Anger

By Carolyn Roosth

Richard Oliver Champion is the child conceived during the lovefest known as Woodstock. Though his young parents, Ollie and Becky, pursue their dreams, life is not kind to them, and they are unable to keep the magic of their young love alive. Richard grows up as an only child with his possessive and loving mother. Though he's never known his father, he yearns to know what he was like and why he had left. The information Richard pieces together from others paints a picture of Ollie that is both contradictory and incomplete. As others seemingly desert him, Richard struggles with his identity and the unintended repercussions that follow him during college and into his first job. He leans on the advice and love of three surrogate father figures who help him navigate toward a more sane and hopeful future.

Follow Richard to Texas and read about his adventures in DENIAL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Roosth
• Release date: Jun 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301353156

Carolyn Roosth

I grew up on a farm outside a small East Texas town. I graduated from the University of Houston with a BA in English and Speech and completed my Masters of Education at the University of Texas in Tyler, Texas. My twenty-two years spent in teaching ranged from stints in elementary, middle school, and high school to graduate level at the University. An avid reader, I believe that reading is a wonderful educational doorway to the world. My husband and I are both retired and enjoy traveling, hiking, snorkeling, and watching movies. You can find my books in print at CreateSpace.com.

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Prologue

More than most of my generation who were born in the seventies, I understand the phenomenon that was Woodstock. It was more than a marathon music festival in August of 1969. You may recognize some of the musicians who performed in that cow pasture in upstate New York that weekend—legends like Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, the Grateful Dead, and Santana, to name a few.

Many of the young people who attended were considered to be hippies or flower children. They advocated peace, pot, love, and sexual freedom, often painting psychedelic flowers, rainbows, and peace signs on themselves, their clothes, and their VW vans. The peace symbol was the jewelry of choice, dangling from their ears, wrapping their wrists, and claiming many fingers.

Whether you were a war protestor or a Vietnam vet, a drug experimenter or a teetotaler, sexually liberated or Victorian, if you came to Woodstock looking for sex, drugs, or rock and roll, you probably found what you were looking for and more.

My mother told me the story many times of how she met my father at Woodstock, and I often play it like a movie in my mind.

I see peace symbols everywhere I look. I smell the odors of hundreds of thousands of bodies, washed only by the previous night’s rain, mixed with the stench of the overflowing portable latrines and cannabis smoke. I hear sounds of army helicopters ferrying the performers to and from the throng of lovemongers. I see the stage vibrating with the music of Creedence Clearwater Revival. The audience, lovingly stoned, pulled the rhythm into their heads and swayed, candles flickering like a field full of fireflies. These sensory images are so real that I feel as though I had been there.

Among the few who died there and were born there during those four days in August of 1969, I was one of the many perhaps conceived there—I, Richard Oliver Champion, a child of that lovefest.

Chapter 1

Oliver Champion stood smiling and gazing over the young, scantily clad female bodies in front of him. Lovingly stoned and swaying to the music, they seemed a dream fantasy undulating in slow motion to the overpowering beat of the drummer. Creedence Clearwater Revival praised the life of rolling on the river. A sea of five hundred thousand souls, gathered at what would come to be known as the musical event of the century, thundered their approval.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.

Rebecca Owens pulled the flower from her hair and gazed at it in rapt concentration. Beads of sweat mixed with her necklace of home-strung beads. Oliver was mesmerized by her gentle swaying and the way her waist-length blond hair bounced from side to side like a metronome. Rebecca’s frayed jean shorts and halter top left little to his imagination.

Oliver moved closer by baby-step strides, which felt like slow motion giant steps, the muddy puddles sucking at his sandals and splashing his shins. Stepping behind Rebecca, he placed his arms around her waist and synchronized his sway to hers, pressing himself into her hips.

Slowly, she turned her head to him, smiling and welcoming his embrace by placing her hands over his and sliding them slowly down to her belly. Her blue eyes bored into him like the relentless churning of a whirlpool, and he fell helplessly in love there in that field of love.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.

Ollie and Becky were inseparable during the next day and night of the concert, jealously guarding the flame of their fledgling love and fanning it into a wildfire of emotional commitment. Sneaking out before the massive cleanup job began, they undertook a cross-country flight to a new and better existence in the golden sun of California.

Sailing along in their lovemobile, a 1959 Chevy Corvair, Ollie spun a tale of success and happiness for the two of them in a little love nest somewhere near the beach. Feeling flush and rich with his treasured Becky and a five-thousand-dollar inheritance from his recently-deceased grandpa, Ollie thought he had the world by the tail.

I have this plan, see. We can get me a guitar at a hockshop and round up a few of the musicians that are as plentiful in sunny Cal as corn in Kansas. My grandpa not only left me his money and this car, he also taught me to play during those summers I stayed with him and my grandma down in Virginia. So, whadda ya think, Becky, you and me, the band, the cheering crowds, just like what we saw at Woodstock?

Ollie, wherever you go there’s bound to be good luck. You’re my charm. It’s just a wonder to me how you ever picked me out from all those people in the crowd. I think we were meant to be together. It’s going to be great. I’m pretty good at braiding and beading, and I have some designs in mind for henna tattoos. I’d love to be able to do those things.

They spent money like it was going out of style—big meals in fancy restaurants, nice hotels with pools, and even a rock concert in St. Louis. Their idyllic odyssey began to dim when the little Corvair started to sputter in Colorado and finally died in Utah. The mechanic who came with the tow truck spelled out the unfortunate news. This car can’t be saved. The radiator’s busted, the block’s broke, and the transmission’s shot. I can give you fifty bucks for it, but it’s just junk, and I’ll need twenty of that for the tow.

Their hopefulness dwindled to a tiny thread that barely held the two of them together. Ollie’s mood became blacker than the curls that grew around his cherub face and down to his collar. Once lively brown eyes became muddied as he lost faith in their plans for California.

Becky now became the catalyst, talking on and on about continuing their quest and how simple it would be once they got out of the Utah desert. She would not allow the oppressive heat to melt their determination. Even when she noticed that she’d missed her period, a really unusual happening for her, Becky kept on smiling and planning. Two days of hitching rides with truckers or lonesome salesmen brought them to Las Vegas, a.k.a. Lost Wages. The bright lights and crowds in Vegas were like a jolt of electricity to Ollie’s mood. They rented a cheap room in a motel three blocks off the Strip and consoled each other for two days and nights while they watched their fortune dwindle.

Ollie began prowling the Sands casino late at night after Becky had gone to sleep. He watched the winners at craps and blackjack as their colorful chips grew into taller and taller piles of easy money. The ringing of the slot machines and the coins they poured out like a drunk purging himself of a night’s binge were mesmerizing. Finally, he strode up to the crap table, laid down a hundred dollar bill, and cast his fate with the dice. The run was in his favor, and the hundred quickly became five hundred. Barmaids began serving him free drinks, and a cheering crowd pressed around the table, hoping his luck would rub off on them. Ollie learned the hard way that the odds always favor the house, and by three in the morning he was clutching only two five-dollar chips inside his pocket. He stepped quickly away from the table, his head bursting with the noise, excitement, and booze. He moved to the roulette wheel where a lone woman sat nursing a beer grown warm. Her pink moo moo did little to hide the rolls of flesh around her belly and neck. Her arms jiggled with ham-sized flab as she pushed her marker onto the red diamond and leaned back to take a drag on her dwindling cigarette. The wheel took its time, spinning and spinning, just like Ollie’s head. Before the croupier could call No more bets, he placed his two chips beside the fat lady’s yellow marker and closed his eyes. When the ball dropped, the bored croupier announced, Seventeen, black, and raked the bets from the table.

Chapter 2

Becky awakened with a powerful thirst and hunger. It seemed she was always hungry lately. Padding to the bathroom and back, she nudged Ollie as she started to get dressed. Get on up, you ole sleepy head. A girl can’t live on love, you know. I’ve got to get some food. I swear I can smell those pancakes over at the IHOP from here.

As Ollie turned sleepily to her, she sat down on the side of the bed and gave him a kiss, ruffling his curly head. Suddenly, she caught the unmistakable scent of alcohol on his breath and stood up, facing him with her hands on her hips.

Damn it, Becky, leave me alone. I need a little sleep. My head’s poundin’ like— Seeing the confrontational posture and the look on her face, he stopped in mid-sentence. What?

Ollie, where have you been? You’ve been drinking. You know we don’t have the money for that. How dare you sneak out on me!

Ollie was in no mood to apologize or explain. For heaven’s sake, Becky, just get away. I got so bored here I just went over to the Sands. You were sleeping. No big deal.

The Sands? You mean you spent some of our money for drinks at the Sands?

"Look, it’s not our money. It’s my money, and I can spend it however I please."

Becky’s eyes glistened as she turned away, grabbed her purse, and slammed the door on her way out. Truth be told, she hardly tasted the orange juice and pancakes dripping with blueberry syrup. She took her time, one eye watching hopefully for Ollie to appear at the door. After dallying as long as she could, she started slowly back to the room. Heat radiated from the sidewalk, and she pulled her long blond hair into a ponytail off her neck and bound it with the green woven band from her wrist. Sweat stains had already formed half moons under her arms. Opening the door quietly and hopefully, she found Ollie counting the money from their California pouch.

Whacha doing, Ollie?

There’s only ninety dollars here, Becky. I thought sure we had more—maybe like two hundred. What’s happened to all our money? I didn’t lose that much last night. I only— This time, he stopped at the thought of what he’d just revealed to her.

Lose? Lose? What’re you talking about?

Ollie knew the game was up, so he told her about how he’d won so much then lost it all again. Becky’s joy that he was being honest with her overrode her anger with him. Wait, silly. I have some of our California money put aside. Maybe there’s a hundred here, she offered as she pulled open her little beaded bag.

Ollie suddenly exploded from the bed and grabbed her roughly by the T-shirt and tossed her onto the bed. He’d pulled back his hand to slap her when the sight of those soulful blue eyes stopped him. Jumping up, he started pacing the tiny room. Listen, bitch, he growled, that was my money, Grandpa’s money, and you had no right to sneak it out for yourself!

Oh, Ollie, Becky wailed, covering her eyes, I just wanted to save a little cushion for us, you know, a bit to count on for when we were getting low. I didn’t mean to make you angry. It was just like insurance, see?

Though it took a while, they ended up with a truce, sealed by a bout of tension-releasing lovemaking. When they at last lay sated in each other’s arms, Becky confessed, Ollie, oh Ollie, I think I may be pregnant. What are we going to do?

Chapter 3

What they did was both get jobs at the Sands. Ollie cleaned cigarette butts from the ashtrays, vacuumed the floors, and took out the trash. Becky waitressed in the little lounge. Their best income was from Becky’s tips. Ollie had not been near the gaming tables as a patron since his loss. The only advantage to working there was the occasional hash he scored from some of the guys. He didn’t dare share it with Becky in her state of now-confirmed pregnancy. Truthfully, it was just barely enough to keep him mellow enough to get through the days and nights. After all, they were only dime bags, and he was getting by with his meager salary and the chips he sometimes rescued from the carpet.

Thanksgiving was just around the corner when they wearily sat down to count their money and plan what to do. Becky’s legs and feet had swollen so that she had to soak them in the mold-encrusted tub every night. Ollie had developed a slump in his shoulders and a shuffle in his once-bouncy walk. They seemed worlds apart from Woodstock and from California.

Look at this, Becky. I think we have enough now to go on to California—seven hundred dollars! We can take a bus this time; no more hitching. Can’t you just smell the salt breeze and see those guys lining up to join my band? We can get a little apartment. You’ll put out your shingle for beads, braids, and henna tattoos. We can do it, babe.

It was hard not to join in the first enthusiasm Ollie had shown in six weeks. Her feet ached so from standing all day, and she now knew the baby was only six months away. She needed to be settled and see a doctor. Beads, braids, and tattoos on the beach sounded like heaven.

Let’s go, Ollie. You’re my hero. I love you. Let’s get out of this dump.

Greyhound wound its way from Vegas to Long Beach, stopping at all points in between. Ollie and Becky were unable to sit together on the first crowded leg of the trip from Vegas to Barstow. Becky ended up next to a self-proclaimed clairvoyant, a middle-aged lady fresh from a visit with her grandchildren, who introduced herself as Ms Devine and struck up a conversation. Why, with your lovely hair and eyes, you’ll be a shoo-in for those film producers. Have you had any acting experience?

Only actin’ like gettin’ out of Vegas was the smartest thing we’ve ever done. See that good-looking guy three rows back on the left by the window? That’s Ollie. He’s a guitar player, and he’s going to get a band together. Me, I’m going to braid hair and make beads and design henna tattoos.

Before the ride was over, Becky felt like Ms Devine knew all there was to know about her and Ollie. She’d even confided her flight from a preacher father and a mother who took more casseroles to other families than she cooked at home. Finally, Becky spoke of the awesome experience of Woodstock. Ms Devine seemed impressed with Becky’s description of Woodstock. She added her own impressions of the future by predicting that Becky and Ollie would be successful and happy and that the unborn child would be a boy. She didn’t have the heart to disillusion the beautiful young girl with what she saw of sadness and tragedy in her future.

* * * *

Ah, if I’d been able to abort myself from the womb in some filthy bathroom in some lonely stopover before they reached California, I might have saved my mother a lot of loneliness and pain.

* * * *

As they got off the bus, Long Beach beckoned to them like a sea siren beckons to sailors on the way home. It was lovely, not too small to be insipid nor too big to be intimidating. Here was their future, the future of their predicted son, and a lifetime of happiness.

God, Becky, I’m glad to be off that bus. How’re ya feeling?

I’m fine, but wait a minute. Becky caught up with her seatmate as she waited for her suitcase to be unloaded. Thanks, Ms Devine; I’m glad we had time to visit. I hope all goes well with you here, and I feel better because of your predictions.

Ms Devine pulled Becky into a quick hug. Well, best to you too, Becky. And here’s my card. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m the one to call.

Chapter 4

Though the sea was calming and the weather perfect, there remained a thorn of hopelessness in my parent’s little love nest. Anger and frustration pressed into my father’s heart and soul like a stone weighting down a body cast into the sea. Little did I know that I would become the symbol of that weight and the scapegoat for his anger.

* * * *

Becky seemed energized by the sea and was caught up in a frenzy of activity to get them settled into their little one-room place. Yellow gingham curtains brightened the two little windows overlooking the beach from their third-floor apartment. The bathroom shone as if to make up for the squalor of the motel room they’d left in Vegas. Savory smells of stew or roasting potatoes brightened the end