9. “Renegade”
Chapter 9
“Renegade”
Taz - Age 13, 1983
A s I trudge inside after a grueling hockey practice, the thud of my bag echoes through the entryway. “Hello?” I call out, but my voice is met with a hollow stillness that’s become all too familiar.
With heavy feet, I jog up the stairs and peek into my dad’s room, only to find it empty as usual. He’s been traveling for work since we moved in with him, and though I’m glad he’s working, I don’t know him any better now than when he was in prison. The time apart has created a distance between us that I struggle to close. My mind wanders to what might be happening on these work trips—could he be getting involved with drugs again? It’s just a hunch, but deep down, I worry. I have no evidence to support my suspicions, yet they persist in nagging at me.
I knock on Brian’s door and cautiously peer into his room, but like my dad, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s Friday night, so he’s probably out with his college buddies. Lately, he’s been spending more time with some guys from his football team.
Sometimes, he drags himself home at 5:00 am, reeking of cheap beer, his eyes pink from lack of sleep and possibly other things. I can only hope he isn’t following in our dad’s footsteps.
I want to talk to him because I know he’s driven in that condition. He, of all people, should know better than to put himself and others in danger like that. But he never wants to hear it.
Under exhaustion, I trudge down the creaky stairs and make my way to the kitchen. The refrigerator greets me with a chill. A few lonely lunch meat slices, forgotten hot dogs, and various condiment bottles line its shelves. My eyes quickly turn to the cabinets, where I find some stale cereal and a can of Spaghettios.
With a resigned sigh, I decide on a frozen Hungry Man meal. I take the Salisbury steak meal out of the box, poke a few holes in the plastic wrap with a fork, and pop it into the microwave. My meal is halfway done cooking when the phone rings.
I shuffle over to the wall-mounted phone by the kitchen and answer with a tired “hello.”
“Michael? How are you, darling?” My grandmother’s voice beams through the line, wrapping me in a warm hug.
“I’m fine, Gram.”
“Are you sure?” she asks wearily. No, I’m not sure.
“I’m doing well, Gram,” I assure my grandmother, who deserves to live without worries.
“How’s school?” she continues to prod.
“It’s going fine,” I reply casually, as the microwave beeps four times in quick succession, indicating that my dinner is ready. I hope the brownie dessert isn’t overcooked; it’s always the best part of the meal.
“Have you made any friends?” Gram asks with genuine interest. She asks the same question nearly every time we speak.
“Yes,” I respond with the phone cradled between my cheek and shoulder as I pull my lava-hot meal out of the microwave. “Most of the guys on the hockey team are pretty cool. We hang out quite a bit. And a couple of other guys are thinking about trying out for the Mavericks.”
“That sounds lovely,” her voice is like a sweet, soothing, gentle melody. “Are there any kids you remember from when you lived there before?”
My mind flashes to one person. Her piercing green eyes, framed by long, thick lashes, glow against her perfect alabaster skin. Her jet-black hair falls around her face, adding to the fire that ignites my body.
“Not really. I was pretty young when I moved,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady as I struggle to focus on anything other than her undeniable beauty.
“That’s true,” she says.
“How’s Farrah?” I ask, momentarily distracted by thoughts of the best dog in the world. She’s not as young as she used to be. Her once vibrant golden fur is now a muted amber, but she’s still surprisingly spry for an old dog.
“She’s quite the handful,” Gram responds with a tired sigh. “Always underfoot, that one. I’ll be sending her to the doggie spa for a long weekend when I visit Ruth.”
I can’t help but snicker. “Is that the place that insists on putting those silly bows on her?”
“They’re not silly, dear. She looks like a princess with them on.”
I shake my head in disagreement. “No, she doesn’t. She looks ridiculous and smells like artificial strawberries.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge scents, Michael. Strawberries smell delightful. And let’s not forget your own post-hockey practice aroma before criticizing.”
Damn. Burned by Gram.
“Is your father home?” she inquires, her voice soft but tinged with concern.
“Uh, no,” I reply. “I think he’s working.”
She falls silent for a moment. “Has he been spending a lot of time away?” Her tone is gentle yet probing.
“Nah, not much,” I lie.
“And you’ll tell me if he’s not living up to his end of the bargain?”
“I will.” I won’t. She deserves better.
“I plan to come and visit next week,” she says.
“Sounds great, Gram, but don’t feel like you have to come to check on me. Things are fine. I promise.”
“Alright then, my dear,” she says. “Enjoy your evening.”
“I will, Gram,” I reply, feeling a sense of comfort in her words.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say before hanging up the phone.
As the dial tone reverberates, I can’t help but sit and listen for a moment. It’s the only sound breaking through the stillness around me.
Eventually, I hang up and bring my TV dinner into the living room, where the soft glow of the television beckons. Settling into the plush cushions of the couch, I pick at the meal and watch television until the fatigue of the day pulls me under.
A few hours later, as consciousness slowly creeps back into my hazy mind, I’m jolted awake by the sound of people barging through the front door. Their voices are muffled but filled with unrestrained laughter, making their presence impossible to ignore.
I struggle to sit up on the couch, my eyes still heavy and struggling to focus on the commotion. I see Brian, a girl with bleached blonde hair, clinging onto him possessively in the kitchen. His gaze falls on me, and he yells over the chaos, “Go to bed, Mikey.” I cringe at the use of the nickname. I’m not a little kid, and he insists on using it when he wants to piss me off or embarrass me.
I set my empty dinner container down on the kitchen counter and turn to my brother. “Where’s Dad?” I inquire, but he just shrugs.
“Who the fuck knows? Better question,” he says with a chuckle, “is who the fuck cares?”
He’s now sitting at the table with the girl, their laughter filling the room. As she slips off his lap and glides over to me, I can see her eyes are glassy, and a small baggie of white powder is in her hand.
“How old are you?” she slurs as she waves it in front of my face. Brian steps in and knocks the bag out of her hand.
“Not old enough,” he says sternly, shooting a warning glance toward me. “Right, Mikey?”
My eyes narrow, and my hands clench into tight fists at my sides. In disbelief, I watch as the girl pours some of the powder onto a mirror. My mind races, thinking of everything we have been through together—the hardships, the struggles, the sacrifices. Our grandmother worked so hard to provide us with a better life, yet here he is, ready to throw it all away. Anger boils within me as I struggle to process the betrayal unfolding before me.
“You’re a fucking loser,” I spit at my brother, watching in disgust as he rolls up a dollar bill on the kitchen table. I refuse to watch him turn into my father. It’s too painful. Our father, who should be here instead of leaving me to take care of everything. I shouldn’t have to fight my brother at thirteen years old.
I storm off and make my way upstairs. “Come on, Mikey. Don’t be like that,” Brian calls from behind me. I slam my bedroom door and lock it. I don’t trust this stranger in my house not to steal my stuff. Not that I have much. But I have some of my old hockey equipment, and a few pucks I’ve gotten over the years at games Gram took me to, and I’ll shove my stick up Brian’s ass if anything happens to them.
I grab my Walkman and open it, popping in a tape and hitting play on my favorite track: “Renegade” by Styx. The familiar melody comforts me as I try to push away the dark thoughts creeping into my mind. But despite the music, I can’t help but feel like everything is going south fast. A part of me wants to call Gram and tell her about this chaos, but another part refuses to involve her.
I sink into the plush comfort of my bed and sigh as I drum my fingers to the pulsating rhythm of the music streaming through my headphones. The beat flows through my body, and despite the rapid tempo, my mind begins to clear.
My dad scribbled a phone number for the hotel he’s staying at, and I consider calling and leaving him a message. But I know he’s trying to make money. Despite his shortcomings, I think he’s doing the best he can. It’s not as if he’s ever really understood how to be a father. His attempts at parenting have been stumbling around in the dark, unsure of what steps to take next.
What would happen if he came home anyway? It’s not like he can punish my brother; Brian is an adult. Plus, I’m not sure if my dad is prepared to handle issues with drugs and alcohol. From what I’ve seen, he’s been on the straight and narrow, although he’s been away more than he’s been here. No, I can’t contact him. I have to deal with this on my own.
My heart jolts in my chest as a door slams loud enough to be heard through my music, shattering my momentary peace. I rip my headphones from my ears, and any enjoyment of my favorite record is shattered.
A heavy silence descends as I strain to listen for any indication of what could have caused the disturbance. Did Brian storm out? That’s always been his favorite thing to do. Over the course of my life, I have countless memories of him shouting and storming away. Even now, as a grown man, that’s how he likes to handle problems.
With an exasperated sigh, I reluctantly slide off my bed and approach my door. Carefully poking my head out, I strain to catch any hint of movement or sound, but all is eerily still and silent. The tension in the air is palpable as I anxiously wait for some sign of life in the empty hallway.
Honestly, it’s not the worst thing if Brian is gone. The thought of facing him again tonight fills me with dread. Seeing him like that was unnerving. After all, he is supposed to be the one who takes care of me, not the other way around.
I approach Brian’s door with hesitant steps, my heart pounding in my chest. I raise my hand and knock softly, not wanting to disturb whatever scene may be on the other side. Silence greets me, so I try again, knocking a little harder this time. Without a response, I slowly turn the doorknob and push the door open with trepidation.
The first thing that hits me is the disheveled state of his room. Clothes are strewn about carelessly, the bed unmade and sheets tangled. It’s like a tornado ripped through here. But there’s no sign of Brian or the woman he was with earlier—a small blessing in this chaotic mess.
With a heavy sigh, I shut the door and trudge down the stairs. As expected, the kitchen is also a disaster zone—empty beer cans littering the countertops and floor, an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels teetering precariously on the edge. I start cleaning up, my irritation growing with every item I pick up. Not only do I have to clean up after him, but now he’s left me without a ride to tomorrow morning’s hockey practice. I’ll have to wake up early and walk two miles just to get to practice on time.
Frustration bubbles within me as I scrub at a particularly stubborn stain on the counter. This is not how I wanted to spend my evening.
After rage cleaning, I storm back up to my room and slam the door shut, forcefully twisting the lock. My emotions are boiling over, matching the flush of my cheeks.
As exhaustion catches up, I plop back down on my bed, releasing a sigh that’s more like a frustrated growl. I reach for my headphones and pull them on over my ears, cranking up the volume to drown out my thoughts. At this moment, I long for Farrah’s comforting presence to keep me company.
I work my way through most of the side A of my favorite tape before I finally drift off into a restless sleep. Even in my dreams, the sound of Styx continues to play in my ears, desperately trying to hold onto some sense of normalcy amidst the chaos of my emotions.