Hurting Each Other

Special note: Names, locations, and composite descriptions of people have intentionally been changed in this story.

I'm sitting in the backseat of a brand new 1976 Country Squire Station Wagon.  It's a gift from Mr. Stephens to his wife, Mrs. Stephens, our next door neighbors.  In this moment, I am looking out the back passenger window on the driver's side of the car.  Mrs. Stephens is approaching.  In her left hand she has a marijuana cigarette deftly tweezed between her thumb and forefinger.  She's deliberately and quickly puffing on that joint.  With her other hand she's fumbling through her handbag.  Is it her car keys that she is fumbling for?

Suddenly, Mr. Stephens speaks loudly to Mrs. Stephens from the porch of their house.  In that moment, she's clearly annoyed with him.  I'm not sure what they're saying to one another as my window is rolled up and the Country Squire is shielding me from the adult talk.  What I do know is that Mrs. Stephens is angry.  She tosses something at Mr. Stephens that she's found in her handbag.  Whatever it is she's tossed at him, he's raised his voice again.

Mrs. Stephens is ignoring her husband now.  She's intent on getting what she needs from that joint before deftly flicking it in the direction of Mr. Stephens.

She opens the driver-side door and speaks, "Orval, are you ready for a ride in my adventuremobile?"

I can smell the sour aroma of the marijuana cigarette on her breath.  Her eyes are slightly dilated, and she giggles as she says "adventuremobile."

"Sure, Mrs. Stephens," I say.  "Where are we going?"

Mr. Stephens booms in the background, "... if you don't do it today I'm going to drive that thing into the river!"

"F%$k you, Gerald," Mrs. Stephens screams back.  Then to me, "sorry hun, let's have some fun!"

As Mrs. Stephens slinks into the luxurious vinyl interior of her new adventuremobile she is instantly transformed.  She is completely ignoring her husband.

Mr. Stephens is now standing next to the car.  He's pointing his finger at his wife.  I'm wondering if my parent's decision to leave me with the Stephen's was such a good idea.

Mrs. Stephens is starting up the car, clearly ignoring her husband as she stares back at me in her rearview mirror, smiling while she adjusts it

He slams his hands down on the hood.

Still ignoring him.

Now she's inserted an eight-track tape into the dashboard console. She's cranked up the volume and I can hear the artist's plaintively sweet voice in that first line of the song.  It's so loud in here.  I am imagining the artist hugging me to her chest, singing into my ear.

It's so loud.

No one in the world, ever had a love as sweet as my love.

It's The Carpenters.

The Country Squire Wagon jerks forward with Mrs. Stephens intentional quick succession tap on the accelerator and immediate follow-up with the brakes.  She's affected her intended outcome as Mr. Stephens is quickly backing away from the car.

Mrs. Stephens guns the accelerator now, engine roaring to life.

All your love, you give gladly to me.

Looking both ways?  Are there are dogs in the street?  Children?  Perhaps a stray toy in the way?  Seat-belts?  What are those?  The Country Squire has been unleashed onto the neighborhood road.  It is majesty.  It is Mrs. Stephens.  It is freedom.

As we speed away from the house, Mrs. Stephens is now singing along with The Carpenters.

Cant' we stop hurting each other.

I realize in this moment that I don't like this song. 

"Mrs. Stephens," I say, "I don't like this song."

"Okay, babycakes," she says, "let me change it for you."

Such a feelin's comin' over me.

She's lighting up another joint.

I don't know how.  I don't know where.  I don't know if it was the whole afternoon or evening.  What I remember after that point is that when we arrived home that evening, well after dark, we were singing together in harmony.  We were going to take our act out on the road.  I'd learned most of the songs on that eight-track cassette.  I reeked of marijuana.  Mrs. Stephens had several burn holes on the front of her blouse from dropped marijuana cigarettes.  

Can't we stop hurting each other.

I love this song.








Comments

  1. Your post is raw and real. I too have memories of adults driving under the influence and blaring music with messages that resonate painfully even many years later.
    Your ability to use words to paint an image is amazing.
    Please keep writing and sharing

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    Replies
    1. You are so kind. I do have so many stories to tell. All that matters to me is that I learn how to write the right way. I imagine there is a right way. I'm on a mission to find it.

      Delete
  2. What?! How in the world is your memory this astounding?! I've read that the memories we hang onto most vividly are those that struck an emotional chord. Was it fear that you were feeling? Excitement? Shock? Your piece, in it's vast detail, allowed me to experience this memory alongside you. Lovely imagery.

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    Replies
    1. I have an uncanny ability to conjure the minute details of my life during a roughly ten year period of time from 1976 to 1986. I know that sounds bizarre. I don't know how I'm able to recall things that happened during this period, right down to the hair barrettes my cousins used to wear back then. The images, sights, sounds, experiences - all of it haunts me. I just need to find my voice to let it all out.
      I was feeling shock and excitement.

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  3. Wow, this scene had my heart racing. Your description placed me right in the car with you. It's amazing how our minds remember such detail in traumatic experiences...smells, songs, images. Thank you for sharing this moment in words.

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    1. Thank you so much, Jill. You're so kind. I feel this piece of writing needs a lot of work, so I'm here to get it out so I can begin making sense of my life, of the stories I’ve played over and over in my head forever.

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  4. The amount of details you recalled was astounding. Wow! It's clear that this was a traumatic experience. The fact that you were willing to share it here -- so bravely and so eloquently -- means a lot. I am glad you're already feeling that you can trust this community of writers.

    Speaking of which, welcome to the SOLSC community!

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    Replies
    1. Thank you, Stacey. I'm here to learn, just as much as I'm here to get it all out. I am so glad to be here!

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