“Lynne, I have to do this or else we won’t get a ride. There isn’t an entrance ramp close by, so give me a break, okay?”
The spot we emerged from was close to the tollbooths. Ordinarily there would be a fairly steady flow of traffic, but the rain had made the Sunday afternoon traffic sparse. As we stood on the Maine Turnpike (Interstate 95), I started thinking about all the days that led up to me standing there with my thumb out waiting for a ride. Flashes of my life went through my head like a sped up movie. It didn’t matter that I was cold and wet. It didn’t matter that I had no real place to go. My destination was far away from where I was born and grew up. It also was away from that awful place that housed all the unfortunate products of dysfunction. It was away from all the pain and towards somewhere that allowed me to finally discover who I am. Yes, my childhood had been stolen from me. Yes, I learned how to rage silently as I wandered aimlessly towards puberty and beyond clueless to who or what I really was. Was I a child trapped in an adult's body or was I an adult trapped in a child's body? I longed for self-discovery and for freedom from the agonizing pain my life had bestowed upon me.
Not long before going to Stevens, I discovered a quiet, safe place. Most people would call the place I discovered a complete emotional shutdown. I had emotionally flatlined! It was a dark void located somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind. I no longer felt fear, sadness and anger, but worse, I no longer felt compassion, happiness or love. My September birthday was more than a month ago. I was now a 16-year-old with a history of knowing how to survive on the streets among other things. The last year had felt like it had a whole lifetime crammed into it, so in many ways I was much older than my sixteen years externally showed. My eyes reflected the presence of a very old, but very confused soul.
My trip down memory lane was abruptly interrupted when a dark blue gas-guzzler about the size of the Queen Mary slowed down and then pulled off the highway onto the shoulder of the road. Knowing it had pulled over to give us a ride, we quickly trotted up to the car. I smiled as I opened the door and slid onto the front seat next to a friendly-looking middle-aged man. As I studied his face, I noticed his dark hair was peppered with gray, yet his face did not bear many signs of the aging process. He was a perfect example of what anyone might consider as aging gracefully. He probably was in his early 40’s and by today’s standards he was still young, but in those days, 40 years old seemed like it was bordering on being ancient. Baby boomers everywhere were told not to trust anyone over 30. In fact, that catchphrase, “don’t trust anyone over 30” had become one of my generation’s most memorable battle cries.
As I sized him up, I noticed he wasn’t casually dressed and wondered if he had embarked upon his journey straight from church. If that was the case then I knew we had several hours of religious lectures ahead of us, but the immediate warmth of the car felt good to my chilled skin and I sighed with relief before speaking. Let the lectures begin! I had become an expert at tuning people out. Sharon immediately slid in next to me and sat quietly while I did most of the talking.
“Man, you’re a real life saver. It was starting to rain harder and we really appreciate you stopping to give us a ride.”
“Were you girls standing out there for very long?”
“No. We actually hadn’t been there very long at all. It wasn’t bad until it started to rain harder and we started getting cold.”
“Where are you headed on a dreary day like today?”
“To Boston...home sweet home”
“Well, this is your lucky day, young ladies. I’m headed there on business. I can drop you off wherever you want because I’m going right into the city.”
“Far-out, man! You can drop us off down by The Commons or anywhere close to there or along Charles Street. We’re just grateful for the ride, so it doesn’t really matter. We don’t want you to go out of your way. We don’t live too far from Beacon Hill, so just kick us out whenever you’re ready, okay?”
For the next few hours, I chitchatted with the guy telling him some tall tale of why we were headed back to Boston and why we had been in Maine. The longer the story got the more I embellished the details. My web of deceit amused me and it seemed to keep him interested as I went into all the details I fabricated from wishful thinking. It almost renewed my faith in mankind when our “savior” didn’t act like most every other middle-aged businessman who had picked me up hitchhiking in the past. He didn’t lecture us about the dangers of hitchhiking. He didn’t proposition us for sex. He didn’t ask us a million personal questions. He just talked with us instead of talking at us. He seemed accepting of everything I told him and wished us well when he dropped us off between The Public Gardens and the Boston Commons.
I had noticed Sharon had been unusually quiet for the duration of the ride. Being untalkative was uncharacteristic for her, but I figured I would interrogate her later about her silence. I was too elated to be home sweet home to spoil the moment with having to deal with reality! I was free at last! And with that thought, we scurried off to find a place to stay for the night. There would be time to talk later. For now, I just wanted to savor the moment without cluttering it with having to figure things out and make more plans. Tomorrow we’d go find Eric and things would be better. He always made them better even when he did nothing at all.
Unknowingly, this trip to Boston definitely changed the path on which I was traveling. That road to certain self-destruction was altered forever into one of many years of deep soul-searching. If Socrates was correct by theorizing that an unexamined life is not worth living, then I have to admit my life is one of immeasurable worth. No stone has been left unturned and every aspect has been carefully scrutinized and dissected many times over.
A couple of months after my great escape, when my days of captivity started all over again, I was given the difficult choice of going to jail or going to drug rehab. Of course, at the time I chose what I thought was the lesser of two evils. I laugh now knowing that the pilot program Stevens School For Girls launched with me as its guinea pig forever change my life and “the lesser of two evils” would remain with me always.
When they caught me a few months later, it was once again due to my own stupidity. Taking too many risks always caught up with me at the worst possible moments. I always thought Murphy’s Laws were written about my escapades in life, but this time my capture was nothing more than stupidity on my part. I simply had a moment of weakness which made me want to return home for Christmas. Home? Wasn’t that the place I had felt so compelled to leave regardless of the consequences? But it was that time of year when everyone, even me, thinks of family and being together for the holidays. My two months of freedom had taken me from the safety I momentarily knew with Eric into the arms of real danger. When Eric had left for college, I went from bad to worse. I became lost all over again. Somehow, his presence seemed to have positive influence on my life and I was a little more careful during the time we spent together. Time and time again, he had warned me about Lynne until here I was finally without her. I didn't care what he said about her. She had always kept me safe and had been there when I needed her. Now, I was in the role she had been in for me.
The progression of things was quick and often times felt odd and ironic. I was not ready to be anyone’s mentor. I didn't know that until I had Sharon with me. Each step of the way, I saw more evidence that Sharon didn't need to be on the streets. She was much too trusting and gullible. I needed to find my own way first, but nonetheless I choose to leave with Sharon and later chose to leave her behind with Chuck, a friend of Eric's who was also attending college so I could try to find my own way to peace and salvation wrapped up nicely inside a prepackaged downfall to Hell and back. I had hoped that she would be safe tucked away in Amherst away from people like the ones who had sexually assaulted her while she had been passed out drunk at the party we had attended a few days earlier. Little did I know that was the last time I'd ever see Sharon. I always assumed I'd return to Amherst to find her thriving there. It wasn't until many years later that I found out Sharon had somehow at sometime made it back to Bangor and started her life again there only to have it cut short at the age of twenty-five. Since the late summer of 1980, Sharon has been missing and is a presumed victim of foul play. Her story can be read on one of the many links on WEBSLEUTHS.
My risk-taking hit an all time high when I hooked up with a 26-year-old junkie from Gloucester, Massachusetts named John McCormack who was living in a prison halfway house not too far from Beacon Hill. We met one afternoon along Charles Street while I was panhandling for spare change and “trolling.” Those two activities seemed to take up a great deal of my time and steered me in new directions daily. They also were a crucial part of my existing on the streets since I was too young to legally get a job. With each new day, I was ready for whatever life had in store for me. I often just sat on the stoops along Charles Street watching life go by. Most days, it was better than watching television. I believe this was where I first developed my thirst for trolling. Many people have chuckled over my definition of trolling. Of course, any fisherman knows the meaning of the word (to drag one’s line slowly through the water to see what bites). I have to admit Boston was an excellent pond in which to learn the fine art of trolling and I quickly became an accomplished fisherman.
In doing whatever we pleased, we never worried about the consequences. That issue was taboo and it definitely would have taken the fun out of the risk we both enjoyed. I knew any sane 26 year old wouldn’t have ever looked my way, but with John it was fun feeling the flame of his desire for me and his need to be bad. For a short time, we were able to swim against the same current together. I think for that short time we both enjoyed that pond in which we swam and neither of us had to be alone.
When I looked at John, what I saw was physical perfection. His Irish-Lebanese heritage had given him uncommonly good looks, but the most memorable thing about him was how soft his skin felt. I was captivated by his skin and the sensation I got from running my fingers all over his body. Searching for some visible imperfection became my mission, but the only scars he bore were the track marks from years of shooting dope. Otherwise, his skin was as flawless as a newborn baby and equally as soft.
Until I met John, I never really paid much attention to how I looked with anyone, but suddenly I noticed how good we looked together as we walked hand in hand strolling past the huge picture windows that lined some of the streets. My eyes would linger on our reflection in those windows. I think for the first time in my life I noticed that I looked good, but attributed that realization to John’s good looks. He made me look good. I thought he could make anyone look great.
At 16, shallow things seemed to be what mattered most, since building a lasting relationship was completely out of the question. I lived in the here and now and never worried about tomorrow. I knew I would remain with John or with anyone else as long as the intensity remained. I never allowed myself to believe anything lasted forever. Everything in life had a beginning and an end. If nothing else, the streets taught me that there was an endless supply of beginnings willing to “help” a 16-year-old female runaway. Being sexually uninhibited was a valuable asset and sex seemed like such a small price to pay for the things I received in return.
As Christmas grew closer, I dwelled upon all those Christmases of years past. I suppose in hindsight, they were far better in memory than what they actually were when they happened. The spirit of the season began to fill me. I allowed myself to open up and share some of my past with John as I dwelled on my childhood on Walter Street. As we lay in each other’s arms like a normal couple, we swapped stories about our pasts. When I told John I would be back in a few days, he seemed unsurprised by my decision. We both had developed a need to go home for the holidays, but not together. Yes, John was a junkie, but somewhere he, too had a family and he still remembered the days when family mattered.
John had told me about his life in Gloucester. Those days were before he became a junkie. Those days were when normal things still mattered. Those days were before his values and judgment had become distorted by drug abuse and before he had been imprisoned. Perhaps both our trips home for the holidays would serve a far greater purpose than to just rediscover the Spirit of Christmas and the true meaning of the season. I allowed myself to believe that he really understood why I was leaving and that my departure mattered to him, but not as much as my eventual return would matter. Surely, he would welcome me back with open arms!