Baby Charger

A Chapter by Haley Smith

When I was a wee San Diego Charger in the making....

As far back as I can remember... that's a lot of time; almost eleven years. As far back as I can remember, I lived in San Diego, California with my mother, my father, and my little sister Madison. We lived right by Qualcomm Stadium -- which was exhilarating for me and gave me much pride as a five-year-old because when they let off fireworks we could watch them through the window and on the TV at the same time. We'd had a few pets -- some of which had sadly succumbed to the tyrannic toddler force that was my sister. My dad was often out on deployment, serving his country with other seamen (ha ha, chuckle chuckle). My mom would stay at home and take care of us.

Like I said, I was five years old at the time. I went to Juarez Elementary. My best friend lived next door -- her name was Shiva, and she was roughly twelve or thirteen years old. I thought she was cool, and in more modern terms, the s**t. I hung out with her as much as I could, and we'd do all sorts of weird, random things, like set up tents in her room and pretend to be camping. Her family was so sweet, and we'd always plot against her older sister Alicia. We would corner her and force her into debates on who was better -- "The Backstreet Boys or N&Sync? You have to choose Alicia!" Shiva and I liked the both of them, but just wanted to antagonize Alicia -- and she was mean to us, but I think deep down she secretly liked us. Actually, I know she did. She and my mom would give me and Madison pedicures on rare occasions and be really sweet to us during the process. Their Persian food was spectacular. I remember the customs and traditions they'd carried along with them -- like not wearing shoes indoors and freaking out when guests would. I never really understood why until world religions were drilled into my head my freshman year of high school.

Shiva, when I think about her more, was a bit of a tomboy. She always had shorts on, and her hair was always tied back in a ponytail -- and I never knew her to wear any makeup. It's funny how fast people change.

Five years later, after having moved out of California and then back in the fifth grade, my dad and I were at Wal-Mart looking at calculators. We saw Alicia. My dad pointed her out to me at first, and a flood of memories washed all over me.

She was very surprised to see us too, and she gave us her number as well as Shiva's. She talked about graduation, college, and how she worked at a dentist's office.

When we got home, I was able to talk to Shiva. It was weird -- surreal, even -- to talk to her. It'd felt like forever since I last had. She sounded older, matured, and different. Eventually, my dad arranged for her to babysit me, Madi, and Nicholas -- the son of my dad's then-girlfriend Angela -- while he and Angela went out.

It was so incredibly cool and crazy to see her. She was taller, a lot plumper, much more feminine, and had longer hair -- this time it was down.

She also had a baby boy.

"Really?" I remember saying.

When I think about it now, it was, of course, really real. But back then, it was just so strange to think about.

She showed me a picture of her boyfriend, who was white, attractive, and had a buzzcut. She told me he was away in the Army and that she missed him like crazy.

"What's his name?"

"Matthew."

And the baby's name was Joseph. He was very cute, I remember, with her thick, dark hair, but very hungry and fussy. In retrospect, Shiva was struggling. She'd just graduated high school and lived with her mother. I remember the hopeless look she had in her eyes that whole night, like her life would never amount to anything.

After watching Winnie the Pooh and countless episodes of SpongeBob, I slowly drifted off to sleep. When Angela and my dad came to pick us up, that was the last I ever saw or heard from Shiva.

*****

With a dad in the military, a mother at home with children, a Jetta, a decent apartment in southern California, some pets, and a best friend, that segment of my childhood sure sounded perfect, right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

One way to describe my parents' relationship would be with a line from Common's song "Drivin' Me Wild": "Relationships can be dead but look live to us." My parents' relationship was dead; six feet under and endless amounts of food for the worms.

However, if it were alive, I could describe it as volatile and tumultuous. They fought constantly, and it was all of my dad's doing.

I remember one of the fights; it was one of the worst -- if not the worst. There were knives, yelling, and bumping into dressers involved -- but no bloodshed, thankfully. I remember screaming and crying and pounding on the floor, wanting it all to stop. There was an old black lady that would come to the apartment sometimes, and we would all sit in the living room and talk. It was mostly her and my parents talking, and her being very sweet to me. I now know she was a social worker.

A few days later, my mom took me with her to the tanning salon and I remember telling the receptionist about the fight. I don't remember the receptionist's reaction, but I remember my mother's when she'd found out that I'd told, and she was not happy at all.

As much as Randy, my dad, was a refined, Alabama Christian mama's boy, he did not look at most other women in the same regard, especially not his own wife. The Navy was an easy and secretive way for him to cheat on my mother, and commit one of the Seven Deadly Sins -- adultery. I remember in one of the many arguments, my mom would bring up a woman named Emily. Not until I was in junior high did I know who Emily was -- a beautiful Filipino colleague of my dad's who my dad had pictures of in one of his many Navy photo albums. I didn't understand my father at that age (and sometimes, I still don't). Why would you do that to Mommy? Mommy is so nice and pretty, why do you need another lady?

One time, when we were all still living together in Pensacola, Florida, they'd been arguing. Actually, my mom did most of the arguing. My dad -- like me -- always shut up like a clam when it came to confrontation and having the truth shoved in his face. My mom -- unlike me -- is aggressive, and would make an excellent attorney; to say the least, she is a lesser version of Nancy Grace.

Anyway, one time, they were going at it. It was a beautiful day outside; the sun was shining through the windows but there was darkness inside our apartment. I was very upset about the argument, and I drew a picture of a little devil. I scribbled "You are the devil" in my horrible first-grade handwriting and charged out of my room and slammed it on the table my dad was sitting at. My mom stopped yelling, and my dad sort of laughed at my drawing. "You're the devil, Daddy!" I said. "You're the devil!" I remember my mom making a face like, Your daughter is absolutely right. I then stormed back to my room.

***NOT FINISHED!!!!***

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