Before “The Birth Control Malfunction” (BCM for short) escaped, he grew up in a small town in west-central Illinois, situated in a large stretch of the Illinois prairie (read “grasslands”). As one would expect, there were no hills or trees, just flat — unrelentingly flat — prairie. And corn. Lots of corn — in every flipping direction. Go 30 miles in any direction, the yellow devil grass continued to stalk you.

The town itself was large — by Midwest standards — meaning it had about 30K people and suffered from the same toxic symptoms that all Midwestern cities seem to have — a lack of jobs and opportunities. The town was also pretty old by American standards, about 180+ years old. Or about the last time a job opening became available.

The town isn’t necessarily isolated; the interstate runs right by the town, and several railroads run through town — in fact, several railroads use the town as a major transportation hub. The problem is that after manufacturing left, the trains and trucks simply kept on moving once they reached the town, relegating it to a place to stop, grab something to eat, and take a crap.

The whole town is pretty much laid out on a rectangular grid, so every corner is 90 degrees, and the streets intersect everywhere, making it easy to navigate and define the “kid zone.” That is, the area a kid can, with some degree of familiarity, run, jump, climb, piss, and honk loogies. Streets have street lights, so it is never really dark at night, plus it serves as an aide for free-range parenting — “come in when the street lights go on.”

BCM, like many other inmates, appreciated being paroled without supervision. Most summers, weekends, and evenings, So the miscreant haunted the cellblock — ahem — neighborhood with the other hooligans, looking for any and all trouble to get into. Overall, it was kid paradise.

Wear bike helmets? Why? Nobody worried about brain damage. Seeing double? Just shake it off or learn to bump into things.

BCM and the other minions of Satan didn’t play with safe toys — in fact, the concept of “safe” was entirely lost on them as they set plastic models on fire and threw lit firecrackers and rocks at each other.

While everything seemed fine on the surface, an undercurrent of rot (like the lingering smell of shit from nearby hog farms) permeated the town. Manufacturing jobs were leaving, and no new jobs were coming into town. Unemployment started to creep up, and the dividing line between the “haves” and “have-nots” grew more pronounced.

BCM’s family fell somewhere in between. His dad was a professor of military science at the local private liberal arts college. That was an odd place for a ROTC program, and to make matters worse, the Vietnam War was still in full swing. So while dear ‘ol Dad went to work every day training people to become 2nd Lieutenants in the Army (the rank with the shortest life span in combat), long-haired hippy types would swing by BCM’s house and ask him how many babies his father killed. But, Dad brought home a paycheck, and given he had four kids (including BCM), two of whom were attending college, that was what really counted.

BCM’s stay-at-home mom shouldered a load by cooking, cleaning, and handling house management issues. The older brothers ate like pigs on a farm, and as long as they were at home, there were never any leftovers. To feed the human livestock, Mom installed a milk machine in the kitchen – a machine like one finds in a cafeteria- and had a full-sized freezer stuffed with bread and anything else she could buy in bulk. Everything was reused, like clothing, which was great for older brothers since they were just 2 years apart. But this arrangement didn’t work out for the sister or BCM since he was 9 years younger than her, and she was the sibling closest to his age. Instead, mom bartered for clothes from another family down the block, which would not have been so bad, but their youngest (closest to BCM’s age) apparently had continence problems, so his clothes were always “fruity.”

Fruity’s mom wore pigtails in her greasy hair and smoked little cigars. The house’s interior walls sported holes in them, so big you could reach through to another room. Everyone surmised that her youngest spent a lot of time playing in the living room because the carpets there were very “fruity” as well. The husband taught at the college, brought home a paycheck, and for at least a decade, a stack of unused drywall sat on the porch, waiting for the drywall fairies to pick them up and magically repair the house’s interior walls. Eventually the drywall solidified into a plaster brick and fell through the porch floor. It made a mess, but at least the drywall didn’t smell “fruity.”