Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Roger bought Go-Go her first house. It was large and new and looked over a golf course. It was also in an unincorporated township north of the City, which was awful for me, and my older teen age sibling, Scott. Windsor was two miles outside of DeForest, the nearest town: population seven thousand something. Both Go-Go and my Dad were from a small town in Northern Wisconsin, Phillips – a place we spent holidays – I hated it. I hated that my teenage cousins went to Church functions to do their socializing; I hated the hot rod cars, “parking” at the cemetery, and all town people knowing everyone’s business. Moving to Windsor was like being trapped in Phillips, back in time, and never being able to get out.
That first summer we moved to Windsor I ate Sara Lee pound cake and watched television, obsessively. I missed my friends and I missed my apartment complex. I was miserable, cranky, and lonely. I spent a lot of time alone; exploring the neighboring farms, the creek behind our house, the American Breeders Service land, and the country roads our little housing development, sprung amongst. As I explored I would see hick boys in loud, souped up, 50’s style cars and feel like I had been dropped into time-warp nightmare.
Go-Go was in heaven. Roger gave her free reign with furnishing and decorating her new house. She demanded the best of everything and she was decisive about her taste: ivory and gold trimmed Lenox China with gold rimmed crystal stem-ware, service for twenty-four, gold and sterling flat-ware and furniture from the most expensive store in Madison. I used to think she had impeccable taste, well, she told me she did, and I, lacking any other design blueprint, believed her.
Go-Go was a social creature, and in no time at all, she made friends with the neighbors who golfed and drank at the Lake Windsor Country Club. She had a knack for attracting to biggest drunks in town and Windsor was no exception. I developed a similar aptitude. At the end of the summer, I began eighth grade in the small town middle school and began my hellish travails into adolescence, torturing and being tortured by Go-Go.
I’ve been struggling to write about this time in my life. I was in hell and I took hostages. She tried to control me, briefly, but I spit in her face and dared her to ground me, “what are you going to do, chain me to my bed?” I challenged. I started getting high and drinking and staying out late. The more rebellious I became the more desperate she was. We fought violently. One night I came home at one or two in the morning to find every single one of my albums folded and broken in fourths. My music was my solace. She found a way to get to me, and it worked. From that night on, I swore vengeance. I spent countless hours fantasizing about breaking all of her precious dishes and nick-knacks. My rage was palpable and I had no place to put it, except to do numb myself with drugs, alcohol and sex.