Life Under Construction

Posts Tagged ‘weird things I’ve done’

I’m going to tell you this story about how I hijacked a van when I was a wee child, somewhere around ripe old the age of 5 or 6.

Not to be confused with the time that same year I had decided to see what smoking a cigarette was like when my mom left one burning in the ashtray of the old blue Chevette in the driveway at The Gray House to run back into the house to grab something, and thought I would die but hid my discomfort because I didn’t want to get in trouble as she came back out and got in the car to take me to I Don’t Remember Where.  Yeah.  Not to be confused with that day.

We were in the van – I don’t remember who’s van it was – in the driveway of my grandparents’ new house (( at least I’m pretty sure that’s where we were… I think… )) with both of my sisters, Alli and Sarah, and our cousin Jerin.  I don’t know how I got the notion in my head that pulling the lever next to the steering wheel was a good idea (( come to think of it now, there might have been a lit cigarette involved here, too )), but I did it and suddenly we were in what I now know to be ‘neutral’ and the van was slowly rolling backwards.

Toward the street.

I was crying in the front seat while Sarah and Jerin were panicking, and Alli was “reading” a Winnie The Pooh or Where’s Waldo? book – completely oblivious to what was going on the entire time.

Where were the grown ups, you ask?  And why were we children often left unattended in vehicles?  Well, I’ll tell you.

It was the late 80’s.  There were no rules about leaving children or pets unattended in vehicles for any period of time (( or wearing seat belts, for that matter )).  I mean really, how much trouble could 4 kids aged 11 and under get into while waiting in a van in the driveway?

Quite a bit, the grown ups learned, as my uncle ran around the back of the van to try and stop it from rolling into the road.  I’m pretty sure Sarah jumped out too and was trying to help him, but I was in full on panic mode by that point (( what can I say, I started early )) and all I remember from between fits of sobs is that a) Alli in all her 4 year old glory was still oblivious to what was going on, and 2) I was terrified that my sister and uncle were getting sucked under a gigantic moving vehicle and it was all my fault.

Oh, and I think the front driver side door was open beside me.

That’s a lot for a small child.

Maven posted a blog earlier this week titled Maven and The Case of the Peeping Tom turned Homicidal Maniac, and the comment I was about to leave was entirely too good to be a comment for just Maven to read.  So I decided to blog it here instead.  It’s so good, I want everyone to read it.

Read Maven’s blog here to get where I’m coming from with this.  She is the master of awesome.

…

I am the leaper afraid of the toe monster under the bed.  You know, the one with the sharp teeth and scary claws that you’re sure is going to take a swipe for your footsies?  Once the lights go out, I’m all knees and elbows trying to get into my bed.  I’ll destroy anyone’s limbs or face if it’s in the way of my scramble for safety (because blankets are the perfect picture of safety, right?).  I blame my mother for chasing me with the vacuum on several occasions during the course of my childhood.

In fact, if I’m ever being chased by anyone or anything, I run like the hounds of Hell are on my heels and my toes are going to get swallowed forever.  For similar reasons, I also don’t like when people are walking behind me.  If I’m with a group of people, you can bet your ass I’m one of the ones in the back of the group while we walk.  At work I have a mirror positioned just right against my window so that I can see anyone walking into or by my cubicle.

I’m not sure if I have any “secret” fears, but I do have some that make me act quite… irrational I guess you could say.

It’s happened a few times that I’ve been convinced my house was being robbed and I was going to have to defend myself (most likely has nothing to do with the fact that one time I was robbed, and probably everything to do with my paranoia and active imagination and anxiety).

When I was living in my grandmother’s house I kept a dagger in my bedroom.  A real one.  Ornate and sharp.  If anyone asked me about it I could say ‘oh this old thing?’ and tell them it was just decorative.  Well, this one time in particular, probably about three years ago now (shutup), Alli and I were in our bedroom in the basement at our respective computers, where we always were (always).  We were just sitting there doing our gaming thing when we heard someone come in the house.

Everyone else was at work or school, and it wasn’t time for them to be home yet.

This someone was walking around kind of slow.  Having lived in the basement for quite some years we had each developed this really precise knack for knowing exactly who’s footsteps we were hearing.

(Come to think of it now, it’s really more of a science or an art what we’d developed over the years.  But anyway…)

This one, we knew right away, was one set of footsteps that shouldn’t be in our house.

It was a man.  It wasn’t any man that was supposed to be in the house.  Instantly we’re both in full on panic mode.  We thought we would be able to hide in our super secret basement bedroom until this stranger left, because the back door makes far too much noise for us to leave unnoticed.

Living together for more than two decades, we’d learned to communicate with our eyes.  Sort of.

Silently we each grabbed some kind of weapon, just in case, you know?  There was always a weapon handy in case of emergencies like this.  Since my dagger was all the way on the other side of my room I picked up this bow and arrow set from when I was a kid that was actually pretty dangerous (way more dangerous than any toy you can get these days) and Alli grabbed the piece of the refrigerator that was on the floor on her side of the room (don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to).  The door at the top of the stairs opened, and in a state of fierce confidence that can only come from utter terror, we waited behind our door as the footsteps came down the stairs.  We counted in our heads.  13 steps in total to reach the bottom.  Just before the footsteps reached the basement floor, we whipped open the door and prepared to assault…  my mother’s boyfriend.

The poor guy.  And we thought we were scared!  Imagine you’re doing a simple favor for your girlfriend only to find yourself an inch away from getting assaulted with a deadly missile weapon and part of an old refrigerator.  By these two weirdos…

This is a story I’ll be telling my grandchildren.  It’ll be one of those ‘beware or you’ll end up like granny’ stories.  I just know it!