My Mother and Father are typical parents of the 90’s too sensitive, Roles reversed, and a little bit creepy with their new age lifestyle, Loving as can be, but I needed parents not, self help conference and Family meeting counseling sessions that usually ended with my father asking, “what can he do to meet my needs”. I practically had been raising myself, well actually Coffee, Cigarettes and anything brash and countercultural raised me. I am a 15 year old scared kid living out of a choose your own adventure Novel.
This might better explain things, a couple of months ago, I left for 3 days to go back home, homesick, and not afraid of the conflicts I created, I left, When I went home I saw a couple of friends, who somehow mysteriously had changed in 6 months, almost childish. Went to a couple of local band shows, Mostly people I had supported, felt musically inspired and drank a bottle of Wild Irish rose that I had a bum buy after I bought him a meal from McDonalds. Drunkenly I made my way home by bus. When I got home, my parents didn’t even know I left. They were used to me ditching school, but they didn’t check any more, all they interrogated me about was the smell of hobo liquor on my breath, and how hung over I looked, The funny thing about it after the fact apologetically they asked me what they had done to make me “act out” like I did my dad was crying, what a joke. What a joke.
My Father was at one point a very influential architect in Greater Chicago in the 80’s. He wouldn’t take a breath, he would work 14 hours a day come home in silence, and creep out the door at four in the morning just so we couldn’t see the anguish and defeat in his face. One time I saw him right before he was going to leave in the morning drinking coffee at our dining room table mutely sobbing just so we couldn’t hear him and worry. So early on, I grew a thick skin for my father, to the point, to where over the years I became cold to how he reacted to things, and finally when he cracked and committed himself to a psych ward, I became hardened. I blamed him for how he let his life take control of him as a person.
My Mother was not all that bad, her only fault was introducing my dad to the combination of medications and self-help seminars, and in the late 80’s most of the material that had been disseminated by these things, was utter bullshit, and gave my father a crutch to rest on. Instead of being the provider, stern but loving father, he should have been he became a Life by so-in-so" junkie, leaving my mother to provide most of the support and income. My Mother had to become mom and Dad to a vastly fading son.
I woke up the next day, hungover by the excitement that I had felt the night before, Corrine Channowith, the first girl I could see my self with, the first person in this godforsaken town that actually made a bit of sense. It was a Saturday so I mulled through my normal weekend routine, but today instead of waking at my usual 11:30 I was out the door to Ezra’s by 0830. My parents were watching a “Find your inner lion or whatever” seminar so they didn’t see me leave at all. Ezra’s laid in the “business district” if you would call it that. Ezra owned by a Jasper Ezra was a makeshift diner infused with a local dance hall that over the years in the lost of translation forgot all about dancing and now held venue for local music of all types. On top of that, they had the best coffie in town, black, sludge like and cold most of the time, would raise a hair on a corpse on a good day.
Ever since I came to Foal Run Mr. Ezra had looked out for me, telling me who to look out for, giving me advice and generally just encouraging me and letting me know that living here was temporary and that he had confidence that be cause I was “such a little bastard”, I would do great things in life.
Ezra’s or Ezra Pound as I liked to call it, was located on the West end of Stanglind Rd the main avenue that ran through Foal Run, at one time Ezra’s was a Speakeasy that had been full of debauchery, illegal rum running and a moonshine distillery, but after Prohibition ended Mr. Ezra’s father Dalan, bought it in rubble condition and started the family legacy.
Walking up to the Pound, I started to smell the bitter but welcoming smell of Burnt coffie and grits, walking up the cobblestone alleyway, I could see that Ezra was slammed it was his Saturday morning farmers and most of the Senior Silver club from the Church Griping and complaining about Ezra’s service, even though you could never make them happy. Yes this hole in the wall was my haven away from the drawn lifeless world of Foal Run, Mr Ezra was a mentor of sorts, He honed my insanity and saved it for the right time and the right place.