Catching Up with the Past: Boys Will Be Boys

Prompt: Write about someone who chooses revenge-even though forgiveness is an option.

Catching Up with the Past: Boys Will Be Boys

The air smelled musty and dank as I rummaged through the boxes in the basement of my parents’ house.It was easy to see that a multitude of years had passed before anyone dared to tackle this hording nightmare.Being the only child, I was tasked to forage through this outlandish pile of obsolescence and so-called memorabilia before the house was placed on the realtor’s market. I was doubting myself as to my intentions for even doing this. I reasoned that I didn’t have a choice. Both my parents were killed by a drunk driver last May. I suppose I could have called a junk hauler to trash all of it. But I am frugal (actually wickedly cheap) and they were deceased; so why should I even bother? But after some reflection, I felt I owed some sort of respect to my folks even though my growing years with them were turbulent and full of uncertainty.I had another ulterior motive, however.I was hoping to find some hidden gem or treasure that would catapult my blasé and monotonous life into one of great fame and wealth. I was a mere twenty-one years old with a full life ahead of me, but I lacked self-worth compounded with anxiety and the need for financial security. Deep from within my callous heart I would settle for a little notoriety even with an unsavory reputation.

I honestly had no idea what I was looking for. What would make my lack luster life sparkle causing the hovering dark clouds over me to disappear? Opening one box after the other became a tedious, hum drum exercise. It was not long before I was getting annoyed. A final box in one of the stacks contained a photo album. I paused momentarily to rest and take a stroll down memory lane knowing full well I would regret it.

Page one was filled with polaroids of my parents grinning from ear to ear. Then the next few pages contained more polaroids of their wedding. The pictures depicted serene moments between the two of them and with some of their acquaintances. Innocent hugs and kisses. Others had friends smiling and dancing. The pictures portrayed a future life filled with bliss, respect and committed love.

On the contrary, my life with my parents was filled with disappointment, manipulation, and physical abuse. Their marriage life was anything but a fairy tale. Instead, it was filled with demons and dragons. Venomous words spewed from their mouths. There were a few times when I became the center of an actual tug-of-war between them. One time my shoulder became dislocated because they tugged at each arm like it was a rope over a mud puddle. At the hospital my mother said, “Oh, boys will be boys. He and his father were wrestling and it got out of hand.” My father responded, “His mother tried pulling him off the floor after our little wrestling match. In doing so she wrenched his arm out of the socket.” One would think the attending ER doctor would have seen through this explanation, but he did not call child services. My parents were good liars.

I looked at more pages in the photo album. There was a photo of our Christmas tree when I was five, but I was not in it. It was the only holiday picture in the entire album.I remembered how my mother detested celebrating any holiday, let alone Christmas. It was that same year of the photo my father gave mother a large, heavy gift. When she opened it, she became enraged. It was a set of cast iron pans. She flung them at my father one by one yelling at him, “You no good cheapskate! Take your pans and make your own meals! You know I don’t cook and now I hope whatever you make with them causes you to choke the life out of you!” My father angrily responded, “Learn how to cook, you lazy hag! I will not share any of my meals with you!” The pans kept flying across the room. Then, Boink! One of the pans grazed my forehead and knocked me cold. All I could remember after that was the same ER doctor telling my parents to put lots of ice on it. Again, my parents lied to the ER doctor. In unison mother and father said, “Boys will be boys! He thought he could wear the stock pot as a helmet. Not seeing where he was going, he fell forward onto the concrete basement floor.” Child services were never called.

I was a bit exasperated at seeing the photos. On the last page, I saw a photo of the dog I once had. I was taken aback that my parents would have kept this picture.Was it a grim reminder of what had happened? Or, was it a sadistic token of their cruel natures? It was in the fall of my nineth year when my parents surprised me with a beagle puppy dog. It was male and I named him Minnie (not after the mouse, but Minnie Minoso, a famous Cuban White Sox third baseman). I loved that dog (and Minnie), but my parents demanded that Minnie be relegated to the outside on a wire runner when I was not with him. He had a metal doghouse adjacent to the runner.

That year winter came quickly. I was concerned about Minnie. My father said, “He’ll be okay. Dogs love being outside. I insulated his house with some old rags and carpet pieces. Besides, he can run on his wire runner if he gets cold.” I trusted my father and bought into his logic. The Midwest weather turned quickly. Snow was falling at a rapid rate as well as the thermometer reading minus twenty Fahrenheit (minus 29 Celsius). The next morning I went to check on Minnie. He was laying sideways on top of a snow bank. He appeared to be sleeping, but when I went to him, he was stiff as a board. Minnie had perished. I yelped in misery sitting in the snow next to my dead canine friend (my only friend).I sat at his side all day long until nightfall. My father came outside walking toward me while scolding me in the process. “Get inside you bonehead. You’ll freeze to death.” I could only say, “Minnie is dead. I can’t move my feet or legs.”

At the emergency room the ER doctor (yes, the same one) said I had severe hypothermia and a few frostbitten toes. Thankfully, after some warming blankets and a warmed IV, sensation was restored to my legs and toes. My father quipped, “Boys will be boys. Good thing I came to get you; otherwise, you’d be like that dog of yours, a real pupsicle.” When he finished his admonishment of me, I uttered a deep throaty sob. My father said, “Get a grip on yourself. You’ll be ten soon. It was just a dog. Maybe get a goldfish next time. One quick flush down the toilet when they are dead, hah, hah.” The ER doctor and my father chuckled together. I sobbed even louder. A call to social service was never going to happen.

My anguish simmered from these memories. I closed the album and was about to box it away when another photo slipped out of it.I was absolutely horrified when I looked at it. I winced quietly. My parents had taken a picture of me tied at my wrists and ankles on my bed. I remembered when I was three, they took turns beating me with leather straps. A caption on the back of the picture said “boys will be boys and need to be punished, ha, ha.” For eighteen years I had forgotten about this treatment. They stopped after a few months fearing my pre-K teacher would learn about their abusive behavior. But only because the lashings left marks. I was feeling very sick at this point.

My pseudo nostalgic moment in the basement was interrupted by a falling stack of boxes. I was startled by some foraging rats in the corner playing finders keepers on whatever they could chew on. Most of the boxes contained kitchen ware and old clothes. The impact of the falling boxes launched a small wooden box into the corner of the basement by the rats. At this point the voracious rats were not going to stop my curiosity to see what was in it. My thudding footsteps scared away the pesky vermin. The box was crafted out of wood with various designs and impressions. It looked handmade and had a tiny lock. Thoughts raced in my mind that this could be the gem I was seeking. My anxiety was building, but I did not want to break the box. It looked like it could be worth something. I rummaged through my grandfather’s old desk discovering a jeweler’s screwdriver. Carefully I managed to open the lock. My jaw dropped and I momentarily stopped breathing. “Eureka,” I shrieked! It was my grandfather’s Swiss made Patek Philippe white gold pocket watch made in the early 1900’s. I was enthralled by my discovery. This watch could easily fetch over a hundred thousand dollars in good condition on the open market. All my life I saw my grandfather as a penny pinching, ornery, self-absorbed old man. Upon his death his known wealth went to paying off his gambling debt. Finding this watch was exactly what the doctor ordered and not the ER doctor from my wretched past. After my grandfather had died no one remembered what had happened to it. It was forgotten over time, until now!

I was so befuddled by my discovery that my body was paralyzed. I had no idea what I should do next. Then the rats stirred again and I decided to end my hunt for additional treasures from prying rodent eyes. I left the basement with the box and watch in hand.Ironically, I sat at my grandfather’s antique desk and looked at the watch again. It was an incredible piece of workmanship. I scrutinized the box noticing that the interior lining of it had partially separated from its side. At first glance it seemed like a piece of paper had been stuffed deep into the lining.I extracted it with great care. “So what’s this all about?” I whispered to myself. It was a note presumedly written by my grandfather about the watch. It said:

“This is an heirloom of epic proportion. The watch was given to me from a traveling salesman in payment for his dinner. He said his time with it had been exhausted. As I took the watch, he instantly disappeared before my eyes. Beware how you use this watch with your time.”

There were no other notes in the box. No further instructions on what my grandfather meant about using one’s time with the watch. I wondered if grandfather left any other notes about the watch in his desk. I tore through the desk drawers and the cubbyhole compartments looking for anything referencing the watch. Nothing.Then remembering his covert behavior at hiding things, I pried the back off the desk blotter.

It must have been my lucky day because affixed to its back was this note. It read:

Twirl and spin the arms of Father Time,

All the while hearing the bells chime.

Faster and faster as you are able.

What will happen is not a fable.

Twirl his arms against the hours of his face,

Going forward however you will leave without a trace.

Stay as long as your interest is strong.

Be kind to others and do no wrong.

Lock onto to the moment that consumes your mind;

That time you strongly wish to renew and find.

Close your eyes, prepare for your trip.

Tears may flow, smiles may shine, your heart may flip.

Beware! What you sow could be what you reap!

Your choice may well cause you to weep.

Begin your journey into the unknown.

Let’s not have an early RIP on your headstone.

Jeez!Creepy but informative in a cryptic way.I deduced that the watch was some sort of time portal. Rapidly spinning the stem on the watch in reverse while the chimes rang out would direct me somewhere back in time. I also had an answer to the second part of the mystery. I gathered from the rhyme I could travel back in time to a moment in history of my choice.

But when and where did I want to go? Like a lightening strike, I had the perfect idea when to make my journey. I just had to find the death certificates for my parents. The medical examiner listed their time of deaths as May 19 at 7:00pm. Cause of deaths severe head trauma. It was my plan to go back into time before the accident just to tell them how horrible and abusive they were to me. They would have that last thought just before the time of their deaths.

For the first time in my life I felt I could enact revenge on my parents. I could get away with it without enacting any sort of crime. Their eternity would be covered in guilt and self-deprecation. Or I could just move on with my life and sell the watch hoping the memories would fade. I could forgive my parents down the road; maybe.

No! No! Forgiveness would not be an option with my sordid plan.I would spin the face of Father Time!I grabbed the watch and spun the watch stem frantically in reverse. The chimes were blaring in my head. My breaths were short and quick. I focused on the date and time on May 19. Revenge would soon be mine. I was hyperventilating.

When I awoke, I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. They were in the front seats craning their necks to look at me while my father backed the car out of the driveway. I sheepishly asked them what time it was. My father said annoyingly “6:55 pm. Were you hiding in here? Why are you even here?”

To my shock and dismay, my father pulled the car back into the driveway. He screamed at me to get out. The time now was 7:05 pm. I panicked.I had failed in my mission to flood them with guilt before their deaths. Would they even die now since the time had passed? I had to try one more time. Again, I twirled the watch like it was a whirly wheel toy. I was not hearing the chimes! The watch seemed not to respond. Instead, I spun the watch hands forward like a lunatic.

Dust and smoke. Shazam!Poof! Instant Chaos!

The incendiary explosions ceased and the smoke cleared.

Grandfather, the shyster salesman and I sat at the edge of time as I shared my foibles concerning the watch, my inept use of my time, and my lack of forgiveness.Truthfully, neither one of us was pleased how we handled ourselves in life. Eternal judgement was just around the proverbial corner. We each had our opportunities to be honorable, and to seek and grant forgiveness. Instead, each of opted to think only of ourselves. We wanted to manipulate time, but had no time left in the end. I can almost hear my parents mocking us with “Boys will be boys.”

-END-

No, O people, the Lord has told you what is good, and this is what he requires of you: to do what is right, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8, NLT)

Dear friends, never take revenge. Leave that to the righteous anger of God. For the Scriptures say, “I will take revenge; I I will pay them back,” says the Lord. (Romans 12:19, NLT)

The Lord is more pleased when we do what is right and just than when we offer him sacrifices. (Proverbs 37:28, NLT)

For God made Christ, who never sinned, to be the offering for our sin, so that we could be made right with God through Christ. (2 Corinthians 5:21, NLT)

Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. (Galatians 6:7, NIV)

NLT=New Living Translation: NIV=New International Version

Author:Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com prompts