DO YOU FEEL LIKE TALKING TO ME ABOUT IT, SANDY? Look.DO YOU FEEL LIKE TALKING TO ME ABOUT IT, SANDY? Look. I'm no angel, okay? Bobby knew he wasn't marrying a nun, but he married me, anyway. And I never once fooled around on him, or even flirted very much with anyone else, after we got married. I'm not proud of the way I was making a living when we met, but he has no idea how hard it was, and there isn't anything I can do, now, to change any of that, anyway. CHANGE WHAT? The way I lived. I was still in high school when things got so bad at home, I had to split. Mom was always pickled in her cheap wine and dad -- dear old dad - - when he wasn't slapping me around, was giving me goo-goo eyes and coming into my bedroom at night to grab some cheap feels of my `new equipment.' After he fell asleep one night, I grabbed his wallet and mom's `secret' grocery money, hitchhiked to Bangor and hopped on a bus, buying a one way ticket for as far away as I could get -- that happened to be downtown Baltimore. I didn't expect the folks to come looking for me, and they didn't. I was on my own. I was 16. I had about fifty dollars and a suitcase full of fairly decent clothes. I had seen enough `Geraldos' about street kids to know I didn't want to start hanging out like that. Living in a filthy, rat- and bug- infested dump was worse than what I left. SO, WHAT DID YOU DO? I worked. I couldn't get a decent job, of course, because I didn't have my diploma and I had no experience at anything. I worked for `Mom and Pop' type businesses because they'd pay me under the table and I didn't have to fill out a lot of forms. I lived in dumpy, but fairly clean, rooms and kept pretty much to myself. Always having someplace safe to sleep at night was my goal. |