Superheroes

By David Faulkner

At four years old, David spends his days exploring with curious contemplation the vast wonders of the seemingly magical world around him. His only real care is wondering when his big brother, Robert, will be home from school to share it with him.

His life is replete with typical childhood antics, joys and fears, and nightmares that wrack his sleep, but ultimately every morning, he knows a new adventure awaits. The divorce of their parents two years later sets in motion a chain of unforeseen events that bring David closer to his brother as a real-life nightmare unfolds.

Alcoholism, tough financial times, and an archaic and draconian version of religion lead to physical, mental, and emotional abuse, and ultimately to abandonment. Seldom told are first-person perspectives from such a young age, but author David Faulkner's meticulous recall and witty but poignant narration capture the spirit of childhood and reveal the often dark realities of what goes on behind closed doors.

Superheroes takes us on a compelling journey from innocence to awareness, from a carefree world to one of heartbreak and tragedy, and leaves no emotional stone unturned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Faulkner
• Release date: Aug 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996449731

David Faulkner

David Faulkner holds bachelor's and master's degrees in Spanish, with an emphasis in teaching, and has taught Spanish in every grade from fourth to the university level. He is passionate about the fundamentals of language, as well as interpersonal communication and personal expression, but he is also passionate about mentoring kids. After finally speaking up about his childhood experiences as both a witness to and victim of domestic violence and alcoholism, Faulkner hopes Superheroes will bring more awareness to this often unspoken topic and help victims find their own voice. Faulkner enjoys spending time with his two children, public speaking, traveling the world, and staying active. He is an idealist and a relentless dreamer, always in pursuit of joy. Superheroes is his first book. To schedule David Faulkner for readings or signings, or to hire him to speak at your event, please contact him through davidfaulknerbooks.com.

Book preview

Superheroes

A Memoir

David Faulkner

Copyright 2015 David Faulkner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher/author, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

All images, logos, quotes, and trademarks included in this book are subject to use according to trademark and copyright laws of the United States of America.

Smashwords Edition

Licensing Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal use and enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, please visit Smashwords.com and purchase a copy for yourself. Thank you for respecting this author’s work.

ISBN 978-0-9964497-3-1

1. Faulkner, David, 1977---Childhood and youth.

2. Adult child abuse victims--United States--Biography.

3. Autobiographies. I. Title.

QUANTITY PURCHASES: Schools, companies, professional groups, clubs, and other organizations may qualify for special terms when ordering quantities of this title. For information, please contact the author through davidfaulknerbooks.com.

Flashforward Publishing

Boulder, CO

www.FlashforwardPublishing.com

Now available in audiobook

Narrated by the author

eBook by e-book-design.com.

Dedication

For my father, John, the greatest gift two sons could ask for

Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Introduction: The Call

Part One

The Move

Who’s the Fool Now?

Terror in the Dark

Addition and Subtraction

Central Air ... Sort Of

Mouse in the House

Pete and RE: Pete

Anything-But-Lazy Days of Summer

Look, Up in the Sky

Merry Muppets

Dog on the Run

Holiday Home Stretch

Red Towel? Check. Safety Pins? Check.

My Tawny Valentine

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, I’m Alive

Back East ... or Was It Down South?

Childlike Sense of Wonder

Multiplication and Division

Eyes Wide Open

Half Daze

Thought for Food

Fall Back

Spring Cleaning (Out with the Old)

Going Underground

Wait, Time!

Part Two

Every Other Weekend

Lasting Impression

Irregular Routine

Momless Nights

Come Again

Ho, Ho-Hum—Mehhhh Christmas

Bore-Dumb? More Like Bore-Genius!

An Unexpected Visit

The Test of Time

Got Religion?

Sweet Nicki

The Donner Party

Carried Away

Sweet Sorrow

Pizza and Desert

A Boy’s Journey

Brick: Won; Head: Zip!

Weekness

Baseball and B.O.

The Dog Days of Summer are Over

April in the Fall

Pluses and Minuses

Bargaining

Second Story

Tongue in Cheek

Errands and Stuff

Where There’s Smoke, There’s Backfire

A Pox on Me

Winds of Change

The Shot Heard Round the World

Transform and Roll Out

Surly Bonds

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

The Exodus

Part Three

Up North ... or Was It Out West?

Ego? Check.

Unaccompanied Minors

Black-Eye Peas

Exorcism

Denouncement

Treading Lightly

Trick Gum and Whoopee Cushions

A Boy of His Word

Lessons Learned

This Is Not a Test

Shoot to Kill

Merciless

After Math

MDs, PhDs, and LIEs

All Hope Abandon

Eyes Wide Shut

Enough is Enough

Broken Promise

Part Four

Would-Be Island?

Tightening Our Belts

Got Religion!

Try, Try, Try, Try Again

Tainted Lenses

Just Cuz

Turning of the Tide

Homeward Bound

The Call

Afterword

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my amazing dad for his unconditional love and for setting a positive example of how to treat women, children, and my fellow man. I’m grateful to my wonderful stepmom, Julie, who has the biggest heart of anyone I know, for loving me as her son. Together, they handled with grace my volatile and often violent temperament in my preteen and teen years, fostered my mental and emotional growth, and have continued to love and support me through every turn, crossroads, and decision in my life, including the writing of this book.

I’m thankful to my two beautiful, loving, and amazingly understanding children, Maia and Jackson, who bring joy into my life, for supporting and encouraging me while I wrote this book.

I’m thankful to my dear friend Kevin Lyons, who truly sees me as I am, for cheering me on, chapter by chapter.

A special thanks to those who encouraged me in writing this book in its very early conceptual stages: Julie Folsom, Ruth Trask, and Jay Trask.

I’ll be forever grateful to my incredible brother, Robert, who has always been my rock, my confidant, and my superhero.

Foreword

I started this project as a way to process the traumatic events of my most formative years. I envisioned it as a cathartic, creative form of self-therapy, but the more I wrote, the more it started to look like a book worthy of being read. I started by jotting down the most defining memories and musings of that era for me, but I also jotted down events that simply tickled me to think of. Before I knew it, I had seemingly endless material to write from, and Superheroes was born.

Intending to write my story as a novel, I made a conscious decision to embellish and conflate certain memories, as well as create and interweave a complementary narrative that had no basis in my experiences. I also changed people’s names to protect the innocent and guilty alike in order to avoid unintentional blowback. As the story developed, though, writing it failed to be the catharsis I had hoped for, and the inauthenticity of the fiction started to weigh on me. I realized my story must be my story, or I simply couldn’t continue to write it.

When dealing with childhood memories, or any memories for that matter, events and details mustn’t be treated as factual. Memories are not video recordings, and therefore it is always fair to question their veracity. I have corroborated many of my memories with various databases, including county records, and with those few people who shared the experiences with me, and I have found them to be acutely reliable. My true objective, though, the fundamental purpose of writing this book, was to creatively articulate and convey my experiences as I remembered them and ultimately share them with the world. This is my story.

Introduction

The Call

Dad got the call around 3:00 p.m. on Saturday, exactly one week after my big brother and I had been reunited with him. We had thought the nightmare was over, that it was finally safe to stop looking over our shoulders, but that assurance was ignorantly premature. Rob, Dad’s work colleague and best friend at the time, was calling to warn us he had just received a threatening phone call from Mom and Bob that they were coming for me and my brother. Rob was up to speed on everything that had happened, so when Mom asked him for Dad’s contact information, he rightly told her to go to hell. That’s when Bob got on the phone and threatened to kill him and Dad and take me and Robert away forever. Rob’s response was that not only would the police be notified of his threat, but also, if he dared pay us a visit, he and Dad would be waiting along with their good friends Smith and Wesson, and even I knew what that meant.

When Dad got off the phone, he let us know what was going on and told us Rob was on his way over to hang out with us for the rest of the day, just in case. When Rob arrived, he suggested maybe Robert and I should lie low, out of sight, until things settled down a bit. Dad agreed and sent us to Robert’s room and told us to sit quietly on the floor at the foot of the bed, away from the window, and wait until he told us to come out.

There we sat, knees tucked up into our chests, staring straight ahead at the bone-white closet doors, with nothing to do but contemplate and speculate. My mind was racing, Why would Mom and Bob call Rob to get our phone number and address? Wouldn’t it be easier to follow Dad home from work one day? They know where he works.

I turned my head toward Robert for some sort of reassurance, but he was fixated steadfastly on the blank canvas in front of us. I wondered if he was painting similar mental pictures, but I didn’t dare say a word. My mind kept running, "What if they had followed Dad home from work one day and did already know where we lived? What if they were on their way to the house right now?! I worried Bob was still toting around that .357 magnum Dad gave Mom for home protection when he moved out, but remembering Dad and Rob were out in the living room, themselves armed and ready for the worst, I felt my anxiety ease up just a little. I knew Dad and Rob were both skilled marksmen, and I imagined Bob had never actually fired a weapon in his life, but I also knew Bob had never shown an ounce of fear in the year and a half I had known him. Bob had proven time and time again that women and children were no match for him, but although I was only nine years old, I knew even if his stories of being the baddest motherfucker on Bourbon Street" in his younger days were true, he still wasn’t invincible, especially where bullets were concerned.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. I have no earthly idea how long we sat there, quiet as church mice, existentially pensive, but I can tell you it was long enough to drive a person to madness. Suddenly the living room came alive at the sound of banging on the front door. Robert and I were snapped out of our respective trances, turning to each other with curious fright. My mind raced again, "Was it Mom and Bob? Had they found us? Were they going to finally follow through on their threats to me and Robert for turning the tables on them and setting the record straight about Dad? Would I have the courage to tell the truth about them? The whole truth?" The truth is, I didn’t, and I wouldn’t ... not for another twenty-eight years.

Part One

The Move

It was a warm, spring afternoon, the kind that always fooled you into thinking you’d seen the last snowfall of the season, and we had just finished unloading the last boxes from our faded-red Volkswagen Bug and our old, rusted-up white Toyota pickup. Dad thought getting one of those great big moving trucks was a waste of money. He said even though it took us several trips to make the move across town in those old things, we would be glad we did. What did I know though? I wasn’t even four years old at the time.

But looking back on it now, he was probably right. Mom and Dad weren’t exactly made of money back then. Dad had an entry-level day job working for Washoe County, and Mom had just landed a part-time job at the post office sorting mail at night. They always had enough money to provide me and my older brother, Robert, with the basic essentials, but that didn’t leave much left over for frivolous expenditures. And so, when we pleaded with them to take us out to a fancy restaurant for dinner as a reward for all our hard work that day, we heard the all-too-familiar line, Maybe next time. Sure, we were disappointed, but we got over it like always. So macaroni and cheese with hot dogs it was—our first meal in our new house. After dinner, even with boxes still piled in every corner, our new house had plenty of room for me and Robert to run around and play Superheroes, our favorite game.

So there we were, all moved in to our new home and, fancy restaurant or not, we were content. That night, with a full belly, tired limbs, and thoughts of countless exploring possibilities dancing in my head, I fell asleep on the couch in Dad’s lap without a care in the world.

The following morning, I awoke in my own bed to the sound of Robert munching on a bowl of Sugar Flakes right in my ear. Wake up, David, he said to me. I rubbed my eyes and fell out of bed in typical zombie fashion. Stumbling over my shoes, which I had discarded in the middle of the room the night before, I made my way to the kitchen for my own bowl of sugary corn goodness. Mom always said we couldn’t afford the name-brand cereals, so we usually had to settle for the ones in the black-and-white boxes. They always tasted the same, but they never came with a neat toy, and they never had fun games on the back of the boxes.

I dumped the cereal into my bowl and peered into the fridge, only to find a loaf of bread, a brick of cheese, some condiments, and a freshly made pitcher of apple juice. I cringed as I turned slowly around to look into Robert’s bowl and, sure enough, he was smacking away on his Sugar Flakes drenched in apple juice.

Yuchhhhh! I exclaimed.

It was either apple juice or water, he retorted, without bothering to look up from his bowl.

My options had been laid out. I was hesitant to follow my brother’s lead, but ultimately I figured if it was good enough for him, then it was good enough for me. And that’s how it always was. Although he was only two and a half years older, I always looked up to him and he always looked after me. Whether it was making sure I didn’t step in a puddle in my brand-new shoes or knowing the right thing to say to calm me down when I got hurt or scared, he always had my well-being in mind. It was as though he felt it was his duty to do so. We were like two peas in a pod.

When we had finished slurping down the dregs of our cereal, we needed only to put on our shoes and throw on our windbreakers before we were ready to begin our day exploring the wondrous vastness of our new house and the one-acre lot on which it stood.

And just where do you think you two are going? Mom asked Robert as he placed his hand on the doorknob.

Can we go exploring? he replied.

You can go, but check back in in an hour.

Without another word, he grabbed my hand and we were out the door.

On the outskirts north of Reno, dirt and sagebrush ruled the neighborhood landscape, and one was hard-pressed to find a paved road, save the main road headed into town. Our front yard consisted mainly of a semicircular gravel driveway and a small grassy patch of ground to the west side of the two-car garage. Shrubs lined the front of the house and then turned south to create a border between our yard and the neighbors’ yard to the east. Various trees also dotted the landscape: several pines, two plum trees, and an elm. In the absence of paved roads and concrete sidewalks, ditches running almost the entire width of each lot were relied upon for water runoff and drainage in the wintertime. In the summertime, they served the neighborhood kids as water-balloon-fight bunkers, bike ramps, and action-figure camps.

After having scoped out the front yard, we made for the backyard through the side gate where we were greeted by the sweet smell of honeysuckle, which was carefully woven in and out of a lattice wall that butted up against the fence. Dividing the backyard into two sections (the backyard and the back backyard) was a small, white, wooden fence. The backyard was populated by small islands of grass, but its defining characteristic was an old doghouse to which our black lab, Reppik, remained chained until his first escape attempt only six months later.

Time to come in, Mom shouted from the laundry room window.

Ahh, Mom, we cried in unison.

We didn’t want to give her a reason to have to call us in again, so Robert turned to me and taunted, Race you to the back door! He even gave me a head start, but I was no match. He won, just as he always did. We pushed and shoved our way through the screen door and into the kitchen, where Mom had prepared grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Although we had been instructed to check back in in an hour, we had been so lost in ourselves that four had slipped by without warning. Mom didn’t scold us, though. I guess with all our shouting and carrying on, she was able to keep pretty good tabs on us.

Robert and I hadn’t given a second thought to the unpacking of all our stuff. I guess we assumed everything would magically find its way out of the boxes to its proper place. Mom had a different take on the matter. That afternoon, right after lunch, she put us to work. Although I couldn’t read the locations that were handwritten on the sides of the boxes, all I had to do was show Mom or Robert the box, and one of them would tell me where to put it. All that box moving seemed like an insurmountable task for Robert and David, but nothing was impossible for Green Lantern and Flash. Whenever Robert and I were put in a tight spot or had to have courage or strength we weren’t sure we had, our favorite superheroes always seemed to help us find our resolve. They rescued us from the surly grip of boredom on many occasions, too. In an instant, unpacking went from a brutal chore to a routine, altruistic act for the benefit of all of humanity.

Dad came home that night around 5:30 p.m., which was the start of a new routine. We barely had enough time to eat dinner as a family before Mom was dashing out the door saying good-bye. She worked until 11:00 p.m. during the week, but the good thing with their new jobs was that they were able to spend the weekends with us together.

And that weekend, that’s exactly what they did. There was still a little bit of unpacking left to do, but for the most part, all our necessities were in place. Dad, as he had promised, took us out to the back backyard to go exploring. We hadn’t been allowed to go back there by ourselves yet because Mom and Dad weren’t sure if it was safe. So Dad promised that that weekend he would take us back there to check it out.

The landscape was barren with the exception of an old shed, a blanket of tumbleweeds, and miscellaneous trash scattered about. The tumbleweeds were everywhere, cloaking the ground and all of its many burrows and anthills. Dad brought a rake so he could plow through the weeds and rubbish and overturn anything that might have been housing any unwelcome creatures. To an adult, most of the things we found out there were useless, but to me and Robert, they were like ancient artifacts of an unknown civilization that had inhabited the land before us. Those forgotten treasures such as car tires, scrap metal, and old tarnished silverware had endless possibilities with imaginations as rampant as ours.

That Sunday, Dad took on the task of putting in a clothesline. We didn’t have a dryer, so we had to rely on the weather to cooperate with our laundry cycles, and as filthy as Robert and I got on a regular basis, putting a functional laundry routine into place was a high priority from the start. Dad started by digging two cylindrical holes in the ground about thirty feet apart. Then he poured some dry cement mix into the old, orange wheelbarrow, added water, and began stirring it around with the shovel. Once the cement was well mixed, he wheeled it over to the first hole. Mom, Robert, and I held the first pole in place while Dad shoveled in the gray sludge. Once the first hole was filled, we braced the pole, then moved to the second hole to do the same.

I always loved that clothesline, not because it was an economical alternative to a conventional electric clothes dryer, but because I could climb up the pole and hang like a bat from its crossbar without having to go to the park. The