Tag: Blair House

Further Blair House Dramas

Me in my kitchen at Blair House. The Deer-in-the-headlight expression is from my brother sneaking up on me with a camera.

What can be said about Blair House that hasn’t been told about any other slum? Except it was prettier. Blair House was a four-building garden apartment built sometime in the early 1950s. It sat on the top of a hill and was surrounded by trees. One summer, we were inundated by Scarlet Tanagers. These birds tended to avoid inhabited places, but the olive-green females were bopping around, too. There were also deer, rabbits, and our share of mice and rats.
The place was falling apart. The decorative pillars had rotted inside, becoming homes for wasps and those damned yellow jackets. Blair House was lousy with yellow jackets. Our air conditioner had been a condo for yellow jackets since before we moved in. I don’t remember ever using it. One day a neighbor took a swig of soda and swallowed a yellow jacket. The surgeons had to open him up to get it out. I don’t think he was the same since.
Inside wasn’t much better. The water pressure was so low we had to flush the toilet by pouring a bucket of water into the bowl. The bathroom had a nasty mold problem. I tried scrubbing the walls with chlorine, but it didn’t do any good. We had to live with it for over a year before the drywall got replaced. Our last Thanksgiving there was ruined because the oven broke while I was cooking a goose.
Blair House was privately owned by a rather nice but dotty fellow with a colostomy bag. He inherited the complex from his parents and turned it into section 8 housing for maximum financial security with minimum management and maintenance effort. But at least he sprang for an exterminator to rid us of wasps and yellow jackets when they grew too thick. And when I showed him the mold, he did fix the bathroom. But two years into our tenancy, it was sold to a bank, and yuppie vermin took over the ownership.
Our four years in Blair House were divided into two parts, before and after Bill Clinton. Poppa-Doc Bush was still president during part one. I moved in late September or early October of 1991. By my next birthday in November, the American voters chose Slick Willy Clinton to continue Reagan’s trickle-down policies. It was still your father’s poverty when I got there. Rents were increasing, but welfare, food stamps, AFDC, and Section 8 were still fully funded. I could afford out-of-pocket medical care if I really needed it. Or I could get treated in an emergency room for free.
I have a friend who keeps saying she never voted for Clinton because she knew he wasn’t a liberal. Maybe I could say the same thing if I lived somebody else’s life. If you’ve read “Countdown to Blair House,” you’d know I was up to my ass in alligators. Without evidence, I hoped Slick Willy would try to keep his promises and improve things. I even phone banked for him in the evenings. Did I ever get that wrong!
In my defense, I wasn’t the only person desperate enough to fall for Clinton’s shit. All my neighbors at Blair House believed it. Most of all, they loved the idea of universal health. There was the dizzying prospect of upward mobility without worrying about medical care. If people didn’t have to limit their incomes to stay on Medicaid, there wouldn’t be anything keeping them from looking for better jobs. Better jobs meant getting off Section 8 housing. It meant no more food stamps. Best of all, it meant no more social workers intruding into our lives.
Clinton’s campaign and election brought optimism to poor people, and that optimism embraced everybody at Blair House. Even the residents at the developmentally disabled group home were happy because everybody around them was happy. A few, like The Biker, didn’t care one way or another, but he was genuinely pleased to see the rest of us excited.
Blair House was a never-ending kaleidoscope of drama. Such as the newlywed couple who lived behind us. The husband was a farmhand, and the wife was a waitress. (Yes, there were still farmhands in Warren County back then.) His father had been a live-in farm laborer for over thirty years. The son took over the job and moved to Blair House. But the parents couldn’t adjust to life in Boca Raton and tried to move back to their old house, which had been turned into a grain shed. So they moved in with their son and daughter-in-law without notice. And They brought their Australian shepherd with them.
Nobody had any trouble with the dog except Manager. You see, the poor pooch was trained to herd sheep. And there weren’t any sheep in Blair House. So what’s an industrious canine to do but improvise? Since there were no sheep around, he decided to herd toddlers instead. I was alone in the living when our oldest came running in, yelling, “Dad, Dad, a dog’s holding my brother hostage!” Believe it or not, that was not the weirdest thing that ever came out of the kid’s mouth.
I followed him into the courtyard, and five toddlers, two or three cats, and the odd squirrel were standing in a knot under a big tree. And the dog circled them and stopped any of the cats from darting off. And if a child tried to leave, the dog would take the kid by the pant leg and gently pull him back. That was one of the funniest things I ever saw, and I wish I had taken a picture. The dog trotted up to me, tail wagging high and proud, just bursting to be praised for doing such a craftsman-like job. And I was all, “who’s the good boy?”
That mutt was the best thing that happened since the invention of the babysitter. A watchful four-footed nanny was the answer to a parent’s prayer. He was gentle, diligent, and loyal. His daddy, the retired farmhand, said god help the person who tried to hurt any of the kids or cats. And that was something I wanted to hear. We were getting reports of a suspicious van at the elementary school. That dog was worth his weight in diamonds!
Of course, Manager had to ruin it. I swear, if Jesus was bringing us all into heaven, she would find a way to ruin the moment. Manager came out having a tantrum over the “horrible” animal. Then she looked at me. My arms were crossed, and I tapped my foot. “There was no harm done,” I said quietly. So far, my partner and I were the only people who stood up to her, and she was getting scared of us. She stopped dead in mid-tirade while I stared her down.
Most of my neighbors had been cowed by years of pandering to social workers. They deferred to Manager because they assumed she had the power she claimed to have. But the winds were changing. I had been living in Blair House for nearly two years, and there wasn’t a damn thing Manager could do about it. People were learning she was not all-powerful. A couple of other parents even came outside to support the dog and weren’t backing down! Mothers were asking Manager not to be such an (in so many words.) bitch. It was turning into a rebellion Manager couldn’t win.
If she succeeded in making the old guy get rid of the dog, people would hate her more than ever, which could lead to a revolution. If she tried and failed, the revolution would happen immediately. People would start treating her like my partner, and I treated her. So Manager retreated while threatening reprisals if her son was ever tormented by the dog again. She pulled the kid away, who was crying for more doggy time. Did I mention how much I hated that woman?
I knew that Manager wouldn’t let the matter drop. She was a sneak, and you always had to watch out for the knife to the back. I expected her to call animal control behind our backs. So I worked to head that off. I helped the old guy get his dog vaccinated and licensed. That earned me brownie points with his son and daughter-in-law. They spent most of their free time looking for a new place to live.
I would have hated to see the old couple separated from their dog. They had a tough enough time adjusting to retirement. There was a herd of about a dozen sheep nearby, so I spoke to the owners, and as luck would have it, the owners needed a well-trained dog. So I got them together with the dog’s owner, and the pup’s life became a Loony-Toons script. Each morning he would leave the house and cut through the woods to herd sheep. After a hard day of bossing sheep, he would come home to dinner and tummy rubs from his humans. The old folks got to keep their doggy, and Manager was foiled again. It got to the point where my neighbors were coming to me with their Manager problems.
Too much energy was wasted on dealing with Manager’s antics. My partner made a hobby of foiling her. This would result in screaming matches where Manager would yell threats, and my partner would laugh in her face. I always used a more indirect method of foiling her, but if it did lead to an argument, I never raised my voice. I would smile and say, “go ahead; I have a lawyer on standby.” That was purely a bluff on my part, but it always sent her packing.
Not long after our second New Year at Blair House, we hit a deer. Our car was totaled. I was a prisoner at Blair House for nine entire months. That meant I had nine months of constant Manager drama. Not having transportation, I was limited to odd jobs and getting to them by bicycle. And there is nothing I loved more after a day of Alzheimer’s respite work or mowing lawns than to come home to more Manager drama.
Not that Manager was always a bad thing to have around. We got behind on the rent during those nine months, and we were sick with worry. One night, the anxiety was so bad that I couldn’t sleep. I was waiting for the eviction notice and didn’t have a game plan. It was early morning, a time when nobody expected to see me. I was at my bedroom window and overheard a conversation between Manager and The Biker. It went down something like this.
“The Landlord lost the building for taxes, and it’s being auctioned,” Manager said to The Biker.
“That sucks,” The Biker replied. “What happens to us?”
“We’ve got leases, so they can’t evict us right away,” Manager replied. “But I destroyed the ledgers, so they won’t know how much rent we’ve been taking.”
At that point, I had to tiptoe away so they wouldn’t hear me laughing. No wonder the original landlord lost the building with friends like that. But I slept easier that night knowing that Manager’s greed worked in my favor. We stopped worrying about our portion of the rent until I got working again. We were also a lot more civil to Manager. Which was a mistake.
Chris and Debbie had become the biggest Blair House soap opera. I talked about them in The Night Carlos Died. We never saw them sober anymore. Chris had lost his maintenance position, and his free rent went with it. He moved into Debbie’s apartment, and they spent their days drinking themselves stupid. In their defense, their housemate had just been shot by the cops. But that was no excuse to pick a fight with The Biker.
Those two were the meanest drunks I had ever met. They took to downing a quart of cheap vodka between them and getting into screaming matches. Chris would come downstairs to stay away from Debbie. Usually, he’d wait until Debbie had passed out and go back upstairs, where he’d join her in the Land of Nod. But this time, The Biker came out to ask him to please keep it down. It was a reasonable request, and The Biker was careful to mind his manners.
He did nothing to deserve Chris turning around and giving him the same verbal abuse he had just given his girlfriend. Chris was such an asshole when drunk that he inspired me to quit what little drinking I did do. And I wouldn’t have blamed The Biker for tossing him across the lawn again. Instead, The Biker destroyed all the outlaw stereotypes by calling the cops. Chris stayed where he was and kept screaming at The Biker’s door. I had come out to see what all the noise was about and stayed to watch things unfold.
I was thrilled to see Officer Clark (not his real name) arrive to de-escalate the problem. I wasn’t as friendly with Clark as I was with a few other officers, but I respected the hell out of him. Officer Clark was the hardest-working cop in Belvidere. He was hell on speeders, hunters, and deer spotters. Not only did he bust them, but he also reported arrests to professional groups like the medical licensing board or the Bar Association. You would be amazed how many doctors and lawyers went to Belvidere to get cross-eyed drunk and shoot at anything that moved. And Clark also confiscated tons of Saturday Night Specials and other illegal handguns from deer spotters. Clark was focused on keeping people safe and did an outstanding job.
So this was the officer dispatched to get Chris back under control. Clark had an edge to him that made even drunks cautious, and he was usually able to get Chris under control. But not this time. Clark got out of his vehicle and confronted Chris, and Chris kept getting more out of control, yelling and screaming in Clark’s face. Finally, Clark put a warning hand on Chris’s shoulder, and Chris tore the glasses off Clark’s face and threw them against the wall. I could hear the lenses crack. Clark had his back to me, but I could see Chris, and he wore the same expression my stepson had while testing the limits.
Belvidere, NJ, did not deserve its police force. I was positive that Clark was going to lose his shit. I felt sick from anticipating the violence. Instead, Clark took Chris down with a non-violent Aikido move. Chris was face down on the ground but not hurt. Clark should have taken Chris in, and that was that.
As bad luck would have it, Debbie had woken up and followed Chris outside so they could continue their screaming session on the front lawn. Instead, she saw Officer Clark handcuffing Chris’s hands behind his back. She forgot she was mad at Chris and focused all her drunken rage on Clark. Debbie ran up behind Clark and kicked him in the ass. Hard! I could hear Clark cry out! He stumbled forward, pulling Chris’s arms in directions they weren’t supposed to go. Chris screamed in agony, and Debbie tried to kick Clark a second time. Only he dodged, and she fell on her ass. At that point, I laughed so hard that I didn’t see the second patrol car arrive.
My partner and our kids came out in time to see two more officers arrive to help Clark. Chris had his face in the grass, his arms cuffed behind him. Debbie was on her back, windmilling her limbs so Clark couldn’t get the cuffs on her. The other two cops had to hold her down while Clark cuffed her.
“Don’t get involved,” my partner advised.
“Like I’m going to walk into that debacle?” I responded. “I’m just going to help Clark find his glasses.”
The kids watched Chris and Debbie get dragged into separate police cars. A third patrol car arrived to drive Clark back to the station. He couldn’t drive without his glasses. I found them for him, but there wasn’t any good news. One arm had been bent in half, and a lens had crazed.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” I said.
“I paid 200 dollars for shatterproof lenses,” he mourned.
“I’d be looking to get my money back,” I replied lightly, trying to improve his mood. Officer Clark had a very difficult day. His glasses got broken, there was a nasty streak on his temple, and a drunk kicked him in the ass. I should not have tried to wise-ass a laugh out of him…
“Chris is paying for my new pair,” Clark replied, giving me the stink-eye.
“I think that’s fair,” I said. “And I’m going to talk to Chris about this. He usually listens to me, and….”
“Chris and Debbie are going to jail,” Officer Clark interrupted with such finality that I stopped trying. And truth be told, I didn’t blame him. Those two had been out of control since Carlos was shot. And all Clark wanted to do was calm the situation. It was entirely Chris and Debbie’s fault they ended up doing 60 days in Warren County Prison. And it did them some good to be in jail. They were going to kill themselves if they didn’t dry out.
Officer Clark could have had Chris and Debbie put away for a few years. But he didn’t see the point. He dropped the assault on a police officer charge on a plea deal. They spent two months in jail with two years probation and addiction counseling. And those two months were the most surreal I can remember because Manager decided we were friends. I still shudder when I look back at this and blame myself for being civil to her. I should have known it was a bad idea.
It started during deer season when drunks with guns descended on Belvidere like an invading army. Chris and Debbie had just started their sentences. It was a warm September day, and I was reading on the front stoop, where I was least likely to be hit by a stray bullet. Manager came running past me and yelled, “come on, get up!” Please don’t ask me why I got up and followed her. I must have been curious as to what flew up her ass. And I was also very bored. I followed her behind the dumpster, and she stopped in a clearing and started looking around.
“What are we looking for?” I asked her, not seeing anything.
“There were hunters here, and it’s illegal for them to be this close to the building,” she replied.
That gave me a split moment of brain freeze. Then the words “What. THE. FUCK!!!” echoed through my mind, and I started looking around more carefully. I may not be Daniel Boone, but my father taught me a few things about tracking. And there was a long trail of broken saplings and weeds heading towards the road. The hunters must have already been on their way to a deer processor.
I wanted to grab her by the neck, shake her, and scream, “are you trying to get us killed?” But I refrained. Mostly because I felt like an idiot for following her. And having been raised by dangerous lunatics, I had learned to be moderate in my responses. “What were you going to do if there were hunters here?” I asked her patiently.
A blank look crossed her face. She had to think hard about that one. Then she said, “go back to the house and call the police.”
“Why didn’t you just call the police?” I asked.
“They told me not to call them unless I saw the hunters,” she said. “I heard the gunshot, so I ran out to look.”
What could I do except go home? Then I had to face my partner’s reaction. “Why the hell did you follow her? Are you nuts? You could have been shot!”
How does one answer those questions, except with the truth? “I was wondering what she was panicking over, and how long did it take you to figure out I’m nuts?”
“Don’t let Manager mess with you like this,” they told me.
“I don’t understand why she’s even talking to me,” I replied. This was before Manager played stupid games with the social workers. I was still trying to keep it civil and professional whenever possible.
“Chris is in jail, and she’s looking for somebody to boss around,” my partner explained.
I saw the light. I often noticed how Manager bullied Chris as if they were still in a relationship. She would have told Chris to follow her as she called out to me. And for the same stupid shit. “And I’m walking into it,” I said.
“Don’t do her any more favors,” my partner suggested.
“Do I look stupid?” I asked them.
“Do I have to answer that?” my partner replied.
Of course, my partner was right. The next day she asked me to haul some trash out, just like she would with Chris.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “But you know I have a bad back and knees. I’d hurt myself.”
She soon learned to ask The Biker to do the odd jobs, which was actually the right guy to go to. The Biker had taken over as maintenance man, and he got the free rent. So why go to me? I think it’s because I’m flypaper for freaks. For the next few weeks, Manager kept coming to me to discuss all her evil thoughts and illegal plans. As if I were her partner in crime. I never invited it. I didn’t want it. And I felt no remorse about going to my neighbors and telling them about the underhanded trick Manager was about to pull on them.
Another thing Manager kept doing was asking me about Chris and Debbie’s apartment. Debbie had two elderly and obese cats, and my partner and I were caring for them. We checked on the kitties two or three times a day, and I managed to make friends with one of them. His brother was so timid he hid in a closet, and I had to look inside to ensure he was still breathing.
Manager kept asking me what condition the apartment was in. And it was very well maintained. The only sign of alcoholism was the open quart of vodka on the kitchen counter. I was tempted to pour it down the sink and eliminate the bottle. But I knew I would hate it if anybody did that to me. So I contented myself with not capping the bottle and letting the contents evaporate.
The questions escalated. Manager started to ask about the furniture. What furniture did they have in the living room? Of course, I only gave the vaguest of answers. We sealed Debbie’s door with scotch tape, and the seal hadn’t been broken. She could have used her pass key to get in. In fact, I was amazed she hadn’t already.
One day, the tape had been pulled from the door frame. I wasn’t surprised. The day before, she tried to thrust a Polaroid camera into my hands and demanded I take pictures. I explained that it was illegal and refused. Manager couldn’t contain herself any further and had to look. She used her passkey and broke the seal. As soon as my partner saw the break-in, they reported it to Warren County Legal Aid, who acted as Chris and Debbie’s attorneys.
The next day, I returned from riding my bike in the Poconos, and Manager finally came to the point. Chris had an antique china cabinet that belonged to his mother. Manager wanted it. She figured that as the ex-wife, she was entitled to it, and it didn’t matter that Chris’s mother passed after the divorce. She tried to bully my partner into opening the door, so The Biker could carry it out for her. But you don’t even think about bullying my partner, and The Biker would have no part in it. I have no idea why she wouldn’t use her passkey. I guess she wanted to blame my partner if the police got involved.
Undaunted, Manager came to me and told me she was planning to illegally evict Chris and Debbie for being in arrears. She hired a couple of guys to go in and bring all of Chris and Debbie’s stuff put on the curb and the china cabinet in her apartment. She told me I could take the cats in if I wanted to. Otherwise, she was going to have them put down. That woman was so evil even Cruella Deville wouldn’t associate with her.
Chris and Debbie had already been in the process of being legally evicted. But Blair House was in legal limbo. There needed to be an owner or agent authorized to sign the papers and take legal possession of the apartment. Chris and Debbie could only be removed from their apartment once Blair House was sold. And that took months. Once again, only the gods of madness know why Manager came to me. Maybe she thought I would be scared into letting her into Chris and Debbie’s apartment.
I didn’t like Warren County Legal Aid in the least, and I had damn good reason not to trust them. But they were the only game in town and a five-minute walk from my front door. I explained the situation to the secretary and was pleasantly surprised when they made themselves useful.
The next day, Manager got a court order hand delivered by Officer Clark. There would be no illegal eviction. Chris and Debbie’s property stayed right where it was. When Debbie got out of jail, her cats were waiting for her. By then, the timidest cat would let me pet him a little. Chris came home to his beloved mother’s china cabinet. And Manager never said a civil word to me again. Soon the building was auctioned to a bank, and it was outright war between us.
Maybe a week after Chris was released, he came to the house and dropped his car’s registration on the table. “It’s your problem now,” he said. Thanks to my partner’s wonderful mother, we could pay all the fees to get back on the road. I was working again. But Clinton’s welfare reform was going into effect, and life was never the same again.

Countdown To Blair House, Conclusion. Landing with My Ass on Fire

Warren County Courthouse. I spent entirely too much time in this Building.

Here’s the irony. I could have moved back in with my family anytime we wanted to. We were victims of a toxic narcissist on a power trip. That happens a lot when you’re poor. You constantly run into other poor people who get a little authority and decide they’re Franco. The apartment manager outright lied and told my partner that Welfare and Section 8 would not allow me to live with my family. And we were so beaten down we didn’t even fact-check.

At least I got to visit during the weekends. Naturally, the manager made vague threats every time she saw me. “I hope you’re not staying long,” she would say, or “Section 8 doesn’t want you here.” This had the opposite effect she intended. My partner looks timid, but they don’t tolerate bullying. Those exchanges usually ended with my partner giving the manager a piece of their mind and the manager retreating with a confused look on her piggy little face.

As unpleasant as the manager could be, returning to my parents was worse. When I returned from the first weekend, Bob and Virginia were in rare form. They were terrified I was getting back with my partner. Virginia jogged in circles waving her arms, and my father glowered at me. “What did you do all weekend?” were the first words out of Virginia’s mouth. I assured them I had only spent the weekend to make sure the kids were alright. 

That didn’t sit well with Virginia. She had given up on gaining control of “THE BABY” and had taken to having jealous fits every time he was mentioned. She and Bob wanted me back as their caregiver. I was the custodial child during high school. I did everything for them, shopped, paid bills, and even hid money so Virginia wouldn’t spend it all on cigarettes. They hated dealing with reality and wanted me to do it for them.

Growing up, they kept me dependent on them by ensuring I was always broke. And this started all the way back in preschool. If I got five bucks for my birthday, Virginia spent it on herself or brought me to Sears and ensured I spent it. I was not allowed money under any circumstances. I had to give my paycheck to Virginia during my first job. Times were terrible then, and I was proud to do it. But Virginia decided that was the law of the universe. She had the gall to forge my name on my paychecks and cash them herself. And that continued until I made my first escape.

Virginia wanted those days back. One day, she had the iron gall to suggest that I turn my entire paycheck over to her and come to her for my daily needs. I think I answered that one with a dirty look and walked away. Another time I overheard her saying to Bob, “all those years he’s been working, and I barely saw a dime.”

Four years later, I was sitting in my brother’s kitchen in San Francisco, and the memory flashed back with surprising vividness. I asked my brother, “how could I have possibly forgotten that?” 

My brother replied, “there wasn’t enough room in your brain for sanity and Virginia.”

That pretty well summed up the next three months. I lived with a pair of crazy people, and humoring them was my go-to survival mechanism. I just let go of everything I couldn’t change and let it roll off like water off a duck’s arse. I never let them know I was already back with my partner; I might not have survived the shit storm. I told them I was spending the following weekend in New York. I came back Sunday night, and they had a conniption fit over me, not giving them a phone number where I could be reached.

One of my partner’s new friends at Blair House came up with a brilliant solution. I created a new girlfriend named “April.” If my partner needed to call me at my parents’ place, her friend would call and introduce herself as “April.” Then she would hand the phone over to my partner. It was hilarious. Virginia died a little every time I said, “love you very much,” before hanging up. She tried asking subtle questions about our relationship, and I would lie outrageously. Like, “April” didn’t have a telephone because she was an emergency room nurse and didn’t want to be called into work on the weekends. And I hit Virginia right in her faux-bourgeoisie snobbery by telling her that April grew up on the junkyard her parents owned. 

Bob and Virginia knew better than to ask to meet April. I learned the folly of involving them in my love life back in middle school. They hadn’t even met my partner until we lived together for half a year. In fact, I kept a considerable distance between them and my life since I was in my middle teens. They had come to accept this, which shows how dysfunctional they had been as parents.

Since I stubbornly refused to return to being their keeper, Virginia used her other tricks to get control of my paycheck. Her main tactic was to self-destruct and demand I rescue her. She would cash a check without the funds to cover it, and I had to give her the money to prevent it from bouncing. I always fell for that one in high school. Other tricks included not having food money or money for the electric bill. In the past, I coughed up the cash like I was her personal ATM. She didn’t know what to do when I stopped reacting.

Virginia would bounce a check, and I told her I didn’t have the money. I usually blamed child support. It took a big bite out of my salary every week, but not as big as I led her to believe. Then she’d throw one of her patented temper tantrums, which always used to cause me panic attacks. But I knew about the stash of cash she kept at the bottom of her closet. So I stood firm and refused to give in. The next day she’d wail about the bounce fee, but I shrugged and said I couldn’t help her. 

It would have worked if she played at silly buggers with the power bill, but Bob took care of that personally. He knew better than to trust Virginia with it. But Bob did add his own unique touches to the madness. I suspect he was the mastermind behind the mail order bride catalog, which we’ll be coming to shortly.

As you can imagine, my child support payments became the latest obsession. So Virginia had taken to formulating Lucy Ricardo-like plots to get me out of paying child support. She responded by accusing me of refusing to accept reality and stormed off. But I kept reminding her that I was not abandoning my kids, including the stepson she hated so much.

Dealing with those two was exhausting, and I wasn’t always on my A game. For instance, I was sorting through a box of books and found a brochure for a festival in Ohio.

“You went to Ohio!” she gasped in horror. Virginia was morbidly agoraphobic, and any indication that I traveled induced a hissy-fit.

“Not that time,” I replied, not really paying attention. I was trying to prevent a travel tantrum, so I got blindsided.

“According to this, somebody was there last July 1989,” Virginia said accusingly. The storm was brewing.

“I didn’t go,” I replied, hoping to avoid the tantrum by telling the truth. “My partner went with a friend, and I stayed behind for work.” 

There was one of her silences that instantly grabbed my attention. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth moved. “Your son was born in April of 1990,” Virginia said. I knew that tone of voice too well. She had a cunning plan, and that never ended well for me.

“What of it?” I asked; my stomach turned cold and dropped to my testicles. 

“Do the math, you idiot!” she explained. “He’s not your son! He’s somebody else’s kid! She slept with somebody at that festival and got knocked up! You shouldn’t have to pay child support!”

After months of “THE BABY” this, and THE BABY that, hearing that Dickensian lunatic call him “somebody else’s kid” made me feel like the walls were falling down on me. There was a rushing noise in my ears, and I felt dizzy. Virginia’s obvious delight only made things worse. I couldn’t do anything but gape as she raced down the short hall yelling, “Robert, Robert, he’s a little bastard!”

A school of thought teaches us we choose our parents between lives. I always considered that to be total bullshit. I can’t imagine any karmic lessons learned from being raised by those basket cases. I watched them come out of my father’s room. Virginia was doing jazz hands while Bob fist pumped. And all I could do was wonder what horrible sin I may have committed in the last life to deserve them. They must have been a karmic punishment for robbing widows and foreclosing on orphanages in one of my past lives.

I was opened-mouthed and speechless as Virginia outlined her cunning plan to rat-fuck her grandson. She wanted me to go to Welfare with that brochure and claim I had been cuckolded. Then, she figured, I’d be released from child support, and I could sue the county for the past payments. Then both of them dumped on my partner for being a scarlet woman and me for being a sucker.

“You are both out of your minds,” I told them after my voice returned. I choked on the first few attempts. “How often have you mentioned how much my son looks like my brother at that age?” 

“You don’t owe her anything!” my mother replied. She didn’t have a logical answer, so she went into a rant. “You never got legally married; she an outsider. You don’t owe a thing to her, her brat, or the kid.”

I got the legally mandated DNA test results out of my backpack and handed them to her. “Read it and weep,” I told her. It was getting entirely out of hand, and I decided to end it right then and there.

She looked at it from several angles and handed it to my father. “I heard blood tests aren’t that accurate,” Virginia said hopefully.

“This isn’t a blood test; it’s a genetic test,” I replied as my father handed the paper back and shrugged. “They’re 100% accurate.”

“But it says 95%,” my mother argued.

“Look, the appeal is at the beginning of September,” I sighed. “I’m reasonably certain that I’ll get out of the child support order then,” 

“And what if you don’t,” Virginia asked.

“Then I’ll appeal to Federal Court,” I replied. I wanted that conversation to end. It made me nauseous, and I needed to get away from them.

“And are you going to get any of that money back?” she demanded/hoped. Translation, “do I have any hope of getting my hands on it?”

“I doubt it,” I replied. As much as I resented that child support order, I preferred the money went to the goniffs in Warren County over Virginia. 

This is the crap I had to put up with every day except on weekends. Otherwise, life was good. I didn’t have any luck finding a new job, but I got a promotion at the one I had. The regional manager invited me to join his full-time crew. Which meant I would be traveling with the circus. And when the Allentown show was finished, I’d be on my way to Arizona. 

Spoiler, I never made it to Arizona. I would have missed my appeal hearing if I had left. This is just as well because I hate hot weather and Arizona. But suppose you had the choice between Arizona and living with Bob and Virginia. In that case, I bet you would pick Arizona too. My partner didn’t see it that way, and they were distraught that I planned to be an utterly absent dad. Which was just an important reason not to go.

Of course, I had to endure one of my mother’s “Bill is Traveling” tantrums, but my almost trip to Arizona positively affected my parents; it made them shut the hell up. I had gotten up and left before, and they realized how close they were pushing me. So they both avoided me for a few days.

I think they were catching wise about “April” and realizing that I was more likely to move back with my family than run away to join the circus. And once I was back with my family, there was no way I would go back to being their keeper. They were so desperate they put their heads together and came up with an idea that was so bizarre it still hurts my brain to remember it. They were going to buy me a wife from the Philippines. 

Bob probably found an advertisement for Filipino Brides in Playboy. He was the first person I met who read Playboy for the articles. Then I got older and met other gay men. My father was so far in the closet he ordered take-out from Narnia. I think that’s why he married a woman 11 years older than he was. Virginia was his way of fooling himself that he was straight. He didn’t understand my attraction to my partner, who presented as female at the time. Bob assumed I was going back to my partner for the sex. So, he figured that if they could supply sex for me, I would stay with them and become the custodial son again. 

He brought the advertisement to my mother’s attention. I think it took a little bit of argument for her to accept the idea. She had a creepy Jocasta Complex that gave me goose flesh. But I can’t see Virginia refusing the chance to get her very own slave. Besides, she would get to play sick games with my privacy. 

I don’t understand why they thought I would go along with their madness. But Bob sent away for the mail order bride catalog, and they looked at it when I returned one Sunday night. They were at the table, not screaming at each other. That was unusual enough to get my attention. Virginia sat at the table, flipping through a magazine while Bob stared over her shoulder. And did I mention they were smiling at each other? So did the friendly greeting they gave me. That kicked my caution into the red zone.

“Hi,” I said and headed into the kitchen from the entrance they weren’t blocking.

“This is no good,” Virginia said in a heartbroken voice. “He’ll have to go to the Philippines to get married.”

“So he stays in the Philippines for a few days,” My father replied.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. I figured a shit storm was brewing, and I wanted to get it over fast.

“But he’ll have to fly,” Virginia protested. She was morbidly phobic about flying, just as she was about anything else that involved leaving the house. But she got hold of herself and said, “I bet we can book him a round trip on a boat.”

“Why are you sending me to the Philippines?” I asked. Virginia was known to throw fits if I left the apartment for cigarettes. I couldn’t believe she wanted me to go all the way to the Philippines.

“We got this in the mail,” Bob said.

Virginia wore her death goddess grin as she handed it to me. Then they braced themselves like they were giving me something I wanted for my birthday. It was a mail-order bride catalog. It was just like the sorry websites that are sometimes advertised on Facebook. Only this was printed on cheap newspaper stock. And the ink was so cheap it was nearly running on the page.

I was numb while I looked at the details. To sum it up, for 5,000 US 1992 dollars, I could purchase any of the girls in the catalog. And there were about thirty pages of blurry photographs and little blurbs. They all announced they were good Christians who would be loyal until death does us part. Can you say human trafficking? I like the way you say that. And I wasn’t holding back laughter because I thought human trafficking is funny, but the idea that I’d go along with this was funnier than hell.

“I hate to rain on your parade, but I don’t have 5,000 dollars,” I said, tossing the catalog back on the table.

“Don’t worry about that; we’ll cover it for you; you can pay us back,” Virginia said quickly. I wondered how much money she had squirreled away in the bottom of her closet. My estimate rose to 5,000 dollars or more.

“Why do you think I’m going to the Philippines to get married?” I asked softly. The answer was obvious, they were both as crazy as emus on crank,

Virginia grinned and pointed to a picture in the catalog. “I think she’s very pretty,” she replied, avoiding the question.

I was forced to come to grips with how out-to-lunch those space cadets were. That was the moment I lost all hope for both of them. I still tried to include them in my family for the next three years, but I knew I was whistling past a graveyard. For all practical purposes, I was an orphan.

“Why don’t you take a look? Maybe you’ll see somebody you like,” my mother urged, handing back the catalog. Since I was curious, I took it to the sofa and thumbed through it while my parents stared at me like a pair of dogs expecting a treat.

I sipped my coffee and flipped through the catalog. It was deplorable! A couple of the women claimed university degrees. And they put themselves on the auction block. This was obviously white slavery, and it sickened me. 

“You think I’m going to marry one of these women?” I asked them, and they responded with big smiles. “You really think I will willingly take a slow boat to Manila and come home married to one of these people?”

Their expressions of hopeful delight were more than I could handle. I burst out laughing. I think that must have been the best laugh I had since the gas leak. And the harder I laughed, the more the screwballs sunk into themselves. I laughed so hard I had to pee. When I returned, Bob and Virginia had retreated to their respective rooms. And they stopped bothering me. Virginia would occasionally ask about the catalog, but I always responded by laughing.

I took the catalog home to show my partner; they were appalled and didn’t see the humor. But as I said before, the catalog wasn’t funny, but Bob and Virginia were a hoot! The booklet eventually found its way to the office, where my coworkers were as amused and appalled as I was. In fact, my friend Jules was outraged and started to explain human trafficking. And I told him, “that’s why it’s so funny; my parents thought I was going to go for it.” The catalog stayed in the office until it disintegrated into forty pieces and got tossed out and forgotten. 

The office closed by the second week in July; we had literally called everybody twice. Commissions had reached the bottom of the barrel, and I had no money saved for the layoff. The office wouldn’t reopen until October when we’d be selling tickets for the M. Charles Holiday Review. I had no unemployment, so I found a hidey-hole by telemarketing for the Olan Mills Studios. That was the lowest of the low, but it beat no income. I only worked there for a week before getting an old friend’s phone call.

I’ll call him Karl, even though that wasn’t even close to his real name. I met Karl while running my bookstore in Allentown, PA. He had just opened his own home improvement company and wanted me as his telemarketer. He hired me for his telemarketing room, and we hit it off and made a lot of money together. It took a little talking because I was still dreaming of Arizona, but I accepted and left Olan Mills that night. 

The money was a lot better than M. Charles. My base salary was higher, and my commissions meatier. On top of that, it was so well located that I could get there by bus in the morning, and my partner could drive me back to Phillipsburg after work. They picked me up on Friday night and didn’t bring me back to Phillipsburg until Monday evening. So I had one less day with Bob and Virginia. That alone made the new job worth it. Of course, I had to let Virginia know I was making more money in my base, but I never mentioned the commissions. So my rent only went up to $80 a month.

Virginia never stopped trying to get money from me. A week before I left, I brought a paperback from the thrift shop next to the office. I came home and opened the book to read with my dinner. Virginia was in the kitchen getting her goodnight tea. I opened the book, and a hundred-dollar bill fluttered between the pages and landed on my lap. Virginia saw it. She moved towards me like it was pulling her on a string. I knew she would ruin the moment, so I consoled myself by folding it carefully and putting it in my wallet. Her eyes locked on my hand while I put my wallet back in my pocket.

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

“I don’t know; why?” I responded, picking up my mug and opening the book up again.

“Gerber’s selling special health insurance that only grandparents can open,” she said. “A hundred dollars will open the account, and from there on, it’s only ten dollars a month.”

The next day, I called Gerber Life in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I was told Gerber didn’t sell health insurance by both offices, and they said they had never heard of such a bizarre policy. 

Virginia even had the nerve to ask if I thought about Gerber Health Insurance. “There is no such thing,” I told her. “I called both the New Jersey and Pennsylvania offices. They deny having such a policy. Do you have a brochure or something I could look at?”

“The offer must have expired!” she said quickly and ducked back into her room, slamming the door. 

Here’s the funny part. A friend had a room he rented for fifty bucks a week with laundry and breakfasts included. I set it all up except paying the hundred dollars but moved back in with my family. The hundred dollars was spent on a day trip for the family. That hundred dollars could have been first and last week’s rent on a new place.

Around the same time, I discovered the child support order had been canceled at the end of June. My former regional manager mailed me two weeks of child support and a letter explaining that payroll was slow in withdrawing the lien. And just like that, I was free. No more child support. It was gone without saying goodbye.

I would have waved that check over my head and danced around the room in any other place. But the last thing I needed was for Virginia to learn I had money. So I sat down and put my head between my knees to keep from exploding with joy. Then it occurred to me that something bloody weird was going on.

I called Warren County Child Support as soon as I hit work the next day. The guy on the phone confirmed that they ended my support payments but didn’t have any more information. Then I asked about the order or regulation that kept me from living with my partner. He replied that since there was no support order, I was no longer bound by child support regulations. I thanked him profusely, hung up, and wondered what the blue living hell was going on.

My partner received a letter from Welfare that had been delayed because it was mailed to the hotel room. Our toddler had been taken off Medicaid and food stamps as of September 1st because I was supporting my son directly. This was certainly news to me.  

We went to the county courthouse before work the following Monday. First, we went to Welfare, and her worker denied having banned me from living with my family. He said all we needed to do was tell him I was moving back in so he could readjust the benefits. Since they were already adjusted, there weren’t any problems. For all he cared, I could have moved in the next minute.

Next, we went to the court clerk’s office to inquire about my appeal. The court clerk told us my appeal had been canceled due to the rescinded support order. They had sent me a letter about it. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that Virginia swiped the letter. Stealing official mail was the petty mischief she pulled to keep in practice. I was so angry at Virginia that I forgot to request a copy of the letter. This was such a huge mistake; I’m surprised Larry Marra didn’t crawl out of the grave to bitch-slap me. And not getting that letter did come back to bite me in the ass, but that story will be told in its place.

It was good that we were in Belvidere, where all the government offices were a short walk from Blair House. Finally, we went across the street to the County Section 8 office. The county section 8 office was in a row of blue wooden storefronts across from the courthouse. The women running it were the usual pair of Warren County matrons. Of course, the office was full of religious posters.

We told them what was happening and that I wanted to rejoin my family. And damned if that didn’t press their preaching button! We got a lecture about how god wanted me to be there for my kids. We waited for the sermon to wind down because it’s easier to let them get it out of their system than argue. We gently corrected them and told them we thought County Section 8 was keeping me from living with my family. 

“Who said that?” one Section 8 worker asked.

“The apartment manager,” my partner replied.

“Where do you live?” the other asked.

“Blair House,” my partner replied.

The women’s shoulders slumped, and they rolled their eyes.

“Our office’s mission is to keep families together,” The first explained. “We certainly didn’t issue such an order.”

“Have you cleared it with Welfare?” the other asked as if she would cry if we said no. Her face dimpled when we said the benefits had already been adjusted.

“We’re just going to need you to sign a few forms and readjust your rent for next month, and you can move in today.”

This was the first and only time having Born Again Christians working in a public office ever worked out for me. In under fifteen minutes, it was done. The papers were signed, the rent adjusted, and I was only going to be twenty minutes late for work. Life was good.

I moved in the next day. I returned to my parent’s apartment that night and told them I had found a room near work. Bob wished me well, happy to be returning to his usual isolation. Virginia asked that I continue to send her my rent. Which I did not.

So here’s the story of how I ended up in Hillbilly Heaven, and it was a real hootenanny from the beginning to the end. For us, it was a beginning. We were leaving Welfare and Section 8 and all that shit behind. Blair House was going to be our launching pad. This was the year 1992, and George H.W. Bush was still president. This would change in November when William Jefferson Clinton became president. Blair House ceased to be our launching pad and became where we would fight for survival.