After Mom died, things changed. Lawyers and the bank took the house, with most of BCM’s stuff in it, and sold everything — after conveniently leaving it unlocked for people off the street to steal anything not nailed down. The would-be felon did manage to sneak into his room and grab a few things. Then, due to the wondrous nature of the court system, the grieving boy was dragged into court and forced to choose whom he would rather live with: his father or oldest brother. Ultimately, BCM chose his dad simply because he wouldn’t have to leave school and start again.

BCM’s dad married a woman who worked with him at the ROTC office.She didn’t have any kids and didn’t appear to want any. This was probably just as well because of the havoc and wanton destruction children create. Likely, that would have driven her nuts. She tolerated BCM well enough and didn’t try to be his mom or anything like that. She let him be, which was probably the best thing for everyone involved. Overall, she was a decent stepmother, though she had an opinion and a judgment about everything and wasn’t afraid to share it. BCM learned to tune her out by adopting his dad’s sudden need to putter around in the basement. Nevertheless, it was a stable environment; after what he had been through, that was enough for him.

Just before Mom died, BCM wrestled with God. Why was the jerk taking his mom? What did he do to deserve this? No one at the church gave him meaningful answers. “What will be, will be.” “It’s God’s will.” Bullshit – all of it. Either God didn’t give a crap – or he was powerless to do anything at all – or he simply didn’t exist. BCM was sure there was a theological lesson to be learned, but to a little kid watching his mom die, it lacked any of the tangible reality he needed. Thanks to his pseudo-Catholic indoctrination, he concluded that God did exist – but because BCM was full of sin, he didn’t deserve a mother.

Thus, to BCM, God lurked like a vengeful spirit, ready to swoop down upon him and smash everything of value in his life. So, while ignoring BCM’s crying prayers in the shower to not let his mom die, God watched while the boy’s life continued to unravel, as everyone he knew slipped away from or was consumed by Mom’s illness. Inescapable and inevitable, the months marched on with no hope. BCM demanded answers but got none, least of all from the Lord.

BCM had no use for this — if God had no time or genuine concern for his welfare, then why didn’t the bastard just leave him the hell alone. But the omnipotent one had a trump card. Mom, on her deathbed, made him promise to stay in church. After she died, he tried. Dad and step-mom humored him by taking him to church – but his heart wasn’t into it, and besides, going to church only reminded him how much he missed Mom. So he stopped going.

Since he had to live with Dad in another part of town, BCM was no longer in his “kid zone.” He tried to keep in touch with the old gang, but it took a lot of effort; plus, they were getting older, and the stuff they did in the neighborhood no longer had the same entertainment value. There weren’t any kids in Dad’s neighborhood. Gradually, he took to hanging out with other social and cultural rejects at the community center. Didn’t matter what they were doing — it was an excuse to hang around other kids without parents breathing down their neck. For that he was thankful, since he wouldn’t have survived the next few years without that sanctuary.

One of the activities he pursued at the community center was playing Dungeon and Dragons (D&D). For the uninformed, D&D is a role-playing game played with paper and dice. It involves taking player-created “characters” and having them wander through a predefined “dungeon” filled with monsters and treasures. The typical player of this game is usually male, physically and socially inept, without any romantic prospects or capability, and with a snow-white complexion full of zits. In other words, BCM. For teenaged screwups such as himself, this was a perfect venue to escape from his harsh realities and become the person he’d always wanted to be.

For his dad, of course, this was further evidence BCM was unbalanced. BCM had no doubts that his dad was convinced that his wayward seminal secretion was off wrapped up in aluminum foil armor, donning a salad strainer as a helmet, strapping a garbage can lid on his arm as a shield, and wandering into the storm sewers armed with a steak knife looking for “orcs.” He probably expected to get a call from the police telling him his youngest son drowned in the sewer or was ass raped by a syphilitic hobo.

BCM never carried it that far. Instead, the teenage rejects talked about which supermodels they’d like to bump uglies with and whose sister was the meanest.