I never thought I’d come out the way I did.
It started a little after 7:49 Monday morning. There wasn’t must to see those first few minutes. Most of it was just a blur. Not that I can remember. I’m sure it was exciting to some and mundane to many others. They tagged me and foot-printed me and wrapped me in a blanket. Paperwork was file and name was given. I was now legal part of this world.
Welcome Mr. Christopher Andrew Puchala. Your driver is waiting.
I was told by reliable sources that I was a “good” baby. And that I always smiled a lot. I didn’t like peas. Those made me mad.
I cried my first day at school. Things were different here. There was order and letters on the wall. I was to learn and I did even when it stormed outside.
We moved to Ocala, FL. Middle school and the storms followed. These storms were stronger and never ending.
In high school I didn’t pay much attention to learning. I did what I had to do to pass. I worked when I was 15 as a dishwasher. I washed my hands when they were dirty. Some days the smell of garbage didn’t rub off.
I learned to pretend and learned to love. I learned to drive and drink. I learned to swim and fall. I learned to give and take. I learned that tomorrow is a new day and another may never come.
There was Debbie…my high school rival sweetheart. We dated, had backseat
fun, went to the prom, and talked of the future. She was going to college and
was headed to the Army. Time and distance was too much. It torn us apart
and dancing impossible.
The jungle called Hondo…
I enter the heart of darkness as a boy.
She was probably six or seven. I couldn’t really tell because Hondurans are smaller in size.
No one got in…that was the rule. Shot first was the order. There was this pit about 200 feet long, 100 feet wide and 20 feet deep. It’s were the Army dumped it’s shit. There were local salvaging during the day and night for stuff. It was all women and children. The pit was always on fire from all spent oil and chemicals. On a good day the smoke mingled with the morning fog. It was on this type of morning that we were alerted. I was part of the early response team. Get to “The Pit”. That was the order.
A few days before, they notified the town not to enter “The Pit”. One person never got the message.
The Honduran guard pointed to the spot. We moved in a tactical manner to the spot, fully covered with Lip bush and dense grass. Weapons at ready and fixed on the spot.
She had on a blue flowered dress, sandals and oil rags in her hand. Good for cooking dinner. She was going to make her mother proud. Fuck me.
We didn’t talk about it much. It was a Honduran thing. We played football that afternoon. It felt good to get hit.
After a tour in Italy I got the hell out…join the college life. Wanted to get smarter and think. I just wanted to think. I wanted to write…get it all out. So I moved to Seattle after graduating and began writing the next great American novel. I had to get it out. Never wanted to write…had to.
It started with The Leaf Collector. Still writing more and more. Got to get it all out.
When it’s done it’s done.
I see light and darkness dancing.
Is there really an end? For now there is the now. I say celebrate the now and think much of the future and remember the bits of the past that makes one laugh. Fill your glass to the top and drink.
After forty-four year since that first breathe, I take another. And I smile for the next and the one thereafter.
Join me. For this journey is still being written.
