The Garage

 When I was about twelve years old, I was only dimly aware that things weren’t quite normal at our house, but like most kids, I just muddled my way aimlessly through each day, dealing with things as they happened. Things at home were sometimes okay, but often bad. School was generally worse, but it was an escape from home, plus school was always changing, which gave me a kind of perpetual hope that it might improve. I didn't know that I was sad...I had just felt how I felt as long as I could remember.

I'd attempted to run away once. I packed up my stuff and hid in our neighbor’s bushes for about an hour, watching my house to see what would happen, and then felt super hurt that no one had noticed my departure.  In reality I knew I couldn’t make it on my own. I had nowhere to go. My nearest relatives were strangers to me, and they all lived on the other side of the continent. But I desperately needed to escape somehow. 

One day I was nosing around in our garage. In my entire life I’ve never seen any garage that was as loaded with junk as ours was. There was a slim pathway through it, but if you shopped in the plus size section, you wouldn't be able to navigate through the heaps. There wasn’t space enough to park a bicycle, let alone a car. There were just piles and piles of stuff.
When my dad’s parents had died, as their only child he’d inherited everything they owned. This was problem number one. Problem number two is that my parents were both total pack rats, and surveying our garage it was clear they hadn’t attempted any kind of sorting before transplanting the entire contents of my grandparent’s home to ours. The totality of their lives' acquisitions were out there, slowly moldering away.

In a sense, the garage was the equivalent of an attic. No one I knew had an attic, but I’d read about them and had always thought it would be fun to have one. I’m not sure what led me out there on that particular afternoon, because I’d never really poked around in it before, but I started checking it out. At first it seemed like there was just junk piled from the floor up to the rafters, but as I moved things around, I noticed in one corner of the garage stuff was stacked on something. I shoved and shuffled things aside until I’d cleared enough away to see what it was.

It’s a cot! I thought excitedly as I continued digging my way down through the mound. Wow. An actual cot! A body could sleep on that.
And just like that, without even really thinking about it, my decision was made.

I never asked for permission. It didn’t even occur to me to clear it with anyone. I simply spent the rest of the afternoon clearing off the cot, relocating stuff to clear a narrow path from it to the door, and carved out just enough space for a twelve year old to occupy. Then, I collected my few personal belongings from the room I’d shared all my life with my siblings, transported my clothes from my drawer in our room to a small box, and took up residence in my new digs.

That first night will be burned in my memory forever. I snuggled under my blanket on my new cot, excited and pleased with myself. It felt somewhat like a coup. I’d found a way out! I’d escaped the family and the house I’d lived in as far back as I could remember. Sure, it wasn’t complete emancipation, but suddenly it seemed as though I’d taken a little bit of charge over my life, and that felt great. I reached up, pulled the chain over my head to turn out the light, and closed my eyes.

It was dark in the garage, and being away from the family, it was also quiet. I had never slept alone in my life…having shared a room with my siblings from the start. But within a few moments as I lay there basking in the silence, I heard something. It sounded like something small scurrying around. Too small to be a mouse, I thought. It also seemed like it was behind the walls. At first this was a comforting thought. But then it started getting louder. Then louder still. Pretty soon it became unmistakable. Something was scurrying, and by the sound of it, there were a lot of these somethings. It sounded like a billion little feet going tap tap tap tap. Times a zillion.

Within a short time it became clear they were no longer just behind the wall. I couldn’t fathom what it might be, but my overactive imagination jumped immediately to spiders, which was quite worrisome. I hated spiders. Maybe if I hide under the covers they’ll leave me alone and I can just ignore them. But finally the fear of not knowing what it was superseded the fear of finding out, and I carefully stuck my arm out of the covers, reached up above my head, and pulled the chain on the ceiling light.

Did you ever see the movie Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom? There's a scene in it that I am convinced was based on the sight that met my eyes when I turned that light on. Because on every visible surface from the ceiling to the floor, there was a veritable carpet of giant, disgusting, tentacle-waving, thumb-sized, horrific black cockroaches. Only I didn’t know what they were in that moment, because I had never seen a roach in my life.

I shot up, standing on tiptoe on my cot and started screaming at the top of my lungs. The roaches didn’t like that, or the light, and they started scattering back to their hidey holes behind the walls. One of them had managed to get under my nightgown somehow, and for over a year, I swear I could still feel the exact spot in my thigh where it had touched me.  

But despite how traumatic this experience was, I stayed put. The fact that I’d rather live with a bazillion roaches amidst piles of junk than be in the house with the family is probably enough to give you some idea of how my life was going.

Even though the battle against the roaches never ended, from that night til I left home for college, I never slept in the house again.