DHC Foreword

I grew up on the Southside of Chicago in the early '80's. I know you see the stories nowadays on FB and Twitter about people being killed on a regular basis now but back then, it wasn't anywhere near as bad. I mean yeah there were a few every now and then but most never made the front page of the Sun-Times or the Tribune or if they were mentioned at all. No, Chicago in the '80's was paradise to us. In the summer, almost all the hydrants were open on nearly every block. The older kids would hangout at the park playing ball and any other devilment they could get away with as my Bigma used to say. And when them street lights came on, you had your ass either in the house or close enough to be seen out the window. There were so many things that could keep a young kid like me out of trouble and even more that would land me in some seriously deep shit. The latter being one of the main factors that prompted my mom to move us to Ohio when I was about 10 or so. She figured I was about that age when gangs would try to recruit a dumbass like me and I'd end up on the wrong path. And she was probably right (most parents are but don't tell her I said that). So in the late 80’s, my mom remarried and moved the family onto “greener pastures”. It was probably the best thing that ever happened to me now that I'm older and have had some years to think about it. But back then, it was the worst decision in my honest opinion. I had to leave all my friends, start up at a new school. It was torture. And to make matters worse, the one person who I knew in the whole city of Columbus, my sister, jumped ship and moved back to Chicago and left me all by myself. I mean by the time she left, I'd managed to make a few friends but still I was pretty much alone in a house full of adults. So basically, it was school during the day and at home watching TV with my Bigma in the afternoons. I know you're thinking that sounds pretty damned boring and you'd be right. Luckily for me, my moms saw this and came to the same conclusion. I remember her calling me from work one day and she said “Grab your bike and meet me at the library after I get off work.” I didn't think anything of it at the time so I was like okay. So I rode my bike the couple of miles to the library around four or so and when I got there, I saw she'd beat me there. When she saw me walk in, she waved me over to the counter where she was talking to the librarian. Sitting here now, years and years later, I couldn't tell you anything about that woman other than just that, she was a woman. I don't remember the conversation at all, probably too many knocks to the head (more on that another time) combined with that lovely little gift of old age we all receive, but I do remember when she handed me that thin laminated library card. I mean, I'd had a library card before but at that time, I was still getting books from the kid's section. But I'd come to the conclusion that it was time to move on from Horton hears a Who and start reading some more adult literature. Now it was around this time, the movie adaptation of Pet Sematary was on cable and my mom was one of them people that if there was a movie she wanted to see, whether it was R-rated or whatever, she was going to see it and if no one wanted to babysit, you were going to see it too (I still remember going to see Friday the 13th part 3 when I was about 8). Anyway, I remember we watched Pet Sematary and I absolutely loved it! When I found out it was based on a book, I was like I am so going to read that when I get a chance. This was my chance. I went to the section with the Stephen King books and was ready to grab up as many as my arms could lug. I had Pet Sematary, Christine and The Shining but was also mad because I couldn't get Carrie and several others that I was dieing to read. But nevertheless, I was quite content with my little haul. And the rest as they say is history. Well I guess not completely. See being an only child back then in a house full of grown folks, you tend to rely on the old imagination a lot. A lot. I mean, mine kicked it into ludicrous speed. The only problem was I didn't know what to do with it. I tried my hand at drawing and was okay with it, not great but okay. But it just wasn't enough for me. As luck would have it, my teacher at the time, gave us a homework assignment where we had to write a short story involving transformation. Let's just say, Mr. Hyde (my term of endearment for my imagination) took the wheel and drove the tires off that bitch. My “short” story wound up being about fourteen pages long. Handwritten to boot because we didn't have a home computer back then. Needless to say, I got an A for the assignment with the sidenote to trim it down a bit next time. I was over the moon as the saying goes. And good old Mr. Hyde seemed sated, for a very brief minute anyway. Time marched on, as time is want to do, and my family found ourselves moving back to Chicago, back into the same house I'd called home just a few years prior. I was going into my freshman year of high school and I was terrified. I was forced to go to one of the worst public schools in Chicago and had heard so many horrible things about it. Again, bad decision at the time, years later, a blessing. It was here that I met the woman who would put me on the path it's taken me so many years to travel. Mrs. Deidre Henry. She was my literature teacher that year. One day after the class turned in an assignment, Mrs. Henry asked me to stay after for minute, there was something she wanted to discuss. Me being the person I am, I thought for sure I was in trouble. Turned out, I couldn't have been further from the truth. We had a brief conversation about the work I'd turned in. She complimented me on my writing and asked if I'd ever thought about becoming an author. In my fourteen year old ignorance, I told her no, ain't no good writers ever come from the hood. Again, fourteen and ignorant were pretty synonymous for me. Needless to say, she schooled me pretty damned quick. I walked away from that classroom that day with a nice little list of “hood” authors and a touch wiser. It was a short while after that conversation that Mr. Hyde started stomping around my head again, tossing furniture, punching holes in the drywall and just being a straight menace until finally, something snapped into place: an idea for a short story. Once again, Mr. Hyde took over and after several drafts, the story was written. This story to be exact. That's right, this story that you are about to dive into was written almost thirty years ago. Granted, back then, it was a hell of a lot shorter and several things have been edited and revised to match the times but in essence, it is the same. So now that I've hopefully warmed you up, dear reader and I pray I haven't bored you with my life story. I want to welcome you to this world that Mr. Hyde has so painstakingly crafted for you. Pull up a chair, kick your shoes off and make yourself at home. But don't get to comfortable because Mr. Hyde likes to make people very uncomfortable.

South Bend, In

2018