Member-only story
The Time My Paraplegic Step-Uncle Took My Brothers and Me Camping
When I was 10 years old and living in San Diego, I was at war with my abusive, alcoholic step-father Jim Crush. (That was his real name, I swear I didn’t make it up.) It wasn’t a fair fight, of course, but when you’re young and you hate someone, it doesn’t matter. You battle despite the odds against you. And when you’re a kid, you instinctively know time is on your side.
I knew if I could just survive, someday I was going to grow up and not have to put up with his bullying and bullshit. But until then, my passive-aggressive tactics and guerrilla sneaks attacks would have to do. (I once put a dozen tacks under his car’s rear tire that resulted in a flat. He suspected me but in one of my best acting jobs, I feigned complete innocence.)
Jim Crush would often be nice and try to manipulate me into liking him. I think he once said he wanted me to call him dad. I stifled a laugh and said, “No.” Knowing I loved sports, sometimes he would come straight home from his job as shoe salesman or an office supplies salesman or a construction worker — instead of going to the bar first — and play sports with my two brothers and me. Usually, it wasn’t fun because I was a pretty bad sport and hated losing, which is, of course, what you do when you’re a boy playing against a man.
