A Mile in My off Brand Shoes

By Shane McMunn

Nestled comfortably in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains is the small town of Oil City, Pennsylvania. It is a town rich in tradition and is a quiet little community in which to grow up. Im just a normal everyday guy like the next person; however I have had a rather interesting upbringing. Within these pages I would like to open up about that upbringing and allow you a peek into who I am and where Im from. Every one of us has a story to tell so here is mine. I hope you enjoy it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465349460

Book preview

Chapter 1

Well… Here We Go

Sometime in the waking hours of November 19, 1980, I was born in Oil City, Pennsylvania. I don’t recall very much of this ordeal, but what I do remember is being completely uncomfortable and crammed up in my own little world when all of a sudden I saw a light. Now I’m no Carol Ann, and I had no intention of heading to this light, so I fought and fought and fought until I heard the most amazing voice I had ever heard in my short time on this planet. It called to me majestically Ahh ahh ahh ahh stayin’ alive… stayin’ alive. I knew I had to hear more. I damn near leaped from my mother and began an impromptu karaoke jam fest with the Bee Gees, Dexys Midnight Runners, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and many more. I was killing Pet Shop Boys when… OK, I’ll stop there. Most of that didn’t happen.

One of my first real memories is of being in my crib, and I would guesstimate I was two or three at the time. I remember crying because I didn’t want to go to bed and my mother was making me! Well, this didn’t sit very well with me, and I was going to let her know who was in charge. After she put me in my crib and raised the bars on the sides to a level that would warrant a call to Child Protective Services, I cried and wanted apple juice and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

I remember being afraid of the dark even back then and did not want to be left in there, and I very much remember seeing my mom and dad or at least some guy (more on that later) in the doorway. Perhaps they changed their minds! Perhaps they were bringing that elusive juice I had been clamoring for since Sesame Street had ended that day. Nope! They just shut the door and left me in there alone in the dark with who knows what. I learned pretty damn quick I had only myself to trust and later on a Teddy Rupskin doll that just went downhill when I accidentally replaced the tape in him with Black Sabbath. I may have tried escaping the crib, but with those Great Rails of China, I had no chance. I do remember lying there, sobbing until it got quieter and quieter, and finally I must have fallen asleep.

When I was around three years old and my dad still came around, I had a boil or some sort of abrasion with puss in it! Hell! I’m not sure what it was, but it was under my right armpit. My moron dad got the brilliant idea to pick at this thing like he was scratching off a lottery ticket and see what was in there. Now as anyone with the IQ of a pumpkin would have guessed, shit didn’t go down good at all. Within a couple of days, it had turned a few shades of different colors like a chameleon of disease and infestation. I was taken to the emergency room and put in intensive care for immediate tests. I was quite young but very clearly remember everything, and I remember having to stay the night there and I was so scared, like a frozen fear I had never experienced up to that point in life. I was confused and had no clue what the commotion was about.

The doctors were all very nice, I remember, and that is until it came time for any tests involving shots. I would go from cute kid with a funny side to psycho bastard kicking and screaming bloody murder if anyone dared bring a needle near me. I would have taken a teddy bear or flower arrangement hostage had one been near me at that time. You want these roses snapped, bitch? OK, that’s slightly dramatic, but you get the point, I hated needles. It got to the point after a few times of trying the old-fashioned way that they had to gag up on me and strap me to a table with large Velcro strap downs that went over my legs, stomach, and chest. The first time they did this, both my mom and dad were in the doorway, watching as I cried bloody murder, Please, Mommy, please don’t let them do this to me… please. My mom stood in the door, crying as much as I was, and my dad just stood there emotionless, it seemed. That or he did a good job of hiding it if he were saddened.

As I write this, I can take myself back there over twenty-five years ago, and it still brings that same paralyzing fear and emotion out of me. Sadly, it was also one of the only times I ever saw both of my parents together in the same space, and my dad wasn’t going to jail. I was too young then to really grasp the severity of the situation, and apparently unbeknownst to me, I was scheduled an upcoming surgery to amputate my right arm from the elbow down due to the gangrene. I’m glad that I didn’t know, because if I had known I was going to get cut with a knife, I would have had to have been sedated, then strapped down, and then sedated again.

If there was any positive thing that came out of this whole ordeal, it was that I was the center of attention on both sides of my family. I would get regular visits from family members, and we would laugh and play games and just keep my mind off that elephantiasis-looking arm of mine. My uncle Bink on my mom’s side brought me quite possibly the world’s biggest Twizzlers, which I enjoyed tremendously. People from both sides of my family came to see me, and for a short while, I seemed to be the glue that made everyone civil.

As the days, and eventually the weeks passed, I apparently became somewhat of an attempted runaway, and the hospital staff was forced to put a giant mesh net over my bed and tie it down tight so I couldn’t lift it and get out of bed. There I was bedridden and netted up like a damn trophy fish. My aunt Robyn on my dad’s side came all the way from Philadelphia on the other side of the state to visit me and brought with her a three-foot white teddy bear that I loved right away, and a giant Gizmo doll. Yes, that Gizmo from Gremlins. As soon as she walked in my hospital doorway, she immediately began crying. I could tell she was deeply saddened at looking at me in that bed surrounded by machines and a giant fishing net. She just held my hand and said she loved me and that everything was going to be OK. I believed her because she had always had a special place in my heart.

I went with my grandma more than a couple times to Philly to visit her and always had a blast playing in the ocean and going to New Jersey and seeing her and her dog that was big enough for me to ride on. Though she was crying, I had a sense of calm about me, and maybe it was because I was so young or maybe it was something else, but I just felt OK when she was there. I did get to go to the children’s playroom at the hospital, and I remember having a great time in there. They had puzzles, cars, crayons, and everything I didn’t have at home so I was all about going there. I made nice with the other kids and had fun playing with all the awesome toys.

A couple days before my surgery, I guess I had shown signs of slight improvement, and they delayed it based on that. Thankfully, the antibiotics were kicking in and giving them optimism that perhaps I didn’t have to have this surgery. As it turned out, the doctors were right and over the next few days my wound had healed up significantly, and I was going to be let go soon. I was thrilled on one hand and sad on the other. I was thrilled that I didn’t have to get any more shots yet oddly, sad that I wouldn’t be getting anymore presents or attention. I believe my total stay there was somewhere around three weeks, and I would like to just say thank you to the doctors that literally saved my life and spared my arm. Had they cut it like they were going to have to, writing this book would be a lot more difficult.

I was too young back then to play the blame game with my dad for doing what he did. But as I got older, if it crossed my mind and I flashed back to being strapped down, I would mentally ask myself why he would do such a thing. I never directly asked him because he would’ve most likely blown it off like nothing ever happened. I must say though, picking someone’s boil or anything without a doctor around is pretty dumb, and it nearly cost me my life, and had I lived but didn’t have half an arm, I know that it would have been brutal, growing up in school.

I come from a rather large family with four brothers (actual brothers, not black guys who are friends) and one sister. Damien was born a little less than two years before me, and then I was next. My brother Chris was right behind me followed by Brad, my sister Casey, and finally my youngest brother Tyler. We learned from an early age that Damien had a different father than we did, not that it made a difference, because he always was and always will be our big brother. Some people put the half brother title on it but not once in my entire life have I ever used that to describe him, or have I ever heard him describe us in that way. He was more the one to look up to, and the one to put the dumb ideas in my head to follow up on.

My mom’s first husband (but not my dad) was a man named Bobby Fletcher, and I guess they weren’t married for very long because they were together off and on yet I was already born. So it was a weird situation, but I was old enough to remember him in bits and pieces, so I’m not sure where my dad was. Anyway, I remember Bobby being quite nice and even taking Damien and me to see the original cartoon version of Transformers at the movie theater. So there you go Bobby. Big shout out to you for taking us. It was fun, and it was a good movie. I appreciate it and um, uh. Well, I guess that’s it for ol’ Bobby.

My first memory of going somewhere with my dad was when I was not even old enough to be in school, and he took me along with his friend Tobe for a car ride. I was kind of thrilled to be spending time with this man who at that point could’ve been and pretty much was just some guy. We went to a little shack down by Oil Creek, which is as you may have guessed—a creek that runs into the Allegheny River, which in turn runs through Oil City. Anyway, we’re at this shack, and my dad is socializing and laughing with all of his friends, and I can’t help but notice that it smelled really weird in there. It was a smell I had never smelled before, and suddenly I just wanted cereal. Lots and lots of cereal! My dad had taken me to my very first smoke out. Yes, indeed my dad was smoking weed with his friends in an enclosed space and me in the same space, and I didn’t know it was weed, of course, until years later when I re-smelled it for the first time and knew instantly what my dear old dad had done.

My dad was not exactly what I would call Father of the Year material and one time in particular sticks out in which he took Damien and me to a bar called Bub’s Pub while he drank with his friends. He did give us a handful of quarters to play Pac-Man and whatever other games there were. I remember buying a Sunkist soda as well and just sitting there, pounding it back while dad drank away. Also I have to question the owner whose name, I assume, was Bub, as to why he would allow two small boys in his bar even with a parent. I do recall it being fun though with the video games and pool tables we played with. I’m sure there are plenty of unflattering stories I will tell about my dad, and truthfully, he will have to live with them because they did indeed happen.

One such story is when Bobby Fletcher came to our apartment to visit my mom, and we were getting ready for A Nightmare on Elm Street to come on, and Bobby and my mom were making popcorn, and I guess they didn’t hear someone rattling around the basement door entrance (we were upstairs). My brother Chris heard it and went to investigate and saw that it was my dad trying to unlock the door, so he unlocked it for him. Apparently my dad didn’t take it too well that my mom was there with Bobby, and he came over with a 2 × 4 board, and as soon as Chris opened the door, he rushed Bobby and began a full-on fight in the kitchen. My dad struck Bobby several times with the board and ended up breaking his arm and then fleeing away after a couple of minutes. He was arrested and ordered to stay away from our house.

Another time, we were living in a house, and my dad wanted to come around, I guess, and smoke his dope in our basement. And this angered my mom, so she locked him down there, and he began banging on the door to come back upstairs. She wouldn’t let him in, and he was pissed. I’m sure it ruined his high. Our basement there was literally dug into the ground with no floor or ceiling, only dirt. My dad then found a large spoon and began digging a tunnel, Shawshank Redemption style, until he made his way outside under the porch.

He left and came back sometime later and stood outside, banging on the door and my mom called the police. And when the police came, my dad had only his bicycle with him to use as a shield. They surrounded him and told him to drop the bike, and when he wouldn’t, they began yelling the orders louder each time. This was all in broad daylight as I watched from our porch. They cornered him in our driveway and suddenly my dad had turned into a complete psycho as he screamed Come on… come on, you sons of bitches! as loudly as he could at the police officers. Per his request, they tackled him and once again led him off to jail.

As much of an absentee father as he was, I do, however, have one fond memory of the man. I was in second grade at Smedley and had a big class play upcoming, and it was my dad, not my mom who came to see it along with his cousin Richard Dick McMunn. It meant the world to me at that time to walk out on that stage and look out and actually see either one of my parents, let alone my dad. To this day, I doubt he even remembers going, but it will stick with me forever. He walked me home and even told me Good job.

My dad was very bad off on drugs and alcohol back then, and if he wasn’t drunk or high, you really couldn’t tell the difference anyway due to his erratic behavior patterns. As much of a complete loon as he was, I must say, that man could build a bicycle with his bare hands in no time flat. You give him a frame, a chain, and a couple tires, and he would go in his little shop and come out like a marijuana smelling, liquored up, foulmouthed Santa and hand you a bike and give you that fatherly advice like don’t be ramping this damn thing neither… the rims will bend, or if you mess this one up, I’m not building another one now, goddamn it.

Another favorite quote was damn it the hell anyways. I had not a clue what it meant, but I sure did think it was hilarious. I would try to get him to say it as often as I saw him, or in other words like fourteen times ever. I would intentionally try to mess with him to rile him up by moving his tools around or hiding things of his. I would even take his cigarette lighter and take the silver thing around the flame adjuster off and crank that bitch around and around, creating a mini flame thrower. I would then sit and wait for him to go outside to smoke and I would watch from a bush or somewhere in the distance. He would put that cigarette in his mouth and flick the lighter and wooooosh! A huge flame would light his cigarette and also his nose and the front of his unsightly, white fro he had going on. Goddamn it now… damn it the hell anyways, you little bastard he would say as he looked around for the culprit. Good times.

Chapter 2

Ohhhh Canada

I went to preschool at Saint Joseph’s Church, and I’d give a shout out to the teacher now if I could remember who she was. There were a few things that happened at preschool that I would like to touch upon that stick out in my mind. One time, we were having big wheel races down the empty parking lot outside and everyone knew that the Spider Man big wheel was not only the coolest but seemed to go the fastest. Two by two, we would line up and make our way down the marked raceway. Well, I had lined up in a way that allowed me to get the sought after Spidey Mobile.

As the kid in front of me walked the masked beauty with the three wheels my way, some bitch girl cut in front of me and got on it. There are several things you don’t do to a man, and at that time I knew only one: Do not touch my Spider Man big wheel! This girl clearly didn’t know. I figured the teacher lady would have my back and take this wench away. Wrong! She just told me to get in the other one to take my turn. I looked over and saw a crème-colored frame, purple wheels, and a giant Cabbage Patch Kid head on the front of the handle bars. I knew at that early age that this wasn’t good at all.

I could cry and scream and tell on her and get my Spider Man bike back, or I could take this girlie ass CPK doll bike and somehow whip her ass down this track. I got myself all amped up go race and after a quick pump-up talk I was ready to do this shit. I braced myself for this showdown and was waiting for the word to go when I looked at my opponent for a brief but intimidating stare down. Just as I did this, the teacher yelled Go! The girl took off like we all knew Spider Man would and caught a little plastic on the pavement. She kicked up a little bit of gravel, and she was gone. I would love to say that I caught her on the backstretch and pulled off the miracle at St. Joes, but I cannot lie. She whipped my ass down that hill, but I know to this day that she butted my line and took my ride.

Another incident happening at preschool was someone threw a rock through the window of our classroom and got glass all over the magic carpet. Upon this discovery, our teacher began crying. We weren’t afforded the customary naptime that day, so to whoever threw that rock, you owe me some sleep bitch. We went on a field trip to go sled riding later that winter and that’s when I got in trouble at school for the first of a lot of times. Apparently as the day was winding down, the teacher began yelling for and herding us in, and I didn’t hear her, so I kept on sledding. I really didn’t hear her, and she came up to me and dragged me to the bus just as I got to the top of the hill for another go at it. She scolded me in front of everyone. I felt terrible and started crying, because I was shy and wasn’t yet the little shit head that I’d become.

Heading into Kindergarten, I was nervous as most kids are but also wanted to go to school because my older brother Damien was already in second grade and anything he did, I was all about that. Back in the 1980s in Oil City at least, you had the choice between morning normal kindergarten and afternoon kindergarten. My mom sent me in the afternoon. I have never asked why she didn’t send me in the morning with my older brother who was by now going full days, but it is my personal belief that if I went in at ten or eleven or whatever time I had to be there, that she would be rid of me for the afternoon, and thus freeing up time for The Young and the Restless. Again that’s only my personal assumption. I enjoyed going to school, and in Oil City, there were only four main elementary schools going from Kindergarten through fifth grade. They were Lincoln Elementary, Seventh Street Elementary, Hasson Heights Elementary, and Smedley Elementary. Since we moved around as often as people did on America’s Most Wanted Top Ten lists, I did a couple tours of each school.

After the first day or two of school, I began walking to school by myself which was a few blocks away. This is true. I walked there alone and home in the afternoon with Damien, who probably shouldn’t have been walking himself but nonetheless we forged on and made the best of it. I do remember in first grade being in Miss. Scott’s class, I accidentally shit myself and absolutely could not bear to tell anyone. I vividly remember thinking Just get through the day and you’ll be OK. Every time Miss. Scott came over to my side of the class, she made a face, and curled her nose like she was sniffing the air. I knew I was busted now that this damn basset hound with the shit-seeking missile nose was on to me. What is that smell? she would say with disgust. It’s terrible. All the kids around me would immediately point at me and say It’s him, Ms. Scott… it’s him! No, it’s not, I lied. Finally, she pulled me in the hall and did an embarrassing check of the back of my pants revealing that indeed it was me, with the turd, in the classroom as if I had cleverly devised a solo game of Clue: Bodily Function Edition. I was sent to the office where surprisingly they had extra clothes for the kids my age that may occasionally do their thing in the privacy of a cramped desk as opposed to the privacy of a bathroom stall or at the very least a kitty litter box. Unfortunately for me, however, the ensemble of pants thrown down to me to choose from wasn’t would one would consider for fashion week. I was very poor with mismatched clothing as it were already, but this was a bit too much. The pants were a white base (after Labor Day) with red, green, brown, and black stripes all over them in a vertical pattern. This, along with my orange shirt, did not look like something anyone should be wearing.

I sort of breezed through the first couple years of school academically. I found it almost boring at how easy things came to me. Count to one 100? I’ll go to 200 ho! ABCs—you want