Gravity shifting, minds moving
At first, I let Steve do all the talking–playing albums or singles, talking about the band, occasionally mentioning how he found out about the group or someone at school who liked them. I was introduced to a magazine called Rolling Stone. In those days, it was hard to find in stores. Parents considered it a guide to overthrowing the government and/or a primer on drug usage as a way to undermine society.
But eventually, the time had come. the walrus said, to speak of other things and the stereo volume came down.
Steve’s mom worked her way up in a growing propane/natural gas dealership, and had been promoted several times, enabling them to leave their working class neighborhood and move to our small stand alone homes in the glorious bosom of suburbia. He was very faithful to his mom, as she let his hair go long without lectures and anger.
His father was not in the picture, I later found out he left when Steve was small, and was probably intimately abiding in Virginia with some friendly bottles of whiskey.
There was an older sister in her twenties. Her name was Joanne. He didn’t have much of a relationship with her; she appeared to be a free spirit or as those over 30 called it, a hippie. (Cue the frightened music). Sometimes she came for a holiday, sometimes not. She may turn up later.
Steve was very proud of his longer hair, but cynical about our ‘revolution’. He said our country was really fucked up (yes, he swore in front of me), but that these protesters had no idea the kind of hate that they were bringing on themselves. The establishment who ran things were really scared and they will crush us any way they can. He told me, ‘Always work from within. Keep smiling to their face, get good grades, and they’ll look the other way. And when you’re alone, act out.’ This was somewhat the way he was with his mom.
Steve was the first person I knew who caught on about my father the monster and actually spoke to me about him. It was wonderful someone knew the dirty little family secret mom hid behind closed doors and drawn curtains. Nothing he could do, of course, but he told me to keep strong, jump into the music and let it take me to places I had never been.
Steve actually came from a blue collar town (poor town) not far away, which figures into my twisted tale. He was not a sports kid, having tired of rah rah kids long ago; he also was way too wiry for sports. I could see a scar on his side that I guessed was from an appendectomy.
One of his interior scars will be discussed soon.
His old neighborhood seemed a little sketchy late at night, but not this bad (I hope)……