Читать книгу Something About Sammy - Blaine Sims - Страница 6

Seven years ago, I decided to move to Bluewater Springs, Georgia after retiring from the Georgia Department of Corrections. A compulsory retirement after a sixteen-year career, I had entered the state of Georgia’s Deferred Retirement Option Program.

In the fall of 2008, a voice mail message from my son Cody arrived. We had no contact or communication for ten years. He found my new phone number, called, and left a voicemail message.

Reluctant to return his call, I reached out to longtime friends who were aware of everything borne through the years. As he’s offspring, enormous emotional suffering was inflicted.

I rose beyond our separation long before, made easier by the fact he treated me less than human, and it wasn’t the first estrangement. I hit back with a vengeance if I sense aggrievement by a person. It’s a fault of mine.

My propensity for not forgiving rises to the level of ruthlessness. An example entangled the son of my wife’s eldest brother, Cody’s cousin, Jeffery.

My brother-in-law showed aloofness and did not have a close relationship with this youngster. An occasional hushed reference to physical abuse surfaced, although signs were not apparent.

I tried to mentor this boy and his step-brother. He spent many weekends at our house and confided in me. I tried to assuage him. Our place served as a sanctuary.

On my way home from work one day, and after stopping for drinks, I decided to drop by. Unbeknownst to me, my brother-in-law and his wife had gone out. The boys were home alone. We enjoyed our time together, and without concerns mentioned, I headed to my house, a twenty-minute drive away.

My wife greeted me with a glass of wine in hand.

“Little Jeffrey called,” she said with derision. “He said you were on your way home drunk.”

A bomb may as well have exploded. First, I was not drunk. Second, her normal state included intoxication. Livid, I began to shake!

“What the Hell gives him the right to call and tell you I’m on the way home drunk?” I said. “Who died and left him in charge?”

In ensuing weeks, futile attempts to explain the reason he called amounted to he was concerned about me.

“He never called to say my wife was drunk and on her way home,” I said. “What are you implying, he doesn’t care about his aunt?”

No one ever called me with such a revelation. Further, spare me, please! He didn’t care. He cared for a shoulder on which to cry.

Jeffery betrayed me by snitching to my wife, and I have no tolerance for it. Memory of an angrier time eludes me. Our relationship changed. After the divorce, we never maintained interaction.

Deep inside, Cody remained in my heart and soul. Several people I spoke with reminded me of what I languished through in the past. But, as my dear friend Helen (God rest her soul) stated: “It’s your nickel. You decide if it’s worth it.”

I returned his call.

Divorced from his wife, they had a daughter, Kelli, who’d turn nine in a few months. He said he lived in Bluewater Springs. Although we maintained no contact for ten years, I had knowledge of the marriage, but not the divorce.

Privileged to know he fathered a daughter; I wasn’t aware of her name or age. He continued he worked as the Banquet Manager at a Marriott Resort, and he and his fiancé, Heather, made a recent house purchase.

We talked for near two hours. I don't remember if it came during this call or a subsequent one, but we arrived at an agreement for me to drive from Little Oak Isle to Bluewater Springs to reunite.

A momentous event, apprehensiveness washed over me as the time approached. I was upbeat, but three experiences with Cody brought a numbness to bear.

Was this another game of his? Would I open myself to heartache and let down once more, or had he made a positive change and growth in the ten years gone by?

The possibilities were endless, and I had but one choice to discover the true motive. Confident and uncertain at the same time, resistance was futile. Destiny beckoned.

In December 2008, I made the trip. The drive was lengthy and my mind wandered as it had since Cody made the call. My thoughts were better organized despite this, as driving calms my nerves and focuses my concentration.

What is Heather like? I speculated what her thoughts might be of me. Had Cody divulged I cut him off? Did he share details of our past differences leading to splits? How about Kelli? What stories, tall tales, and facts did he disclose to her?

Visions of what they look like were brought to the forefront, yet I couldn’t grasp a picture. Heather is petite and attractive, if not on the average side. Kelli is the spitting image of her father when he was her age.

I visited Bluewater Springs once prior. My father took me when I was eleven. Memory tells me the place did not impress an 11-year-old.

Alone with my father, and staying in a motel, the business’ adjoining restaurant did not offer a children’s menu, and the staff and patrons were not tolerant of non-adults. Everyone appeared snobbish.

I don’t recall taking in sightseeing, but if we did, the town did not excite. My other reminiscence of the trip pertained to the swimming pool. It was my first time in one. Until then, excursions to the lake, and every once in a blue moon, a jaunt to the ocean, comprised my dips.

Cody reserved a room where he worked and made arrangements to meet him, Heather, and Kelli for dinner the first night. The hotel rated amongst the nicest I’ve stayed.

A surreal moment enveloped me after ten years of separation. A range of emotions churned like a propeller through water. Upon finishing our dinner, when we were to part company, I asked, “Give me a hug.”

He used to in his younger years and they were always meaningful. We finished our meal and made plans for me to come to their house the next night. We went to the parking lot to say goodnight.

“Kelli and I will wait in the car,” Heather said.

Without hesitation, he gave me a hug, sheer joy, and happiness. The rest of the time progressed well. We talked and reconnected.

Out of many memories came the one of his first amusement park adventure. It was not the type of outing which interested me, so the thought never entered my mind. At the age of ten, Cody hounded us to take him. He hounded us.

Though reluctant to try because of a height phobia, he wound up loving roller coaster rides. I’m glad I relented and took him.

A hilarious event took place the following night at their new house. They invited me for a home-cooked meal. Cody considered himself a “Chef.” Lamb chops were the main entrée.

As he was cooking with a new oven, and not being familiar, a temperature/time issue arose. Heather and I like our meat medium-rare.

“Cody, I don’t think they’re done,” Heather said.

“You and my Dad like medium-rare,” he replied. “That’s what they are.”

Cody cut into his, then snatched ours from the plates to return to the oven. Kelli leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“You call yourself a Master Chef?” she said.

He married Heather, and in 2010, she gave birth to Rose — a beautiful, precious girl. I made many trips to see him. We kept in touch by phone — both calls and texts. Life progressed well for him, and for me, flying high with contentment, happiness, and fullness inside.

Over the course of the next several years, I would travel to Bluewater Springs two or three times each year. Possessing a valid Georgia Weapons Carry license and not having purchased a firearm in years, I decided to buy one on a visit.

As I lived at the prison, and since my physical address was exempt from public disclosure, all of my official documents had my post office box listed. Driver’s License, vehicle registration, insurance card, you name it. I selected my firearm and filled out the required forms.

I explained I was a state correctional officer and lived at the prison. The sales clerk informed me the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms requires a current legal physical address on their form or else they permit no sale. Well, it raised a quandary.

I had zero documentation to verify such a thing. The sales clerk told me something which blew my mind. He instructed me to go to Walmart and their sporting goods section. Once there, I was to ask the clerk for a Migratory Bird Stamp.

He said there was no charge and all I needed was to provide them my name and address. Inquisitive, I said, they’re sure to ask for proof of address.

“Nope,” he said.

Let me tell you, flabbergasted is not the correct word to explain my reaction. With a migratory stamp in hand, I returned to the gun shop to fill out a new ATF Form 4473.

I gave it to the associate to photocopy, and within a matter of minutes, I walked out the door the owner of a brand new 9mm Glock Model 43.

Good days fluctuated. Overall, I enjoyed my job. I owned a strong sense of worth and purpose. I belonged to the local Bison Lodge and held a position on the Board of Officers, worked in the kitchen, and served on committees. Many people came into my life. One in particular, Angel. What a saint for tolerating me.

A 100m percent disabled Navy veteran, she is a Godsend. We enjoy a particular musical group and have watched their DVDs several times. She’s joined me at concerts by the group and individual members when they perform solo.

We follow a talented young performer who’s a genuine prodigy. We’ve watched his DVD’s and attended performances by him.

Active in the Women’s Chapter of the Bison Lodge, Angel served on their version of the Board of Officers and countless committees. She ascended through the ranks and in status.

Eventual infighting and internal politics curtailed her involvement after many dynamic years. Of the myriad memories spent with her at the lodge, I recall with hearty laughs the times we performed Karaoke, her lending her support and voice to a poor attempt by me at ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’, along with wrapping up many a night with ‘Day-O’ (The Banana Boat Song).

As in the past, I had an extensive repertoire of selections, but some songs should have been left off my list. One long-time member of the women’s chapter insisted whenever she was present for Karaoke, I had to perform ‘For the Good Times’. I always did it justice.

A male member would sing, ‘Unchained Melody’ as a tribute to his wife, and I would always have to accompany him. I may not be the best singer, but this gentleman’s shower turns off when he sings in it.

Hurricane Irma, then a tropical storm as it swept through Georgia, caused significant structural damage to her house after several humongous trees fell. She evacuated to her mother’s place and remains while going through the bureaucratic process of having a new house built.

We are best of friends, and this lady shouldered and supported me throughout trials and tribulations. A true inspiration, she’s endured more than her share of life’s Hell. A remarkable person, she embodies the cliché “to know her is to love her.” An outgoing, personable, and positive outlook individual, it’s tough to summon the notion of vices.

And I had Kitty Kat. The good Lord and everyone who knows me knew how much this cat meant. Born on the property of the work camp, and present when I transferred from a major institution, we remained together for 15 years.

On one trip to see Cody, we made plans to have dinner at a local restaurant known for their Prime Rib, a favorite of mine.

As they both had gotten off work, he and Heather prepped themselves while Rose watched cartoons. Pulling up a photo of Cody on my phone (taken of a photograph when he was six).

“Do you want to see a picture of your daddy when he was a little boy?” I asked.

“Daddy was never a little boy,” she said.

“Yes, he was,” I said. “Look.”

She stared for a minute, then turned to continue watching cartoons. Over an hour later, as we awaited the arrival of our meals, she pointed across the table at her father.

“You never told me you were a little boy,” she said.

His mouth dropped.

“Um, daddy was never a little boy,” he said.

“You were too a little boy,” she pushed back.

Against my initial judgment, I explained the reason for Rose’s sudden announcement.

In the fall of 2014, Cody underwent back surgery. As a result, he could not work for twelve weeks, and he headed on a downhill spiral. He became addicted to painkillers. A heavy drinker in the past, he started hitting the bottle.

The relationship became heated between him and Heather. Aware of the operation, I didn’t know of his addiction and other problems. Once again, he tossed me aside like trash. What did I do? I struck back with nasty text messages but managed to persevere and continued doing what I needed.

A month or two later, Cody contacted me. He said he didn’t understand how to tell me his marriage deteriorated. He lost his job of 13 years and got charged with domestic violence.

Heather filed for divorce and kicked him out of the house. I rushed to Bluewater Springs and spent thousands of dollars trying to help. For over a year, I spent countless hours on the phone.

We planned for him to drive to Little Oak Isle. For the life of me, I can’t remember the date or the month. My thoughts revolved around the trip might do him good. It would be a short get-away from his troubles.

He indicated he’d bring his fishing rods and relax angling. Impossible for him to stay with me, as the prison regulation forbade overnight guests, I rented a room at a motel an hour's drive away. The least expensive place, yet by no means a dive. The excursion turned into a fiasco.

He called an average of fifteen minutes intervals, asking if he arrived. I slaved through a rough work shift and did not feel well. Exhausted, and with the next shift off, I took a nap.

Sleep came quick, and I remained deep into it longer than anticipated. When I awoke and turned the phone on, calls from Cody and the Bison Lodge displayed. Without delay, I phoned to explain and apologize. He professed he understood. I suggested we get together the next morning.

Cody informed me he needed to leave early. The court ordered he not leave the county without permission. I expressed dismay why he hadn’t told me of the fact but did not receive a coherent answer. He promised to text or call when he reached home.

The next morning, I waited with concern. Close to noon, I received a telephone call from the manager of the motel who advised me something troubled her.

She explained Cody acted strange during the duration of his stay and insisted they towed his car. He could not locate it. I told her I’d drive to the motel.

Upon arrival, I approached the front desk and introduced myself. The employee on duty informed me the manager left the premises, but she’d call her to return. We proceeded to Cody’s room.

The manager unlocked the door, and we stepped inside. Cody lay in bed, and I hollered his name.

“I’m okay,” he said, empty beer cans littering the room.

The manager left, and I queried Cody when he recalled having last seen his car. He had the keys and stated he remembered eating at a wing place the night before.

This revelation turned out meaningless, as many restaurants and joints in the area serve wings. He remarked he walked back to the motel and recollected making a two-mile trek.

We set out to search for his vehicle. I drove through each restaurant and bar parking lot within a two-and-a-half-mile radius. The thought someone stole the car clouded my mind. I disregarded it as a remote consideration because of his state-of-mind and earlier level of intoxication.

We made the decision to get a bite to eat. Cody ordered a Rueben sandwich, and I stuck with my usual standby of a cheeseburger with sautéed onions. Hold the lettuce, tomato, and pickles.

Under normal conditions, I wouldn’t have instructed the bartender not to serve Cody alcohol, but viewed it best. In deference, I refrained from imbibing. We chose iced tea.

The ordeal wore on me, and I did not feel one-hundred percent. Discouraged, tired, and drained of emotion, we headed back to the motel. At one o’clock in the morning, Cody woke me out of a sound sleep.

He shifted around the room, gathering items as he packed. I asked what he planned on doing.

“I need to get home,” he said.

“How will you without a car?” I asked.

A look of bewilderment and consternation emerged on his face.

“You mean we didn’t find it last night?” he said shocked.

“No, Cody, we didn’t,” I said.

He collapsed onto his bed.

We hit a brick wall and realized we needed help to solve the mystery. I informed him it best I call the Sheriff’s Department and he agreed.

Judgment told me not to have them come straight to the motel. I drove three-quarters of a mile to a 24-hour grocery store.

This place of business had a familiarity as it adjoined the highway across from the entrance to the hotel resort I used to work at. Cody gave me his driver’s license, and I headed out.

I entered the store and recognized the employee at the register. We remembered each other’s names. I explained the need to call the sheriff’s department and provided a synopsis. He appreciated the information and wished me luck.

I walked outside and made the call to the non-emergency number. Imagine if you will, the exchange as I attempted to explain the predicament.

“Am I to understand you want to report a stolen vehicle?” the deputy who answered asked.

“Well, no, sir,” I replied. “I can’t state with confidence someone stole the vehicle.”

“Okay, you’re not reporting a stolen vehicle,” he continued. “What’s the problem?”

I was exasperated.

“I don’t want to insinuate someone didn’t steal it,” I said. “I consider it a remote likelihood. We can’t locate it.”

“Where did you last see the car?” he asked.

I kept my composure.

“I haven’t,” I said. “My son can’t remember when he last saw it, but he walked back to his motel room from wherever he left it.”

I deliberated telling him I last saw the car in Bluewater Springs but realized it wouldn’t help. I struggled to provide insight into Cody’s current state-of-mind and a bit of the background leading to the moment.

“I’ll send a deputy to meet with you,” he said.

Within ten minutes, two sheriff’s cars pulled into the lot. They initiated contact, and I explained the dilemma.

I mentioned my employment with the Georgia Department of Corrections and assignment to Little Oak Isle Work Camp. The deputies listened with intent and compassion, if not initial confusion.

I provided them with Cody’s driver’s license and asked if they wanted mine. They answered in the affirmative. I reached into my left side trouser pocket, withdrew my wallet, and flung it open. I retrieved my license and handed it to the lead deputy while closing my billfold.

Underneath the driver’s license lay my State of Georgia Weapon Carry License. The deputies’ observation skills became evident.

“Is that a concealed weapon carry license?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said.

Both deputies returned to their respective vehicles. After a brief amount of time, they reemerged.

The lead one asked questions, and I provided answers and explanations the best I could. They reached the point where they wanted to speak with Cody and forewarned me if they determined a need for commitment, they’d transport him for assessment. We departed en route to the motel.

With the three of us at the door, I knocked, inserted the key, and opened it. Cody had wrapped himself under the covers.

“Are there weapons in the room?” the deputy shouted. “Let me see your hands!”

My son raised them in the air as he bolted upright on the bed.

The deputies questioned Cody, in effect rehashing what they asked me. At their suggestion, I telephoned the customer service number on the reverse side of Cody’s credit card to determine where the last several transactions took place.

A great idea, except the information was not available at the hour of the morning. The second deputy announced his intent to search for the car. After twenty minutes, he returned and informed us he located it in the rear parking lot of a restaurant to the north.

I drove through the front lot the night before, but not the rear. Cody and I thanked the deputies. They were professional in their interaction, and their patience, persistence, and empathy appreciated. We shook hands.

Cody and I made the drive, and he reunited with his car. Returning to the motel, he loaded it and departed for Bluewater Springs. Relieved at the resolution, I nonetheless became wiped out from the ordeal. Because of work, I needed to get sleep but acquired a desperate urge to indulge in beer. I stopped at the Bison Lodge. The time allowed for the mandatory eight hours of passage from consuming alcohol and reporting for a shift.

I continued to plan on moving to Bluewater Springs after retirement, set for October 31, 2017. I prayed for him to get better and tried to help. In the spring of 2016, the relationship again turned sour. After a full year, it regressed to square one!

The inevitable reared its head. We started having bitter and nasty exchanges. One night, a series of illogical and undecipherable texts arrived.

I responded the best I could in light of what he wrote. The gist of it read as if he didn’t care anymore. Envision my horror when the words, Glock 17 popped on the screen. I called, and it switched to voice mail. I left a message to call. After a five-minute wait, I phoned.

Once more, I received his voice mail. I told him if I didn’t receive a reply within 10 minutes, I’d call the Bluewater Police Department. He didn’t respond.

I contacted the police, and they sent officers to check on him. I re-established communication with them after the passage of three hours. The dispatcher advised me Cody checked out okay, but they transported him to a treatment center for evaluation.

Eight days later, my phone blew up with messages. Angry, he blamed me for his commitment. I tried to reason with him. After one brutal text, I put an end to it for the final time.

I entered an emotional period but continued taking care of business. It didn’t seem difficult. I found it a piece of cake since this was the fourth time he burned me. I retained my work, the lodge, and close friends.

In the year Heather left him, I dealt with a decade’s long friend who informed me over the phone she possessed a passionate love traversing the closeness of the platonic friendship between us.

Aware of what transpired with Cody since the beginning, she stuck with me. A new development proved stressful for her. I surmised it a fantasy release and nothing more. She denied it and claimed her passion developed years prior.

In amongst the phone calls and texts from Cody, I dealt with texts and hours-long phone calls from her. There were not so pleasant exchanges, and it took a toll on our friendship.

I’ve known this beautiful, loving lady for over thirty years. It turned out an emotional drain. Nonetheless, I handled the loss of companionship. I knew what transpired wrought difficulty on her but didn’t comprehend how difficult. I will go into detail later.

For the most part, I remained content and focused, continuing with a sense of purpose. However, happiness eluded me with the loss of Cody.

My true happiness, aside from Cody, pertained to the lady who became my wife, Cody’s mother.

I loved her, although we maintained different personalities. Sociable, her family members drank substantial amounts of alcoholic beverages, and she kept with the best of them. I, too, am a functional alcoholic.

We never got involved with marijuana or any other drug. Our sex life exemplified voracious passion. There were times we performed sex thrice in a day. I’ve read and heard sex is vital to those born under the Scorpio sign. I’ll vouch for it.

As with Cody, our connection regressed, albeit sooner. She left and filed for divorce. She owned her reasons, and yes, two sides of the story exist.

Her leaving generated a profound effect on me. Over three decades passed without contact. She wished to remain friends and stay in touch. I made the choice to sever interaction. I still had Cody.

In the fall of 2016, I faced the decision to have my beloved Kitty Kat euthanized. I mourned his loss with a heavy heart. But the sorrow diminished knowing it best — he suffered, and his physical life wouldn’t last much longer.

I took care of what needed doing and braved forward, the loss comforted by the loving benevolence of co-workers and friends. I’ll never forget him or the joy he gave.

Of the stories I’ve told concerning him, a particular tale comes to mind. On a quiet and uneventful night, a new female officer worked with me. Her instant fondness of Kitty Kat apparent, questions began to flow. I shared his history, and we conversed.

She asked if anyone disliked Kitty Kat.

“By and far, most staff and inmates over here adored him,” I said. “Now, since you brought it up, one major who wasn’t in the position long disliked cats.”

I continued with a serious tone and expression.

“Three months after transferring in,” I continued. “He strutted into work one morning. With a cat-like hiss, he broadcast, ‘It’s either the cat or me!’ and marched to his office.”

“Two days later, he received a phone call from the Office of the Commissioner,” I added. “The commissioner’s assistant informed him to report the following Monday to a prison located far from Little Oak Work Camp for reassignment.”

This officer fell for it at first. After a brief period, she caught on, and we laughed.

Forward to January 2017. The major informed us of a significant, mandatory meeting scheduled with the warden the next day. He instructed us to wear our Class A uniform.

I took extreme pride in my uniform appearance. I wore it with honor and professionalism, be it Class A, B or C. Many noticed — co-workers, brass from other institutions, even inmates. Many inmates respect an officer who carries a professional demeanor.

The meeting brought shock and dismay. The Georgia Department of Corrections decided to close Little Oak Isle Work Camp after sixty years in operation. The warden advised we could put in for a transfer to another facility or institution. He told us the county sheriff’s department agreed to hire any certified officer who passed their application process.

They set April 20th as the tentative closing date. Due to retire October 31^st, it made no sense to transfer. Come October 31^st, I’d have to leave and move to Bluewater Springs.

Although I had little to look forward to, intention lingered because of familiarity with the area. My daughter-in-law wouldn’t even return calls or messages. We never formed a bond as a result of Cody. I recall the saying: “It’s a nice place to visit!”

To sign on with the sheriff’s department wasn’t an option, as they’re in the same retirement system. I’d have to leave October 31^st. To me, the logical choice constituted changing retirement to March 31^st. I’d forfeit $10,000 gross of lump sum payout, and $30 per month in pension.

In February, I took time to travel to Bluewater Springs and search for an apartment. Cody already moved back to Virginia. A multitude of other reasons prevailed, but with more meat on his bones than me; insulated like his mom, he missed the colder winter weather of Virginia and fancied snow.

He set out not long after his divorce finalized in April 2016.

On the first day, I stopped at an apartment complex located in a convenient area of town. I hadn’t even checked in to the motel. After speaking with a representative and receiving a tour, I determined I wanted to reside in this gated community with three pools and a host of amenities. I signed the deal. The move occurred in April.