The Shattered Mirror

It was late October, a glorious day in northeast Ohio. Half of the brightly plumed leaves remained on the trees, the rest covered the ground in a tapestry of color. Football season was in full swing, and my beloved Browns were in the hunt for a playoff spot in the AFC. Dan and I were playing football in the side yard by the plum tree. Normally we’d head out to the expanse of the much larger backyard, but we had raked a nice pile of leaves next to the driveway and were diving into them. Plus, we were on our way to some family excursion somewhere, just waiting for mom to join the rest of the clan. We had a football, and we were taking turns tossing passes and making circus catches into the leaves. No leaf plunge is complete without a good backstory. I was channeling my inner Wizard of Oz — Ozzie Newsome. I was also wearing my glasses.

I always had to wear my glasses. Somehow at the age of 8, my mom found a quack that prescribed trifocals. According to that backwoods optometrist, my eyes were so awful that the only cure was three inch lenses with three different sight zones wrapped in decadent plastic frames. I like to think now that I was just a trendsetter thirty years too soon. Hey, nerd glasses are cool enough for Jay-Z and JT now, right? The fact that I had to wear glasses at all was surprising to me, since the only thing wrong with my eyes was the fact that I couldn’t quite read the entire blackboard from the back of the room. It took me a while to adjust to my new bionic vision powers, but eventually the headaches went away and I managed to figure out which angle my head needed to be tilted at in order to bring the fuzzy shapes into focus. As you might imagine, contacts didn’t really come in trifocal configurations, and besides, mom would have argued I was too irresponsible and too disgusting a creature to take care of them anyway. So all through school, right through graduation, I had to wear my glasses. I even had a couple poses with my senior pictures wearing them. Thing is, the only time I ever actually wore them was at home. I’d sneak them off as soon as I got on the bus, and sneak them on right before getting off. There were a couple of times I didn’t make the Clark Kent transformation quickly enough, and mom was watching out the window waiting to catch me in my blatant disobedience. Funny enough, she didn’t mind when they flew of my face from her smacking me around. Eventually the frames were cockeyed and covered with tape in all the stereotypical places, the result of both her wicked forehand and my random acts of negligence.

That fall day while I was pretending to be the aforementioned hall of fame tight end, things went south in a hurry.

My brother drops back and fires a tight spiral. I’ve got a good running start, and it’s a perfect throw, just out of reach. I leap, arms outstretched, fully extended. The ball zips into my hands as I hover momentarily in the air, directly above the soft cushion of the leaf pile. Flash bulbs blink in rapid succession. Camera shutters snap a percussive rhythm. This moment, this catch, is captured forever as THE greatest catch in sports history. The championship is ours! I tuck my shoulder, nestle the pigskin in the crook of my arm, and drop the last few inches to the spongey turf. My right hand shoots into the air, football in hand, confirming without any doubt that I did, indeed, just make the most amazing catch of all time. Take that Odell Beckham — you haven’t even been born yet. I ascend like a deity out of the leaves, ready to greet the throngs of adoring fans that have rushed the field.

Shit. Where are my glasses?

I drop the football and started franticly searching through the leaf pile, hoping my fingers will stumble upon some still intact glass. Nothing.  By now my brother is wondering what is going on, and soon he begins the search with me. He knows all too well the consequences of failing to locate the magic spectacles.

For crying out loud, these things are thicker than an encyclopedia (not that anyone knows what those are anymore) and weigh twice as much. They couldn’t have just disappeared.

Now dad is in on the hunt, though I’m still not sure if he was acting as friend or foe that day.

A cold shadow washes over me. Mom’s voice echoes sweetly on the breeze. “What’s going on here?” she lilts.

“Um, I can’t find my glasses.”

Ahh, there it is, the instant transformation. “You selfish little brat! You’ve been trying to lose those glasses since the day you go them! You want to go blind? Is that it? You know how much those cost? You can’t take care of anything. I don’t know why we even bother, you can’t be trusted with anything. You’re not coming in the house until you find them.”

She gives my dad and brother the look, and it’s clear that any assistance they might have provided has now ceased. They slink to the car. Mom stops to leave me with one last set of instructions. “You are going to stay here and look for those glasses. You are not allowed to go into the house until you find them. I don’t care if it takes all day and night.”

And off they went. Not the first or last time I was left behind as everyone else went to enjoy some family time. I watched them pull down the driveway, the pit in my stomach growing ever larger. I looked up at the house, imagining the invisible barrier that now forbade my crossing of the threshold. Suddenly, I was hungry, thirsty, and had to pee. Only one of those could be addressed given my current predicament.

I trudge back to the outhouse. Yes, we had an outhouse, which I used frequently. It must have been one of the fancy schmancy custom models back in the day, because it had two seats. You know, so you can do your business with a companion. You wipe my butt, I’ll wipe yours — or something like that. Thankfully, no one ever joined me in there, except the spiders. I don’t think my sister ever used the outhouse…

Now it was back to the task at hand. Mostly I remember that overwhelming feeling of desperation. I didn’t know what would happen if I failed to locate my glasses, but I knew it would be awful. So I searched, leaf by leaf, the pile where they might have ended up. When I reached the dormant green grass with nary a lens in sight, I knew I was in trouble. I became frantic, wondering if a strong wind had blown them into another part of the yard. Physics clearly didn’t apply in this scenario. Up and down the yard I went, poking and prodding on all fours. My hands and knees were soaked, but I was panic stricken.

The family Olds pulls down the driveway, and my stomach drops further. Mom comes over to check on my progress, and the rest of the family quickly hustles inside. It was a brief meeting. More chastising, more smacks upside the head, and a reiteration of the warning not to come in the house until I found my glasses.

The rest of the day was another exercise in torment and high anxiety. Wading through every inch of yard, back and forth and back again, carrying with me that enormous pit in my stomach. The sounds of the house would drift out to me from time to time. It was unseasonably warm and mom had the windows open — probably as much to torment me as to air out the stale air inside. I have a distinct memory of Steve Miller’s “Abracadabra”, wafting out to the yard — a song I still find undeniably catchy despite my not-so-fond memories associated with it.

Day turned to night. My stomach managed to work in some serious hunger pains amongst the flipping and flopping. Lunch came and went. So did dinner. Somehow I didn’t get a Stepford mom waltzing outside with a bologna sandwich and a tall glass of chocolate milk. Dad did manage to shuffle outside with a flashlight, looking sheepish. Right. Somehow I couldn’t locate them in eight hours of sunlight, but now, this dim yellow excuse for a searchlight will uncover them in the dark abyss? Cold started to seep through my pores. I am a walking zombie. Shivering, soaked, hungry, but continuing to pace relentlessly across the terrain. It’s hard to explain that feeling, when you are so completely consumed by anxiety and repetitive motion that you are on frantic autopilot. It’s a bizarre version of extended shock. Everything now is a blur of wet leaves and cold earth, step after step.

Finally, dad comes down the back steps once more and beckons me inside. I almost don’t want to go. Maybe I should just stay out here until morning, it’s probably better than whatever punishment awaits inside. It’s not a choice, so I follow him up the back steps and into the kitchen. She is waiting for me, of course. But instead of being greeted by the angry face I expected to find, I see her leaning against the kitchen counter with a wry smile. She asks if I’ve learned my lesson. Not knowing what else to do, I nod solemnly.

She steps forward, and I see my glasses on the windowsill. I am flooded with a sudden surge of relief. And then it hits me. How long have they been there? All day? I just spent the last 8-10 hours searching for glasses I had zero chance of finding? I say nothing. She tells me to put them on. She hopes I can take better care of them next time.

I never lose my glasses again.

I try not to think about it, but if I play it back in my memory, the rage boils up inside me. On so many levels. Who found those glasses? My dad? And then what? He slips them casually into mom’s hand as a co-conspirator? They knew, all day, and just let me wander around like a piece of cattle? Being abused is one thing, but being abused and treated like a dumb animal is something completely different.

I hate glasses to this day. Most guys find the whole bespectacled naughty secretary look beguiling. Not me. Hopefully in a few years when I’m forced to wear cheaters I won’t have flashbacks.

It was a late summer morning. It had to be, because mom was up and about, and that didn’t happen in early hours of the day. I could tell she was already in a mood, so I tried to keep my head low and stay out of her line of vision. Breakfast consisted of the usual bowl of Cheerios, and I was trying to crunch them as quietly as possible. Mom walked by several times on her way in and out of the kitchen. I could feel her glare each time, so I avoided eye contact in an attempt to stave off provocation. I got the sense she was searching for something, anything, to sink her claws into.

She came back through on one of her rounds. This time, she stopped. She had found the fodder for the next bout of torment.

“What is wrong with you?”

I gazed meekly at the top of her stubby feet. I knew this was a rhetorical question.

“You’ve got milk all over that table. Did you even get any in the bowl?”

I glance at the table. There’s a couple of droplets of milk on it. The kind of tiny splatters that sneak over the bowl when you push the spoon into it. I say nothing.

“And that chewing. It’s disgusting. You’re like a rabid animal.”

Then I see the light of inspiration go off yet again. That point where I know her warped brain has concocted something especially deviant.

“You know what? Since you eat like a dog, I’m going to treat you like one.”

She grabs my bowl and sets it on the floor, sloshing milk all over the table and floor in the process. This, of course, is my fault, so I endure the requisite head slap with nary a peep. She grabs my hair and drags me out of the chair to the floor. She pushes my nose close to the bowl. Her voice changes to a sickly sweet coo.

“Here you go little doggy. Have some breakfast.”

I jerk my head back slightly as my face starts to come in contact with the contents of the bowl. This is not acceptable. Her voice changes quickly to the raging roar that I’m more familiar with.

“Eat it! You’re a dog, so eat like one! Go ahead, start lapping it up. Dogs don’t need spoons.”

Her hand pushes my head into the bowl again, so I stick out my tongue and try to snag a Cheerio. Last I checked, I am still human, so my tongue doesn’t function as well for these purposes as it does for my canine and feline brethren. Now I’ve got milk dripping from my chin, and I’m having a hard time remembering how to swallow.

“See, I told you you’re disgusting. No better than an animal.”

With that, she gives me one more head slap and stomps away. Per usual, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do at this point. Do I play the role and finish my breakfast Lassie style? Do I pick it up and sit back down at the table? Do I not eat it at all, and instead start to clean up the mess that surrounds me? Any course of action is going to be wrong, so I sit paralyzed in fear as my brain tries to compute all the options. I start to ponder my odds of winning “Best in Show” at Westminster. Surely I am at least better behaved than a poodle.

She is not finished yet. The “bowl on the floor” trick was just the warmup. She slams open the lock on the basement door and clomps down the steps. I hear some muffled shuffling of objects, then sit in dread as once again those pudgy feet take to the stairs. She appears in the basement doorway, dog collar and leash in hand.

We haven’t had a dog for a while. We had two of them — both got hit by cars. The last one right in front of my brother in what I am sure is still a traumatic memory for him. Apparently we still have the collar and leash.

She doesn’t say anything. She just marches over fastens the collar around my neck. Then she snaps on the leash, and yanks it upwards. I feel my esophagus contract with a sharp rap of pain. I scramble to my feet to relieve the pressure. She chuckles that wry, sadistic laugh she sometimes gets when she’s enjoying herself. She yanks me over to the basement doorway and starts the descent down. It’s all I can do to not topple her down the steps, while simultaneously trying to avoid that horrific constriction around my throat. And I must make sure to duck my head by the gas pipe, cause we’ve been warned that we’ll blow up the house if we bump it.

We reach the bottom of the steps and she tethers me to the pole.

“You can stay down here for the rest of the day. If I catch you out of this collar or unhooked from this leash, you’ll really be in trouble. I’ll let you know when you can come back upstairs.”

With that, she marches back up and I hear the lock on the door snap into place. The basement is cold and dark. It’s damp, with puddles of water leftover from the last rainstorm. The floor is uneven and cracked. The sump pump kicks on its noisy refrain.

I hate this basement. I have nightmares about this basement. I race up these stairs as fast as I can every time I have to come down here alone, because I know there is a beast that is chasing me the whole way. He lurks just around the corner, in the dark, hollowed out crawlspace under the porch. There is a wall that is only cemented halfway up, and he waits for his opportunity to sneak over it when your back is turned. I am now going to spend the day down here with him, waiting to see him peer around either corner. He will devour me when he realizes I am chained in place.

I sit on the bottom step, listening for the next several hours to the noises of the household above. I wait for the sound of the lock snapping back, so I can hop back upright and hopefully put on a sorrowful enough face to warrant a trip back upstairs.

In my late twenties, before I had started to process all of this and figure out the repercussions in my own life and behavior, I wrote a song about the experience. Here’s part of it:

I’ve been confined to the basement
I’m sitting here counting cracks in the wall
I can’t escape my containment
The rats won’t help me get this dog collar off

I don’t deserve this
I don’t belong here
I’m just a kid who made an honest mistake
But you shut me in darkness
A child’s heart you should never forsake

Chorus
I just want to run
But I can’t seem to trigger the starting gun
I just want to hide
Just want to hide these broken parts inside
I just want to feel
Like I can show the person I’ve left concealed
Why do you hurt me so?
I think it’s time to let these deep wounds go

Even back then I was trying to figure out all the nonsense and repercussions.