Saboteur

Chapter 01: Born by Accident

I have but a few clear recollections of my childhood, most memories were learned secondhand or written in an eggshell-colored baby book, fashioned with honest intentions, or so I later imagined from prehistoric Polaroid pictures. I was an average looking chameleon with golden hair, optimistic eyes, and born by accident in the backseat of a stolen lime-green '65 Chevy Nova, in Loxahatchee Groves, west of West Palm Beach, Florida. By accident, I mean that my sperm donor and his wife, Mr. Gerald and Catherine Darcy, were running insurance scams in South Florida, instead of being on bedrest in Jacksonville. I was born on June 7th, 1973. They labeled me, 'Colin Ryan Darcy', even though I was born without my father's eyes.

Gerald, or Gerry, as his associates and malefactors called him, was tall and lean, six-foot-three, and had Willie Nelson-like features, bandana and all. His body was scarred from barroom fights and prison tattoos. For as far back as I remember, he was a tough, ornery, old bastard. He couldn't carry a country tune, but he sure knew how to make an intoxicated leather belt sing in black and blue.

He often referred to me as his "little buddy", especially after a few glasses or ten of Jameson while blasting Hank Williams Sr.

"Come here little buddy", the old man would say. "You know, I don't have shit to give you, other than your name. You're a Darcy, and always remember, we don't take shit from no one." He'd slap me in the head or shoulder and say, "pour me another drink", a process we repeated until he passed out, or during the times he had money, we drove to the pool hall, where I'd sit in the car and practice the lies he taught me.

The white lies are what I remember most. Upon noticing an unsupervised child was playing in the front yard, "where are your parents?" and I was quick with a reply, "mom's in the hospital again" and "dad ran out to see her." The reality was one or both were probably passed out, missing for days, and MIA until their wallets ran dry. They always surfaced, left plenty of peanut butter and bread, and fortunately, Gerry taught me to get myself to school.

The seventies and early eighties were a different era. One time, Gerry was an angry tornado. He had returned from a bender and was hungry, Catherine had been gone for weeks, and I had the misfortune of eating the last can of pork 'n' beans. As he doled out the punishment, a nosey neighbor had phoned the police to report child abuse. The Orange Park Police responded and were happy to give me a lecture on why children needed to obey their parents, and asked Gerry to tone it down. They went on their way, and after Gerry calmed down, he took me to the store to teach me an important life lesson on how to "borrow food".

Catherine was unremarkable. She was a brunette; her baggy eyes blinked like the last breath of a flickering candle, and her haggard face wore the years of Gerry, alcohol abuse, and cheap cigarettes. She rarely spoke unless provoked by Gerry, unless you count midnight moans from one of the many strangers who came through the revolving front door of our lives. As I reminisce, I realize that my hatred for her was more than the malice I carried for Gerry, not because she was more of a villain, not because of the odd and brutal bedfellows she chose, but because no matter how often we escaped, we always returned to Gerry's belt.

It's possible that she was a mother at some point in my life, but if so, it's lost in the void, or a chamber of my mind long forgotten.

Shortly, before my tenth birthday, Gerry would perform one of the few courageous deeds of his miserable existence. He found me sleeping on a dirty mattress in a junkyard office; Catherine had left me with one of her "friends" before running away again. We drove all through the night, as he drank and explained that he was taking me to our new home, a place where I would be safe and well fed.

I woke to the sounds of sirens and flashing lights. Gerry had driven down the wrong way on a one-way street somewhere in Marietta, Georgia.

"Son, do you know where you were headed?" the officer inquired.

Nervous, I told him in a high-pitched voice, "My dad is taking us to our new home..."

"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible tonight." Clearly concerned, "Do you know the address? Is your mom at home?" he asked in a calming voice.

The hours proceeding were a blur as I sat quietly in the police station. A well-dressed, beautiful woman approached me.

"Colin?"

"Yes," I said meekly.

"I am your Aunt Diane," she said with a smile. "I'm here to take you home."

Without any concern for what my new home would be like, I threw my arms around her thin waist, hugged her as tight as I could, and cried like a newborn.

Author's Notes: -----------------------------------------|

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