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a boy moment

Posted by larry on 2017-January-17 23:59:51, Tuesday

First, I have to apologize for posting this. It is a melancoly tale, and one not told without some emotion.

It has to do with a post I wrote earier today in response to some other post. An explanation, if you will.

At the time I met this boy, I was still with my wife and in our house, we had boys everywhere. They all acted as if they lived there because they knew they were all welcome and safe.

I had a policy that as long as the boy made it to our house he would be safe from everything and every body. And that included parents.

Also at that time, we had our foster son. He had spent some time at the hospital, in the mental ward. What sent him to the hospital was an episode of self-defacement. He had been at a neighbor's house and had taken a razor blade and had cut his wrists.

In the hospital, he wouldn't talk. His doctor was a beautiful woman and Jimmy (don't worry, I use fake names) was enamored of her. But that didn't make any difference. Maybe it was that he was embarrassed to tell her why he had cut himself. But she knew more than we all suspected.
We went to visit Jimmy (not his real name), she was there to greet us. She told us of his not opening up, and then explained why many juveniles deface themselves in that manner. She explained that so many cut themselves (they are called ''cutters'') due to sexual abuse.

I opened my mouth and then shut it again, because I wanted to talk to Jimmy again, first.

She let us go about our visit with the request that we talk to Jimmy and explain to him that he needed to explain. To which we gladly agreed.
When I got to talk to Jimmy, I told him that he needed to tell her exactly what he had told me, crying in my arms, the night before he had cut himself.

He had told me of his earlier childhood (he was fourteen at the time he was living with us) of his mother taking him down to the riverfront where there was drug dealing and prostitution going on most every night, no matter what police presence. There she ''rented'' him to every biker, drug dealer, or whoever had the money. She called him her ''pretty boy''.

His father had taken Jimmy for a while, but that didn't work out.

Jimmy had come to our house as a friend of our oldest son, my stepson. We had become attached to him, and involved in his court appearences. It reached a point where we just had to take custody of him in order to keep him from going to an unknown foster parent or the local ''group home'' which was no more than a warehouse for troubled and endangered kids.

The only challenge we got was from the judge who told Jimmy's mother that ''you just can't give your kid away, like that''.

But got him, we did.

For a while, Jimmy did well.

But his old street friends kept coming by, trying to get him to join them back out on the streets.

There was another Jimmy who came by on his bike who had given our Jimmy a hard time for living with us. And he was a treat for the eyes. Blond hair and finely muscled. He ended up coming back to me, pleading to be allowed to live with us, too. They had taken him to the group home and he hated it. But we couldn't. We were all filled up and there was no room for one more. I did feel sorry for that boy, because his father was in prison.

The boy that this was really about finally came over. Another blond boy, just like all of the other Jimmies and of course his name was Jimmy, too. Our ''cutter'' Jimmy told me, in front of this Jimmy that this Jimmy had been his partner at times on the riverfront, the boy's mothers ''teamed up'' and rented them out as twins to get more money for the night. They reminiced in front of me, and I started looking this boy over. He was wearing light colored cotton shorts, about the length of P.E. shorts from when I was in high school. He was sitting on the ground with his legs out in front of him, knees bent. It was obvious that he was wearing no underwear, and he noticed that I noticed. He smiled at me, but I could not allow myself a dallience. So the conversation finally finished and the next time I saw him he was with a much younger boy who was simply a boy god. The boy had long brown hair that came halfway down his back, and looked great trailing behind him as he raced the bike up and down the street in front of our house. The new Jimmy told us that he was watching out for his cousin, because there were ''chesters'' out to catch him.

The very next time we saw him (and maybe the last for a while) was when he showed up on our doorstep drunk. He reeked of alcohol, and was afraid to go home. It was common for him to stay out all night, but his mother would have a fit if she caught him drinking. He finally passed out that night on our living room floor.

The very last time we (my ex and me) saw this Jimmy, he was working in a gas station, very near the area he had ''worked'' with our Jimmy. He told us he was doing well, had a steady girlfriend (who became his wife, shortly after) and the two of them were living with his father. I shook his hand and congratulated him and wished the two of them well, and I meant it.

As we drove away, my ex worried me with an explanation that the boy's father was abusive and would beat the boy when he was very little. She also said he would yell at the boy and call him names.

I wish that I could have done more for that boy, at any time in his life.

I always feel guilty when something bad happens to a boy who I have known, even when that boy is grown into a man.

I guess I cried a lot when we got the news. They found them. Jimmy and his wife had gone into the attic of his father's house and hung themselves from the rafters.

a fucked up ending to a fucked up life.

larry

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