When I was a boy, my father was never home. My mother did not cook or work. My father hopped cross-country, dodging embezzlement charges and keeping a low profile. I never knew why, as a child, except that family business must not leave the unlocked lips of any careless wife or son. Safety was a top priority in the underground rat-race that spelled out my childhood, and security was always present in the form of our many hired-hands that we employed with my fathers 'borrowed' fortune. It was my duty, therefore, to busy myself with the task of learning to become the man of the house while my father was away. Entertainment was limited and generally not encouraged, so I had to make do with what playthings I could improvise at a young age.
The clearest picture I can muster of those days killing time in the over-stuffed armchair that served as my throne is the maids working in the kitchen and the sound of the housekeeper vacuuming several rooms away. The servant girl always knelt at the rug, her knees chafed and red from being down on the floor. Her fingernails were dark with charcoal from fire-keeping and her thin-framed glasses were shattered like the cobwebs that clung to her light, ash-colored hair. I had always been interested in her, as our age appeared similar. She was to tend to my needs as I saw fit, or so my mother had instructed. As she rose shakily to her feet, I would walk to face her. The jump down from my armchair was difficult as a child, but it strove to make it look effortless. She always kept her eyes fixated on the faded green carpet of the living room, never meeting my eyes. Even in my childhood, I had practiced the walk of intimidation, almost a swagger. I would walk to her, cracking my knuckles or neck for effect in some cases as I learned the trade with age. I would reach up a few inches to her pale, pigment-less hair, running my fingers down the side of her rough, unwashed cheek. I would withdraw my hand and throw it back upon her cheek in a harsh, reckless slap and watch with twisted joy as she bit her lip and squeaked in the despotism of not being able to utter a sound.
She was my favorite plaything.