For BCM (Birth Control Malfunction), Junior high and high school were lonely times. The mixture of hormones, teenage awkwardness, and social ineptness merged to make him a social pariah. Being nonathletic didn’t help; he pretty much sucked at every sport attempted. Being unable to see straight (he didn’t discover until 9th grade he needed glasses), and incapable of walking without tripping over his own feet, he wanted to hide at the top of that gym rope he could never climb. That is until he found swimming. In that sport, you can pretty much be blind as a bat and uncoordinated — after bouncing off the lane lines you eventually sink to the bottom and/or hit the opposite wall. His first attempts were laughable, though. He couldn’t reach the other end of the pool in his first race and was relegated to practicing with kids 3 years younger than him. Nevertheless, he kept practicing because the boy had nothing else to do. Not having friends or a social life helped him work harder at things he could actually do.

BCM had some old neighborhood “buddies”, like his old next-door neighbor. He was one of the “haves” because both his parents worked. He was also a Nazi–a blonde haired, blue-eyed, hater of anyone not like him. And a Republican, too (not that there is a connection, of course). But he was not a full-fledged Nazi because of his height. Instead everyone called him “the pocket Nazi” (TPN).

BCM was jealous of the fact that TPN could come home and have the run of the house. The miscreant had lots of toys, gallons of soda (none of which BCM’s Mom would allow in their house), and all sorts of sugarcoated crap guaranteed to rot teeth and send an average human into hypoglycemic shock.

Even so, TPN wasn’t happy (except when hating on minorities), and not unsurprisingly, had a vindictive, destructive streak for those around him. Hence, when BCM got a toy he liked, like a Matchbox car, it either disappeared or was mashed by a brick, usually behind his back.

BCM tolerated this for a long time, probably too long, until one evening, TPN stole BCM’s favorite flashlight (toys were in short supply, and flashlights need a great deal of effort to destroy), and the boy snapped. BCM chased TPN down and took flashlight back. Fit to be tied, TPN demanded BCM hand it over or he’d get his one-eyed father to beat BCM up.

“You want this?” BCM said. TPN nodded. So BCM hauled off and whacked TPN upside the head with it.

Predictably, TPN ran to get Daddy. BCM got his. The two men stood glaring at each other until BCM’s dad said, “Touch my kid, and I’ll break your neck.” That was the end of it. After that, the boys got along fine. Oh, the joys of male bonding!

BCM’s best friend, JR, lived next to the corner doughnut/coffee shop. They met in junior high while BCM was living with his dad, so BCM spent a lot of time on his bike going to and from JR’s house. But BCM didn’t care. JR was a great kid, funny and intelligent, and had an older sister BCM could lust after in a nerd-like, platonic manner. JR’s mom was a tall nurse at the local hospital with a beautiful English accent. She was always funny when he came over. “Oh, you’re too skinny. You need to eat more.” Then she’d make them something to eat. It was a blast. JR’s dad wasn’t in the picture; his parents split a while ago. Anyway, JR came over to BCM’s place and got along with BCM’s dad, which surprised everyone.

One morning, though, JR called BCM. “My mom killed herself.”
BCM thought he was kidding, “Oh, that’s a good one.”
“No, man, I’m serious. She gave herself an IV last night.”

BCM went to the funeral. It was open casket. He looked at JR’s mom, laying there lifeless and without a care in the world. Then he saw the pain and anguish on JR’s face. Despite whatever motivated JR’s mom to do it, BCM could only see the impact on JR. It’s a raw deal getting betrayed by a selfish parent. After that, JR moved away. They tried to keep in touch, but with high school years approaching, the effort got lost in the noise.

Speaking of mental institutions high school, the town had a single high school, a big imposing building next to what used to be the landing strip of the old airport. It was rumored that the building sat on swampland and had pumps in the basement. BCM always envisioned someone going in at night and shutting off the pumps, after which the building would tip up like the Titanic and sink beneath the peat moss with a bubbling hiss. But alas, no one was ever brave enough to try it. BCM has no idea if the building actually sat on swampland. Still, it sounded rational enough because who else but a local government would put the town’s future on wholly unsuitable ground.

Because the town relied so heavily on disappearing manufacturing jobs to drive the local economy, and farms never needed anything other than seasonal work, decently paying jobs were hard to come by. Available jobs were usually reserved for people the employers knew or already had a boatload of experience. So young people were in a Catch-22; you had to have experience to get a job, and the only way to experience was to get a job. That is, unless you knew somebody in charge – and for most in the town, recognition was tied to social status.

If the family was wealthy, you could get a job. If you were a “have not” or “have wannabe,” then you didn’t. Even the saying, “You can always work at McDonald’s,” meant nothing — getting a job there was like getting a partnership in a law firm in New York City. As the years progressed, the situation only worsened, so unemployment was in double digits by the time BCM graduated from high school. Nowadays the unemployment rate is low–everyone who could find work moved away or ended up in the town’s biggest employer, the Illinois prison system.

The population has been shrinking since the early 60s. So BCM understood how hope and opportunity had forsaken the town like the Pharisee did to the injured man in the Good Samaritan. See, BCM did learn something in Sunday school, after all!