The Hustled

Dwayne McTavish, a daily abuser of drugs and alcohol, frequently beat his wife Patsy, herself a habitual alcohol and drug abuser. But he had often beaten his son Cav as well, and for no reason apparent to Cav or anyone else. In fact, Cav's relationship with his dad had never been one of shared experiences, never mind respect for the man. Cav felt only raw survival instincts when around him. As the years passed and Cav matured, he had come to understand the truth of some things—mainly that his father was more of a punk and a bully than a husband and father, and certainly was nothing like the few thoughtful and kind parents of school friends he'd met. Cav had often considered running away but had stayed because school seemed so important. Three days after the event, a small, brief funeral service was attended by Cav, his mom, and a handful of her friends. No other members of Dwayne McTavish's family showed up. And Cav wasn't surprised that his father's few friends chose to skip the service. They were all crooks and probably agreed that he was better off dead anyway. The preacher said a few words. No one else spoke. It was a closed casket. Decades ago, the McTavish family purchased a family cemetery plot and basic headstones. It included a space for Dwayne. The day after the funeral, only Patsy, Cav and two gravediggers were present for the matter-of-fact burial. No McTavishes showed up here either. Patsy, dry-eyed, stepped forward and tossed a small handful of dirt onto Dwayne's casket as it was lowered into the grave. No preacher, no words, just a quick goodbye, and the gravediggers tipped their caps. That was the bitter end of Dwayne McTavish, flawed husband of Patsy and lousy father of Cavalier. Three days later, early in the warm summer evening, Patsy McTavish appeared alone at the gravesite, none too steady on her feet. She had a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette dangling from her mouth and tears in her eyes. She glared at the headstone, at the freshly replaced sod, and shook her head. Choking with grief and bitter loss, she screamed a few obscenities at her late husband, and then, as if to punctuate her message, she hurled the wineglass, smashing it against the headstone. Slowly, despairing, she turned and walked away.

Cav now faced the harsh reality of a basically unchanged life—a mother with little warmth and even less to say, a heavy drinker and substance abuser, not above hustling for a few dollars to buy more drugs. It was far from a typical American family relationship.

On top of that, Cav could never be honest at home anyway. He'd had to lie to his parents just to survive. They wouldn't accept him telling them the truth about his life, they only accepted fairy tales and bullshit. So, to keep the peace, that's what they got from him. This was how he mastered the “art of bullshit” that would help him up the road.

Cav had watched a father who didn't work, was a con man and a thief. His mother was useless, too. She abused the welfare system and scammed the government out of anything she could steal, mostly to satisfy her habitual drug and booze demands. This home environment was education for Cav. It was a tough wake-up call for Cav to see his parents as losers, using drugs and consistently drunk, especially his father who was a belligerent, angry drunk. The pain he suffered from his father beating him for no reason became a life lesson that he would never forget and, at times, even embraced.

Most of his friends and classmates didn't know the pressures that Cav lived with every day. They had normal parents who had grown to adulthood in small American towns and cities—churchgoing folks who cherished the values of hard work and play and kindness to strangers.

In more recent times, Cav's small circle of friends all smoked pot and had for years. Some eventually went on to hard drugs. He watched a few of them self-destruct, succumbing to addiction or even dying from overdoses. Adding to this, a life with cruel and drug-addicted parents was enough to keep him very wary of doing drugs and alcohol. So when he declined offers to smoke pot and do other drugs within his circle of friends, he was heeding the two shining examples at home. He decided that their choice to do drugs would never be an option for himself.

Cav, normally a little shy, was tall for his age and good-looking, with dark blonde hair which he wore a little long, and a ready sense of humor. Cav could share his thoughts and ideas with his most trusted friend, Janie, because he wouldn't get yelled at or criticized for being honest like he did at home. Also, like Cav, Janie had a great sense of humor and no tolerance for bullshit. Cav and Janie were tight, really good friends.

Janie had a makeshift “pool table” in the basement, and Cav and a few regulars often came over after school and would play for hours. This scene was Cav's escape and retreat for years. The table was roughly two feet wide and maybe four feet long, with small disks serving as make-believe pool balls. Small wooden sticks made do as pool cues.

Cav was addicted to the game and played it as often as he could. He desperately needed distractions, anything to separate him from his trainwreck home life, and this little makeshift pool game was the perfect distraction. Among their small circle of friends, no one could beat Cav.

A year earlier, at 15, Cav had realized he was big enough and strong enough to at least try to defend himself from his angry, drunken father. All the pressure from his old man's attacks on his mother and himself had built to a boiling point. He wasn't going to take it any longer.

One day as he arrived home from school, he walked in on a familiar sight, both parents raging drunk and calling each other names like “whore” and “bastard” and “slut.” When his father started hitting his mother, something in Cav just snapped. Here was the breakout moment for Cav.

He grabbed his father, spun him around, and punched him in the face so hard that he knocked his front teeth out and sent him senseless to the floor. That day, papa got his much-needed wakeup call. The years of Cav's taking his father's shit ended that day. His old man never laid a hand on Cav or Patsy again.

And now, the old man was gone for good. With the death of his father, Cav's worldview forever shifted. The funeral signified that something pivotal was about to happen. And he sensed that a new chapter in his life was about to begin. He was absolutely right about that.