"Growing" Up

"Growing up in a conservative, Christian home was difficult.  Bringing home a girl and trying to have sex was even more difficult.  Thank goodness for cars.  If my parents would have considered the options, they may have let up on me a little.  …Then again, probably not.  Consequently, their car became dubbed “the love shack.”

I grew up the oldest of six kids.  Three boys and yep, you guessed it, three girls.  My sisters were great.  They really were.  At times a little nosey, but hey - that’s kids.  Problem was, even back then I was always doing shit I wasn’t supposed to.  …Like converting my closet into a grow room.  At the time I’m not sure what I was thinking.  If you’ve ever grown pot, you know it doesn’t take long before it begins to stink.  Mind you, both my parents had been hippies and yes, they know what “that” smell is.

Truth is it never made it that far.  You see, I wasn’t smart enough to know my room was being “tossed” periodically.  Here in prison we call them shake-downs.  Yeah, fuckin’ parents—always crimpin’ my style.  I’ll give them one thing: They were thorough.  I’ve seen trained officers here come up with far less than my parents found in my 8 X 10 cubicle.

 I come in the front door to be greeted by a kitchen table full of “contraband” (that’s the prison term) - basically the typical teen-ager bullshit.  A pack of cigarettes, a couple “PentHouse” magazines, a tin of Skoal, my girlfriend’s thong panties, a switchblade knife, some road cones, a stop sign, blinking construction-zone road barriers, half-empty liquor bottles and plastic trays of small, growing pot plants. 

My Dad, at last had found out where his high-powered mechanic lights had gone.  They were attached to the ceiling of my closet, keeping my batch of pot growing.  I think he basically overlooked all the other stuff, but he was really pissed about his lights.  I mean, really pissed.

Mom made a big demonstration of, one at a time, pulling the little pot plants out of the soil and dropping them into the toilet.  This took a while.  I had about 80 plants.  My motto was “Do it Big” even back then.  I’m sure I was stoned while I stood and watched her “weed” my “garden.”  Or “garden” my weed?  Pull my weed?  It’s really quite funny now, but not at the time.  I mean the whole flush-the-pot-plants demonstration was a little over the top. 

Back then, I didn’t know the history of the woman flushing my pot.  I refuse to bring my sweet mother (who I love dearly) into my creative stories.  However!  …Just picture Cheech and Chong flushing their kids’ pot and telling them “Drugs are bad!”

Silly me….  I thought after the plants I was off the hook.  Not a chance!  Seems they had somehow prioritized their findings.  The weed plants were number one.  Next on their list was the porn.  The interrogation begins, “Where did you get the magazines?”  Back then my levels of crime were small compared to say, my adult life.  But even then I knew to plead the fifth.  It’s is different when you’re dealing with your parents though.  For instance, if I would have said, “I plead the fifth,” my Dad would have knocked my smart ass off that stool and across the room.  I had to be smart and tactful.  

“What porn?” 

God forbid parents are actually reading this shit, but if they are, here’s some free advice: When a question is answered with a question, somebody’s stalling for time.  This is an automatic red flag.  No, I’m not trying to give anyone up.  I’m actually helping you here.  To be a more believable liar, you have to be sincere.  Don’t answer the question with a question.  You have to train your automatic response.  …A simple “it wasn’t me,” it’s not mine, I didn’t do it… that baby don’t look like me! 

OK, get the point?  So where were we?  “What porn?  That’s not mine!  I’ve never seen it before.  Somebody set me up!”  Much better!  Now we’re getting somewhere.  There was just one minor problem; seems my parents were detectives on top of being interrogators and the K-9 unit.

Another tip:  When you lie to people and they know it, they keep digging for the truth.  Yeah, it just goes down like that. Son of a bitch.  Give them a good story that’s half-way believable and sometimes you’re off the hook.  It’s a 50/50.  Boy, if I had known then what I know now….  I was far from off the hook.

People, “Do it Big” is not a good motto.  Unless we’re talking boobs.  About this time, one of my buddies went through the same ordeal.  He wasn’t quite the hardened “porn” criminal I was and his parents were able to break him.  Thanks Justin!  Sure, go ahead and tell your parents your porn stash came from me.  Folks, I could write the book on “dumb crook news.”  Don’t involve others in your crime.  Don’t tell them, don’t take them along, and don’t have them hold stolen shit for you.  Having someone find out you lied to them is bad.  …Have your parents find out and you’re screwed!  This kid didn’t just say where he got it.  He told them where I got it.  Was the interrogation that serious?  …You being water-boarded over there? 

Well anyway, of course I was stealing them from the local party store.  That was my first experience with going in and telling a store owner I stole merchandise from them.  Yes, my parents insisted I do this.  How embarrassing. 

“Ummm, Sir?” 

Yes. 

“I came here today to tell you over the past few months I have been coming into your store.  Not only have I been buying candy, but I have also been stealing the newest issue of “Penthouse” magazine as soon as it hits the shelf.”

As I write this I laugh.  I also realize that the store owner was probably laughing also.  However, that was no comfort at the time.  I was 15 years old and terrified. 

I wish the story ended here, but no such luck.  There was then the issue of the road cones, barriers, and stop sign.  Did I mention the barriers were the barrels with the blinking lights on them?  At night my room would come to life with solar-powered road flashers the size of dinner plates.  …Looked like giant lightning bugs on steroids had taken over my living space.  This turned out to be too much for my parents to handle, so they called in the professionals.  At this time I should mention I was on probation for robbing the local Radio Shack.  Well, they call my probation officer, who calls the cops.  I guess stealing construction zone warning devices is major.  The cop sat me down and told me all this shit about how it’s a safety thing; someone could die because the stop sign is gone, or miss the corner because the barrels aren’t there.

I wish I could say I learned some big lesson from all that.  Not really, but it makes a funny story.  Looking back, I got away with a lot of shit.  My parents weren’t in tune to all the warning signs.  That changed over time.  I tried them in every way possible.  By the time my younger siblings were trying shit Mom and Dad knew exactly what time it was.  I did a pretty thorough job of educating them on all the tricks kids play."

You don't have to admit anything you don't want to, of course, but if you did have run-ins with the law, did your parents bail you out?  ...Haul you into court and tell the judge to throw the book at you? If you are a parent, what are your privacy policies at your house?  ...Shake 'em down or let them be?  (Don't worry!  We won't tell a soul!)