Sunset over Happy Farm

By Mark Thomas McDonough

On the surface, Derrick James is a mild mannered socially awkward attorney, who works a modest federal government job. While Derrick lacks any particular legal acumen or academic prowess, and possesses modest legal writing skills, everywhere he goes and whatever he does, Derrick inevitably and always makes his way to the top of the pyramid. Possessing an unflappable mental skill set and seldom suffering fools lightly, he accomplishes what needs to be done and he does it superbly well, much to the chagrin of his peers.

In the twilight of his legal career, Derrick finds himself working in perhaps one of the most boring brain-numbing federal legal jobs one can possibly imagine, but it’s inside work – no heavy lifting – and the pay is pretty good too. Finally! Derrick relaxes satisfied with who he and where he is. Life reaches a comfortable working rhyme. Both daughters are in college. After many down years, he is finally setting aside some extra money for retirement. Life is good, that is, right up to the very moment that a group of jealous federal supervisors and co-workers ban together forcing him to accept a forced early retirement.

Now having abundant free time, Derrick travels the world, begins a ‘get out of debt’ project and ponders how he got to ‘here’. In doing all of this, he constantly runs into the ghosts of his past most of which is rooted in his ill-fated youth spent growing up in a Catholic Orphanage, which he facetiously nicknames “The Happy Farm”.

Within the realm of his forced retirement and even as life’s ghosts taunt him, Derrick finds that truth and hindsight are not necessarily friends, but with enough time and grit, he finds that, by accepting his past, he can finally accept his present, and in doing so he finally says good bye to all the enemies, all the friends and all the ghosts that haunt him, as the sun sets over The Happy Farm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728306872

Mark Thomas McDonough

Mark Thomas McDonough is a (retired) attorney. The author is a former paratrooper and veteran of Vietnam. He spent thirty-one years employed by the U.S. Army and federal government. Upon retirement, he retreated to the beautiful mountains of West Virginia. This is the author’s fifth novel, including his second science fiction project. His first sci-fi project was Roper: Three - Zero - Zero - One.

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© 2019 Mark Thomas McDonough. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse  04/16/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0688-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0687-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Protest

Prologue

Part I   The Betrayal

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part II   The Frankenstein Project

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part III   If The Shoe Fits – Wear It!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Part IV   The Metamorphosis

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Part V   The Retirement

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Epilogue

M y deep and heartfelt thanks to my lovely daughters, Sara and Meredith, who have continuously shared Pirate Adventures with me. The bests part of it all is that WE SURVIVED.

I sincerely give thanks to all the young men and women, who have served and are serving, in the U.S. Armed Services. In particular, I would like to give special appreciation and thanks to all Vietnam Vets, including my buddies in the 131st Aviation Unit, who served with me both on the flight line and on perimeter bunkers at Phu Bai. We made it, dudes.

* * * * *

Special Dedication to Journalist Gary Webb, who published his Dark Alliance series in 1996, exposing the CIA’s drugs for guns Iran-Contra scandal. Ultimately, the establishment and the elites destroyed Gary’s reputation and his life, all for his having the courage and the integrity and the journalistic professionalism to expose the ugly truth behind the CIA’s drug-related crimes. Gary Webb, thank you. Peace to you and your family.

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Protest

L iving in the richest nation in the world, I had the dubious distinction of being economically short-circuited early in life, resulting in my being placed in a Catholic Orphanage. Several years after graduating from the orphanage, I joined the U.S. Army, earned a GED High School Diploma and served in Vietnam Service.

After my military service, I was fortunate enough to be admitted to an amazing college in New York City, the City College of New York (CCNY). As an individual gifted with this marvelous educational opportunity, I am forever grateful.

I would be remiss here if I did not include at least my personal commentary both about the Vietnam War and my growing concerns about the wars in the Middle East, South America and Africa. Made through the prism of twenty-twenty hindsight, I believe the real purpose behind the Vietnam War was to reap its rich treasures. Throughout its history, Vietnam has been highly desired by many nations, because of its location in Asia, its rich agriculture and other treasures, and perhaps most importantly, the fact that Vietnam is situated perfectly to harvest the huge newly discovered oil fields in the South China Sea.

My personal opinion is that the Vietnam War had far less to do with the alleged evils of Communism and geopolitics, then the elites contrived that War primarily for the purpose of securing the huge oil field discovered by U.S. Oil Companies in the South China Sea right after World War II. It is reported that oil find is so huge that, during his Vice-Presidency, Richard Nixon personally visited Southeast Asia, escorted by top U.S. Oil Executives review, to plan how to secure and harvest those oil fields for U.S. and allied interests. This included a discussion and plan to secure countries bordering the South China Sea, including Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and island nations located nearby.

Unfortunately, based on the public lies for propagating the Vietnam War, the U.S.A. and its allies inflicted horrific sufferings upon the Vietnamese People, the Cambodian People and the Laotians, and others. Meanwhile, American Vietnam Veterans and other veterans also paid a very high price for these horrible lies.

If there is one takeaway from the Vietnam War, it is this: do not trust the elites the rich the powers that be. Do not trust their false flag lies for creating more profit wars and wars for shock and awe. Do not throw your children into another conflagration created out of whole cloth for more profits for the rich. Just Saying.

Unfortunately, even as I write this, I fear the winds of war blow again. The oil giants, the elites and their profit gods are hungry again, and this time it’s for the treasures to be found under the feet of innocent peoples located in the Middle East, South America and Africa. To control access to these treasures, the elites create nebulous wars, NGOs, and political entities to support their for profit interests. One of the newly created political entities is the State of Israel, which is also known as the U.S.’s Aircraft Carrier in the Middle East.

History will be the ultimate judge of how all this turns out, but for now, the Jewish peoples of the world established themselves on and in this U.S. Aircraft Carrier, and the very first series of activities by the Jewish Peoples was to embrace a policy of marginalizing and ultimately eradicating the existence of the indigenous peoples living there, The Palestinians. After the Nazi genocide during World War II, many Israeli Political Interests have coined the phrase, this will never happen again," even as these same leaders slaughter the Palestinians.

I am reminded of a story of an American questioning a Nazi Diplomat just before World War II. In that story, small but horrific rumblings are trickling out of Germany about atrocities being committed against the Jews and others. In response to the American’s concerns, the Nazi Diplomat allegedly arched his back, squared his shoulders, looked the American directly in the eyes and pompously pontificated, you don’t understand our Jewish Problem. Now, we are facing the same spiritual political military conundrum, excepting its not the Jews, but rather, it’s the Palestinians being exterminated all in the name of Judaism. Sound familiar?

I suggest herein, that if the Jewish peoples emigrating to Israel and their supporters worldwide, really believe in peace and love and their motto that this will never happen again, then you are proving yourselves to be extraordinarily poor historians regarding your own history.

What should you the reader do? Ultimately, each of us, each son and daughter of light, each Israeli, each Jewish believer, each American, each spiritual being, each of us must do something, say something, anything … to stop the extermination of The Palestinians and other innocents around the globe. In sum, instead of initiating no fly zones, we must establish cease and desist orders, halting the ongoing carnage propagated by the United States War Machine, Israeli Politicians and their military-economic allies. The sands of time are running out. Who will stand up to the bullies? Who will stand up for the Palestinians and other innocents around the globe? Who will dare to be a Spokesperson for the World?

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Prologue

I have had the wonderful privilege of engaging in numerous Pirate Adventures throughout my life. These adventures have percolated in my soul since the day I was born. I can’t explain myself. I just do things. I engage in bizarre, wonderful, interesting, maybe even crazy behavior patterns. I mean who jumps out of airplanes at high attitudes to see how close they can come to hitting the ground before they open their parachute? Me. But that came later in life. Yet, I am getting ahead of myself. For the record, I must roll my eyes, breathe a deep sigh and pontificate the following: this story is mostly true; most of the characters are real; I am real; however, some of the facts and names and circumstances of primary events have been necessarily altered both to kindly protect the innocent, but also to protect me from really expensive nuisance lawsuits.

For the record, when I was ten years old, the authorities forcibly institutionalized me, forcing me to live inside a Catholic Orphanage for four years. The orphanage was run with an iron hand by Ninja Nuns. If one can imagine substituting huge black rosaries for swords, then you can envision all these nuns running around the orphanage dressed in ninja black from head to toe and kicking everyone’s ass as needed. And that’s where I met Reynolds. Reynolds was my first Pirate buddy. In part, this is his story, excepting the part where I jumped out of airplanes. Reynolds didn’t live long enough to get that far.

The Ninja Nuns dressed completely in black. Like Drill Sergeants, they controlled virtually every single detail of every single routine in my life and every child’s life. We jokingly nick-named the orphanage, calling it The Happy Farm. I spent my formative years in that place, dodging nuns, scrubbing floors, dodging nuns, and scrubbing more floors. Consequently, as my two daughters, many girlfriends, and one ex-wife can all attest, I may suck at painting and really suck at repairing plumbing, but I can amaze and scrub floors in my sleep.

To exit the orphanage required tremendous courage and faith, meaning I would have to walk out the always open front gate or leap over that towering unguarded four-feet high chain link fence. For in truth, it was neither the gate not the low postured fence that penned us in; it was fear, the fear of the nuns, their rules and the consequences for breaking those rules. In many ways, we children were like baby elephants tethered by small cords to small stakes, never realizing all we had to do was shake our heads to break free. Yet always, it was those damned nuns and their damned rules that controlled our lives and every child’s existence every single second of every single day that kept us tethered to imaginary stakes. The Ninja Nuns also had weird sayings for everything. Their all-time favorite meme was: you can’t have your cake and eat it too. They applied this meme to mean almost anything; meaning you may have used to much toilet paper or maybe I was caught staring at my girlfriend’s boobs. Naturally, when I good naturedly questioned the meaning and intent of any religious memes, I was deemed a heretic. Maybe Plato would have worn this rebuke as a badge of honor. Me, I was just puzzled by why none of this, the nuns, the orphanage, the memes, poverty, the stupidity of it, and why none of it made any sense. I constantly asked myself: why would God do this to us? What’s wrong with this world? I guess I was quite the heretic.

In looking back through the convolutions of crystalized time and slinky spirals of coincidences, truth is, if it weren’t for my ongoing Pirate Adventures, I never would have survived on this small blue spinning planet. Yet, here I am writing this story, doing my best to continue the legacy of Pirate Adventure-Hood bequeathed to me by my best orphanage friend, Reynolds.

Meanwhile, in my retirement I reside in a mountain cabin set amid the gorgeous undulating West Virginian Mountains. The nearest stop light is forty-five minutes away and, occasionally, I have to load my shotgun when the bears and coyotes get too close to my cabin for comfort.

I love to travel, but when I’m not on the road to somewhere, I can be found eating cashews, playing solitary and frequently staring outside, observing the ghosts of my youth. I also love kung fu, beautiful women and red wine – not necessarily in that order.

As for visiting ghosts and spirits and apparitions, some arrive in my dreams, others imagined, but most are real, and I’ve stopped trying to figure out the difference. Thus, visiting spirits no longer frighten; they are a part of me like the Pirate Adventures in my life.

In this project, I’m going to tell you a small part of my life story. I’ll start not at the beginning, but closer to the end of this story, when in two thousand and eleven, I was forced to retire (constructively retired) from my safe, comfortable federal job – all for my own good of course. I hadn’t planned to retire for ten years, but soon found myself exiting a federal building without a security badge. I felt discombobulated to say the least, because I had worn that federal security badge for most of my adult life.

This project took four years to write. All of my retirement lies are true. When I retired in two thousand and eleven, my life ended, meaning it started all over again. Where do I go? What do I do? I have learned that it’s hard to see where you’re going, if you forget the past. Meanwhile, after several fits and stutters and starts, and four years of ongoing writing, and re-arranging of notes, I arrived at a new literary and theatrical dangerous stage in my life – I stopped giving a shit. Not that I ever did care; but now, it’s whole lots less ‘shit’ than before.

Now, I rise like the phoenix from the ashes. As for that much sought-after wonderful federal security badge that I initially missed so much, in hindsight, I can see that it remains less a badge and more of a slave bracelet. As for enemies, both in the military and in the federal government, who were so hard on my family and me, I have a little gift of wisdom for you. As the nuns that raised me in the orphanage used to say: what goes around comes around. And it’s coming for you hypocrites and vipers. Just saying.

– Derrick

Part I

THE BETRAYAL

(Late August 2011)

I sat alone in the room sitting in a scarred beach chair in front of the agency’s Morale Officer. I was retiring. This was my last stop before turning in my security badge at the Security Office and my completed Out-Processing form to Perso nnel.

For now, I sat in the beach chair on the sixth floor watching a slightly unkempt gentleman eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The rusty beach chair had two duct taped legs. Clearly, the beach chair had seen better days. The office clock above my head no longer functioned. The hands were stuck in perpetuity reading eleven fifty-five – as the nuns that raised me used to say, a broken clock is correct twice a day.

Impatiently, I watch the agency’s Morale Officer licking his fingers while he crams a final crust of sandwich into his mouth, while he speaks to me at the same time.

You sure are ... unnn … one lucky dude. Yurrrrr … um… You’re retiring and you appear so young and healthy.

I nodded wondering why I had to see the Morale Officer before I could complete my Out-Processing. Also wondering if the guy was gay and hitting on me, as he was disgustingly licking is fingers again.

Well, you’re probably wondering why you have to see me before you finish Out-Processing. It’s easy, we like to perform an exit interview of all of our wonderful departing federal employees and get a gander on their likes and dislikes and opinions that might assist us in better retaining and harvesting the best employees.

I nodded while he took that opportunity to lick his fingers again.

Now, what I have here is a five question exit interview form. I’ll read the questions. They’re all straight forward and well intentioned. You answer and I’ll fill in the blanks on the questionnaire form. Actually, he laughed. The form has no blanks; I just circle the numbers and complete a comment section.

I nodded.

Let’s get going. On a range of one to five. With one being the lowest number and five being the highest number, during your tenure at our beloved federal agency, what would you rank your overall employee satisfaction?

Five.

Good, he announced. "I seldom hear anything different, but would you like to elaborate and tell me why you rated your employment experience so enthusiastically?

Well, our federal agency is the kindest, nicest, gentlest, most professional agency that I have ever worked in.

Awesome. Next question. On a range from one to five, with one being the lowest number and five being the highest number, during your tenure at our beloved federal agency, what would you rate your overall employee experience?

Umm, didn’t I just answer that one?

No, this is question number two. See, the first one was asking about your overall employee satisfaction. Question number two is questioning your overall employee experience.

I nodded. Five.

Would you like to explain why?

Well, our federal agency is the kindest, nicest, gentlest, most professional federal agency that I have ever worked for.

Good, on to the next question. On a range from one to five, with one being the lowest number and five being the highest number, during your tenure at our beloved federal agency, what would you rate the overall supervisory experience?

Five. This is because our supervisors are the nicest, gentlest, most professional federal agency supervisors that I have ever worked for.

Great. He displayed terrific enthusiasm for my comment and penned it slowly. We’re almost done. Only two more question.

I wanted to shoot myself in the foot to ease the mental pain, but only nodded politely as the moron before me continuously licked his fingers.

On a range from one to five, with one being the lowest number and five being the highest number, during your tenure at our beloved federal agency, what would you rate our customer’s satisfaction?

He has to be joking, I thought. We have customers? Five. That’s because our customers are the nicest, gentlest, most professional federal agency customers that I have ever worked for.

The Morale Officer beamed. Your exit interview is going fantastic. I can’t wait to incorporate your rankings and comments into our overall survey to be provided to the Secretary of the Agency at our next formal Morale Meeting.

I nodded.

The Morale Officer proceeded to awkwardly lick the last twinge of some jelly from his left wrist. I winced and waited.

Now, on a range from one to five – this isn’t too overwhelming is it, he asked.

I nodded no.

Okay, you’re doing fine. With one being the lowest number and five being the highest number, during your tenure at our beloved federal agency, what would you rate our customer’s overall experience interacting with our employees?

Four.

What, he exclaimed, pushing back from his desk. Really? I thought you loved working here.

I do. I do. Just joking. Five. Surely Five, as our customers always indicated that our employees are the nicest, gentlest, most professional employees they ever worked with.

He beamed. This one - this exit interview is bodacious and one for the ages. I am definitely going to read it out loud at the next Morale Meeting. The Secretary will love it. Everyone will.

By the way, I intruded, are you a movie watching kind of guy?

Sort of. Why do you ask?

Just wondering if you had ever seen the original The Manchurian Candidate the one with Frank Sinatra.

No, I’m not much on watching those antiquated movies that don’t have any special effects. But I do watch he responded with eyes glowing, all the reality tv shows. My favorite one, he confided leaning across his desk and whispering, is watching Dancing With the Elephants. I tape the show and then watch it over and over again, during my office lunch breaks only, of course. He winked. By the way, next week Dancing With the Elephants will include a sequence, where Marky Solarity attempts to hoist a three hundred pound woman over his head, while he dances on roller skates, skating around humongous pools of jello.

Red or Green? I asked.

What?

The pools of jello, are they red or green, and do they have canned fruit stuffed inside? I asked with a straight face.

Not sure, he replied seriously, but I can’t wait to watch that episode. I wonder who they will pick to be his partner?

Well, enjoy the show. I slid my Out-Processing form across the desk and watched him scrutinize it closely for the exact location of the Morale Officer box located at the very bottom of the form. He hastily initialed the box.

All done, he added with a flourishing smile. We stood up and shook hands.

Oh, by the way, he added. When you leave the building, be forewarned, there’s a Clitary Hilton protest planned for early this afternoon. Be careful; there are a lot of angry folks wearing four-starred armbands supporting her rally, and they’ve been a tad violent lately.

Umm, I thought, maybe he’s not a complete moron after all. I nodded affirmatively to his cautionary advice.

Clitary Hilton, a formerly failed presidential nominee for the All or Nothing Party had lost the long ago prior presidential election. Consequently, both she and her rabid supporters rallied in their extreme disappointment. They yelled, pounded their chests, began wearing four-starred armbands openly and gave news media outlets and pundits lots of fuel for boring summer afternoons.

Mulling over my exit, I would miss my job but not the people so much. Over the past six months, most of the office had turned against me: former friends openly mocked me; my first-line supervisor had taken to hiding my cases under her desk and pretending they were lost; my new Director forced me to have most of my work reviewed by other attorneys, claiming you’re slipping, Derrick, and I’m just trying to help you out. Needless to say, one insult after another humiliating incident occurred.

Sadly, in my first-line supervisor’s defense, I don’t believe she was originally a bad person, but I do believe she was on drugs. For the past year, her eyes seemed perpetually glazed with that intermittent possessed look. She also became very mean and, perhaps even worse, whenever I had need to enter her office, she commenced hissing at me, as if she had a demon inside of her. She scared the shit out of me. Everyone else said my first-line supervisor was simply taking pain medication. Right! Who was I to disagree? Meanwhile, all these evils are behind me now.

Only one more office to go, then I would be officially Out-Processed. Just had to turn in my security badge, get my papers initialed by Security, run down to Personnel, turn in the completed sheets and depart the agency’s premises with a smile on my retired face. Curiously, I looked down. Is that peanut butter on my wrist? Whereupon, I shivered and immediately required some boost to my own morale, walking efficiently to the nearest bathroom to wash the Morale Officer’s saliva off my wrist.

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Chapter One

(2012)

S hortly after my retirement, I traveled to Las Vega, the Bahamas, back to Vegas, to Florida, back to the Bahamas before finally settling on a slightly longer trip to New Zealand for three weeks. All of this meaning that my small pension fund became much smaller. Thus, in keeping with the primary law of the jungle, also known as the economic law of supply and demand, proprietary money started becoming a little tight.

Accordingly, to save money, I began cutting back on necessities, including the decision to not repair that sometimes small leak in my roof. In addition, I began meditating, chanting and praying for more money, which worked well for the emotional short term, until I realized that I was behaving more like a cargo cult member on a Pacific Ocean than a rational human being. Thus, so I stopped the chanting and continued the meditating and partying – I mean the praying for more money.

I figured things had to get better financially, mostly because they could not get any worse. And yes, I kept traveling. One has to do what one has to do. And if there’s one thing I love, it’s Pirate Adventures.

Along the way, an idea came to me. A humorously self-conceived proposal of sorts, that is, why don’t I author my very own How To Get Out Of Debt book. I had had a life-long relationship with debt. Who knew debt better than me? I was on public welfare before I learned to curse. Therefore, who was more qualified to author a ‘get out of debt book’ better or more wondrously than ME!

The plan formed. I’ll author this humorous book, a spoof book, on how to get out of debt, based on a series of disconnected events recorded in teenage angst diary fashion, setting forth circumstances miraculously and finally culminating in debt freedom. At least, after several glasses of red wine, this was the best plan I could devise, and I blame all of it on the red wine.

For example, did you ever notice how all of those how to find a job books are actually conceived and written by totally unemployed persons. They couldn’t find a job and decided to write a book on how you can now find a job – that they could never find. In comparison to those guys, I’m like the Thomas Edison on how to make easy money.

That’s how this project commenced one early September morning with the birds chirping in the background. For the record, I had recently discontinued use of cancer-causing agent pesticides, and the butterflies and songbirds started showing up to regale me daily in my mountain cabin retreat.

In looking back and in speeding ahead of myself, over many months a monster arose. I created a Frankenstein Monster. How to get out of debt ideas merged with ghosts and demons and Pirate Adventures. Not to be outdone, I did what I was trained to do; I just got back on the computer and kept typing and writing – with no clue where I was going or why, but no matter, what I’m going to show ‘em my guts, meaning I just kept writing. The nuns that raised me in the orphanage used to say, Derrick, you’re so late, you’re going to be late for your own funeral. And I keep writing. What goes around comes around. And I kept writing. You can bring a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink. And I kept writing.

Being Irish (in part), it comes to no surprise that alcohol and writing are not necessarily, poor or inconsistent bedfellows; one thing you learn, after sobering up of course, is that alcohol can jump start boring shit, and so I kept writing and writing. Something. Anything. It was also a good excuse to continue drinking red wine, but in a pinch white wine, beer or rum would do. But I digress.

During my writing, I intended to figure out ways, means, methods and devices for we debt persons to kick ass and get out of debt pronto, or maybe in six months or just learn how to kick the debt bomb further down the road, like the politicians do. Unfortunately, the politicians get to print meaningless empty high value federal currency bills not backed by gold or anything in particular. But other than that, kicking the debt bomb amiably down the yellow brick road is always a financial option, a horribly irresponsible financial option, but a viable financial option just the same – at least for now – and therefore, I include it here. As we used to say in the orphanage: avoid the June rush, flunk out now. Thus, avoid the creditor rush, get out of debt now!

In writing, as with any dubious artistic endeavor, if one can call it that, thoughts do occur, insights take place and people spring into view in full 3-D, but without the Hollywood Movie sunglasses of course. Accordingly, it comes to no surprise, that while I am typing, my mother comes to mind. She appears young and spry and not suffering from the wasting disease that took her life.

In my mind’s eye, Mom appears smarter and nicer. All of this manifest from my imagination of course. In reality, while my mother was quite an attractive woman by any measure of the game, she also suffered from brain damage inflicted at birth due to a batched delivery.

Physically, my mother was gorgeous ... with dark beautiful almond deep obsidian black hair and eyes. Her skin did not so much shine olive but reflected light as if the sheen was just underneath the topmost layers of a Middle Eastern or Spanish looking complexion, which is now all the rage – thank you Latino Soap Operas.

All the evidence indicates that the birthing hospital, apparently in an effort to hide its botched delivery, switched two babies at birth. They handed the wonderful healthy nice peasant blond blue-eyed baby boy to the rich (possible Jewish), and the misguided hospital staff handed the botched delivery child (my mother) to the poor peasant lady, who didn’t own a pot to piss in. Naturally, my maternal peasant grandmother figured it all out rather quickly; she took one look at the dark eyed baby girl, handed my mother back to the nurse and announced emphatically: I didn’t have a baby girl. I had a baby boy. The doctors intervened quickly, shoved my mother back into the peasant woman’s arms, and the rest is history. My history.

Thereafter raised in the middle of a blue-eyed blond family, my mother’s took pain to disown her, treating her in perpetuity like the castoff, botched delivery, brain damaged child that she truly was.

My grandparents allowed my mother to live with them. They raised my mom but threw her crumbs. Somehow, as her siblings died from the plague, infections and lack of antibiotics, somehow, my mother survived. She had amazing genes. But due to the oxygen deprivation and brain damage inflicted at birth, she never flourished. Come one marvelous day, my mom met this rather dashing handsome young man, also known as my dad, who was Irish through and through. He fell for the dark eyed beauty. My mom. And for a short while, they were happy, until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and my dad went to live and fight in Burma and India for three plus years during World War II. My dad returned, bat shit crazy and all, with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that was diagnosed as severe alcoholism and then he and my mom started the Irish Tradition of popping out as many babies as they could without regard to amount of food actually on the table. I was born. The fifth of eleven. Food was scarce but dad had a job. In those early days, I didn’t know we were poor. I was happy. I met Tommie the frog. But that was a long time ago.

Here I am, musing these words, trying to figure out how to shred a credit card. Not just any card, but my Airline Miles Silver Credit Card. Holding it reminds me of my debt imprisonment. I must defeat this card! David has to defeat Goliath!

I have to be able to go to sleep without cringing about tomorrow’s debt. In my financial chaos, I mentally envision holding up the debtor prison Silver credit card high over my head like a lantern lighting a darkened tunnel, and laughing and mocking it hysterically, I shred that son-of-a-bitch credit card just like I’m shredding mozzarella cheese – all without eating the credit card.

Imagining myself as this new David defeating Debt Goliath, I pause to eat two whole handfuls of M&Ms with peanuts, which my health and life coach has advised is