Beneath The Moon
Life::Risk It All[2]
After about the fifteen-billionth time of assisting me in moving to a new foster home, my social worker, Frankie, knew me like the back of his hand, and wasn’t afraid to be a jackass, if need be. Hey, I was 17 years old. I firmly believe that kids in their late teen years need a push once in a while. And it’s not like I was being nominated as ‘The Nicest Kid Of The Year’. More like ‘Most Rebellious’.
“Hey, smart-ass, haul your bag over here and meet your new not-parents,” Frankie said, obviously annoyed with the fact that I had been stuck with him as a client for the past five years. Despite the fact that I was being openly harassed by my social worker in front of my new foster parents, I quietly laughed walking over to Mr. and Mrs. Durmur. Mrs. Durmur was about a head shorter than me [and I’m 5’ 7”] and had short, cropped, blonde hair. Mr. Durmur had short black hair, and was wearing an army uniform. He was probably about six feet. I bit my tongue before opening my mouth to greet them. I try to be nice, but it’s a hard thing to do when you’ve got a bad attitude like mine. At least I admit that I have a problem. Just like I’m addicted to coffee. Both I should probably get help for, but I don’t, and I won’t. So shoot me.
“Hi. How ya doing.” I said while sighing, making sure they got the hint. I wasn’t going to act all grateful for them taking me in. To me, they were just another house until they decided to kick me out, too. Mrs. Durmur didn’t seem to get the hint.
“Hello, dear! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m sure you’ll have a fine time in our home,” she gushed. I bit down on my tongue again to keep from saying something stupid. Instead, I turned to Frankie. “See ya, Frankie,” I said, starting to walk away with the Durmur’s. “In about a week, I reckon,” I whispered to him, harshly, making sure that my not-parents wouldn’t hear. He gave me the finger, paired with a smile, and I walked out the door to the parking lot chuckling at our screwed-up relationship.
On the ride to my new temporary home, Mr. Durmur [whose name, I learned, was Franklin; I tried to refrain from calling him Frankie] started to lecture me to the point where I thought killing myself would be a quick alternative to listening to him ramble on. Nevertheless, I caught some of what he was saying.
“You will refer to me as ‘sir’, and to Delany [Mrs. Durmur’s first name] as madam.” Definitely a military man, I thought. “Yes, sir!” I responded. Too bad he didn’t hear the hint of sarcasm in my voice. From there he went on to explain that around the house I had to pull my own weight, drugs/smokes/other illegal substances would not be tolerated, blah, blah, blah. I basically just stared out the window the whole way to the house. The whole landscape was all too familiar to me, and I hadn’t been to Las Vegas in around ten years. I did love the city though; it was all too unlucky that Las Vegas had been the only city I had ever lived in. I loved the blinding lights at night, the constant sound of voices, cars, and the occasional siren [most likely sounded off by a cop car, chasing down another criminal]. Somehow, it was all grossly soothing to me. It kept my nerves, and the waves of rebellious teen angst, at bay.
I sighed as they led me into my new room. Had they housed kids in this room before me? I couldn’t tell. The walls were plain white, but the room’s smell was sickening; it was of new paint. The smell was so strong, though, that it smelled as if they had painted one thousand coats of the shit on the walls before they got it just right. To the right there was a small twin bed [which I probably wouldn’t totally fit onto], and a grimy, dirt filled window. To my left there was an empty bookcase with a lamp at the top of it. Did they really expect me to climb up there to turn it on? Last but not least, the absolute turn-off; the room was horribly small. I’m not joking. I could probably only walk three paces from the door to the opposite wall, the same with the width of the room. It was basically a closet. If I hadn’t thought I would be spending all my time out of the house before I came here, now I was.
I turned around to face the Durmur’s. “Uh, thanks,” I said, barely sounding conscious. “I’ll just get settled in, then.” Delany smiled widely. “Go right ahead, dear. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us!” They left me and shut the door behind them.
“Fat chance of that,” I murmured. I unzipped my bag and dumped all of my shit out onto the tiny bed. I didn’t have much that I needed; just clothes and other necessities to carry with me. When you’re a foster kid, you learn not to hold onto anything. No friends [I’m a lone wolf], no large collection of cds, no photo albums, etc. I guess the expression ‘just the clothes on my back’ sort of fits here.
I decided I needed to get out already, so I grabbed my band hoodie [Saosin] and my wallet and headed out the door, not giving Franklin a choice as to whether he wanted me leaving or not.
“Hey, smart-ass, haul your bag over here and meet your new not-parents,” Frankie said, obviously annoyed with the fact that I had been stuck with him as a client for the past five years. Despite the fact that I was being openly harassed by my social worker in front of my new foster parents, I quietly laughed walking over to Mr. and Mrs. Durmur. Mrs. Durmur was about a head shorter than me [and I’m 5’ 7”] and had short, cropped, blonde hair. Mr. Durmur had short black hair, and was wearing an army uniform. He was probably about six feet. I bit my tongue before opening my mouth to greet them. I try to be nice, but it’s a hard thing to do when you’ve got a bad attitude like mine. At least I admit that I have a problem. Just like I’m addicted to coffee. Both I should probably get help for, but I don’t, and I won’t. So shoot me.
“Hi. How ya doing.” I said while sighing, making sure they got the hint. I wasn’t going to act all grateful for them taking me in. To me, they were just another house until they decided to kick me out, too. Mrs. Durmur didn’t seem to get the hint.
“Hello, dear! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m sure you’ll have a fine time in our home,” she gushed. I bit down on my tongue again to keep from saying something stupid. Instead, I turned to Frankie. “See ya, Frankie,” I said, starting to walk away with the Durmur’s. “In about a week, I reckon,” I whispered to him, harshly, making sure that my not-parents wouldn’t hear. He gave me the finger, paired with a smile, and I walked out the door to the parking lot chuckling at our screwed-up relationship.
On the ride to my new temporary home, Mr. Durmur [whose name, I learned, was Franklin; I tried to refrain from calling him Frankie] started to lecture me to the point where I thought killing myself would be a quick alternative to listening to him ramble on. Nevertheless, I caught some of what he was saying.
“You will refer to me as ‘sir’, and to Delany [Mrs. Durmur’s first name] as madam.” Definitely a military man, I thought. “Yes, sir!” I responded. Too bad he didn’t hear the hint of sarcasm in my voice. From there he went on to explain that around the house I had to pull my own weight, drugs/smokes/other illegal substances would not be tolerated, blah, blah, blah. I basically just stared out the window the whole way to the house. The whole landscape was all too familiar to me, and I hadn’t been to Las Vegas in around ten years. I did love the city though; it was all too unlucky that Las Vegas had been the only city I had ever lived in. I loved the blinding lights at night, the constant sound of voices, cars, and the occasional siren [most likely sounded off by a cop car, chasing down another criminal]. Somehow, it was all grossly soothing to me. It kept my nerves, and the waves of rebellious teen angst, at bay.
I sighed as they led me into my new room. Had they housed kids in this room before me? I couldn’t tell. The walls were plain white, but the room’s smell was sickening; it was of new paint. The smell was so strong, though, that it smelled as if they had painted one thousand coats of the shit on the walls before they got it just right. To the right there was a small twin bed [which I probably wouldn’t totally fit onto], and a grimy, dirt filled window. To my left there was an empty bookcase with a lamp at the top of it. Did they really expect me to climb up there to turn it on? Last but not least, the absolute turn-off; the room was horribly small. I’m not joking. I could probably only walk three paces from the door to the opposite wall, the same with the width of the room. It was basically a closet. If I hadn’t thought I would be spending all my time out of the house before I came here, now I was.
I turned around to face the Durmur’s. “Uh, thanks,” I said, barely sounding conscious. “I’ll just get settled in, then.” Delany smiled widely. “Go right ahead, dear. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us!” They left me and shut the door behind them.
“Fat chance of that,” I murmured. I unzipped my bag and dumped all of my shit out onto the tiny bed. I didn’t have much that I needed; just clothes and other necessities to carry with me. When you’re a foster kid, you learn not to hold onto anything. No friends [I’m a lone wolf], no large collection of cds, no photo albums, etc. I guess the expression ‘just the clothes on my back’ sort of fits here.
I decided I needed to get out already, so I grabbed my band hoodie [Saosin] and my wallet and headed out the door, not giving Franklin a choice as to whether he wanted me leaving or not.