Ditch City

Growing up with an attractive mother can be traumatic. "Man, your mom is hot" evokes a different emotion than "Man, your girlfriend is hot." See that? Feel that? Not so lovely, is it? Truckers eyeballing as they sped by faster than an eighteen-wheeler should. I can't speak about what I overheard on the C.B. one day. Something no eleven-year-old kid should hear about his mother. I'll go ahead and say that I don't remember what they said. At any other time, I would write what I thought they may have said and said I didn't. That's why my genre is "Creative Nonfiction." 

We moved across the Ouachita River to West Monroe when Mom and Ronnie split up circa 1981. I started third grade at yet another school, Highland Elementary. Mom taught fifth grade at our rival school, Claiborne, a few miles away. We had no money but went to Friar Tucks on Tuesday nights for fried chicken and fried biscuits. One night we met a guy who fixed our Volkswagen Rabbit for free. Therefore, in theory, it was kind of like marketing. Wednesday nights, we had McChicken's, which had just come out. I believe Johnny's Pizza was Thursday night. 

Buck Night, the dollar matinee at East Gate Cinema in Monroe, was a thing of ours too. I can't remember which night it was. Apparently, we never knew because I recall driving by the theater one night in Mom's recently upgraded Mazda 626 to ask. Daph rolled down the window and asked a young Southern Gentleman taking long strides towards the box office, "Is this Buck Night?"

He stopped in his tracks, looked back, and replied with passion and fervor, in an accent all to itself, West Monroe, "Naw! This Bustin' Loose!" Referring, of course, to the 1982 comedy starring Richard Prior. That could be the funniest moment of my life thus far. 

When returning to "Ditch City," our subdivision appropriately named for the exposed storm-drain system, we took evasive maneuvers to check our six and ensure we didn't have a tail. It wasn't uncommon for admirers (stalkers) to show up like that throttle-jockey in the Datsun 280Z, that dude that sent the cards daily, and that other guy. The property developer must not have had enough money in the budget for civil construction. The result was a series of concrete ditches approximately five or six feet deep and 10 to 15 feet wide. It didn't seem that strange then, the setting, not the stalkers, but looking back, especially as a construction professional, I realize how archaic it appeared—the perfect set location for a post-apocalyptic dystopian society thriller. A place stranger than fiction where being viciously attacked by crazed Ditch Trollswas a legitimate concern. 

Now, those West Monroe boys play tough, and it didn't take long to find out where I stood on the "fight or flight" phenomenon. And because I come from a long line of fighters, Mom the fiercest of all, I was ready when the fifth grader infected with rage attacked me in Ditch Four, Quadrant Five, on the west end of Ditch City.

She was big and mean and had a crazed look of determination in her eyes. I had to assume I'd said something untoward that rubbed her wrong in the lunchroom or on the playground, perhaps. She ran into the ditch with a rebel yell and raised fists. Taking nasty scratches to the face, I pushed her off, planted my feet, and smashed her in the nose with a straight right hand. I felt the cartilage collapse under my fist and the wetness of her blood as it splattered the dirty concrete behind her. Hands clasped over her face, she turned and ran home with a different attitude and cadence than when she'd arrived. 

I went home and told Mom what happened. As she's inspecting my face, there is a knock at the door. I follow 92 pounds of fighting fury to the door, where she opens it to face a mad mother, her mangled-faced daughter next to her. The Mother wasted no time and was full tilt from the get-go. "Your son this! Your son that! Look at my daughter's face! Blah blah blah!"

Calmly, Daph said, "Lady, your daughter attacked him. Look at his face. Chris saw it." Chris Spikes was my next-door neighbor, four years older, defacto big brother, and pseudo "babysitter." I might not have said anything to the Ditch Troll at all. Now that I think about it, thirty-nine or forty-two years later, Chris could have instigated the whole thing. He was laughing a little too much. 

Mom's attempt at diplomacy a failure, The Mother said, "You'll be hearing from my lawyer!"

Holding the door open wider, presumably to prepare should the need to slam it in The Mother's face arise, in her customized 80's workout garb, white high-top Reeboks, Mom asked, "Who's your lawyer?"

Standing up straight and proud, she replied, "Robert Carbone."

As if she knew the answer, like a secretary, Mom said, "Come back in an hour, and he'll be here," and shut the door. The Mother and The Daughter returned a few minutes later with their tails between their legs, apologizing. The Mother said The Daughter told her the truth after they left. 

The high-profile Monroe attorney was the last Ditch City Admirer, as a few months later, we loaded up the 626 and moved back across the river to North Monroe – swimming pools, fancy cars. Robert's son, Seth, and I were the same age with similar interests. My stepsister, Sarah, was older (Chris' age), pretty, popular, with a reputation for being kind of wild, all good for me – street cred for the new kid.

In the years to come, it became abundantly clear that Robert was the most feared attorney in Monroe. Not only was it the consensus around town, but mediocre attorneys don't have backhoes run through their houses. Hack lawyers don't drive S500s with key gauges down the side. It wasn't until I met my father-in-law (ex-father-in-law), Ron Powell (R.I.P.), did I learn that Robert was the nemesis of a large portion of the golfers at the local country club, whose members made a lot of money and had a propensity for cheating on their wives. Excluding Ron, of course. 

An infamously positive figure at the Club for decades, and one of the finest men I've ever known, standing in his driveway, barefoot, wearing khaki shorts and a golf shirt, a sharp contrast of tan and white at his sock line, with his brand of Southern Arkansas twang, Ron asked me, "So, your stepdad is Carbone?"

"Yes, sir."

He thought for a moment, took a swig of Bud Light and a pull of his Backwoods cigar, and said, "Well, you cain't help it if ya Momma married an a-hole (drawing out the word, pronouncing it icehole slowly)." I must clarify that he apologized years later after getting to know Robert. "Babe, I'm sorry I called Bobby an icehole." Ron said memorable things frequently, some funny, some profound. I miss him. 

If you've never been through it, then it may be hard to understand, but to kids, stepparents have a place until their place is decided, which can take some time. That place is out of their spouses and their spouse's child's business unless specifically asked otherwise. All of you who did not grow up with divorced parents but, for whatever reason, decided your kids should listen up. Stepparents don't know squat and need to be quiet unless specifically spoken to. At least until everyone is comfortable - any child of divorced parents will tell you the same. I saw that not only was Robert a phenomenal lawyer but a good father and husband to Daph. It didn't take long for me to trust him.

Believe me when I say that not only did Robert not have to be discouraged from "getting in our business," but many times had to be dragged in. Such as the time I set Ms. Bev's apartment on fire. Ms. Bev was Clement's Mom, and when it came to parties, well…, Ms. Bev was cooler than everyone else. Therefore, her apartment was the venue for many a party. She was on a date the night one thing led to another, and I poured gasoline on a charcoal grill that someone had started on the porch, second floor, I might add. Why there was a milk jug full of gasoline on the apartment next door's doorstep is beyond me. Why someone started a grill is beyond me, we weren't cooking. Regardless, it was a bad decision. 

A couple of hours later, when the fire department left, I ran the half-mile home to break the news. But not before falling off the other side of the six-foot wood fence I chose to climb, ostensibly a shortcut, landing in a sitting position, the event that I believe led to a herniated L5-S1. A salient point may be that, like all our parties, this party included imbibing in activities suited to an older crowd – copious amounts of booze. 

We may be the only group in the history of modern society to feel the need to create false identification for drinking purposes when the drinking age was still eighteen. Not to jump stories, but Robert is responsible for shutting down our fake I.D. ring, which was on the cusp of breaking out when he found the materials under my bed in the Cabana. The "Cabana" was the pool house and my room during high school. Amy and I were the masterminds, she painted the backboard, and I figured out the covering (a specific plastic had to be used). We had tape on the floor to mark where to stand before the backboard and everything. I had two aliases, Paul Andrews and Alex Lee. At the time, it was a buzzkill. Who knows, maybe I had a future in that trade. But, in all likelihood, Robert kept me and my partner in crime, Amy, from doing hard time. 

Back to the fire at Clement's, I got home feeling punched in the butt (L5-S1), woke Mom and Robert, and told them what happened. Mom jumped up, and we got in the Suburban and drove back to the scene. Smoke was everywhere, the front door open, and we could hear a commotion upstairs. A voice rang out in the night, "Don't chu be no smart-a..!" It was Clement’s battle cry. When he said it, someone was about to get their butt whupped. I took off up the stairs the moment before I heard the Boom! to find Clement and this dude Ms. Bev went to an event with as a favor to Papa Flo (R.I.P.), some so-called private investigator, crashed through the drywall. Magnum Loser ended up in the better position, and I ran to get involved. After all, Clement wasn't mad at me for catching the apartment on fire; he was mad at his Mom's date for being a “Richard Head” about it. I couldn't let that stand. 

Mom jumped on my back, slowing my advance, giving Barney time to slip his finger into a belt loop in Private Numbnut's pants and pull Private Unlucky off of Clement. I'm flailing around trying to dump Mom on the couch; she's screaming, Ms. Bev is screaming, and Susan Florsheim is hitting Inspector "Don't Mess with Clement" with a broom. He turned around and took a wild looping swing at Clement. Clement ducked and, with a nuclear warhead overhand left hand, dropped him. He hit his head on the coffee table and fell on the carpet bleeding, feet six inches off the floor like he was working his abs, his arms straight out, fists balled – "stiffed."

Upon returning home and telling Robert the story, he declares, "Am I going to be the only one in this family without a criminal record?" You see, I had already had a couple of brush-ins, as did my stepbrother, Suntan Seth, and my stepsister, Sarah. She'd pulled a doozy and ran the Jimmy into Mrs. Jefferson’s living room on Deborah Drive, just up from Norm Carlson's, my hit and run and victim. If not for his damn Cutlass getting in the way, Kevin Adams, and I could have slid right on through his yard, into Ned's, and back onto the street. Ole' Norm was standing at the counter at the Monroe Police Station filing a report when Robert brought me in after sobering me up, of course. This is another story in itself. 

I won't get too deep into the third event of the Summer of 90' when I ran Robert's Master Craft into the train trestle on Bayou Desiard. I can see clearly in my mind Ryan in the rearview flashing "thumbs up" as I banked into a turn that no one in their right mind pulled a Hydroslider (kneeboard) through. I'll never forget when the shock of the collision subsided my other brother in debauchery, Matt Freeman, leaning over the starboard bow inspecting the gash. Like a Redneck Spicoli, he said with Redman dripping from his "Booty Chin," "I can fix it." It was Fast Times in North Monroe. I worked all senior year at the Warehouse Restaurant washing dishes to pay Robert back for the insurance deductibles I racked up that Summer. 

Every stepchild should have a "Robert," a figure as high on the family hierarchy as parents, someone you love and respect the same, just with a different dynamic. Will's Granddad, my consigliere and most trusted adviser, Robert, is not merely a sounding board for his wife like many stepfathers I know.

Mom, I've never thanked you for my "Robert" because it took writing this to understand. So, thank you. I don't tell you enough that I love you or give you enough credit. Without you, I wouldn't have made it this far in life, literally. Without you, you wouldn't be reading this, as I would never have discovered this talent I apparently have. 

I'd like to think the chain of events after my fight with the fifth grader was serendipitous, leading to the best stepparent experience a kid could have. It could also be the origin story for the Saltwater Cowboy. The water in those ditches I played and fist-fought in, ends up in the Ouachita River, intersecting with the Mississippi and pouring into the Gulf of Mexico, where it doesn't get any saltier, Amigos.