Mind Freeze

It took a couple moments for my eyesight to adjust from the bright glare of the outdoors as I stepped into the pub. I could hear a jukebox on low in the background playing some country twang music, and the clatter of a couple empty glasses being picked up to be washed. As sight was restored, I casually walked up to a an open spot at the bar, there were plenty. The bartender was right there waiting for me, and I ordered a bottle of beer. As she went to get it, I placed a $5 on the counter and looked around at who would be in here.

A couple of yahoo cowboys were over at the pool tables. You know their type. Dress up like city slickers, get a little dusty riding in the desert in their pick-up trucks, and say that they are true cowboys. These two looked like they had rolled in mud last night, woke up and started drinking. I ignored them, even though one nodded my direction.

The bar itself was a bit horseshoe shaped. Across from me was a elderly gentleman, with his hands clasped around a tall drink. His head was tilted back from watching a TV mounted above the bar I would guess. His mouthed and closed a couple times before he would raise the glass and sip some fluid down. I felt some air start blowing, but it wasn’t cool enough to deflect the heat from the outside air.

The bartender came back, placed a cocktail napkin down and popped the top off the bottle. Without a question, she took up the $5 and made change at the register. A nice smile came from her as she put the $3 in change in front of me.

"Anything else I can get ya?" she asked.

"Not for now. Here’s for you," I said leaving a $1 there and putting the rest in my pocket.

The little flair of curiosity went out of her eyes, and the smile lessened a bit as she said thanks. She turned and headed back to an office at the end of the bar. It was about 2 in the afternoon on a regular weekday, and this place was deader than Tombstone. I sipped my beer a bit and finished surveying the room. The tables and dance floor were all empty, but at the last end of the bar sat a guy with his nose in a book and a couple drinks in front of him. After turning a couple pages, he would sip a small drink from one glass, then follow with a swig of Budweiser.

I glanced up at the ceiling above the bar, as the lighting seemed sort of dim where I was sitting, and it didn’t look much brighter where he sat. Just the fact he was sitting in a bar reading a book brought the urge to me to go over and question him. I took another sip to make up my mind.

Damn, at least the beer was cold.

I got up and moved down the bar to where he sat. As I approached, I sensed him start to tighten up. He raised his head for a quick glance at me. With steel in his gaze, our eyes locked, and time froze.

I mean, it literally froze. As his steel grey eyes locked onto mine, we were transported somewhere. It was like getting a mind probe and being injected with memories of people and places you ain’t never seen. Like that big ass headache when you eat ice cream too fast. Your mind starts to burn after just seconds of information from over years are pile-driven into your brain. I feel myself screaming out, but I can’t hear myself. Hell, I don’t know if there is anything left of myself or not at this point anyways. I forgot whatever my purpose was, let alone where I was or what I was doing.

After what felt like minutes I realized that these were my memories being viewed in front of me. What the hell was this shit? Then a feeling of pure terror came over me as all my fears were exploited. The rejections, the insults, the fears of spiders and snakes. Writhing all around my conscience.

Suddenly, those steel grey eyes were in the front of my mind. The pain had lessened somewhat, but I was still frozen. I could feel my body trying to shake in pure terror of what was happening.

A voice bellowed throughout my body "Leave me be. Find someone else to waste your time on."

With all thought possible I agreed, and found myself sitting at the bar where I first walked in at. The bartender was coming from the back room headed in my direction. A quick glance around showed everyone was at the same spots as before.

"Can I get you another?" the bartender asks. I tip my hand a bit to check the fluid level of the bottle. It was completely empty. I debate if I should order another, and out of the corner of my eye I see that book reader just shake his head once sideways.

"No, ma’am. I think I need to head down the road. Have a good one." I tip my hat at her, and head out the front door, blinding myself in the sunlight for a few moments before I start up the road.

Scared the Punks

Note: This is just something I threw together in trying to get some more memories of my Dad down on paper so to speak. March 8th would have been his 60th Birthday. I miss you Dad.


Sometime not long after I was brought into this world, my parents moved into an old two-story home in Kirklin, Indiana. I don’t remember the year, but that would be dating myself too much. But I do know that I spent the early years of childhood in this home. It was peeling white paint, but had a huge lot size. My parents even had a couple horses in those early years. One was white, the other brown, and named Sugar and Spice, respectively. Spice, I am told, was supposedly mine. I only know this as Grandpa had some old 8mm film showing myself atop Spice, with my Dad walking alongside holding me up. I must have been about 2’ish then. Shortly after that filming, I guess due to financial issues they horses were sold. I never could recall any memory of them, excluding the film.

The house had been in the family for many years. I recall a time years later that Dad showed me a picture of his great uncle and aunt out in the front of the home. That picture had to been at least 50 years old, if not more, and the house still looked the same pretty much. Paint was peeling more, but the rest looked the same. That same uncle and aunt were the ones that adopted my Grandpa at the age of 12, and changed his last name to the one I carry now. But that is a story for another day.

I remember different things about that home that bring up different feelings. There was the front room that faced the street. My parents had set it up as a ceramics room. There they would pour, bake and paint ceramic pieces – same as my maternal grandma did in her home. The living room was carpeted with this awful green pile carpet. That was the room where I took my first drag off a cigarette. Another story for later.

Off the living room was the kitchen, which led to the back porch and exit. I remember us kids would always be running around asking Mom to make her special kool-aid. It was nothing more than cheap punch with some 7-up added to it. Out the back door the yard stretched as far as a kid could imagine. I know at one time there were several acres that Dad owned off the back yard. He would rent them out to a local farmer for crops. Halfway down the yard to the side was Dad’s firewood pile. Six feet high, 4-5 rows across about 20+ feet long. Definitely looked like we would never freeze in the winter. Beyond that was our swing set that had the rocking pony on it.

Back inside off the living room were the bedrooms. Sis and I shared one together for all those years. Upstairs was more of an attic than a second level, I guess, now that I think about it. Dad had a train set up there running N gauge. The track board was probably about 6x4, and it was rare that I ever got to see him run that train.

Yeah, my mind gets hazy trying to remember the important stuff of back then. But as I grasp these details, it helps drag me back so I can start the tale I figured I would share today.

My family had spent several years in that old home. I don’t know the exact details, but it was decided we were going to tear it down and replace it with a single level newer home. The house next door to us became available (for sale or rent I don’t know), so the family moved over to it, and we proceeded to dismantle the old home. It was old. Walls were the old plasterboard and slats, and the foundation was red bricks. After some time, the home was dismantled, and life went on.

Well, I guess Life sort of went on. Around that time is when my parents started their separation. That for sure is another story.

Dad had been working during this time a regular day job, and then also being one the four town marshals for the town. Eventually, it came down to just him, and he moved on up the road to be deputy in Michigantown. Now being the deputy there wasn’t too bad I guess, except it was like 15 miles, give or take, between towns. Dad got the wonderful job of patrolling the public High School football games. Needless to say, there were a few people, and HS students that didn’t like him doing his job. I can’t count the times he had to get a ride home because some one had sugared his gas tank on the truck. The town only had one patrol car, so Dad had to use his personal vehicle to/from the games.

Needless to say, being the small towns that they were, and my Dad’s involvement with the authorities, many locals knew him, and knew where we lived. Some nights kids would come by and toss rocks, or shelled corn at the windows. Easy to see how someone could get worried as to family safety. Never know how far teenagers are going to take things. Well, I remember one story Dad told me about, and that seemed to pretty much be the end of those incidents.

The new house going up next door was pretty much just starting. The crawlspace had been dug out, and cement block lined the hole. It was only about 3-4 feet deep. For a few nights in a row, some teenagers had been throwing things at the house late at night and yelling stuff that I shouldn’t repeat. Dad decided he was going to put a stop to it. One night after I had gone to bed, he loaded up the 12 gauge and went next door to hunker down in the crawlspace. Wasn’t long until here come them three boys again. Dad stayed squatted down and waited for them to start trouble. Sure enough, the rocks and words started flowing. That’s when Dad knew it was time. He jumped up out of the crawlspace, pumped a round into the chamber of the shotgun, and gave a blood-curdling scream like he was Rambo back in Vietnam.

There was a brief moment of silence. The next sound made was of rocks dropping from them boys’ hands, and the blood draining from their faces. They turned tail and ran as fast as they could. Dad said they took off like they had seen a ghost. Needless to say, I never heard Dad mention another night of people throwing things at the house. To this day, I don’t know if this was just a story he told me, or if it was true event. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. It was my Dad.