Ken

His name was Ken and he was my Big Brother. (No, this is not a reveal of someone hidden within our lineage – I was involved with Big Brothers when I was a young teen!)

I was 14 when we first met. Ken was 10 years older than me and about 10 inches shorter. It didn’t matter how much I physically stood over him because I still looked up to him.

When we first met he lived in Hamilton in an apartment on the mountain. I don’t recall going to that apartment very often because we generally went out – bowling, playing pool or whatever would grab our attention. Although we got along great and talked almost non-stop, we never really talked about how I was feeling or anything too deep. I don’t think it mattered. With Ken, having someone to go out with on a regular basis and have fun was what my spirit needed from him.

St. Catharines

Within a year of meeting Ken, he moved to St. Catharines to be closer to a new job. He moved into a one-bedroom unit in an apartment on Geneva St. Once or twice a month I would visit with Ken in St. Catharines, usually staying over on a Saturday night. Often Ken would buy a case of beer and he would have a few. I don’t ever recall him being drunk – just enjoying some beer. He would give me one or two occasionally. Yes, I was underage, but maybe he thought I couldn’t get into any trouble. Or could I?

On one particular visit, things were going as normal. We had gone for dinner and then settled back into his apartment. He had a few beers and offered me a couple, which I was glad to accept. This particular night I had an elevated taste for the brown pops. Ken went to bed a little after midnight and I had my bedding on the couch I normally slept on. Once Ken was sleeping, I helped myself to a couple more beers. I wasn’t drunk, but I was feeling mildly euphoric – this was all fairly new to me. This particular night I was also feeling adventuresome.

My Adventure

Ken drove a yellow car. I believe it was a Ford Fairlane, or something very similar, roughly 1972 model. It was a big car. At 1:30 in the morning, with Ken asleep in his room and 15-year-old me with a few beers under my belt, I decided to take the car for a ride. How hard could it be?

I got the keys and quietly snuck out the apartment door and took the elevator to the main floor. The parking lot was behind the building. I found the car, opened the door and slid behind the steering wheel. It was helpful that the car was an automatic because having no driving experience whatsoever rendered the steering wheel, gas pedal and brakes complicated enough.

Turning the key, the engine started without a hitch. I backed up out of the parking spot and I carefully memorized which spot I just left. Slowly I drove down the lane-way, stopping at the lip of Geneva St. Given the time of night, there were few cars around.

Turning left, I drove onto the road. I was keeping in between the lines, driving rather well and enjoying every second. I drove down Geneva for a few minutes. Since I started getting a little nervous that Ken would wake up, I somehow turned around and drove back to the apartment parking lot. Thankfully the same parking space was open, so I pulled in.

My Adventure Continues

I went up to the apartment and found that Ken was still fast asleep. I sat on the couch for a few minutes and quite easily talked myself into going for another ride. Same sequence: quietly close door, go downstairs, start the car and go to Geneva. This time I got a little more adventuring.

I turned off Geneva to a long road with almost no cars on it. Carefully I drove it one way to scope the nuances of the road – the gentle bend and one minimal dip in the road. I turned around on the road heading back to Geneva. Holding my breath, I hammered on the gas pedal. I wound it up to around 75 mph (that’s miles, kilometers) in the city of St. Catharines before having to slow down before reaching Geneva. Again, nervous about Ken’s awakening, I went back to the apartment.

My Adventure Ends

I didn’t take long for me to convince myself to go for another ride. This one had its own level of excitement – very unplanned. I did my run down that same road, hitting around 75 mph again. Cruising back along Geneva heading back to the apartment I was on cloud nine. I was feeling good – until the car started to make a strange sound. It started to jerk and slow down. I was running out of gas.

I managed to pull over in a parking lot of a tiny strip plaza. This was not good. I had about $6.00 on me, so I had enough for some gas, but the gas station a few stores down wasn’t opening until 7:00. I had almost 2 hours to fill, smoking cigarettes and sweating bullets. When the gas station opened, they did have a can for me to use to fill up with gas and take to the car.

I filled up the $6.00 worth of gas, returned the can and went back to the car. As I was about to get in the car, a man approached me and asked me for ID. Seriously? I found out very soon that he was a plain-clothed juvenile police officer. He had been watching me nervously going about my gas-filling duties and something looked wrong.

He took me back to Ken’s apartment. We woke up Ken so the officer could explain what had happened and I filled in some of the blanks (I didn’t mention the 75 mph trips). After the officer left Ken was pissed off and spoke very little for the rest of the day – until a knock came to the door which would make things worse.

It Got Worse

Having no driving experience or lessons, I wasn’t aware that I needed to back out straight a few feet, then turn the wheel so that the nose of the car doesn’t clip the car beside you. Apparently, I turned too soon.

The knock on Ken’s door was the owner of the vehicle parked beside Ken’s car. He had spent some time trying to figure out who owned the car who dented his. After they sorted out the details and the guy left, Ken was even more pissed off. A short, blasting lecture was followed by even louder, longer silence.

I don’t recall if I took the bus or Ken drove me home. Either way, Ken gave all the details to my mom. There was over $200 in damage and I was told that the money she was going to use to buy me a new bike would be paying that tab.

I never had another visit with Ken after that one and I don’t believe we ever talked again. It was a punctuated ending to a necessary relationship.

The New Inner Voice

My mom, in turn, told my step-dad all the details. He didn’t come over for a week or so to confront me about this. I recall coming up the house one evening and seeing his car on the street. I went into the house, completely petrified about his reaction. He looked at me, paused, raised his fist for drama and said, “When is the last time someone punched you right in the mouth?”

I froze, but he didn’t follow through. Thankfully, he didn’t punch me or hit me in any way. But something odd happened. For the first time in my life, I heard a tiny, barely audible voice coming from deep within me. It was a voice talking to my step-dad. That voice was actually a scream, but the layers of fear turned it into a soft whisper. That voice had eyes and as it looked at my step-dad it simply said, “Fuck you”. These words never left their inner confines, but that moment changed the relationship between my step-dad and me forever.

At The Edge

I have told this story to a few people in the past and to many I seem like a juvenile prankster, getting the due consequences of some stupid actions. Superficially, that is an understandable summary of events. But so much more happened.

My decision to take the car seemed like fun at the moment. Standing on the edge, I had the choice to step back and not go joyriding or leap off the edge landing behind the wheel of the car. The combination of beer and youth created clouds which blocked the view of the jagged rocks below. I chose to leap. The collision on the rocks had many impacts.

One impact from this incident is that I never saw Ken again. We never talked on the phone or got together. It was the first time that my actions, fueled by drinking or anything else, caused a fracture in a relationship. It wouldn’t be the last.

Another impact was the slight, but significant change in the relationship with my step-dad. That inner voice trying to scream out “fuck you” was that piece of me that trying to break the binds of the enveloping, smothering fear I had of him. Those binds were very strong and it would another 20 years before those words actually came out towards him.

The final impact was more subtle. I didn’t even see it then. I was in the early stages of a downward slide. This slide was masterful in its deception, baiting me with some exciting adventures and some fun with drinking. The early stages of the slide barely point down at all, maybe a degree or two. Enough of a slope to start the decline, but not enough to notice. A seeming friend with demonic intentions.

I was on the downward slide and I didn’t even know it…