Just a squirrel tryin' to get a nut...

“Cherry” was brown, a deep mahogany brown with a warm auburn hue, and a rash of wrinkles and cracks. Alternately smooth then scratchy under your fingertips she had a glorious fragrance. She was about three feet long and made of leather. Her brass buckle settled into a rich patina and made a delicate tinkling sound. Two delicious sets of red cherries, still on the branch, flanked her namesake embossed on her sinewy hide. She was a source of power and pain. Her presence brought a tingling sensation to the tender skin of my bottom before she ever made contact. In the hands of my mother, “Cherry” could leave her mark in the form of two sets of dancing cherries, one set on each cheek, a “CH” and “RY” leapfrogging the valley. She was an often brutal extension of my misguided and angered mother.

It was “Cherry”’s fault I ended up in the tree. The very tree was a large decrepit oak. Two giant sections trying to escape each other succeeded approximately fifteen feet up a massive trunk with too many exposed roots thanks to our lack of grass and wealth of soil. Our predecessors had begun the project of building a tree house for their sons. Unfortunately they had only managed to construct a platform that straddled the divide and small sections of two by four screwed into the gnarly bark to form a precarious ladder. From this platform you could see over the chain link fence fitted with green slats to create privacy. This same fence bordered the rest of our yard as well which was pretty much comprised of a large patch of dirt, an old hot tub that clung to rainwater now green with algae, a crooked swing set with peeling decals and rusted chains, and an old doghouse. Over the fence to the south was a vacant lot, vacant save for an abandoned tractor trailer that had been used for B-B gun target practice.

My sisters and I had specific chores to accomplish when my mother left that day. I can’t remember what mine were but I was the youngest so it was usually something pretty easy. We had an allotted amount of time in which to finish them. If we didn’t finish by the time she returned we would get a visit from “Cherry”. Our pants and underwear at our ankles we would lay face down on the bed and absorb the punishment only to let it out elsewhere later.

I was a good kid. Cute and obedient, most people considered me a mama’s boy. Maybe I was before I was smart enough to know better. Thankfully for me I was still young enough to be doted on and believed when I told a lie. I was six then and decided that I didn’t need to do my chores. There were cartoons and Sea Monkeys in the living room demanding my attention. As the day wore on my sisters continued to tell me I needed to do what I was told or I knew what would happen. It wasn’t very often that I disobeyed my mother; I knew “Cherry” well and hated her. I was clever though, or at least I thought I was clever. My plan began to take shape in my mind as the hour of doom approached.

It was on the news all the time; A missing child discovered, safe after hours away from home, would return and be coddled by people thankful they had been found, teary eyed parents rejoicing. I was sure it would work but I had to find a place to go. Actually running away was a little too scary for me so I need something close. Then it dawned on me, the tree house! Nobody would think to look there. A sudden rush of excitement had taken over and I was confident I could pull off this massive coup.

When you have a secret plan you should not tell anybody else. What did I know? I was six. So I told my sisters that I was going to be in the tree house and not to tell mom. I would come down when I was ready. In my plan they feigned stupidity.

As I worked my way up the tree I was nervously excited to be outwitting everyone. I couldn’t stop smiling. When I reached the platform I rested against the scratchy bark and waited, and waited. I had probably been up there for an hour when I heard our car pull up in front of the house. Sure, that hour could have been spent taking care of my chores but at this point I was determined.

The screen door slammed shut and it was quiet for about one long minute. That is when I heard her yell,

- What tree?! Why isn’t his shit done? NICHOLAS JASON! If I find you up in that fucking tree, I swear to god!

I panicked, this was not the plan! What was I going to do? I had been double-crossed. As I scrambled across the platform, I heard the backdoor open. I had no time to climb down and find another hiding place. In a matter of seconds she would be around the corner and the tree would be in full view. Think! Ah ha, I had an idea. It was a stupid idea, but an idea nonetheless. I lunged to the side of the platform furthest from view of the door. In a moment of sheer genius I hooked my upper lip over a piece of bark. I had done it! How on earth could someone get in trouble for not doing their chores when they were actually stuck, by their lip, to a tree?

As she came into view I began to sob. Crying is a good way to garner sympathy. Her look of anger quickly subsided and gave way to confusion and fear. Seconds later my sisters came out behind her surprised to see how far I had taken this whole scenario. My mother was too large to climb the tree and discover my deceit. I was in the clear, except for the fact that I had no idea how to get out of the situation without uncovering my lie.

When I say I would rather suffer the vicious attack of a rabid squirrel than face the beating I would get from my mother if she found out the truth about what I was doing in that tree, I am serious. That fact was proven when a particularly curious squirrel made its way down to where I was. As I watched it descend I grew increasingly nervous. There was a choice to be made as it clung to the bark with its little claws and twitching tail. I began to wail when it came within a foot of my face. My lip was still on the bark and my mouth had begun to dry out. Still I screamed with all my might which not only scared the squirrel sufficiently to send it fleeing but it evoked audible gasps from the peanut gallery below.

This is where it got interesting. From what I could see my mother had disappeared leaving only my sisters who were still amazed at the spectacle I was able to create with a lip and some bark. The squirrel was just a twist of fate in my favor and I couldn’t have planned it better. Then I heard them - sirens. Sirens were a pretty common occurrence in our neighborhood since our house was a block from the projects. It wasn’t until the pitch and loudness became too much to bear that I saw the lights; a fire engine, bigger than I had ever imagined, pulled into view. Holy Shit! Bolt cutters were used to gain entrance to the vacant lot next door and the chain was slung to the concrete.

As they pulled the truck up to the fence and hoisted the ladder to the tree I almost wet myself. With the siren turned off I could hear the ladder being maneuvered into place but could not see it lest I move my head and the jig would be up. Then rubber boots climbed, squeaking nearer one rung at a time on the other side of the tree until I felt the extra weight on the platform and then a voice,

-Are you ok son? We are going to get you down? Are you hurt?
- Y wip hurths a wittle.

I felt his gloved hand on my back and his face came into view as he surveyed the situation. He was very quiet as he looked at my lip resting gingerly on the bark. The dirt pooled on my tongue and the dried moisture around my mouth. My eyes were puffy and red and my cheeks were streaked with moisture. And he smiled. He removed his glove and made a show of separating my lip from the tree. He scooped me up and moved over to the ladder. I asked,

-Are you gonna tell on me?

He responded with a laugh and made his way backwards down the ladder with me in his arm until we were close enough that he could hand me off. I was welcomed into my mother’s arms. We bid thanks and farewell to the firemen as their giant truck rattled out of the empty lot and onto real emergencies.

My chores didn’t get completed that night. In fact we all ended up making a barefooted pilgrimage to Dairy Queen for Dilly Bars and cherry-coated soft serves. The contempt my sisters felt quickly evaporated with their treats and I was doted on and coddled the way every six-year-old child should be. I did not go back up to the tree house again. I am pretty sure that squirrel had it out for me.

It’s a little more than two decades later and I am not as cute or as obedient as I used to be. I need next Wednesday off, there is nobody I can sweet talk, and I figure if it worked once it can work twice. I need a treehouse and a boost; I am not as young as I used to be.

Angel Among Us

It was the summer of 1986, Denver was as hot as Hades. We were living in an apartment just off Colfax. I was six that summer, waiting for fall to rush in and drag my lanky limbs to my seventh birthday. The hair on my head was remarkably blonde, made even more so by our frequent trips to the public swimming pool. I became addicted to cherry Chapstick that summer and began eating tubes of the stuff at a time. This made me sick and perplexed my chap lipped sisters, delicate skin dry and cracking from sun and chlorine with no relief to be found in the tiny purses I had raided.

It was upon returning from the pool that we first met an Angel. Where my mother met her I have no idea. How they became friends is even more confusing. She found her way into our lives nonetheless. An exotic flower unlike those common carnations that currently sprung up around us, she came with an air of glamour and refinement. Black jeans that seemed to be painted on were worn with high heels and very small blouses revealing, at the very least, a glimpse of her stomach and tattooed back. Hair jet black, stark in comparison to her startlingly pale complexion, it reached down past her butt with straight cut bangs teased and curled. Her nails matched her lipstick in a drowsy romantic red; they adorned ring-clad, delicate hands that were almost as small as my own.

It was beyond me to understand that Angel was a stripper and prostitute. The idea of such things does not exist to a child and so I thought she was actually sent from heaven because with a name like Angel, she must have been. She always had money with her in great wads of ones, fives and tens that she kept in her purse next to a small gun and shiny foil packets. Aside from the money she possessed a talking parrot, lots of empty promises, and a son named Joey.

Joey was three and almost my spitting image. Hair so blonde it would make a cotton bale shame at its color, round cherubic cheeks to match his demeanor, and our main difference was his deep brown eyes that contrasted the blue of my own. To see us together you would have thought us brothers and in fact we loved each other as such. Shortly after we were first introduced to Angel, Joey became a fixture in our home. It was a welcome change for me to have another boy to play with, particularly one who held me in the regard one normally has for an older brother at that age. We were inseparable for the most part, retreating often into our own little make believe world of dinosaurs and jungle adventures in the overgrown yard behind our building. I don’t really recall how long Joey was with us. As a child there are times when a day feels like a month and an hour feels like a minute. We are not good judges of time when we have not lived long enough to truly place value on it.

Summer surrendered to the chilly pitch of fall and brought along a host of issues for all of us. Namely what were we going to do with Joey? He was spending more and more time with us and his mother had stopped paying for his keep. We already lived welfare check to welfare check and another mouth to feed was growing difficult.

Heated words were heard emanating from the living room where my mother spat angrily into the phone. Joey and I were in my bedroom playing with my plastic dinosaur collection when I heard her slam the handset back into its cradle. When she stormed into my room, red-faced, she told me to take Joey home. Home for Joey was quite a distance away. Past the middle school, tennis courts, Lutheran church where the weekly flea market was held, and the nice yard with the thorniest rose bushes and prettiest blossoms.

I obeyed and we grabbed his backpack of belongings. What my mother was thinking sending a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old out alone is beyond me, but so it was. We arrived at the three story walk-up, in which Angel’s apartment was situated, approximately an hour after we left. I removed a key from Joey’s bag and we unlocked the door to the small cramped stairway that smelled of cooking food and mildew. We reached the top floor; I knocked on the only door. Joey held my hand as we waited. Annoyed whispers were followed by hushed footsteps. She flung the door open creating a small vacuum of air that swept my hair into my eyes. As I brushed it from my face she turned and took a few steps back into the apartment then faced us. Her look was pleasant enough but she forgot to get dressed. Barely covering her was a black see-through negligee with lacey borders and tiny red bows. Her normally smooth hair was tangled and not nearly as shiny. Even the lipstick normally applied in a manner of perfection was outside the lines making her appear clownish when she smiled. She was barefoot, propped against the door.

-Joey go to your room.

She said and he let go of my hand, ran quickly through the door and disappeared. Her small hand grabbed my arm, pulled me into the apartment and directed me to the sofa that sat in her nearly empty living room. The heat was stifling, I sat down, the scratchy upholstery rubbed against the back of my exposed thighs. Then a man’s voice came from another room asking how much longer, to which she replied,

-Don’t worry baby I will be right there, this will just take a minute.

Then she looked at me and I at her. My eyes were level with her crotch and I thought how peculiar it was that she had so much hair. It was coming out of the sides of her negligee. She laughed as she retrieved an envelope from the small coffee table and handed it to me, on the front was written a word I didn’t yet know the meaning of, Bitch it said.

-Now get outta here, I got stuff to do. And give that to your bitch mother.
-Can I say bye to Joey?
-Make it fast.

I had never been inside before and wasn’t sure where I was going so I just went through the only doorway. It led to the bedroom and her bed was the first thing I saw. Sprawled there was a man with an exposed torso. Under the sheet rose a protrusion that caused me to stare. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He smirked at me causing the long ash to drop onto his chest. He matched my gaze while he wiped ash from his chest and the protrusion bounced. He chuckled, then retrieved a fedora from the floor beside the bed and placed it over his crotch. I turned around and saw a closet. Stuffed animals surrounded a small crib mattress and Joey sat on the floor. This was his room, a closet. I reached down and hugged him before pushing past Angel in the bedroom doorway and running out of the apartment.

I walked home confused and angry. My mother took the envelope upon my arrival and ranted for some time. She said Joey was never coming back. It crossed my mind to go back and get him. To rescue him from what he was being forced to see from the closet he lived in. But I was only six. Days of my asking if Joey could come back ended in a spanking more brutal than normal. There was a lot of anger behind each strike.
What ever became of that little boy? I don’t know. There are times in my life that I am grateful to have had the childhood I had despite the ever present bad memories. Leaving Joey there is an image I will never be able to be rid of and it serves as a reminder that it can always get worse. In a desperate world, full of desperate people, it can always get worse.