Hell and other childhood memories

     Recently, in an alcohol induced conversation with my brother, let's call him, Craig we reminisced about all of our mentally crippling childhood memories. Growing up with eight other siblings at varying times, in a house the size of a shoe, could be horrifying for the most part. I don't really know what The Old Man and Woman were thinking about, having so many damned kids. It's not like The Old Man was a dairy farmer or something. Oh, The Old Man did have his insane ideas on how to gain more space, believe me. None of which increased the amount of bedrooms though. And this where lays the gist of my little story.

 

     Now, by the time I came around, three or four of my brothers and sisters had already moved out. This still left about five of us to fight for the precious real estate. In the house, there were three small bedrooms upstairs and The Old Man and Woman had their love shack down stairs. I know what you're saying. Eric, how did six kids fit in three tiny bedrooms? Well, I'll tell you. The Old Man was very wily. He made bunk-beds! Yes, bunk-beds I tell you. These weren't the nice beds with good soft mattresses that you get from Pottery Barn today. Not a chance. Apparently back then, no one cared about the state of children's health and spines. These hellish mattresses had their own built in box spring. My brother, let's call him Robert, had a particularly horrid beast of a bed. He had the bottom bunk and Craig had the top. Robert had to battle one evil spring popping through the thin cloth of the mattress on a nightly basis. Mind you, this wasn't a gentle coil, it was a razor-sharp shard. If you are thinking that this sounds like child abuse, it was. Not only did Robert and Craig have these beds of nails for most of their childhood, they were in them through college! Can you fucking imagine the horror?

 

     Guess what? There were two sets of these serial killer-style bunks. I also had one. By the time I was in my bunk, the mattress had the consistency of cardboard on top of Slinkys. For a good part of my childhood, I shared a room with my brother, Let's call him, Chris. He is twelve years older. Sick, I know. At some point, Chris inherited my parent’s queen-sized bed. So, on one side of the room, I was in the bunk-bed from Hell, and he had big bed. And there was just enough room to walk in between. I still can't for the life of me figure out how none of us have ended up a mass murderer. It was uncomfortable to say the least, especially in the summer. The house had no ac and I don't think it had any insulation in the walls either. The Old Man must have bartered with someone and brought home an attic fan. He promptly proceeded to install it. Where you ask? In the attic? No stupid. He put it in Craig and Robert's window of course. I'd say this fan was probably 16 inches wide and made of high tensile steel. If you threw a whole ham at while it was running, you would have cold-cuts for a month. The Old Man also rigged it to go in reverse. On really hot nights, Craig would put the fan on exhaust. That son of a bitch would literally suck all the air out of the upstairs. It was hard to breath. And because the house was built when apparently people were pygmies, the doorways weren't a standard size. Hence, we only had those folding accordion doors. You could see my door bowing out toward death fan.

 

     As I told you before, The Old Man made many additions to the estate. None of which one would call good. In fact, it would have been more economical to just bulldoze the house and rebuild from scratch. Fortunately, all of us are old now and the upstairs remains empty. Hopefully, never to return. Please, for the love of God, never let me return!

 

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