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From: lindseyk_ca@yahoo.ca (lindsey K)
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Subject: {ASSM} Slightly Fictionalized Autobiography Lindsey K  Ch.1 and 2 (reluctant AB, diaper discipline)
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Date: Sun, 10 Oct 2004 11:10:02 -0400
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The Uncommon Life of Lindsey K. 
a slightly fictionalized autobiography - believe what you will) 

                                  Forward
                                 (Preamble)

I met Lindsey through my agent a few months ago. He had read one of my
books - he didn't like it mind you, and was not afraid to tell me this
- but wrote to me because he thought I had a generous, sympathetic
tone and he figured he could talk to me.

He wrote a twenty some odd page hand-written letter on this ridiculous
Winnie the Pooh stationary in pencil crayon, explaining to me his
plight. H emailed it to my publisher where it was then sent to my
agent, who in turn, handed it over to me. The letter was brutally
honest, so much in fact, that at times reading I found myself cringing
at what he was telling me about himself. I was moved by the poignancy
of it. I was impressed by his ability to keep a sense of humor. He
just wanted someone to talk to. I decided that I would try to help.

I have since discovered from my colleagues that a number of them
either had similar letters from Lindsey, or knew of others who did. It
seems I was conned. Nonetheless, I still continued to believe what he
told me in the letter and agreed to help however I could. I am trying
to get him to focus his attention on writing. He has some talent, I
think. It needs to be nurtured a bit, and well, he does seem to have a
lot of spare time on his hands.

Lindsey is a 29 year old man, trapped in the body of an eight year
old. Mind you, I have never met him face to face, nor have never seen
a picture of him, but I believe him. Working with words for a living,
you get pretty good at detecting truth from fiction and in my
estimation, he is speaking the truth.

Lindsey in his past, has participated in the less than noble
profession of a con-artistry, playing on the maternal urges of women
to get them to support him financially. Two years ago, his Aunt
Claire, an Amazonian Lawyer (his description), put a stop to all of
this taking over legal guardianship of him. I am not exactly sure how
she can do this - by what letter of the law this is possible, but I am
not a lawyer so I will have to trust him on it.

His Aunt keeps him sheltered from the real world and treats him as a
child. When I asked him why she would do this, he simply replied,
"She's Evil, that's why. I thought I made that clear, Dude." He claims
that she revels in humiliating and controlling him this way. I only
have his side of the story, so who knows. Nevertheless, I have never
been comfortable with the notion that someone could be simply "evil".
Even if he is unable to see it, I think that she is less black and
white than that. I am sensing a gray, a dark gray that in the darkness
of Lindsey's current world, cannot be recognized as anything but
black. I think she cares about him on some level, and in some small
way, believes she is doing the right thing. But, then again, I have
never met her either so who knows. She is a lawyer after all.

So, from inside the bowels of the Victorian mansion/law offices in
Ontario where he now resides as a child, Lindsey is trying to reach
out to the real world. I am not sure he even likes writing about his
life much, but the idea that if he could get a book published and
could make some income is motivation enough. His hope is that he might
be able to free himself from his Aunt's bunny-patterned fleece
shackles and get his life back.

If I can help him do that, all the better, 

Milo Ambrose 

-----------

                                  Author's Note: 

The author will fully admit that portions of this auto-biography have
been slightly fictionalized for artistic purposes. The author however
refuses to hold the reader's hand through the reading process and tell
you what these portions are. You are all adults (I assume - you better
be) and can take care of yourself. If you have doubts about what I am
telling you, by all means feel free to fact-check if it makes you feel
better (ahem, anal retentive, cough cough). Like I said, its not all
true. I will suggest though, that much of what you may think is
bordering "flights of fancy", may in fact surprise you to learn, is
true. For instance, you may doubt that Mazda ever produced a 1994 626
sedan in blue with faux leather finish on the dash, and you would be
wrong. On the other hand, the highway up to Tofino on the west coast
of Vancouver Island British Columbia does in fact have guard rails to
prevent a are from plummeting down the rocky crags (they were left out
to introduce a feeling of danger - did it work?).

Nothing in this tale contains overtly icky illegal junk. There is no
improper acts between adults and minors or anything like that. The
only crimes I might be guilty of are those of over-indulgent emotional
exhibitionism and bad taste. Legal council has assured me, however
that these are misdemeanors and that I should not be that concerned.

Please feel free to address your concerns, compliments, unbridled
praise etc. by e-mail to the following address: lindseyk_ca@yahoo.ca .
Include a return mailing address and I will send along, as my gift to
you, a beautiful gift basket of assorted cheeses from around the
world.* Try the Gambozola - its to die for! If for some reason you do
not get a reply right away from me, it may mean that Aunt Claire has
figured things out and she has changed the Net Nanny password, in
which case, please resend the e-mail to Milo (a friend on the outside)
miloambrose@sympatico.ca and he will find a way to get it to me.
Thanks and enjoy.

* You don't really think I am serious do you? 



1: Where there is a will.... 

There I am, you can sort of see me, or at least the tuft of blonde
hair over the dashboard. That's me next to my friend Tanya who is
driving. I am describing Tanya as my friend because I am still wildly
optimistic, bordering on delusional. She is all kinds of pissed at me.
We are done - that is what she is telling me, mind you she has said
this before. This time though I think she means it. I feel kinda bad
about it. I mean, I have kind of been a prick.

Tanya is taking me to my Grandma's will reading. She didn't have to do
this but my Aunt Claire asked her to, and I believe (I am not sure,
not being privy to that phone conversation, but it was quite lengthy
for two strangers to have) that Tanya has been assured that this will
be the last favour she ever has to do for me. I believe she has been
assured that I will be forever removed from her life. I have been
sleeping on her couch for three months now - she would have tossed me
out but I had no place to go - my prospects having dried up in this
town. I went to the watering hole, one too many times, I guess.

So you are thinking, "Must be a damn big car," or maybe, "Why is he
slunk down - is he hiding from someone?" These are both very good
questions and you should, if you were to have asked them, be commended
as it is obvious you are paying attention. Actually though, neither is
true. It is a Blue 94 Mazda 626, standard size, and I am sitting up
right in my seat. You see, I am just very small.

To look at me, you would think I was about eight years old - a chubby,
cherubic-faced, big-blue-eyed, blond-haired eight year old (girl/boy
take your pick - my hair is kind of long right now, mostly due to
negligence on my part). I wish I could give you a sob story about how
I had kidney failure and my body refused to produce enough growth
hormones, or how my mom was ravaged by midgets, or something like
that, but the truth is, there is no real reason for my diminutive
stature. I am just small, have always been small. For some reason I
stopped growing at the age of twelve and look pretty much the way I
did then. At twelve I looked about eight. At twenty eight, I look
about eight. This may not have been the case if I had not been given
growth hormones at the onset of puberty. My body refused them, in fact
my body stopped producing natural ones as well as a result, perhaps in
righteous indignation. I don't know why, so don't ask me. I am not
exactly an amateur endocrinologist or anything. They tried everything:
testosterone based hormones, estrogen based ones, none really worked
but it sure the hell screwed up my system. Now that I am a little
older and a little pudgier (I have that fetching Bilbo Baggins
physique) I have annoying fat deposits on my, um, well I got...damn it
all, I got little boobies, alright? I am not exactly proud of it, in
fact, I try to make sure not to wear thin t-shirts or anything. If you
try and get my shirt off me in public, I will bite right through your
hand, I swear.

So anyway, that's me, all of four foot one, roly-poly, squeaky voiced
pre-pubescent 28 year old with, you know... those "things", and I am
sitting in the car, my feet dangling six inches above the car mat on
the floor, and I have a beautiful view of the dashboard. Nice...is this
faux leather?

I am doing all the talking, which is not much. Tanya is doing all the
telling me to shut up. Did I mention she's pissed? We used to be an
item you know. Well, not really a hot-to-trot steamy romance, but we
were once close (as close as one can get to 20-something guy with the
body of a zero-something). I'd sit on her lap, she would cuddle me and
I would make her laugh, we'd smootch a bit, she'd tickle me, I'd
nearly wet my pants, she'd stop and apologize, and well, that was
about it. But for me, that was pretty racy.

I have been considerably more sexual with other women - this is partly
why she is pissed at me - she found out a bit about my past. When she
confronted me on it, it was one of those one-sided conversations that
started with her saying, "I can't believe it, after all I have done
for you...." and went down hill from there. She new I was a little
con-artist, a little grifter, but she never really knew how far I took
it. When she found out (thanks Aunt Claire - you're a peach) she was
somewhat disgusted with me, the sight of me, the smell of me, the
sound of me. The mere essence of me was enough to give her the
"heeby-jeebies." And you know, I can't really blame her. Like I said,
I have been a prick. Maybe I was just compensating for my less than
noble endowment by being a four foot one walking talking phallus.

So what is my grift? Well it is mostly emotional - I don't empty
hapless people's bank accounts and run up their credit cards (to a
great extent anyway). Much of my con is emotional - I am a womanizer
of an uncommon sort. I don't seek out women as paramours as much as
caregivers. I am kind of a "mommy-izer." My goal is not sexual
gratification (although sometimes there can be a little of that). My
goal is not financial profit. My motive is simply to be taken care of,
and the financial maintenance that comes from that. A place to live,
food to eat, clothes bought for me, sympathy and nurturing. I don't
have extravagant tastes.

Over the years I have learned who my idea marks are. Women are
amazingly caring and giving creatures for the most part. They have
incredible capacity for sympathy and many have an inbred need on some
genetic level to nurture. That need can be triggered by making oneself
helpless and needy - much like a child, stray kitten or puppy etc. I
find that (pardon my opportunistic nature) women who have self-esteem
issues are easier to swoon for sympathy and easier to trigger their
maternal nature. It makes them feel that they have a purpose, a sense
and it makes them feel good about themselves. How can I be blamed for
profiting from that? I mean, really, in a way I am doing a good deed.
I am making them feel good and improving their sense of self-worth -
at least until I wear out my welcome.

How do I do this? My goodness, you ask a lot of good questions. You're
inquisitive nature intrigues me... Well, for one, I have the equipment
to start - just look at me. How can I be blamed for taking advantage
of what life has provided me. Added to my youthful and diminutive
appearance, I have adopted and perfected a humble, self-deprecating
sense of humour that induces heartfelt "awwws" and sympathy. Then, the
invention, or at least exaggeration of, a tragic upbringing while
still portraying, beyond all this, a good attitude helps a lot to. Add
the creation of unforeseen circumstances of pathetic need, weighty
sighs and doe-eyed sadness and you find women wanting to take care of
you, no matter how much you feign resistance. It has worked for me for
years.


Recipe for tragic childhood: 

1 physical handicap (ie. - abnormally small and young looking) 

1 dead mother (cancer) 

1 whole troubled public school career 

1 evil "mommy dearest"-type aunt (as guardian) 

1 or 2 embarrassing medical conditions (by taste) 

1 handful of humiliating anecdotes sprinkled generously on top 


To be served with the appearance of a naive enduring human spirit,
over time, in small portions so as to extend your dining experience.

Now I am not a stickler, I have played around with this recipe on
occasion depending on who I am cooking it for. Its all a matter of
personal taste. Tanya for one, never acquired a taste for it - she
figured out my game pretty early on, and yet (which is a testament her
how truly amazing she is) still tried to help (the real kind: help me
help myself - yuck), and extended to me the plump but beautiful hand
of friendship. I really do feel bad for screwing her over so many
times.

By the time I had sized up the pretty, heavy-set woman at the mall
that would soon be known to me as Tanya, I was already an old pro at
the confidence game. I was 25 and had been doing it
semi-professionally since I was 20. I used the "spilled milk maneuver"
if I remember correctly.


The "spilled milk maneuver" 

The spilled milk maneuver generally works this way: 

Walking along the mall looking at the floor carrying a little,
personal sized carton of milk I accidentally (purposely) walked right
into my target, falling to the ground and spilling the milk on me. As
planned, the woman would, of course, pick me up, ask me if I was okay,
help clean me up in a motherly way and ask why wasn't I looking where
I was going. Of course the answer is, "It's embarrassing, I dropped a
quarter out here somewhere, need it for the bus, my land lady is going
to kill me if she has to pick me up again..." She would of course offer
a quarter and I would thank her, when she would inevitably ask why
someone as young as me was at the mall myself and taking the bus, and
well....we would start talking - the story about my real age, and how I
was on the verge of being homeless because the mean woman my Aunt
arranged to let me stay in their basement was kicking me out because I
accidentally let her cat escape one too many times or whatever
transgression I was partial to at the time - bla bla bla. She'd buy me
milk and we would talk and next think I would know, I was staying on
her couch or spare bed. That easy.



Within a day or so Tanya was on to me and seemed intent on helping me
grow up and take responsibility for myself. Most of the women who have
taken care of me over the years had little interest in my
self-sufficiency. In fact most would fight against it because that
made what they were doing redundant. By the time I had worn out my
welcome they had usually changed their minds on that though. Tanya was
different and her genuine concern and tough love made her special to
me, even if it was often a lot of work.

She paid for me to see a therapist a few times, she tried to find me
jobs, she even tried to help me patch things up with my strict grandma
and my evil Aunt Claire of whom I had spoken chilling stories of. She
helped me "build a bridge of forgiveness" or some such crap. It didn't
go well, but I did it because she wanted me to. Like I said, Tanya was
special.

But old habits are hard to break and this self-improvement stuff Tanya
was feeding me was tough to swallow sometimes. I would slip in and out
of her life and her home while her good graces held out. I would
pretend to go to job interviews and hang out at the mall looking for
new marks. Then one day I would disappear from her life for months at
a time. Why she even took me back the last time, I don't know - but I
sense this is at an end. I heard her on the phone talking to
locksmiths - that cannot be good.

We are about, oh, an hour out of the popular vacation destination on
Vancouver Island , BC called Tofino. It is at the mouth of the famous
Clayquot Sound in Pacific Rim National Park , which, for those who
don't know, means it's very pretty - mountains, trees, long sandy
beaches intermingled with volcanic rock. The people who live there are
a weird mixture of artists, hippies, surfers and venture capitalists.
Grandma was none of these, she inherited her cottage from her late
husband who I would call Grandpa except he died before I was born. He
left her very comfortable, financially speaking.

The road we are on is winding all over the place, side to side, up and
down through a mountain pass. The road drops off hundreds of feet
below us with nary a guard rail to save our life. It's a treacherous
road and I should let Tanya concentrate on driving, but I have to ask.

"Tanya?" 

"Shut up." 

This is what most of our conversation has been during the last four
hours from Victoria . She is not in a chatty mood.

She seems to think I grift because it is easy - but to tell you the
truth, its not. It's stressful, and at times I have to go to great
lengths to get what I want. It is amazing the kind of humiliations I
have to subject myself to. I have my "just on the verge of tears" look
down pretty good, but I have to build up to it. I am a method actor, I
have to think of sad things, like my mom. I have to tell embarrassing
stories about how my Aunt Claire used to punish me for the slightest
thing. I tell how I had a problem wetting the bed as a kid and she
would punish me for it by making me wear diapers in public into my
late teens. I would tell how my Aunt Claire, for "attitude correction"
would almost revel in dressing me up in girls clothes, sometimes
presenting me to her friends this way when they would come over to
play bridge. I would tell how she had me sleep in a crib until I was
17 so she didn't have to worry about me getting up at night. This is
very humiliating.

It would be even more embarrassing and emotionally taxing if any of it
where true. There is some truth to these stories, but I tend to
exaggerate, a lot.

For instance, although Aunt Claire is evil, and she is, she never
raised me. My grandma did a couple years when my mom was sick, when I
was about twelve. Grandma was not evil, but she was strict. I did have
a bedwetting problem and she was annoyed by this and suggested it
would be easier some times to have me wear diapers to bed, but never
did anything about it. She did once when I was living with her, put
one of my Aunt Claire's old dresses on me, but only because I was
helping her with the baking and it was just over my clothes sort of
like a smock apron. It was for the purpose of functionality rather
than to humiliate me into submission as I would later suggest.

My mother did die of Cancer mind you, and this was very painful for
me, but it did not happen until I was 20. When she passed away I got
just a little over thirty thousand dollars from her inheritance. I
used it between grifts to get by. I have only just recently run
through it all, as marks have been slim pickin's lately. I need to
change cities, I think.

I have had to do some pretty bad things to live this lifestyle, things
I am almost too ashamed of to even mention here (which must be bad
considering how transparent I am being). There was a woman a year ago,
nice woman named Brenda. Our time together was nearing an end, only I
hadn't figured out what to do if she threw me out. Until I could
formulate a plan, I needed to buy some more time by ...(oh, this is all
kinds of bad)... intentionally wetting her bed. When I went to her room
I had tears in my eyes. When she got understandably upset, I cowered
in tears and said, "It was an accident, please don't punish me, I am
sorry, I am sorry!" which book-ended nicely the story I told her about
how my Aunt used to punish me for accidents. She of course felt very
bad for me and I was there an extra month as a result. When she did
kick me out, I had no money and went back to see Tanya. I have been
with her since.

Occasionally you get hooked up with a real nut-burger of a woman. To
illustrate I will offer Nora. By all appearances, Nora appeared to be
a pleasant, well groomed woman in her late fifties, kind of sweet
grandmotherly in nature. I did the "swinging door maneuver," which
basically is me standing at exactly the wrong (right) place when she
is opening a door, and pretending to have the door hit me, followed by
me hitting the floor. Nora bought it hook, line and sinker, in fact, a
little too well. I gave her the hard luck story about how the lady my
Aunt sent to to go live with was a tyrant who forced me to do chores
at all hours of the day and when I didn't do a good job, she would
lock me in the garage over night.

"Well dear, I won't be sending you back there," Nora said and took me
home with her. Easiest mark ever - I barely tried.

She seemed pretty normal for the first day or so, but quite religious.
The longer I stayed, however, the creepier she got. Now she never
really spoke to me in a manner befitting my age, which I told her was
26, but I took that just to be her grandmotherly way. The longer I
stayed with her, however, the more she talked to me and treated me
like a small child. When I appeared to start to challenge her on this,
she would get very upset, almost violently upset, followed by fits of
headaches and dizziness. This I figured explained the massive
collection of pill bottles in her medicine cabinet.

Things got worse... 

She started to distrust me and wouldn't let me go hardly anywhere
without her at her side. She would prepare my meals, cutting my meat
for me. I have dealt with religious women before, but she was a bit
goofy about it. She would give me daily sermons of bible stories and
quiz me on them. We would pray and sing hymns at the table and before
bed - she was out to save my dirty agnostic soul. If I cursed she
would flip out on me and threaten to wash my mouth out with soap - I
remind you, I was twenty six at the time, and she knew that.

After a couple weeks of this, I had had enough and crept out of my
room one night and almost got to the front door with my things before
she dragged me back in. After that she locked me in my room at night.
I was scared I might never escape this woman.

One day she took me out to the mall shopping, holding my hand the
whole time. She was picking out these outfits fit for a five year old,
which she thought were adorable. When she was paying for them, she
took her hand back from mine to open her purse. I saw my opening and I
was gone.

Like I said, its not exactly an easy life. 

"Tanya?" I ask again. 

"Shut up." 

Hmmm. Maybe not yet. 

So, I was on my way to my Grandmother's will reading. I missed the
funeral as Aunt Claire had a hard time tracking me down in time.
Supposedly my Aunt hired a detective to track my recent travels and
eventually found me at Tanya's. I had not seen either Grandma or Aunt
Claire in nearly three years. That was back when I attempted, for
Tanya, my little "bridge of forgiveness" exercise. It went badly. Lots
of hard feeling there still. I nearly had to make a dash for the door.

You see, I was not exactly Grandma's favourite. As a result I am not
expecting a huge wind fall today. In fact, compared to Aunt Claire,
the "Uber-Daughter", I was a big disappointment. I never made much of
myself and I barely graduated high school. After high school, Grandma
lent me money for business school (not my idea) and I kind of flunked
out. Even after I got the money from my Mom's life insurance, I never
paid her back. Add this to the suspicion that I was up to no good in
Victoria , and in her eyes, I was a family embarrassment.

Aunt Claire is the executor of the will - she's a lawyer and probably
drafted it herself. She and I have always had a rather tempestuous
relationship and, oh yes, did I mention she is evil? I am thinking my
chances are pretty slim that I am leaving with anything more than bus
fare back to Victoria

So what is it about Aunt Claire that I despise so much? Why is it her
name I attribute to all the horrible stories of my childhood? Well,
you see, Aunt Claire and I never got along well, or at least I never
got along well with her. She is three tears younger than I am. Grandma
adopted her when I was just a baby, making her my Aunt. Just as I am a
little freak of nature, Aunt Claire could fit that category as well,
although her freakishness is monstrous. Last time I saw her, she was
six foot four and three hundred-something pounds. She's been that big
pretty much since she was sixteen. She is what people would consider
Amazonian in stature and is an intimidating figure. Add to the fact
that she is a frickin' genius and she is one scary individual. Her IQ
when she was tested in grade school was 184, no lie. I snuck in at 118
I think.

I'll take you on a little walk through our family photo gallery so you
get an idea of what she was like to me.

Picture one (this photo is not only for demonstration purposes, it
actually exists in a photo album somewhere):

There are two little girls playing tea party in front of a decorated
Christmas tree. The bigger of the two girls looks to be about eight or
so and is grinning widely for the camera, a real ham. The smaller girl
looks to be about four and is embarrassed as all hell, wearing a dress
that is too big for her. Guess who the little girl was? She made me do
it, I was eight that year, she was five, and not only bigger than me,
but obviously showing signs that she was much smarter. If I remember
correctly she used a combination of intimidation and blackmail to
achieve her wicked ends, and well, I had no choice at the time to give
in. Grandma walked in on us and thought it was so hilarious she took a
picture of us.


Picture two (another picture that exists somewhere): 

Christmas again, a year later. Claire has moved on from tea parties
and has introduced to me a new game to play called "house", in which
she was a "Mommy" and, because of my size of course, I was "the baby."
She pinned a make-shift diaper over my pants out of a hand towel and
got very upset if I did not play by the rules, which of course where
hers. I think they went like: Babies don't talk, they "goo goo,"
babies don't walk, they crawl, stuff like that. At one point she goes
downstairs to ask Grandma if there was a baby bottle around she could
use. Grandma asked why and she told her that the little plastic bottle
from her doll doesn't fill with water and she is playing house.
Grandma gave her a bottle filled with water and then came to
investigate. She found me on the floor, towel pinned to me and being
fed a bottle. Again with the camera.


Picture three (there is no photographic evidence of this, thank god): 

I am twelve and living at my Grandma's while my mom is sick. Claire is
nine. I am dwarfed next to her by this time. She was five and a half
feet tall, I was about four foot even then. This is a couple days
after Claire walked in to the bathroom when Grandma was giving me a
bath (yes she did that at twelve, no snickering please). Claire seemed
a little fascinated by what she saw.

It is a spring day and she says I have to go to the park with her. By
this time I have pretty much given up on arguing with her. In fact,
when grandma had to leave us alone, she always left Claire in charge,
because, in most ways, although only nine, she was an exceptionally
bright and mature nine year old. I, on the other hand was a less than
exceptionally mature twelve year old in her eyes. Did I mention Claire
was her favourite?

Anyway, it is a spring day and we are going to the park. Her friend
shows up, and the three of us go to the bushes. The girl gives Claire
five dollars and Claire tells me to drop my pants. I say no, there was
some threatening, and next thing I knew I was standing there, pants
and underwear around my ankles. It seemed that Claire, fascinated by
what she saw in the tub that day told her friend who was curious about
it. Claire offered a demonstration for the price of five dollars. "Its
just like real boys, only smaller." Claire explained in a clinical
tone, as if she was teaching a class.



So is it any wonder I attributed my exaggerated and invented childhood
traumas to Aunt Claire? It makes sense to me, she is horrible. Not to
mention the fact that she has always made me look terribly bad by
comparison. See chart below:

Claire: 

- Straight A Student 

- Student Council Grade 11, Prime Minister Grade 12 

- Winner of numerous provincial academic awards. 

- Provincial girls high school wrestling champion three years running.

- Graduated at the age of 15. 

- Got her Paralegal degree by the age of 19 

- Graduated from the bar at the age of 23 

- Last I heard works in corporate law for one of the most prestigious
law firms in the country.



Me: 

- Average to below average student 

- Never participated in school clubs or organizations 

- Won no academic awards 

- Was dreadful at sports and excused from PE due to bad heart and
asthma

- Barely graduated at 18 

- Flunked out of business school after first term at 19 

- Have nothing to show for my life the last ten years except an empty
bank account and a very angry ex-friend who is in the drivers seat
next to me.



Which reminds me. 

"Tanya?" 

"Shut up," 

"But Tanya, please..." 

"What?!" 

"Um, could we stop at the next rest stop? I gotta take a leak." I have
a very little bladder, to go along with my very little body.

"Why don't your pee your pants to conjure up some sympathy from me?"
She asks sarcastically.

Oh shit, she isn't supposed to know about that. If I didn't tell her,
that means...double shit. Claire knows and told her. Either that or
Brenda tracked her down which I pretty much doubt. This is not good.



                                    * * * 

Well she did stop for me. After we were back on the road again I
thanked her, to which she replied simply with, "Shut up." I am
thinking that she is still a little peeved.

Okay, so what is the worst that can happen now that Aunt Claire knows
what I have been up to. She has obviously spoken to these women. I
fear she might know everything, including how I have used her name in
vain. But then again, maybe I am jumping to conclusions, maybe what
Tanya said was a coincidental slight at my conniving ways. I need to
know.

"Tanya?" 

"I thought I told you to shut up." 

"Please, look, I just want to apologize. I know you want me out of
your life and I will leave you alone I promise, but please let me just
say something first."

"What?" 

"I'm sorry I hurt you. You were trying to be such a good friend to me
and I took advantage of that. You are such a good person and no matter
what happens, I just want you to know that. I have been a prick, I
know that."

She sat there quietly for a moment watching the road, looking as
though she was processing the information. I took the opportunity to
continue. And I am actually being sincere here so no raised eyebrows
from you folks reading this now.

"I need to start taking responsibility for myself, I really do. I need
to grow up. I have been a fuck up for long enough. You have tried to
help me see this for a long time but I never listened, but now, I
understand and I am going to change. I can't live like this anymore."

Sounds pretty good doesn't it? Sincere? I think so. I am pretty sure I
mean it too.

"You know what?" She asks. 

"Yes?" 

"You say stuff like that and all I hear the act. I hear you trying to
play me again."

"I'm not, I promise..." 

"Well, your promises don't mean much now, do they? Listen, say
whatever you want if it makes you feel better but I'm not buying.
Doesn't matter, in half an hour you are out of my life for good
anyway. You are your Aunt Claire's problem."

Okay, I will admit it - that kinda hurt. I deserved it though I guess.

"Okay," I said. "Just one more thing and I will shut up for the rest
of the way, I promise..."

"Again with the promises." 

"I mean it, listen, that thing you said before, about peeing my
pants...what did you mean by that exactly?"

"Why don't you ask your Auntie," she said. 

I think I feel a little sick. 



                                   * * * 

Grandma's cottage on the beach was pretty much how I remembered it.
The lawn out front is nicely manicured and the flower gardens are well
maintained, so I am guessing she still has the gardener from the
resort next door coming to maintain the place.

I thought for a moment how great it would be if Grandma had left this
place to me. Then I saw the large looming figure of Aunt Claire coming
out the front door to greet us and I realized this probably wasn't the
case. The smug look on her face suggests I am lucky if leave here with
my life, let alone any inheritance.

Aunt Claire is looking very summery today, in shorts and a flowered
top that could easily double for a main sail on a large sailing
vessel. I can't help but feel for the millions of silk worms who
worked so hard on that thing. We got out of the car.

"We made it," I said. 

Aunt Claire approached Tanya with an outstretched hand, and without
looking at me said, "Go wait in the house Lindsey." And I am thinking,
"yeah great to see you too Claire," but I don't because I value my
life. I go to the front door while Claire is being ever so sweet and
kind to Tanya. I wait in the foyer because I want to hear what they
are saying. It goes something like this:

"Thank you so much for bringing him, I realize you have done so much
for him already."

"Its alright, it was a beautiful drive," Tanya says. 

"Listen, you aren't planning on going back today are you?" 

"Well, I was..." 

"Listen, I reserved a cottage next door for you, my treat, please stay
a couple nights if you can, on me - I really do appreciate you
bringing him up here, and I know that mustn't have been fun for you."

"Thank you," Tanya said, "I will take you up on that, that is very
kind."

"It is the least I could do," Claire says and I am thinking, "Who is
this space alien who ate my Aunt and how do I thank him?" She is never
this nice when I am around.

I slip from the foyer to the living room when I hear Tanya's car start
again. Before I can even sit down Claire comes in the front door and
shouts my name "Lindsey!"

"I'm here," I said from the living room. She stepped in and looked at
me for a moment and the bright smiling face she had with Tanya had
changed to one that I recognize as not being terribly pleased. I am
thinking the alien was only visiting.

"So um, let's do this thing, I guess..." I add to break the nervous
silence.

"You're Grandmother dies and that is all you have to say? Let's just
divide up all the stuff?"

"I didn't mean it that way..." I felt very bad all of a sudden. 

"After all she did for you, that is how you show your respect?" 

"I'm sorry..." 

"She was my mother you know." 

"I know, I am sorry, it was insensitive of me." 

"Yes it was," She said. "I think at least a few moments of silence
would be a good idea, don't you?"

"Of course, sorry." I said. 

"Good, come," she said and walked into the dinning room. When I got in
there she took one of the dinning room chairs and pulled it out and
placed it facing the corner of the room. "Sit," she said and more or
less pushed me down on to the chair. "Show your respect, not a word,"
she said and left the room.

I would be on the chair about half an hour before she came back, doing
"corner time" as Grandma used to call it. If it means anything, I was
thinking of her - and yes I felt bad that she has passed on, even if
we didn't get along too well. So don't think I am some heartless
monster or anything.

"Been thinking about her?" Aunt Claire asks. 

"Yes," 

"And what?" 

"She'll be missed, she was a great lady." I say. I think this is the
kind of thing you are supposed to say.

"Yes she was, and she is missed." Aunt Claire said and lifted and spun
the chair around facing the table with me in it easily. "So, as you so
crudely put it, let's do this thing," she said somberly.

She sat at the head of the table and lifted her briefcase and placed
it in front of her. She pulled out some papers and a pen and placed
them before her. "She didn't forget you in her will you know," Aunt
Claire said.

"She didn't?" I asked a little surprised. "I know I wasn't' her
favourite."

"No, you were not. In fact you were an embarrassment to her. She knew
what you were up to, she knows people in Victoria , she heard things."

"I don't understand, what kind of things?" This was me playing dumb. I
am pretty good at it actually.

"Preying upon the sympathies of generous, kind women, who only wanted
to help you. Telling lies about the family, about how horrible we were
to you. Yet, believe it or not, she still left you something in the
will."

"She shouldn't have," 

"No, you are right, she shouldn't have. But she did because she cared
about you, no matter how much you disappointed her. She still cared.
It's sad you didn't understand that when she was alive, Lindsey."

If you hadn't noticed, this is the part of the narrative designed to
make me feel guilty for breathing. I wouldn't include it here except
something tells me I kind of deserve it.

"Yes, I wish I did," I tell her. 

She cleared her throat and shuffled papers for a moment and then said,
"I am the executor of the will, I drafted it so I know what is in
this, so I won't bother with the formalities. She left for you a
trust, seventy five thousand dollars."

"Really?" This is much better news than I anticipated. 

"It's a trust, which means it is managed by the executor, which is me
and there are conditions."

"Conditions? Like what?" 

"In order to receive any benefit from the trust, you have to live
adhering to certain standards of moral behavior, you must meet these
standards to the approval of the executor, me. If I feel the standards
are not being met, I can have the trust liquidated."

"What kind of standards?" I asked. 

"Moral ones, no more committing fraud is a good example." 

"Okay, I have quit that anyway," 

"Yes I know, the second condition ensures that." 

"What's that?" 

She handed me a pen and some rather long complicated government forms.

"What's this?" She is starting to sigh like my questions are a
hindrance to the proceedings.

She went on to explain something about emancipation of status or some
such thing. Something about legislation put in place to legally
protect the rights of adults with diminished capacity, Alzheimer's
patients, etc.. People who can no longer look after themselves, they
can, while still cognizant, sign over guardianship of themselves to
individuals who will take care of them legally as the disease
progresses.

I am confused, big surprise, so I ask, "Okay what does this have to do
with me?"

"If you want your money, you need to sign over guardianship of
yourself to me."

"What does that mean?" 

"It means, basically, I am your legal...lets put this in terms you might
understand, ...parent."

"You? But you are younger than me? This is nuts." 

"Well if you want your money, you'll have to, if not I don't see what
your choices are, I know you have no money."

"And if I sign, what then?" 

"The funds of the trust will be able to be released for you as
needed."

"No, I mean, what does it mean to me if I sign this." 

"Means you are no longer a legal adult, you no longer can enter into
legal contracts of any sort without my approval."

"What kind of contracts?" I asked. 

She looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive, "Any sort, I
just said that."

"Okay," I said. I am thinking how often do I sign contracts. I can't
remember when I signed the last contract. I guess the last one would
be my rental agreement. So she would have to co-sign a lease, big
deal. "I'll sign."

"Thought you might," and she smiled at me in a way that made me
nervous as she pointed the spots I needed to sign scattered through
the ten page document. When I was done she took the contract from me
and put it back in her briefcase.

"So, not to be crude or anything," I said, "But I am kind of in a
financial bind at the moment. How do I go about getting a few bucks?"

"Oh, the money doesn't go to you Lindsey, you really must learn to pay
attention."

"What? You said that if I could get money from the trust." 

"No, what I said was the money would be available for you, there is a
difference Lindsey, must I explain it to you?"

"That would be nice," I said sarcastically. 

"The money is for your upkeep, your well being. You are not a legal
adult anymore so that money goes to your guardian to ensure you are
taken care of. And I guess that would be...oh yes, me." She said and
gave me a rather wicked smile.

"That's not fair, you never said..." 

"I am a lawyer, everything I said was by letter of the law. But don't
worry, your evil wicked Aunt Claire is going to take excellent care of
you - isn't that how you described me?"

I gulped. "I wasn't meaning you, I just used your name..." 

"When I spoke to these women Lindsey and told them who I was, it seems
they had all heard of me. They were all under the impression that I
raised you and that I was horrible to you. After I explained to them
how many ways that was impossible, they filled in the blanks. You know
Lindsey dear, it appears you have been one very naughty boy."

I am thinking, "Oh Shit". 





2: Rogue Waves

Grandma shouted out the door to Claire and I as we were heading for
the beach, "Be careful. Watch out for the rogue waves!"

It was 1985. I was ten years old and my mother and I were up at Tofino
with Grandma and Claire. Mom was recovering from a bout of
chemotherapy and Grandma thought she could use the fresh ocean air.

We walked out onto the beach. Claire was holding my hand - this was
something she liked to do this year, she was in Mommy mode. When I saw
that people were watching I pulled it free from her five big squishy
fingers.

"Don't run off too far Lindsey," Claire warned. "the rogue waves might
get you."

"Rogue waves," I scoffed. I had been to this beach almost every summer
of my life and I had never heard of any such thing. I had visions of a
wave draped in a black cloak brandishing a dagger - I was in his
Dungeons and Dragons phase. It seemed pretty silly.

"Seriously, you know about rogue waves don't you, dummy?" Claire asked
as if I might very well be the most uninformed boy of 10 on the
planet. This was the summer of "dummy." She had taken to calling me
this. The next year would be the summer of "stupid", and the year
after that, the summer of "dork".

"Yeh," I said. "But I've never seen one and I've been here a lot." 

"You're lucky, they happen all the time, you know." 

I shrugged my shoulders and kicked at a piece of driftwood at my feet.
I wasn't buying into this oceanic paranoia.

"They do! I can't believe you don't know," she laughed. 

"I know," I said embarrassed. "I just never seen one, that's all - if
they happened all the time, I'da seen one."

"My friend Marci, she was here two weeks ago, on vacation and her
little brother, he got hit by a rogue wave, they never found him...till
last week, he wound up on a beach in Japan...dead." She said.

Now I looked up at Claire and was a little disturbed to see that she
seemed pretty convinced of this as truth. Was there perhaps a hole in
my general common knowledge about things, things that only girls know?
I doubted it, but still...

"Uh huh, he was playing on the beach, he was bigger than you, and he
was playing and next thing he knew, he was getting dragged out way out
into the ocean. He was a good swimmer too but he couldn't swim in, it
kept dragging him out. He kicked and screamed but, there he went, out
there, right out that way," she said pointing to the ocean in the
general direction of Japan .

"I never heard of this," I said semi-defiantly and looked over my
shoulder at the waves for a moment.

"Don't know why, it was in all the news and stuff - just ask Grandma,
she'll tell you." Claire said.

I shrugged. She was pulling my leg. Who ever heard of such a stupid
story. Japan , yeh right..., as if. Yet Claire seemed awfully convinced
she was right. Naw...nonsense.

So I took my leave. I wandered down to where the waves were crashing
in, made imprints in the wet sand with my little feet and scanned the
sand for shells, and rocks and things. Looking up on the beach I could
see where Claire had laid herself out on a blanket to tan, a pretty
absurdly sophisticated thing for a seven year old girl to be doing, I
thought. Of course though, Claire was not your average seven year old
- she looked about twelve and by all distant outward appearances acted
that way.

She kind of looked like a beached porpoise up there, laying on her
tummy in her black one piece. She had a book open, yet she cautiously
kept an eye fixed overtop of the binding at me, watching like a
nervous mother.

Not appreciating the feeling of being spied on, I turned my back and
looked at the incoming waves. They didn't look too roguish to me. But
then again, what did a rogue wave look like? Was it big and menacing,
or was it slow and sneaky? Was there even such a thing? Naw she was
nuts, there was no such thing...probably.

I dipped my feet in the wash of the incoming tide. I knew I wouldn't
go swimming. I didn't know how. They tried to give me lessons once.
For some reason, unlike the other kids, unexplainably, I sank like a
stone. My teachers had never seen anything like it before. I was as
light as a feather, yet in the water, I went under like a lead sinker.

It may have been my imagination, but the waves, they seemed to be
getting a little bigger. Yet no one else on the beach seemed to take a
lot of notice of this. McKenzie Beach in the summer can get pretty
busy.

Scanning my environment, I failed to notice the wave coming in behind
me. It knocked me flat on to my chest on the sand. I got up and spun
around, my eyes wide. Was that a rogue wave? No, it couldn't have
been, I wasn't on my way to Japan .

I pictured myself being pulled under by a big cold blue hand, beneath
the waves, my little lungs filling with salty brine as I tried to cry
out. It gave me a definite chill down my little spine. As I composed
myself, another wave knocked me on my butt in the sand. I struggled to
get to my feet before the next wave rolled in. Maybe standing out here
by the waves was not such a good idea. Maybe I would force myself to
be nice and go hang out with Claire for a bit, you know, to dry off,
warm up.

It was about then that I heard hit. I looked up from the beach to see
Claire standing on her towel. She was screaming. "Lindsey! Wave!!!!"
and pointing frantically at the ocean.

I was truck still with fear. I sensed this massive wall of water
rising behind me, I was sure the shadow of it would soon blanket the
whole beach. I panicked. I ran, screaming, my arms in the air like a
hairless baby orangutan. Claire was so far away, could I make it? My
little legs pumped as hard as they could, my little asthmatic lungs
having fits.

The tourists stood there looking at me, obviously they hadn't seen the
wave coming in. They were doomed, every last one of them. Not my
problem. They were on their own. I wasn't going to die this day.

Some how, I was making it. I was sure I could hear the ominous
quieting of an enormous wave, reeling back before it was about to let
loose its vengeance. I got to Claire, wrapped my little arms around
her squishy seven year old frame and held on for dear life. As tears
streamed down my pudgy face, I waited the wall of water to envelope me
from behind. I hoped Claire could swim, or at least float.

And that is when I heard it. The sound. Not of crashing water, but
Claire, laughing, hysterically, tears in her eyes. I sense people are
looking and pointing at me hugging this fat girl on the beach, crying
like a sissy.

After she finally caught her breath, she said "You are such a dummy,
dummy!"



That is how I feel right now. I feel such the complete and utter fool.
And Aunt Claire is looking at me much the same way, in bewilderment at
my utter stupidity.

"You know Lindsey dear, it appears you have been one very naughty
boy."

I think I am slinking down in my chair. The dinning room area rug
seems to be getting bigger to me. It is what I am focusing on. I can't
look up. I am so totally and completely screwed beyond all
recognition. I am so screwed that the bolt that keeps me grounded to
terra firma is stripped and I am freely spinning around,
counter-clockwise making me dizzy. That is how screwed I am. I feel
like I am going to wet my pants.

"Well Lindsey?" She asks. 

I am losing the ability of rational thought. I can hear my heart
pounding in my ears. I get up in a flash and run towards the bathroom,
but for some reason, I keep running, out the screen door onto the
porch, down the path and out to he beach. Where am I going? I have no
fucking idea. I am running from evil and that is good enough for me.

I am half way down McKenzie beach, urine running down my pant leg when
I hear it. It is louder than any voice should ever be. It sounds like
a crashing rogue wave.

"Lindsey, stop!! Don't make me come get you!" 

She is three hundred feet behind me and it sounds like she is
screaming in my ear. It is the most intimidating voice you will ever
hear, trust me. I stop, I am paralyzed with fear. My lungs are
burning. I think I am going to throw up. I fall in the sand to my
knees and then down, face first, like I have been shot by a sniper.

A huge billowing shadow engulfs me, blocking out the sun. 

"What ever do you think you are doing? You stupid, stupid little boy!"

That is when I gained the power of flight. She reached down and picked
me up off the ground by the waistband at the back of my pants, and
heaved me up in the air. She marched me back along the crowded beach
this way to the cottage. And just then, at that moment, I prayed. I
prayed harder then I ever had. I prayed for a rogue wave to come sweep
me out to sea. To Japan , or Alaska , or wherever as long as it was
away from here.



                                   * * * 

Back at the cottage, front screen door slamming behind us, the
inevitable occurred. Anytime any creature this big gets angry enough
to huff and puff the way Aunt Claire was, someone was gonna get hurt.
And that someone, the someone hanging suspended in the air by the
elastic waistband of their underwear, was me.

I won't go into great detail as it still hurts today, not only my
pride (which was all but decimated on the spot) but I still feel the
phantom pain across my ass cheeks, like an amputee feels their missing
limbs. They are no longer red, bruised and sore, but the phantom pain
sometimes still lingers. Sort of a post-traumatic spanking syndrome.

After her revulsion at the discovery of my urine soaked pants, she
stripped them down and held me firmly over her knee at the dinning
room table and let at me. Now if you have not felt the angry open palm
the size of a frying pan, you have no idea how much this can sting.
All the while flesh met flesh at high velocity, she lectured in a kind
of off-beat syncopated rythym, about how I
would-nev-er-run-away-from-her-again, how I would nev-er-emo-tion-ally
-man-ip-u-late-wom-en-again, how I was goi-ng-to-do-
exact-ly-as-she-said.

Now I am not afraid to admit it here. 28 or not, I was bawling my eyes
out. I felt bad for everything. I saw my crimes flash before my eyes,
the names of these women ringing in my ears. I was at my lowest. So
much that for a time there, I was actually believing I deserved this.
You get to a point when you don't feel anything anymore, you go numb.
I was there and thinking, "bring it on, I want more, I deserve more, I
am scum" but then she stopped to adjust me on her lap. That pause was
long enough for the heat to kick in, and the next slap sent me back
into squirming convulsions and pleading again. I don't know how long
it lasted. It seemed like an hour but I am sure it wasn't.

When it was done, I was the shell of the man I used to be. I was
broken. She stood me up and my legs almost buckled. "You sorry?" she
asked.

"yes" I muttered weakly through my tears and collapsed sobbing into
her chest.

For a moment, a brief moment, she was no longer evil. She held me,
caressed my hair with her big hot hand and whispered to me. "You won't
ever disrespect women again, will you Lindsey?"

I sobbed a faint "no, never" . 

With that, she took me to the bathroom and wiped my face with a wash
cloth, and then walked me to the guest room and laid me down on my
stomach on the bed. I think if I had been on my back I would have
melted the synthetic fibers of the bed spread I was giving off so much
heat.

"You stay here and think about things until I come get you now. And
tonight, tonight we are going to have a long, hard talk, understand?"

I nodded into the pillow. 

She closed the curtains and left the room, shutting the door behind
her.

Now contrary to the horror stories I told women, I was not actually
spanked that much as a child. My mom never did as long as I can
remember. My Grandma did, but not since I lived with her when I was
twelve. I have not had a kinky enough lifestyle to have it done
recreationally. So this experience was the first time in a long time.
The only other time in the last ten years it happened was from Nora.

You remember Nora don't you? The unhinged religious woman? She spanked
me once, but not very hard. She did it while reciting biblical
proverbs. "Spare the rod, spoil the child..." etc. It came after she
caught me trying to run away. As I was being spanked by Aunt Claire,
there was a moment when all that stuff was rushing back to me, when I
wondered how that crazy lady was.

As much as she scared me, as much as she made me wonder if I was going
to wind up in a plastic bag on the side of the highway clutching a
crucifix, a mercy killing to appease and angry God, or whatever the
voices in her head told her, I felt bad for what I had done. I felt
bad for leading her on. I realized to her way of thinking, I was a
gift to her from God. She had probably prayed for a child, and when
she clobbered me with the door, she thought Jesus had answered her
prayer. He answered it because she was such a good Christian woman.

I started wondering if I should write her a letter. I wondered if they
would let her get mail at whatever institution she was probably in. I
went as far as thinking about how I was going to write apology letters
to every woman I mistreated with my lies and insincere pathos. I was
going to do it and I would once again be a decent human being.

I thought about this as the sun that was bleeding through the curtains
sunk lower and lower until it disappeared below the window casing. The
heat on my posterior was starting to dissipate which only allowed for
different, more interesting pains to take their place. I felt bruised,
right down to the bone. I couldn't see it but I imagined my butt
looking like a moldy, rotting peach, with black sunken spots all over
it. That is what it felt like.

I had been emotionally dismantled. All the pieces of my fractured
psyche lay scattered on the guest room floor next to the bed. From
where I was laying, I reached down and picked them up, examining them,
wondering how and why they went together the way they did. Why was I
the way I was? What motivated me to take advantage of people? As I
found how the pieces fit back together most easily, I discovered that,
in fact, I was a very angry little man.

I had been ripped off, and I was pissed about it. There was no good
humour to be had about it. There was no shrugging of shoulders and
getting over it. The anger stuck with me, like a sesame seed that gets
wedged between your tooth and the gum. It feels like it is the size of
a peanut, The longer it is stuck in there, the more inflamed the
surrounding skin gets. For me, the seed was still there, had been
since I was born, and the inflammation was my anger.

I should have had a normal body, but I didn't. Other children grew up,
hit puberty, became horny teenagers, then horny adults, reveling in
the pleasures of the flesh, as they are want to do. They are fetching
to the opposite sex, they co-mingle playfully, dangerously with each
others parts that are so different than their own. I never got that,
and screw all of those who did. I was ripped off.

Expectations of me should have been higher, but they weren't. Peers
were taught to succeed, were expected to grow up to be responsible
adults, hold jobs, make money, get married, have kids and live a full
life. Whatever became of them, they were held responsible - their
success was expected - it was a part of growing up "normal." Me, when
I struggled, people always lent a hand. They saw this cute little kid
having trouble and took care of me. I was never expected to do well, I
was expected to "get by" and if I did that, I was doing just fine. I
am 28 and I have never held a job, my academic career was a joke and I
only know how to live off the good will of others. Without others, I
don't think I know how to survive. Screw all those who do.

I should have had parents. Most kids have parents, people to emulate
and later rebel against, people to align one's center with. A lot of
children only have one parent, which is sad, but they usually have at
least that one to draw from. They usually have someone attending their
school concerts, sporting events, they have someone to turn to when
the world sucks and they don't know what to do about it. I had a
mother, and when she was a mother she was great. But the universe made
her sick. The universe made her weak. And when she was sick and weak,
she was not my mother. She was just someone who was helpless and who I
worried about. I don't blame her, I blame the universe. And then she
was gone. Fuck everyone who has parents - I was going to take what I
am owed.

I was never taught to stand up and walk under my own strength - then
the world took away all the support systems. How the hell was I
supposed to stay upright? I chose to find the steadying hand of love
and support and would do anything to get it. It was owed to me after
all - who could really blame me.

Anyway, that is how the pieces went together before. I was now going
to try and assemble them a bit differently this time. There might be
fractured seams, it wouldn't be nearly as pretty to look at, and I
feared, I would be a lot less stable in this configuration (at least
at first) - but I am just so damn tired of being angry.

In a weird way, this condition I was in, broken and sore - I needed
this. You have to hit rock bottom they say before you can start
climbing back up. I thought, I hoped, I was there. Looking up, the sky
was so far away it was but a pinhole of light in this wide landscape
of utter black. I felt around the ground around me, making sure it was
solid. I hoped this wasn't just a ledge I have hit on the way down.

Thankfully for you, the reader, I was stirred from my pitifully
maudlin internal dialogue (the stuff you have been forced to read now
for the last several paragraphs. I should have warned you that it was
coming so you could have skimmed over it - my bad). It was the sound
of furniture being moved about on the second floor, coupled with the
dainty foot steps of my 300-something pound Aunt.

This guest room used to be my room when I came up here. My mom and I
shared it. An old crib mattress was put on the floor next to the bed.
 From there I would fall asleep to the sounds of my Mom's laboured
breathing. The cottage only has two bedrooms, Aunt Claire and Grandma
shared the other. The cottage is cute and comfortable, but by no means
big. It was built in 1969 and shortly thereafter purchased by the man
who would never get a chance to be my Grandpa. Back then, in 69, the
road to Tofino wasn't paved, and in the winter when it rained, it was
just dumb luck if you could get here.

There were no resorts then, just a small smattering of people who had
dropped out of society: artists, schizophrenic hermits, shell-shocked
vets. The native population had always been here - I am sure they were
impressed by the collection of oddballs that moved in to their turf.

Now the Hippie has come to save the Clayquot Sound from the villainous
lumber industry. They are angry na�ve idealists - idealists with no
money or cars - who will offer to do household chores (half-assed) for
food or cigarettes. They will say, "Thanks Man, peace" and then the
next day throw rocks at your car, yelling at you for being capitalist
pigs because you have the gall to own a Volvo while the oil companies
ruin the environment and the lumber industry shaves the hillsides bare
of thousand year old trees.

A common bumper sticker in Tofino is, "Hippies Suck!" 

But it is so beautiful here - you really have no idea unless you have
seen it. In fact, I recommend to you, dear reader, that you go there,
now, take a peek. It will blow your mind, I promise you. I will wait
for you - you won't miss anything. Here I will even leave you a spot
in the text that you will be able to find easily when you get back.
Right here:



                    ***Where you left off...continue below*** 



Was I right, or was I right? Pretty damn amazing isn't it? Yeh, even
with me laying in only a golf-shirt, my ass a smoldering shell of its
former self, my life in the hands of pure evil - there is a small part
of me that is glad to be here, because it is Tofino and Tofino is
amazing.

I hear my door opening so it is time to put on my repentant face. I
laid the other side of my face on the damp, tear stained pillow so my
eyes are looking at the wall and not her.

"How we doing in here kiddo?" She asked. 

"Okay," I said softly. 

"Yeh?" She opened the curtains and let the last bit of daylight flood
into the room. There must be a sunset, the walls are bright orange.
She then walked towards me over and I sensed her leaning over. She
gently touched my right butt cheek with her finger tip, like she was
checking to see if a steak was medium rare. I winced and moaned some
quiet expletive into the pillow. It was so faint I am sure it just
sounded like a moan. "Oh my, you are going to be tender for awhile I
think," she said. It didn't sound very apologetic the way she said it.
She was not apologizing.

"Scootch." She said and pushed me over a bit so she could sit at the
edge of the bed. She placed her big hand down on my lower back. "Have
we been thinking, hmmm?"

"Yes," I muttered. 

"Yeh, what about?" 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"Feel bad do you?" 

"Yes," 

"Yeh, you should. What you did was very bad, you know that Lindsey?" 

"Yes," 

"We won't have this anymore, will we?" 

"No," 

"No, we won't, not if you ever want to sit comfortably again. You are
my responsibility now kiddo, I won't put up with it, understand?"

"Yes," 

"Be glad someone cares enough to not let you be that way. We're the
only family either of us got now Lindsey - we're all each of us got in
the world."

And what a scary thought that is. 

She got up and gave me a few minutes to compose myself before the "big
talk." I remember thinking, "This wasn't the big talk?" Well, it
wasn't. This was the appetizer, the amuse' bouche . We haven't begun
and I have already used all my best material - I have already used up
my heartfelt "I'm sorry." I have already humbled myself to admit
woefully that I feel bad about everything. I am running on empty here,
I have already blown my load. What now?

Well, it turns out I didn't have to worry - the big talk was
unidirectional for the most part. It would have been better called,
the big listen . It took place in the kitchen. I was seated on a
sticky vinyl kitchen chair, which grabbed at my sore derriere every
time I shifted. I tried not to shift much. Being somewhat bashful, and
without the benefit of anything below the stretched out seam that
marked the bottom of my golf shirt, I folded my hands strategically on
my lap so as not to reveal everything - I was going for that sense of
mystery. Fact of the matter, Aunt Claire didn't care much, I doubt her
gaze went any further beneath my face, which was, for the most part
pointing down at my hands on my lap.

The big listen covered a lot of points, luckily I am a good record
keeper:


Event: "The Big Listen" formerly known as "The Big Talk" 
Date: September 29 th , 2003 - 7:26 Pacific Time 
Location: Kitchen, Kendrick Cottage, Tofino British Columbia 
Attending: Ms. Claire Kendrick, Lindsey Kendrick 
Duration: 42 minutes. 

1. 7:42 p.m. Chairwoman Kendrick, calls meeting to order, instructs 
   Mr. Kendrick to listen carefully, as she will only say this once: 

    a. Points to be covered: Definition of the concept of familial 
       responsibility and how it pertains to the evenings proceedings.

        - Reordering of traditional family hierarchy: Ms. Claire 
          Kendrick, aka "Auntie" - parent/guardian. 

        - Mr. Lindsey Kendrick, aka "kiddo/little boy" - child. 

    b. "Parent/Child Power Dynamics- A Historical Perspective" 
       lecture given by Ms. Kendrick. 

    c. Orientation to new familial arrangement (part 1)- rules 
       and regulations, expectations and consequences. 

    d. Orientation to new familial arrangement (part 2) - 
       restrictions, boundaries and limits. 

    e. Comportment befitting little boys, how to address 
       your elders respectfully, etc. 


2. 7:44 p.m. meeting called to a halt as Ms. Kendrick's cell 
   phone rings - business call, rescheduled deposition with 
   multinational telecommunications company on brink of legal 
   disaster with allegations of insider trading - possibly Nortel, 
   not certain. 

3. 7:52 p.m. meeting reconvenes. Definition of familial 
   responsibility is addressed. 

   Paraphrasing: 

   "You're grandma cared a great deal about you Lindsey, so do 
   I and that is why we are doing this - is for your own good. 
   You may not know what is best for you, as suggested by your 
   recent activities, that is why I have to step in, it is my 
   responsibility as your only family - someone needs to look 
   after you Lindsey and if not me, who will? Not you. No one 
   I think? Huh?" Something like that. 


4. 7:55 p.m. Ms. Kendrick fills a glass of water, offers it to 
   Mr. Kendrick - he refuses not wanting to lift his hands. She 
   drinks the water herself and continues. 

5. 7:57p.m. - Lecture on hierarchy of family..... 



Okay, I am sorry, I really am. 

When I started that segment, I thought it might be a clever little
literary device - instead it was really a big waste of time and
indentation. I will try to stick to standardized prose from here on
in. You have been very patient. I think I may be trying too hard to
impress Milo .

The gist of it was, because I have been acting irresponsibly, like an
immature little child ("toddler" I think was the term she used) she
thought that I should be treated as such, not just the perks of
childhood, the whole ball of wax, until such a time as she sees
considerable personal growth in me. This concept confused me, but I
was not about to raise my hand to ask the question. What confused me
was this, if I was going to be treated as a child, how would I ever be
able to show personal growth? It's hard to prove to anyone that you
can build a house if you are only ever allowed to play with legos. If
I am to be treated as a child, how will I ever be seen as anything but
a child? Again, there would be better times for this kind of query.
Times when she wasn't in the middle of a lengthy discourse; times when
I was not sitting butt-naked on a kitchen chair with my hands over my
crotch.

Our roles were discussed: her as "Auntie", my parent and guardian, my
family, my support, ultimately who (more than any other living soul) I
am responsible to. I was to look to her for guidance and direction.
Me, Lindsey, as the "child," who although has few responsibilities
beyond good behavior and good manners, has at the same time few
freedoms. Unless I should think otherwise, "Auntie knows best" was the
new family motto. Deciding what was best for myself was no longer my
responsibility - fwew, what a load off my shoulders.

The lecture continued on some forty two minutes according to the
kitchen clock on the wall - my only input was answering "yes Auntie"
if I understood. Oh yes, I am to address her as "Auntie" now - this
was slipped in under the comportment section of the lecture. I am to
address adults as "Sir" and "Ma'am" and she is now "Auntie," She won't
respond to anything else. She had to explain to me what "comportment"
meant.

"Any questions Lindsey?" she asked me as this long rant came to an
end.

"No," I replied. 

"Sorry, what was that, my ears must be failing..." She is such a kidder.
God love her.

"No Auntie," I said. 

"I thought that was what you said," she said smiling more smugly than
I thought was in good taste. But what am I going to say? I already
have bruised fruit for an ass. "Hungry kiddo?"

I really wasn't. "No Auntie," 

"Okay then, let's get you to bed huh? Its way past your bedtime." 

I looked up at the kitchen clock. No, I wasn't reading it wrong. It
said 8:12 p.m. . I wasn't going to comment on this though. The idea of
getting to bed and out of the range of her chastising gaze was the
best idea she had had all day. Besides, the crying had really tuckered
me out.

She took my hand and peeled me off the chair which hurt like the
dickens. I was then led upstairs to the bathroom door. " Wash up now,
go potty. I left you a tooth brush for you on the counter," she said
pushing open the bathroom door.

I washed my face, and while doing so caught the sight of myself in the
bathroom mirror. My eyes were still puffy and swollen from crying. My
sinuses felt like like I had been swimming in a chlorinated pool (if I
could swim). I looked older than I had when I woke up that morning. I
marveled at the irony of that.

My evening constitutional complete, I wandered out of the bathroom
only to be called into the master bedroom. I had never been in the
master bedroom before, I never had any reason to be. It was a lot
bigger than the guest room and much more feminine in its accoutrements
- lots of Grandma in here, lots of pastel pinks and frilly sheer
whites. Grandpa, if he were still around, would never be caught dead
sleeping in a room like this - mind you that is only supposition. I
never knew him - he might not have been one to complain.

Claire was standing by the foot of the bed next to a plastic bag and
she was calling me over.....

Okay I am in bed now, laying on my stomach, as that is the only way I
am remotely comfortable. When I say bed, this really is giving this
thing far too much credit. It is a crib mattress, covered in vinyl. Me
and this mattress, we go way back - oh the times we had. I used to
sleep on it on the floor of the guest room - mom slept on the bed. We
did that a number of summers while I was growing up. I have never seen
the crib that goes with it - my guess it was lost or given away, or
used as firewood many moons before. But the mattress with the cheeky
little clowns decorating the vinyl cover, has come back once again to
haunt me.

The mattress is on the floor of Aunt Claire's walk in closet in the
master bedroom. Why am I here when there is a perfectly decent guest
room to be had? I see you haven't lost your inquisitiveness - good for
you. Well, supposedly after my little escape attempt earlier today,
she has decided she would feel more comfortable keeping an eye on me.
Flaws with this theory: 1. She is not up here. She is downstairs
working and consequently not keeping an eye on me. 2. Even when she is
up here, she will be sleeping and once again, not keeping an eye on
me. So you see, I have my doubts about the explanation - not that it
makes a hell of a lot of difference. I am here where I am and I am in
no position to question her about it. If I asked her tomorrow, she
would likely give me another reason and it would be just as adequate
as the one she has given me tonight. It doesn't really matter.

Now I know you may be wondering what the hell is going on. I mean, one
moment I am coming from the bathroom to Grandma's bedroom and there I
see Claire standing by the end of the bed next to a plastic bag - and
then Whamo! I am in the closet, on a crib mattress talking about how
it doesn't matter why I am here, only that I am here. What gives? What
happened? What was in the bag?

I feel your frustration, I do, and I apologize. But you see, that
incident, what happened in that block of missing time between seeing
Claire and the plastic bag and the closet was somewhat humiliating. I
tried to tell it in the order it occurred but it came across so
perfunctory and, perhaps as a safety mechanism, of void of emotion. I
was just going through the motions and you deserve better. So I have
taken a different tact.

Ever see Pulp Fiction? Me, I loved that movie, saw it many times.
Notice how the story was told in a non-linear fashion? Wasn't that the
coolest thing? Okay maybe not for you, but I thought it was pretty
fresh when I saw it. Well, this is my pulp fiction technique here, a
way to circumnavigate the emotional shutting-down I encounter when I
try to tell the story straight through. You know how there is that
briefcase that they keep opening and whatever is inside glows gold?
Well, there is a plastic bag on the end of the bed.

The similarities are countless. Uncanny isn't it? 

I was standing in the doorway of the bedroom and Claire looked
unusually discomforted by something - like she was having second
thoughts. For someone who is always so incredibly sure of themselves,
this is a strange sight, her unsure of her footing. She didn't look
happy about it either.

"All done?" she asked. 

"Yes Auntie," I said shyly. 

"Good come," she said. She flipped her hair from the side of her face
and sighed as I approached. "Shirt," she said.

For a lawyer, someone who takes great pride in their oratory art, the
one syllable comment "Shirt" seemed to me to be oddly incomplete. I
did not understand it. To me it seemed cryptic. I puzzled over the
code. I was thinking too hard.

"For goodness sakes, don't be such a child," she said annoyed by my
pensive pause and tugged my shirt over my head. I quickly turned away
from her. I did not have enough hands to conceal everything I wanted
to. With my back to her, I could hear the rattle of the plastic bag,
but could not see what she was removing from it.

Over my shoulder she handed me a disposable diaper, tapping it against
my bare stomach for me to take hold of it. "Put it on, or I'll put it
on for you."

"I don't need this," I forced out. 

"No?" 

"No, that thing, that was an act, I did it on purpose...It was wrong I
know, but it wasn't an accident..."

"And today, on the beach, that was on purpose too?" 

"No, I..." 

"I repeat, put it on or I will be forced to put it on you - you won't
like that." She said, obviously flustered and as uncomfortable about
the situation as I was. I had no idea why, I was the one with a diaper
in my hand. "Now!" she said slapping my already sore ass and then
marching out of the bedroom slamming the door behind her. From the
hall she shouted. "You better have it on by the time I get back." This
was followed by the loud stomping footsteps heading down the stairs.

I contemplated the diaper for a moment. This was not good. I would
have to put it on, I knew that - but what did it say about me. Did it
say that I had finally thrown in the towel, that I had thrown up my
hands, given up the idea of dignity?

When I heard stirring downstairs, I quickly gave up on trying to
answer such weighty questions, unfolded the thing and sat down on it.
She was coming up the steps while I fiddled with the tapes. She
entered the room with me still on my back. Before I could get up she
pushed me back down on the bed checked and then adjusted the tapes.

"How do we feel about wearing diapers Lindsey, hmmm?" She asked? Her
awkward discomfort of a few minutes before was now gone.

"I don't like it." 

"What's that?" 

"I don't like it Auntie." 

"Oh poor dear," she said. My hands were loosely crossed over my chest.
"Well if we hadn't re-aquired such naughty habits, like wetting our
pants and wetting our beds, we wouldn't need them would we?"

"No...Auntie." 

She pulled me to my feet and opened the closet door where I saw the
mattress. "You can sleep in here tonight Lindsey."

"Why not the guest room?" 

"For one, I said so. For two, I think I need to keep an eye on you - I
can't have you running away again like you did today, now can I?"

"I won't." 

"No, of course you won't, now lay down and go to sleep, I don't want
to hear a word from you or what you got today will seem like a walk in
the park."

As she left, flicking off the bedroom light, I thought "For a genius,
that was a pretty lame clich� - walk in the park, I mean really. She
wasn't even trying."

So here I am, lights off, trying terribly hard to find some comfort,
but the diaper is making that very difficult over my overly sensitive
rear end. The elastic gathers are rubbing against my skin - and
although I never got a chance to truly answer my question to myself
about dignity, I know it has now been answered for me.



Chapter 3 coming soon....stay tuned 


Direct any comments, unbridled praise, death threats etc. to:
lindseyk_ca@yahoo.ca

http://viewfrombelow.tripod.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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