No Witty Title Today

Today's post is kind of messed up. I'm not going to bother trying to fluff it.

My first blackout drunk: Also known as “The Tools of a Pedophile”.

It’s rather funny, to me at least, having been where I’ve been, that I only know (as in this moment) realize the tools of a pedophile. Allow me to elaborate. I was at “some guy’s house” and that’s about as clearly as I remember it. I know the building, I remember the apartment floor, I remember the guy’s first name, I even remember the Turkey Hill Iced Tea tasting funny. After that, it gets hazy. I think the person in reference may have been a friend or acquaintance of my oldest brother, but I’m certainly not laying any blame at his feet. I, as most younger brothers do, (even warring ones) always tried to horn in on any fun and friendships that my older brothers had. Even if I didn’t know a lick about the person, they were instantly cooler as they were friends with older brothers.
This person should have set off flags right away, but meh, as a kid, what do you know. I remember feeling uneasy around them, which was unusual, as I was such a beggar urchin that I’d latch on to anyone who’d spare a quarter or a slice of bread. I remember being alone at the apartment that day, I was 7, they were somewhere between 16 and 19. Essentially, what I remember was drinking the hell out of some iced tea and then feeling dizzy. Fortunately, I had the wherewithal to get out of the situation (a drunk 7 year old can actually make decisions, who knew). I remember getting on my (stolen) bike and riding 4 or 5 blocks before the “tea” overcame me. I’d arrived at one of the local parks that held summertime activities for kids and just puking my guts out into the 55 gallon metal trash can that the park had. I don’t know how long I was sick, but it seemed to go on for ever. Once I was done, I simply collapsed, and passed out.

The next thing I remember, I’m waking up in a basement, on wrestling mats and this super adorable chubby guy with serious facial scruff is leaning over me checking to make sure that i’m A: still breathing, and B: who my parents are. This basement turned out to be the Columbia Community Center which would later go on to become the Columbia Boys and Girls Club, and I would in my teen years spend a Lot of time here. Also, the actual concern that I felt radiating from my wooly saviour that day would go on to influence many of my likes in guys for years to come, though, not necessarily for the right reasons. I don’t even recall if the police got involved with a drunk seven year old riding a stolen bike or not. Columbia at that time certainly wasn’t known for the efficiency of it’s law enforcement, especially where my family was concerned.

So, that in a nutshell was my first (but not last) encounter with being black out drunk, my first, but not last encounter with a (potential) pedophile and certainly not my last encounter with “Columbia’s Finest”.