Longest Night

“Crash!” Echoes of breaking glass fixtures along with crying moans caught my attention. Dad had marched to the bedroom, began gathering things, and mom was trying to block him every step of the way. Sounds of rushed sign language snaps and slapping skin accented by mom’s crying moans filled my ears. Dad’s answer of deep guttural yells, angry sign language smacking along his own body conveyed his determination to end this night away from the house.

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Kearns, Utah had 2 types of homes: split-level with most of the home above ground save for a small living room, bedroom and utility room; or rambler with fifty percent of the home at ground level and a mirror version below it as a basement.

Our, 1979, $41,000, half brown brick, half white aluminum siding, garage-less rambler, consisted of a front living room, three bedrooms and bathroom as the main floor. Beneath it lay an unfinished, cement slab basement full of two by four framing to support the house above it. The front half of the basement made one large room running the entire length of the house. The back half had two framed divisions, without sheetrock or coverings of any kind. The wooden skeleton setting created hours of echoing tag, dodgeball, “guns” and other entertainment.

Guns.

Post hoop-and-stick, pre-video game era, we played a game called “guns.” Neighborhood kids gathered on the front porch of one house to then scatter for cover in all directions throughout several landscaped yards. Some kids carried remake toy rifles and pistols; others carried alien version weaponry; others carried squirt guns; others carried sticks; as a last resort some kids made a pistol by extending the index finger and thumb of the right hand.

“Pew-Pew!”

“Ah! Ah! Ah”

“Brrrrr! Brrrr!”

“Tah! Tah!”

“Zoom! Zoom!”

“Zing! Zing! I got you Jason! I see you laying on your stomach by that tree!”

“Bam! Bam! Bam! You’re dead Jon. I see you behind the porch!”

When caught or killed, the victim returned to the original porch from where the game began to wait for everyone else to die. The lone survivor won. Variations included teams, allowing people to be “resurrected” from the porch if touched by someone else who hadn’t been killed yet.

“I got you, Abe!”

“I ducked, you missed!”

“You can’t duck, Abe! You’re dead! Everyone," the shooter screams to plead his case, “I shot Abe. He’s behind the shed!”

“Abe’s dead,” rang a voice from somewhere.

“Abe is dead!” Calls out another hidden voice.

“Go to the porch, Abe!” A third voice casts a judicious vote.

One could never oppose the court-of-peers. If one did, the court exercised unmerciful disqualification either by banning the player for a few days, or by an embarrassing dog-pile of punches and slaps.

While sitting on a porch a fellow dead guy turns toward me. “Hey Brad, when we're done, wanna play Star Wars?”

“I have R2D2 and Luke. You?”

“Vader, Yoda, Princess Leia and Chewy.”

“Who does Brian have?”

“Uh… Luke, Han, Obi-Wan, an empire droid and something else. But Brian can’t play. He got grounded for two-weeks, cuz his mom found his Playboys.”

Since every kid played outside during all daylight hours seven days a week, grounding equated to solitary in prison. A grounded kid spent non-mealtime in their room without television or other entertainment. We, with freedom, often rode by the inmate’s house making faces or throwing rocks at a bedroom window as a reminder of all the missed fun. If we were lucky, a sad face peered out to reinforce our mocking chants. Typically, when grounding was over, the freed person took revenge on the mockers with punches, slaps, stolen toys, or withheld home baked goods that a mother offered out to the neighborhood.

If Steal-the-Flag and Hide-and-Seek had offspring, Star Wars played the role of favorite child. To begin play, each kid picked a yard (not their own) and hid all their Star Wars figurines—my figures had “B” or “H” written in black marker under my toy’s feet to avoid arguing over who owned which Luke—the rest of the group then went from yard to yard finding as many characters as possible. Whomever found the most, won.

Reset the game, re-hide the characters and play dozens of times until someone’s parent yelled “Dinner!”

After dinner, and especially when fall or winter evenings darkened early, kids stayed home and watched a show or two on the one television in the one living room most homes had.

My favorite show aired Sunday nights and I ALWAYS watched the opening credits: Two motorcycles merging onto a highway in unison to the music of two measures of drums. Then police sirens blared along with the additional rhythm guitar.

“DA. DA. Da-da-da,” horns began the fanfare and excited my pulse. Camera close ups of the motorcycle wheel, headlight, police siren, license place and the California Highway Patrol insignia announced the beginning of CHiP’s. Beside Beauregard “Bo” Duke, John Baker portrayed everything I envisioned as manly: beach ready body, gorgeous hair, smooth motorcycle skills, protector of good, jacked up four by four truck, chivalrous, and all-around hero before every show ended. From start to finish of each episode, I worshiped our box of talking light, refusing all distractions, until the very last scene.

“Tinkle-tinkle.”

“Squeak.”

“Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling.”

The gate along the driveway, part of the chain-link-fence surrounding our entire lot, created the only entry and exit point. Each time steel latch unhooked, and metallic wheels moved along eight-foot aluminum rails, the parting gate sang the same song, “Tinkle-tinkle. Squeak. Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling.”

When closing, “Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling. Squeak. Tinkle-tinkle.”

Sunday nights, the gate never made a noise. But since my dad had left a few hours earlier, his return warranted no surprise. Even with the night’s stormy weather, metallic noises reverberated.

“Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling. Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling. Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling.” The gate chimed much longer than usual. I wondered why dad opened the gate across the entire length of the driveway.

One of my favorite CHiP's episodes currently replayed from the television. A large blue diesel truck blasted its horns speeding past John and Ponch.

“His brakes are gone! Didn’t we just give him a citation?” Yells John.

Camera closes to Ponch, “about two minutes ago!”

John yells back, “you clear the way, we’ve got one risky shot, but we’ve got to try it!” Ponch’s siren resonates and he speeds ahead.

“Seven David! Seven Mary three! I request assistance on a runaway truck!” John barks into his police radio. The scene shifts to a view of John riding alongside the truck driver’s door as Ponch rides ahead sounding alarm to clear a path. A police cruiser appears into the scene ahead of the runaway truck.

Over the sounds of suspenseful music, John commands into his radio, “Ponch! Give us some room!” Next Ponch rides ahead and John yells toward the truck driver, “Okay! I’m going to guide you into him,” pointing at the cruiser, “and we are going to use his brakes to stop you!”

“Varoom, varoom.”  A car sounded accelerating up the driveway. Headlights filled our living room. My family didn’t own a car and we rarely had visitors on a Sunday night. I turned away from the television missing the downhill rescue.

“Boom!” our front door crashed open. Cold rain and wind forced its way into the house around the backlit silhouette filling the entire doorframe. Dad?

With Frankenstein eloquence, he stomped forward, his heavy footfalls shaking the floor. He turned toward me, locking eyes and yelled without using any sign language. “DWWAAAAAPP! YAAAAADDA! YOOOUUUUUUU!” My heart fell. He had been drinking, was angry and lost control of the monsters normally held back by sobriety. A fist punched a wall. Another banged mightily against the television.

Trying to avoid any violence and unnecessary pain, children scattered. I ran from the living room to the kitchen, then peered my head around the corner to see which way the Deaf Berserker traveled. Another man, thinner, older transformed from howling wind to silhouette to human form across the front threshold.

“John divorce you!” the Deaf man signed while pointing at a frightened frame of a woman cowering deeply into the couch.

“No!” She leaped forward, fight-or-flight system energized. Bounding from the couch, she shouldered the newest entrant back into the night. Turning toward my dad, she jumped to land behind him, clawed both hands into his right shoulder trying to stop his progress and to aim him back toward the door. Effortlessly, he reached back, grabbed a fistful of her hair and flung her from behind toward the wall I used as battle rampart. Mom slumped in a crumpled heap beneath my peering face.

My mind couldn’t process the current scene and simultaneously wonder if I had understood the other man’s sign language correctly. Divorce? Yes, my parents argued a lot, but all parents argued. Hadn’t we just enjoyed playing and eating together? My dad isn’t going to live here anymore? He makes all the money, will we starve? Do I have to find a new home? Will I ever see my dad again? My youthful mind spun and nosedived into a rabbit hole of questions without answers, scenes without hope and darkness without light. Though the wall between rooms propped me up, the moment’s gravity combined with enormous sorrow, hopelessness and heavy tears drug me to the floor creating a mound of quick breathed, sobbing, little boy flesh.

“Crash!” Echoes of breaking glass fixtures along with crying moans caught my attention. Dad had marched to the bedroom, began gathering things, and mom was trying to block him every step of the way. Sounds of rushed sign language snaps and slapping skin accented by mom’s crying moans filled my ears. Dad’s answer of deep guttural yells, angry sign language smacking along his own body conveyed his determination to end this night away from the house.

Both adults cried miserably emerging from the bedroom. Mom’s begged for continuance; dad’s sought for escape. Dad stomped in the hallway toward the kitchen with mom behind him, desperate arms wrapped around his waist, crying mightily, heels digging into the floor. His large stature and strength trumped her small frame. The multi-body argument passed my sobbing crouch and continued through the kitchen.

Dad had shirts and pants clenched in his right arm. With his left, he grabbed his black, metal, domed lunchbox and traveled toward the back door. In one last frantic act, mom screamed, jumped on his back and used all her might to hold the strong man still. Somehow, he synchronously traveled the two steps down from the kitchen to the landing, opened the back door, shirked out of mom’s grip and disappeared into the darkness.

“Varoom. Varoom.” The visiting car and its bright headlights retreated into the storm.

I waited for the gate to close. With a sobbing face, I looked toward the darkened living room window and silently begged to hear, “Cling-cling-cling-cling-cling. Squeak. Tinkle-tinkle.” The song from the gate might make the night normal. Perhaps there was a magic fate that a closed gate could bring to undo the previous heated moments.

Wind gusts flowed between the two open doors.

Mom slumped on the landing’s stair and inhaled deeply. Her whole body followed the rise of her shoulders as needed air filled her lungs. After a pause, she trembled and bellowed out the most awful, garish cry a child might hear. Her begs, weeps, beseeching and pleading signs were for naught. The man she loved, with whom she shared children and built a home, shrugged out of her entreating embrace, stomped across the threshold into the night rain and left her life forever.

I should have closed the doors.

I should have closed the gate.

I should have comforted my mom.

I loved my dad and couldn’t fathom this sudden change in family dynamics. Nor did I know how to process my immense grief and immediate personal loss. I walked to my bed, buried my face in the pillow and screamed. Anger, fear, sadness, hopelessness erupted from my mouth and poured from my eyes. I hated everything. I loathed everyone. I trusted nothing.

“Brad?” Abe’s voice sqeaked through the darkness from the other bed, “did dad leave us?”

Without a response, I rolled away from his bed toward the wall. I clasped my hands beneath knees bringing them up to my chin and began rocking back and forth. While struggling to control my breath, I wailed uncontrollably for the rest of the night.