Consequences a parent can’t give…

Chaz is now a senior. Everything else is the same or worse. Worse. This year he has been jumped beaten and robbed twice: fall at the park by a so called friend, Charles B, a former classmate who dropped out. Chaz got big blow to his head, a lump. A month ago three boys attacked him in the school bathroom, leaving him bloodied and needing stitches above his left eye. He picked a fight with a gang of thugs, petty thieves, who were tormenting a friend of his. Now he fears going to school. 

For two years Kim and I watch him. Now he barely attends school. He is not a drop out, and he’s not a student either. We don’t know his friends anymore. They walk into our house and go straight to Chaz’s room. I insert myself with a handshake and introduction. They look down mumble a name. Buzzed often. The smell of weed.

Chaz rolls his eyes and says: “Go away.”

I offer food to them, a meal. It is a triumph to get them to eat.

He misses every football game, school dance, play, party and events. I ask him: “Why don’t you go enjoy events at school?”

He replies: “They are all fuckin loosers. No one cool goes to those daft things.”

I am sad for him.

He misses every family meal. He lays in bed watching skateboard videos, meems, other more nefarious shows. Sheets cocooning him. The room is a wreck: empty chip bags and take out sandwich wrappers; stacks of dirty clothes mostly thrift shop fashions. He has a flair. I shut the door. Angry. He is always angry.

Mornings his brothers get up dress for school. There’s coffee, breakfast, music and homework.

Afternoons, when everyone is away, or at least out of the kitchen, Cahz cooks an egg or wolfs down cereal. We know because of bread crumbs, dirty plates or bowls and open food boxes. He is rail thin, underweight.

Then he bolts, exiting our house. He will be gone for hours; maybe a day or two. Summer he steers his skateboard into the middle of the busy street, cars passing him in both directions. A daredevil maneuver. Winter he’s out of the house with a hoodie, no hat or gloves. January Temps in Minnesota dropped below 35 below this year. Summer he is often out all night. Sometimes returning sometimes sleeping at a friend’s house. No call home.

One January night, he’s out under dressed. It’s 35′ below 0′ and the wind chill makes it -75′. I can’t find him; his phone is dead. Frantically, I drive to the usual spots. Nothing. I’m frozen in the car. That night two people die at a bus stop on Broadway in North Minneapolis.

Our only tether is my Find iPhone app. When his phone is on and charged I can see where he is staying. There is some assurance. This need to know his whereabouts keeps us from taking the phone. He lives without consequences. At least from us, his parents. I can see the world is already kicking his ass.