Doctor M.

I guess I should start at the beginning as the details pretty much direct how my early life landed me where I am today. I came from a family that was not known for good decisions. My mom had me at 15, shortly thereafter she was tried as an adult for rolling a John and spent the next 12 years in a state prison for women. I was raised in part by her mother and when she died I went to an aunt who was as wrecked as my mommy dearest. When mommy dearest got out of the can she came back to our small logging town, got a job as a waitress at a truck stop diner/bar and took up hooking to help make ends meet.

She worked at a family owned diner with a bar and pool room in back. The owners were well known in town and I went to school with their k**s. The bartender in the saloon was a brother of the owner, a ne’er do well with a substantial criminal history, a first class dirt bag. He was also my mom’s pimp. He worked my mom and her friend Beverly, also an ex-con after they completed their shifts at the diner/bar. Mommy dearest was able to piece together a rented Airstream trailer in a small trailer park a mile down the road from the truck stop and was able to keep me in clothes and sometimes regularly fed. In spite of all of this I was a pretty good k**. Good student, noted as both a vocalist and instrumentalist in high School and my teachers struggled to find a way to get me out of my situation and off to college. We simply had no money and mommy dearest was more interested in fueling her d**g and booze and men habit to care one wit about how I ended up. She worked at the diner, Larry the bartender kept a steady stream of truckers and loggers coming to the door of our Airstream for a quick fuck or blow job and I just tried to stay out of the way, invisible and unapproachable to the creeps that came in and out of our Airstream. I had no real privacy. Mom’s “room” was simply the back of the trailer with a full sized mattress and a small dresser separated from the rest of the open space by a thin wood door hung between the small bathroom and the wall of the trailer. My ‘room’ was at the front, up on a ledge where I had a twin mattress, a small chest and likewise, a curtain separating me from the open area of living, dining and kitchen areas. Small. Tight. No privacy. Late at night I would hear the tap on the aluminum door, food steps, hushed voices and the closing of Mom’s door. Twenty or thirty minutes later the process reversed and we had food and propane for a few more days. This went on three our four nights a week as well as in the morning when I was at school and later at work.