.
I was not supposed to know
that, of course, but for a con,
Desmond wasn’t exactly careful.
He’d leave his computer on,
chat windows wide open,
while he took a pee or grabbed a beer.
He was also a little deaf, thanks to
previous proximity to artillery fire.
That made his “private conversations”
a bit louder than he might have preferred.
I didn’t care. In fact, I took notes.
Who knew when I might
need a little leverage?
As for the women, I figured anyone
gullible enough to fall for Desmond’s
routine deserved what they got.
The idea that they might love him
seemed like a terrible joke.
The only love I’d experienced
was what I felt for Lake.
And maybe something close with Rex.
Sister love.
Dog love.
And look what it got me.
Pain. Tears. Loneliness. Resentment.
No, I never believed
in the power of love.
Until Jaidyn.
LAKE
