So. I have long been a man who prides myself on my abilities to cope with what Life serves me. I bitch and whine and complain about whatever shit it is—maybe rant a bit and break a few things—and then I accept whatever it is, and move on. I imagine that if the people close to me were to describe my one good character trait it would be that, “Mooner can handle his shit.”
While I’m highly emotional and deeply involved with Life, I don’t allow myself to be controlled by Life’s misfortunes. In my entire life, I’ve only been out of control twice. The first was when I was thirteen and had been raped by my Boy Scout Leader. That incident controlled my mind and body for several years. I didn’t know I had ADHD back then, I only knew that I was “a disruptive little shit”, and I went through what I now know was a total mental blockage of the terrible events. I was a miserable human being before I found ways to deal with it, and move on.
The second time was of a far shorter duration back to college, when Streaker Jones imported his first Sweat Toad breeding pairs. Never one to research things too deeply, I gave each of the six toadies a big slurp. Yeppers, I licked each one like a Dream Sickle—bottom-to-top, front and back sides both.
Those amphibians are ugly fucking things that taste like a donkey’s ass. And one big sloppy slurp from a sexually active toad’s skin is an overdose, as a typical dose of toad sweat is a small flake of their dried ooze. I was a sick sumbitch for a week and hallucinated enough for a lifetime. Mind altering drugs are my life, but that week I was totally out of control.
Each of those two occurrences were more than forty years ago. In all of this time I have always been as in control as I can be. Until Saturday night. I was watching Kansas State dismantle my Texas Longhorns football team—and with twenty-something seconds left in the game—I lost it.
My ADHD has been in overdrive for a few days because I can’t sleep well. My shoulders and knees and elbows and back ache so much from house painting that I can’t get comfortable in any position. While the ADD part of my malady is always active, it’s when I’m physically inactive that it begins running through its gears to eventually reach warp speed.
Naturally-occurring chemical compounds are my best methods for controlling my spinning thoughts. My Gram’s magic mushroom potions work best. But I ran out and the new shipment didn’t arrive on Friday because I didn’t hear the UPS guy at the front door. We were painting in the back of the house so I didn’t hear the doorbell.
Anyway, my ADHD had my head spinning and my football team looked worse than Tennessee. I was watching the stupid game, as I languished on the sofa in an attempt to be comfortable while watching my football team blow another contest, when I heard my computer’s Email pinger announce that I had a new Email. Disgusted with the Longhorns, I got up and staggered to the office to find that Google News Finder, or whateverthefuck they call that informational search and announcement dealie, had a news article for me.
I clicked onto the link to discover that new evidence was released showing the Boy Scouts of America had intentionally not screened for sexual predators in the face of public and private pressures to do so, and that their cover up of the problems continued for decades. As I read the story, the room closed in on me concussively—like I was in a pressure chamber to shrink my head. My thoughts swirled for an instant and then fully focused on the Boy Scouts.
“Mother fucker,” I whispered at reading the last words.
“Mother fucker!” louder the second time, the anger starting to re expand my skull.
“MOTHER FUCKER!!!” I screamed, and I lifted my computer desk and slammed it against the wall.
I was screaming “Motherfucker!” and slamming around the office like a madman. No, that’s not right. I was throwing a temper tantrum like a petulant child—ripping and breaking the office—and I was crying.
The Squirt came running into the room—eyes giant with her fright. “?Que pasa, Bwana Mooner? Es tu OK, big guy?”
The adorable brown puppy slinked to my side and faced my fury head-on. “Bad news, boss man?” she asked.
I ripped the handful of papers gripped in my fists and just dropped them, my anger spent. I plopped onto the floor to cry. I cried.
When I awoke in the middle of the night, I was lying on the hardwood floor with the Squirt sitting next to me and Yoda the goat dog had somehow managed to slip inside the hem of my XXX-sized UT Longhorn sweatshirt. It was Yoda’s dog breath venting through the sweat shirt’s collar that woke me up.
“You OK?” Squirt asked—her brown eyes full of love and concern.
I focused my eyes and surveyed the small patch of office floor in my limited sight line. “Looks like I was pretty pissed, huh?”
“Never seen you like that,” the diminutive miniature dog told me. “Never want to see it again.”
“Not a pretty sight, I guess. I think I need some psycho therapy.”
The dogs and I spent most of yesterday cleaning the office and looking for the fucking cat. Honor has been AWOL for almost a week this time, and post tantrum I was feeling morose about her absence.
“Fuck it, guys, I’ll spring for a whole salmon for dinner and we’ll set the carcass out back. That’ll bring her home if anything will.”
We went grocery shopping—me newly hobbled by an aching hip courtesy of a night spent sleeping on a hardwood floor—came home and filleted the five-pound fish we got. We took the complete head and salmon skeleton to the back yard where we ceremoniously laid it on Honor’s food rock. The fucking cat likes us to serve her dinners atop this big, flat river rock.
“Here, kitty-kitty, it’s your favorite salmon din-nie!” I called.
“Here, Kitty…” was all I got out when we heard a, “Meow!!!” from the little shed at the back of the property.
“Whatthefuck?” Squirt said, “is she locked in the shed?”
“Uh, ah… Oops.”
That was me. I had been out to the shed last Saturday to get some old papers and that fucking cat was bugging me for a fish. She was mewling and mawing and rubbing herself against my bare legs. The weather has been great and I was wearing shorts in the crisp, dry 60-degree air. Her hair was rubbing off and sticking to my legs with the static electricity. That pissed me off and I shooed her off as I twisted myself to get inside the file cabinet way to the back of the shed.
“I, uh, well, ah, I must have locked her into the shed,” I admitted.
Cat’s out, cat shit filled with mouse fur and bones cleaned up from the shed, and last I saw her Honor was hissing and spitting at a neighbor’s cat over her salmon bones.
“Interesting weekend, shithead,” the Squirt told me as we sat to watch Dexter last night.
“Yes it was, sweetie pie. Interesting, indeed.”