I was 10-years-old in the fall of 1995, and I had a lot to be angry about. My family had just moved back to Treynor, IA from Columbia, IL, so I was pissed that I had to leave all of my friends that I had made over the past year. We moved into a beaten up old rental house while our new house was being built. And my older brother had taken to the unfortunate habit of referring to me as "volcano tits." I had some built up aggression that I usually took out on my secret Swear Diary. This was a tattered notebook that I kept under my mattress, taking it out only to furtively scribble obscenities across the pages. But that fall, my father blessed my ears with some very pleasing news. Behind our rental house was a wooded area, and within this wooded area our neighbor stored an old tractor, which my father, in his unwavering brilliance, thought would be fun for my brother and me. The move went smoothly and school started soon after. I was quickly reunited with my old friends that I made before my family moved from Treynor about a year earlier, and things in general were going well. Then, one day, my older brother and a couple of my friends decided to take my father up on his offer to "have fun" on another person's property. Keep in mind please that at this time, my old man had not even met our new neighbor, so he was in no position to allow his kids and their friends to dick around with this tractor. Our good times started innocently enough. Mostly we just ran around in the woods, playing hide-and-seek and shooting my older brother's BB gun and the dying foliage that surrounded us. When our attention shifted to the tractor - a rusted piece of machinery that looked like it had been taken right out of a John Steinbeck novel - we continued our lackadaisical folly by pretending to drive it or acting like it was running us over. Now, the tractor rested on the edge of our neighbor's (who I will refer from now on as Blackbeard) property and the beginning of the woods. We were within eyesight and earshot of anyone who might have been in his backyard, but a thick nest of trees semi-hid us from most everyone. Our little group messed around with the machine for a bit before its stillness began to bore us. I don't know who struck the first blow, nor do I remember what caused it, but someone suddenly took the butt of my brother's BB gun and smashed one of the tractor's headlights. It may very well have been me, but more likely it was one of my friends. Now, vandalism did not bother me one bit. When I was in the third grade, my brother and I broke into an abandoned house in town and smashed the shit out of it. The next day someone had put plywood over all the doors and windows. There was a time when my brother and I would go through parking lots and sever hood ornaments from cars, collecting the different brands in a shoebox in our closet. So when I saw the smashed light of the tractor, crunched the shards of glass under my feet, it did not faze me, and the fact that this tractor belonged to someone else did not register in me either. In an instant, this metallic antique went from being a mild form of amusement to being a physical representation of all our hatred and violence and frustration. I remember thinking, when I saw that busted light, "Man, what a great idea!" From that point we decided to destroy the fuck outta this tractor. Using the BB gun as a bat and our fists as...well, fists, we smashed every light on the tractor, we smashed all the gauges, bent the red indicators in the gauges. We smashed our feet against it, trying our damnedest to damage every inch of it. We were the Mongolian horde and this machine was Asia. We were Hannibal, the tractor was Rome. We were the A-Bomb, the clunker was Hiroshima. We were Lexington Steele's ginormous dong, pounding the shit outta Katsuni's va-jay-jay (in order properly appreciate this last metaphor [simile?] you need to understand that Lex Steele is a very well-endowed black man [i.e. normal black man] and Katsuni is a very petite Vietnamese woman, so, you know, you can imagine what those beef curtains look like). Anyway, the point is, we just demolished this fuckin thing. And we all did our fair share, although my brother would very pussily admit later on that he, "only pulled the dipstick out and threw it on the ground." Geez! Calm down, Tyson! With the tractor in utter ruin (the worst kind of ruin), we turned our attention to a small blue tent set up a few feet away. The tent belonged to Blackbeard's daughter, my classmate. Inside, was a small table and chair. A book rested atop the table. Like the terrible scourge of the ancient vikings upon unsuspecting villages, we razed this tent to the dirt. It's poles were bent and broken, the windows were all ripped out, and we tore holes as big as Katsuni's va-jay-jay into the fabric walls. The table and chair were tipped, the book was soiled. My older brother even urinated on it, the sick fuck! And, to be honest, I pissed on it too. In fact, pissing on the tent was the only thing I did to it. Later, I confessed to ripping out the windows instead, because I thought it would be worse if I said I peed on it. Once the objects of our sudden scorn were completely destroyed, our little group disbanded, giving absolutely no thought to what we had just done. We might as well have been leaving a playground. Life continued on like normal for the next few days, until my wicked lifestyle finally caught up with me. I was sitting in the living room of our house watching TV. My dad was outside pulling weeds on the side of the house. I could see his balding head bobbing up and down. Then, I caught sight of Blackbeard walking across the yard, his face hidden by a thick black beard and dark sunglasses. At the time, he cut an intimidating form. As soon as he started talking to my dad I knew exactly what the topic of discussion was. It didn't matter that I could not hear them, I knew every word that was being said. I began to panic. My stomach felt like it was trying to climb up my throat. My heart beat with the voracity of a well-played djembe (that's an African drum for all you racists). Sweat poured down my brow, which was actually pretty normal, since I was a fat kid. Outside, I saw my dad break away from Blackbeard and march around the house. I sat on the couch, paralyzed by fear of my old man's wrath. I heard the back door swing open. "ERIC!" my dad roared. "GET YOUR FUCKIN ASS OUT HERE!" I hesitated a moment, thinking that I could probably make it out the front door and down the street without my dad catching me. But any attempt at escape was a pipe dream. If I ran I would be caught. Besides, the fear that I had of my dad was too intense for me to do anything other than what he told me. With all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows, I slid off the couch, barely finding the strength to walk. Now, my dad only stands 5'8" with shoes on, but when he's pissed off, he grows about three or four feet. He stood in the doorway waiting for me. There was the most defined expression of rage carved into his face, as though every line was personally seen to by the devil himself. It felt as though some outside force was manipulating my legs for me. I couldn't have stopped walking even if I tried. My dad's glower pulled me to him like a leash. I was speechless. If I tried to open my mouth I probably would have thrown up. As soon as I was close enough, he lashed out. His hand flew past my head and clutched the back of my neck. Gripping me tight, he dragged me the last few steps out of the house. With his hand latched to my neck like a shackle, he took me to the side of the house where Blackbeard, and my doom, awaited. Men with beards intimidated me when I was a little kid. Probably because my dad always had one, and he scared the shit outta me. That's probably why I have a beard; to try to look intimidating. Well that, and to hide the vicious case of double chin. I was marched to the back of Blackbeard's yard, forced to confront the carnage I had inflicted on his property. The two men had me go over in detail everything that was done to the tractor and to the tent. It was here that I told them I ripped out the windows, being too embarrassed to say, "I took a piss on your daughter's tent." Then, my dad had me tell him who exactly my cohorts were. I'll be honest, I didn't even attempt to cover for my friends. I ratted them out right on the spot. Gave my old man names, addresses, phone numbers. Hell, I think I even implicated a few people who weren't even there. When it was all over, Blackbeard looked down at me, his eyes hidden behind those impenetrable black shades, and said, "You know, if I caught you doing this, I woulda kicked your ass." "I would have let him," my old man chimed in. I was completely humiliated, scared out of my wits, and fighting back tears. The whole thing in Blackbeard's backyard probably lasted about five minutes, but every second of it was agonizing. I was then sent up to my room to await further punishment. Now, my older brother on the other had, got off quite easy. Where I had to look upon the face of the man I had wronged, my brother just got a stern talking to from my dad. And Dale wasn't even in trouble! Because the squirrly sumbitch said, "All I did was pull out the dipstick." Good grief! Needless to say, at school I became a pariah. The friends who were with me to destroy the tractor also got into trouble because of my stool pigeon act, and they blamed me. One of my friends even said quite simply, "I hate you, Eric." What the fuck did they expect? I was 10 and living in perpetual fear of my old man's temper! In the movie Sniper, Tom Berenger gets fucking bamboo splinters shoved under his fingernails, and he refuses to give the enemy information. Well, guess what! I'm not Tom Berenger! So, one group of friends alienated me, while my other friends teased me religiously. It got to the point where I cried in my bed because I hated going to school. Oh, and my "bed" was a goddamn cot that I had to unfold each night in my sisters' bedroom, because there was no room for Eric's own bed. My sisters shared a nice big bed, and Dale had his own fucking room, but I was forced to live like a drifter with warrants. They say that time heals all wounds, and they are right. As time went on, things got a lot better. My old man and Blackbeard became fast friends, beginning a friendship of drunken debauchery that continues to this day. I was even asked to go to a parking lot with Blackbeard and his daughter to drive a go-cart. As his daughter drove around the parking lot, Blackbeard sat on the curb drinking a beer. I stood nervously behind him. Finally, he turned and held out his hand. "Well, Eric. Are we friends after all this shit?" I shook his hand and said yes, and a flood of relief washed over me, which I later found out was urine, as I had pissed myself the moment he spoke. That day, as I stepped into the go-cart to take my turn, I heard Blackbeard's daughter say to her dad, "I thought you said Eric wasn't allowed to drive the go-cart?" Jesus Christ, lady! Me and your dad just had a moment here! Fickle little bitch. So, eventually, things got back to normal. My friends did not abandon me for long, and after awhile everyone pretty much forgot about the incident. Well, almost everyone. You see, folks, when you live in a small town, word gets around pretty quick, and adults and parents take notice when they hear about kids vandalizing property. One day, my brother and I were playing the woods and we came upon another tent, except this tent was lying flat on the ground, smashed my age and falling branches. Rather than destroying it, for my brother and I had learned our lesson, we decided to set the tent back up properly. Well, no fucking good deed goes unpunished, because a few days later there was a knock on our back door. I remember it clearly because it was the night that Cal Ripken, Jr. set the record for most consecutive games started. I waited with bated breath as I heard muffled voices coming from the back. My dad shut the door and came into the kitchen. "Jesus Christ, another fucking tent, Eric!" "We tried to set it up! Honest, Dad! Honest!" Every time something bad happened in town, my brother and I were the number one suspects. When a few school buses had BBs shot through their windows, Dale was called into the principle's office. When a John Deere combine had its windows shot out, Dale was questioned. When we walked into the local grocery store, the employees mumbled, "shoplifters" under their breath, while staring down the aisle at us the entire time we were in the store. When the label of Vandal gets sewn onto you, it is nearly impossible to get rid of it. The stigma of "bad kid" follows you like a fart. For a long time, I think Dale and I stayed on the straight and narrow, until we both participated in criminal activity in high school. Kids like to destroy things. I'm not a doctor, I don't know why. All I know is that it is fun to break shit. I didn't care whose property it was or how much it cost, all I cared about was smashing it into oblivion. Maybe one answer is, when I broke something I was in charge. Nobody was telling me what to do. I had all the power. So my justification for what I was doing was simply "Fuck you tractor. Fuck you tent. Fuck you hood ornament. Fuck you mailbox. Fuck you stop sign. Fuck you car..." Some dickhead once said people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Well, I would. I would throw the fuck outta them stones and smash that house to shit.
The Moore You Know: I just saw a commercial for high-fructose corn syrup. The slogan was, and I shit you not, "It's OK in small doses!" I'm pretty sure every terrible thing I've done in life, I have done it because someone said, "It's OK in small doses." Drink beer? Small doses. Smoke weed? Small doses. Inject black tar heroin into my penis vein? Hey, small doses. Stab hobos in the aorta with a sharpened toothbrush? Just make sure it's in small doses.
© Eric Moore - 2010
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