Life As I Play It

I was listening to Alicia Keys, trying to calm my nerves as I completed my first flight into San Francisco. I thought the flight itself would be terrifying, but it was actually pretty pleasant, if not cramped. I imagine being above the clouds like that is the closest I’ll get to Heaven while I’m still alive. No, what was nerve-wracking was the thought of seeing my parents after so much time apart. When I left California, I was angry and all but on the run. Now, coming home under my own steam to make things right felt like coming full circle.

I’ve often said that in order to really know a place, you need to walk it. Put your feet to the pavement, absorb the sounds of the area and get a feel for its heartbeat. Returning to my old streets was like coming back to the house you had grown up in; an uncomfortable sense of familiarity and loss, in which things both changed and remained the same. Bayfair Mall had been one of my primary hangouts when I was younger. I used to shoplift and dodge cops from its various stores. Now, it was nearly unrecognizable.

Electronics Boutique? Long gone. I think all games stores are Game Stop now, anyway…
Waldenbooks? Gone.
Red Robin? Gone, although to be fair, it was gone just before I left.

The mall, located at the edge of San Leandro, is about half the size it used to be and shaped like a U. Almost nothing was familiar, and I felt out of place. Still, there are certain things that’re just unmistakably California; like how the sun paints the sky a radiant, deep pink that opens into the brightest blue you’ve ever seen, casting a pleasant shadow over the mall and outlet center beyond, accompanied by a breeze just warm enough to be comfortable, just cool enough to be relaxing…and I’m home.

It was here I met my parents for the first time in almost ten years. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel; I’d processed every possible emotional response—and how to deal with it—on the plane.  Would I be angry? Would I hold him against a wall and demand some long-sought answers? Would I be happy to see him? He was still my father, after all. What if I felt nothing? All these questions raced through my mind one last time as I waited for the inevitable.

Blessedly, it was none of those emotions as I saw him—them—pull up in a car I did not recognize. I had honestly wondered if rage would get the better of me in that moment. Truthfully, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I was surprised.

It’s funny how the memories you form as a child stay etched into your mind as an adult. I always remembered my father as this immortal giant who could tear the house in half when he lost his temper. Now, I was nearly twice his size…and he was so much older. The darker part of me—Busterwolf—was hoping for the ultimate showdown. One look at his eyes said it would never happen—and it wasn’t necessary. One thing about my father and I was that we never needed words to know where the other was coming from. My father is also a proud man; apologies come rarely, and today was no exception. But I read it in his eyes. I hoped he saw mine as well.

Ten years is too long. After all that time, it didn’t matter which one of us was right or wrong; both of us were neither. In the end, we were still father and son.

It was good to see all of them. My parents are in great shape for the age. I hope the exercise I do now pays off in later life. My parents don’t eat out all that much anymore, but they made an exception for me and took me to an old seafood restaurant that used to be a family favorite. I got my typical fried shrimp, they picked up the tab, and we took photos. I even took some one-on-one photos with my dad, and out of respect for their privacy, I will not upload those to the internet.

I was only there for two days. I didn’t get the time with my dad alone that both of us wanted—we have a lot to talk about—but I’m confident that I’ll get another chance. It won’t be ten years before we see each other again. Besides, this was day two; day one was reserved for my children.

Seeing the utter shock and disbelief on my kids’ face when I walked into the door of their home was enough. It was more than I deserved. I was then body-tackled by a remarkably strong fourteen year old and an energetic six year old, and we were off from there.

Nothing quite like playing with young kids to make you feel your age. A back-and-forth game of scrimmage at a local park looked like it would be a stalemate until Terry came from nowhere, jumping in front of a kid on the other team to make a miraculous interception (damn, that’s my kid!!) and nearly run it back for a touchdown. I may not have had much to do with my son’s upbringing for the past six years, but I take full credit for his determination.

I got another piece of his determination when we had our first sparring session in years. I had spent the first five years teaching him Tae Kwon Do and kickboxing, the rest he learned in the street and from his cousin. And he has great instincts; I showed him how to clinch once. The first time I put him in one, the wiry little f***er reverses me, clinches me from the side, and drives his knee into my leg like a jackhammer. I nearly submitted. I’m still limping.

I can’t talk about Brandon all that well because, well, I don’t know him that well. He loves everything, but not to a fault. He thinks the world can do no wrong, but has his phobias. He’s fiercely protective of his cousin, as they’re about the same age. He prefers boxing because he “doesn’t like to kick” and has asked that I show him how…which means I need to up my game.

When I was younger, I used to brag that I was alone in the world; I came from nowhere, I had no family, and I was going nowhere. Someone I work with said that your world view changes when you get into your thirties. She was right.

I’ve still got a long way to go, but I’m a lot further than I was. It was good to go home…and I’m glad I have a home to go to.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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San Francisco, California

Fourteen Years Ago

If you catch the last train running to Colma and exit Civic Center, you may find yourself directly in front of a 24-hour Carl’s Jr. You may call it Hardees. I called it home.

There is a waist- high, gray concrete, u-shaped border that surrounds the staircase leading to and from the underground station. You could almost feel the unsettled energy as you stepped onto the red brick pavement between the train station and the restaurant, some fifteen feet to your left. By day, hundreds of tourists pass through. By night, the residents made it a battleground. It was my first.

This night, as always, the restaurant is not so busy. The truly homeless seek reprieve from the streets by hustling up enough to buy a meager burger, hoping they can sleep all night. The security guard, a robust, soulful man named Daune (pronounced Dau-Nay, but you can call him D) Paul Colvin III, usually doesn’t care about the homeless sleeping as long as they don’t stink.

As always, Daune’s post, to the immediate left of the store’s entrance, is surrounded by the usual crowd.

There’s Terry, who would be in his forties now. He was struck by a bus in his youth and lost partial use of his left side. He also had the common sense knocked out of him, you’d think, because it wasn’t uncommon to see him suck the toes of random women–before he took them home. Tall, lanky, black, eternally hilarious and relentlessly loyal, he was the mainstay of the group. His mother insisted he get out of the house each night, and he’d end up here to shoot the breeze. There were worse places to go.

Terry was also the best scrapper I’d ever seen. He could throw that left like it meant nothing. Once, during a sparring session, he knocked me straight to the ground. It was the last time I ever underestimated someone because of a physical disability. Other than myself, Terry was the butt of everyone’s jokes, but he could give it right back.

There was Chad, who, for some reason, I always likened to Guile in the Street Fighter series. Save for the hair, they could’ve been brothers, and Chad could take some monster shots. Come to think of it, when he fought, he very rarely took a step back. He never had a use for kicks, but had supreme use of his fists and no end to the amount of punishment he could take. He was my first real boxing influence.

There was Lee…and Lee, well, Lee was a trip. He was a high school teacher. He was bisexual and thought we all didn’t know (Funny story there). He was black-white, in excellent shape, very easy with the ladies and could shoot his legs to Heaven. He took me as kind of a little brother and sharpened the tae kwon do I already had. He was always smiling.

Christian was a wannabe goth, but he was one of the most decent people I’d ever met. He could only fight, but when he was angry. Then again, when he was angry, I saw him get this eerie, toothy grin that would’ve made the Joker shudder. Half-asian, six feet tall and always dressed in black. Christian didn’t fight as much as he inflicted pain on people.

Emalio, a young hustler who had endured a horrible childhood. He was quiet, shy, and the smallest of us. If you brought harm to him, you had to answer to D. You didn’t want to answer to D.

And me?
I had known the group about four months. I was the rookie, the untested one. I could fight, but these guys were on a whole other level, who happily kicked my ass repeatedly. D would randomly reach out and slap me. Didn’t matter where I was in proximity to him. He always a polite little smack upside the head. When I learned to block, it didn’t make a difference. D was an aikido expert. He taught me well.

So this night, things are a different. It’s Thanksgiving.
This night, we’ve all compiled our money and created one big pot to order a bunch of food. D went out of his way to inform me that my homelessness did not make me exempt. If I wanted to eat, I had to contribute. Luckily, the bang-on-the-change-machine scam had worked well that day, and I had fifteen bucks to my name.

We ordered KFC, Pizza,chinese food from right across the street, BBQ from across town, and enough stuff to where we had to unite two tables. Something for everyone.

Naturally, I was the first to reach for all of the food (slap). D ordered us all to take hands, lower our heads, and pray.
This shocked me; D was muslim, I was Christian, Chad was agnostic, and I wasn’t even sure what some of the others were. I asked D who we were supposed to pray to.
He looks me in my face and says; “Does it matter?”

I remember how good I felt when I heard that. I didn’t understand until I had seen more of the world.
We prayed. We prayed to who we believed in.
And then we ate.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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I talk to my teenaged son, who now keeps me in the loop as to when new games are coming out. The torch has been passed. Blessedly, he seems to be pretty well-adjusted. He’s still a sweet kid, and I thank God every night for that.

About ten years back, when I was staying with my ex’s family, long before my children were born, I knew this little kid named Anthony. He was about five or six at the time. One of my first memories of this kid was coming back to my room and finding my games missing. I tracked him to his grandmother’s room where, sure enough, there there were, and there was Anthony. Nervous, knowing he had been caught, he very cautiously gave me the bird. I was angry at the time. I think it’s funny now.

Anthony hated to lose. Sometimes, I would dread playing with him, because I knew we’d be in for a screaming fit if he lost. He would cry, scream, curse, and tell you exactly what he thought of you if he lost a game. It could’ve been football or anything on a console. Anthony didn’t just didn’t like to lose.

And he was relentless. He was always at my upstairs bedroom door, asking if he could play (since I had all the games). Sometimes I let him in, sometimes not, and when I played with him, I always took it easy. No point in annihilating some little kid, right? Besides, I remember him picking things up quickly.

Eventually, he got better at losing…and he learned from his mistakes. I remember, even when he was a kid, and we were tossing around Super Street Fighter 2, he caught me off guard a couple of times and nearly took a round from me.

When I last saw him, the screaming fits had been replaced with quiet anger. He didn’t scream or cry anymore. He’d even learn to laugh it off and say ‘good game’. But there was always that rolling anger behind his eyes each time he lost. And each time he lost, I remember it got a little harder to beat him. I’d seen that before.

Fast forward to two days ago.
Imagine my surprise when I get a call from Anthony, who’s calling on the line that belongs to both his, and my kids, maternal grandmother. I knew Anthony had grown up, but I had no idea how much. I’m talking to someone who’s almost a grown man now, nearly eighteen years old. Where’s all this time going?

Anyway, he called me to tell me that he had competed in a Street Fighter 4 tournament at his local gamestop. And he won.

My jaw hit the floor and the only thing I could think of was how proud I was of him. He was even teaching Terry (my son) how to play. Terry could compete, but he’s not ready for the pros yet. I pray I get to finish what Anthony started.

It’s not over for him. Next he goes to round two, and if he wins there, he advances to state.
I have to admit a shudder. I’m the most ferociously competitive person most people know, and I used to be damn near invincible at any game I played. But that was a long time ago, and I haven’t gamed professionally in years.

It would be a trip and a half if Anthony could now, finally, do what no one else has ever been able to do; beat me at Street Fighter.
I’m not going to compete. It’s not my tournament. But I’m proud of him. It’s really cool to see everything come full circle.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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It began about a month ago…by happenstance, I came across two settings prominently displayed on my CRT monitor. When I first saw them, I was stunned, because I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Avery’s Documents
Busterwolf’s Documents

Unable to take my eyes from the monitor, I took a seat at my desk and investigated further. It turned out there were entire settings devoted to both halves of my psyche. The settings weren’t so disparate as to warrant me looking into some couch time, but I did note that Busterwolf preferred Windows Media Player. Avery, me…I preferred Zune.

Most importantly…I didn’t remember setting that up.
People have told me that my eyes are different in every photograph I take. Two different people.

This isn’t going to be some long-winded drawn out BLAH about me vs. Busterwolf. That battle has been fought.

One of the vows I made in 2008 was to make it through the entire year without being arrested. It was difficult at times, I even got messed with my local law once, but I did it. I have never seen the inside of a Mizzou holding cell, and God willing, I plan to keep it that way.

Something else happened along that road, and I wasn’t even aware of it until I realized I had stopped taking so many chances…I went straight.

I found that I had a hard time blogging because not much happens to me anymore. Jefferson City is not really a town where things happen.

Switching to present tense now.

I write. I work out. I talk to my children. I have a relationship. I shop (speaking of which, this is a good week to snatch up Hamburger Helper at Wal-Mart. They tend to go on sale towards the end of the month). Oh, and I cook. I find it therapeutic…and I enjoy working with knives.

With my financial aid fiasco finally behind me, I’ll be back in school in the fall. I plan to pursue something Business Administration/Creative Writing, but I’m not sure in which order. I’m doing this because I’m sick of being broke. I enjoy business, I love writing, might as well get something on paper that says I know what I’m talking about. And, let’s be real. Wits, cunning, and drive can only take you so far. A degree can certainly increase your earning power, and I would like to have a family…

Well, it’s not just that, although I had to realize the power of an education on my own…

I have a teenage son and a very angry six-year-old. I hope that when they doubt whether or not they can accomplish something, they will be able to look at their father and say that he worked full-time while attaining a degree and gave us a good life. After being gone for so long, I owe them that.

”Hope” is a word I like the sound of. I think I’m going to start using it more often.

On a side note…HOW IN THE NAME OF CAPCOM VS. SNK DID I BECOME THE FATHER OF A TEENAGE BOY?!?!?!?!?!

I talk to him and I wonder if they make a “Teenagers for Dummies” book. Was I this monosyllabic when my mother tried to find out what was going on with me?!

He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m grateful I get to talk to him.

And then there’s my writing…which I am throwing myself into while I have the chance. I figure I haven’t much else to do now…and by the end of the year, I may be scraping for minutes to get words out of my head. Universal Warrior has a fan base, something to build from, and I will not neglect that.

So that’s it. Presuming the worst in every situation doesn’t allow for much hope, and without hope, dreams die. Instead of expecting to become someone’s adversary upon first meeting them, I present myself as I am and take things one day at a time.

I am not Busterwolf, but nor am I Iron Man, insofar as the name establishes a new identity to hide behind.

My name is Avery.

This is Life As I Play It Now.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Before the last fight, I spent a good hour on the net with Molly learning all I could about St. Louis. Yeah, I’ll cop to it that I’m moving out there to be closer to her–she drives two hours to come see me–but it’s more than that.

I’m a city kid. I love the country, I have nothing but love for small towns, but they’re not my environment. Give me skyscrapers, overpopulating human traffic, subways and other forms of public transportation any day. Damn, I haven’t been on a subway since BART back home and just the idea of stepping foot on a train hypes me up.

I also have a weird feeling, different than when I moved to Belding, Grand Rapids, Rapid City, or even Jefferson City; I always felt like those places were way stations. I don’t get this vibe from St. Louis, and Molly has nothing to do with it. Regardless of my relationship (which is going really good, and hope has a long future)…I don’t think I’ll be leaving there anytime soon. I think I’m getting ready to go home.

Then again, I may have said this about Jeff City a year ago. I’m wild-hearted, and it’s time I got that under control. It’s not about me anymore.

This is going to be the place where I raise my children, part of the time, anyway. I won’t lie, I want full time, they’re my kids, but my ex-wife’s family has played straight with me, I’ll play straight with them.

On one hand I’m really psyched about seeing my kids again, and on another I’m terrified beyond belief, and this is a fear I’m not familiar with. Do I really have what it takes to raise two boys by myself? Can I provide for them? Pay for their medical care when they need it? Help them keep their grades up if I get that responsibility? Can I ensure that they never have to worry about a place to live? I can barely keep minutes on my freaking phone for crying out loud.

And yet…I have to. I have to find a way. I’m good at that, it’s what I do, and this time I have so much more than myself counting on me to do it. And I love my kids. Both of them, even though I barely know Brandon.

These next few months are going to be some of the hardest of my life as in record time I need to secure an apartment and raise the fare needed to go get them, and bring them back. I’m going to need to work in addition to whatever full time job I pick up in January.

Besides, the sooner I get out there, the sooner I can put money away for other things. I’d like to own a home eventually.

And….I gotta be honest. Molly drives two hours one-way just to come see me. We have something pretty solid and I need to see it through. She shouldn’t have to put forth all the effort.

So there it is. I will be in St. Louis, Missouri by June, I want to be there between March and April.

So it begins.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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