American Idol

Wednesday night, after a long and busy day, I was excited, yes; I'll admit it, excited to curl up on the couch with a chunk of lemon, gooey butter cake and the latest live episode of American Idol. The week, all three days of it, had been filled with doctors and court appointments compounded with the extended recuperation time for my double-extraction of my wisdom tooth. Earlier in the week, the pain and low grade fever had proven just too tiring and completing all work, taking care of the kids, school, and chores had been difficult. I had just received my tax check and was allowing my little family one, big splurge - Rock Band for the Wii. After making that purchase at Wal-Mart, (seriously, Wal-Mart is NOT the place to be when you are overworked, overtired, and one wisdom tooth short of feeling fine!) we made a quick stop off at Taco Bell and were then ready for an evening of relaxation. The boys and I were ready to rock out with our tacos out to some American Idol and Rock Band!


After everyone was settled: my oldest chatting on the phone and online simultaneously with his friends, my next oldest playing with his DSi in his room, my 8 year old still unpacking Rock Band in search of the missing drum sticks, and my littlest asleep in his brother's bed, I brought the dog in and crated home as was my usual, evening, wind-down routine. I settled down on the couch with my friend, John, who had stopped by mid-tacos to check on us and was persuaded to stay for Idol. He was at one end of the couch, I at the other, my eight year old at our feet wrestling with the boxes and wrapping from the game box. I wasn't asking for much: not world peace, a cure for cancer, or an end to global warming (shout out to Barrow, Alaska here!) All I wanted was to watch some highly, marketable, twenty-somethings duke it out for a record contract and maybe eat a piece of cake or a couple squares of discount Valentine's Ghirardelli in the good company of my friend and children.

Instead, what I received was a thunderous explosion of sweaty ACUs. The stink of liquor and bad decisions heavy in the air as The Beast batted and pawed his way through the Levolors knocking them to the floor, making a sound that can only be described as the guttural bay of a Philly-born, feral hound. I had been lounging back on the arm of the couch and sat up abruptly, startled at the sound of the sliding glass door being popped off of its lock, the blinds swinging wildly out of control. I was quickly and summarily knocked down by the blow to the head and right side of the face as The Beast held his arm out stiff and slammed it into me. The Beast then dragged my friend by the collar, up and over the side of the couch and the two tumbled over and out the sliders like a pair of dangerously mismatched retro Weebles. Once outside, The Beast, taller and with more weight to throw around pinned my friend to the concrete and proceed to pound his head on the pavement. For a brief moment, my thoughts were lost in the rhythm of it: one potato, two potato, three potato, four....I must have given my head the cursory, visible shake which is my wont when the Beastly PTSD flashbacks paralyze my brain and realized I should help my friend. I tried to pry Beast off of him. I grabbed hold of a sweat soaked arm and inhaled the stale stench of cigarettes and the faint, sweet scent of alcohol. Pulling, while trying not to breathe too deeply, I tugged as hard as I could with no success. Beast pushed me off of him with enough force to knock me to the concrete pad face first. Thankfully, my jaw, still swollen from two oral surgeries a week apart, broke my fall. Having dispatched with bothersome me, Beast continued his assault on my friend. I scrambled up, made another call to 911, and then attempted to pull on one of his fleshy arms. Still no give. My oldest son, hearing the brawl, appeared in the doorway. Beast yelled for help, meaning help him subdue his wife and her friend. My son calmly informed Beast that he wasn't supposed to be there and he had called the cops.

When my friend finally succumbed to unconsciousness, having suffered a concussion prior, Beast turned his attention to me. Beast grabbed my right arm, yanking, pulling it up and out of the socket, pulling me off balance. I fell again, striking my hip and knees on the pavement, skidding and scratching up my ankles. My son tried to get the Beast off of me. I did not see how he was injured. I did not protect my child as I should have, rather I called 911 again, leaving him to be abused and injured. He was seen and treated at an urgent care center two days later for a sprain and pull to his left knee and an injured right foot. He had the usual ortho treatment of ice, elevation, and inflammatories, wrap, and was on crutches. Not once did my child strike, hit, or do anything to warrant being abused in that manner. My oldest son is a gentle child, never prone to violence. That is not his nature. That he would be forced to fight may be more heartbreaking and more damaging to his spirit than his injuries were to his body.

By then, my friend had regained consciousness and Beast was more interested in harming him than his child, probably seeing him as more of a threat than a slightly built, injured teen. My friend managed to get Beast from behind when my eight year old stepped outside where all of this was taking place. Beast bellowed for Jarrett to help him. My friend told him to go inside and get the phone. Beast said, "Not in front my kids, man," to which he released his grip. The Beast responded by pushing or shoving, some sort of movement I did not see; and then managed to get away. Beast made a run for his car, digging in his ACU pocket as he scaled the hill behind my home to where his car was hidden behind a six foot pile of snow in the elementary school parking lot. There, he threw something small into his car, shut the door, ran down the hill and started screaming into his cell phone what sounded like, "Let me in! Let me in!" He must have managed to find Sober, because he did not attempt to drive away knowing the police were soon to arrive. My friend, fearful he would come back and resume his assault, was in the way of his retreat. Beast swung at him with his cell phone. The second swing, he connected with the top of my friend's head. Beast then continued to run, running straight to the neighbor's home, the home of his co-worker two doors down. He didn't enter their back sliders as he normally would enter mine, sideways. Rather he entered full on as if the sliders were completely thrown open. At night. As if waiting. In the 30 to 40 degree temperature.

Later, I would peer into the car and see a tire iron surely meant for me lying on the passenger's seat. I never did see what he threw inside. The Beast’s commander later commented that JAG and the investigators would be looking into motive: what is Beast’s motivation for abusing me and attacking my friend. In the Army, if you have proper motive, is this behavior simply allowed, then? Or is this a unit by unit decision? I do not know the answer to this question and I cannot find anyone that does.

Thus ended my American Idol evening. It became an American Hero evening spent with police officers both civilian and MP, EMT and soldiers. Great guys, but no offense - I would much rather have had a Cheetos, Coke and Blockbuster evening.