Background
The true story of how I was adopted by an unknown stranger I begged money from in a Wal-Mart parking lot.
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Six weeks. That's how much time elapsed since he'd bought me an Egg McMuffin at McDonald's. I was over my infatuation with Dusty West, or so I thought I was. There'd been no word from him at all. None. Did I really expect my pipe dream to come true? I'll admit, for a while I clung to the possibility but nothing panned out. Another dead end. That's all it was.
As they say in the game of Monopoly, "Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars," or similar words to that effect.
Out in the play yard, I kicked a soccer ball around with some other boys to pass the time. I wore a solid navy blue jersey with the Number 13, my favorite number, imprinted on the back in white lettering. I also adorned myself in blue and white-striped athletic shorts. These were my newest additions from the rejects Goodwill donated to us boys at Hermitage Hall. You might even say these were typically our Sunday Best attirement. On my feet, I wore thigh-high white socks and sneakers.
Over by the fence that enclosed the playground, I retrieved the ball Tommy Johansson kicked up there. He was a curly-haired, skinny, sawed-off runt. I bent over to pick the ball up, and after straightening back up again, noticed a sight to behold parked in the gravel Visitors Parking area.
Holding the soccer ball under my right arm, I convinced myself, 'No way! Not possible!' Surely I was mistaking what I thought I observed sitting there.
Tommy Johansson noticed my actions and asked me, "Whatcha gawking at, Brett?"
"Nothing," I told him.
I placed the ball back on the ground, ready to kick the sphere to Rodney Cromwell. That's when I heard a loud page blare across the PA system that said, "Brett Matthew, report to Superintendent McClellon's office immediately!"
"Boy, Brett, King Tubbo sure does love you a whole lot," Rodney Cromwell teasingly remarked trying to get my goat riled up.
"Yea, he loves to constantly yell at me all the time for no good reason," I countered then headed where I'd too often been.
Upon my arrival, I noticed King Tubbo's prized razor strap was conspicuously absent from where he always kept it hanging on the wall. Undoubtedly, he'd stuffed the castigator into one of the drawers of his desk so the weapon remained out of sight, and out of mind, while there were visitors in his office. He had always done so before.
I recalled on two separate occasions King Tubbo told me in no uncertain terms, "My official report will state the bruises you suffered were obtained by your horseplaying on the top of the stairs and falling down the flight." The lying b------!
The unfortunate truth was nobody would even question the validity of his statement. Thus was the plight of us boys unfortunate enough to reside at Hermitage Hall.
The first to acknowledge my presence in the room was Brenda Smith. She was my recently appointed case manager. I'd only encountered her a couple of previous times.
"I know you know Dusty West. Something about lunch at a certain McDonald's during one of your unauthorized escapades," King Tubbo scowled at me.
Dusty and I exchanged glances. It was then he realized I had not made that information public knowledge at Hermitage Hall. I knew when to leave well enough alone, and keep my otherwise big mouth tightly closed. You know, that whole zipped lips routine. That was also one strapping from King Tubbo I did not want to, need, or desire to endure.
"Mr. West has graciously requested to foster you until suitable permanent arrangements can be located for a home for you," Brenda Smith began explaining the purpose of our little get together.
There was a brief silence in the room. I suppose they awaited my response to the news I'd just been given. I said nothing.
Then, Brenda Smith told me, "I had to wait to receive the court-approved home study, Mr. West's fingerprints from the Police, and his final background check before I informed you of the situation, Brett. I did not want to build your hopes up too high, run into a snag along the way, and see them come crashing down."
'No way! Not possible!' I once again thought to myself as I tried to contain the excitement compounding deep inside me. Still, I wanted to hear what Dusty West had to say to me.
"Brett, I know I'm not going to be perfect at this fostering stuff. I've never done anything like this before. I never thought I would, until I met you. I'm going to have to learn my way around what I'm doing, and I know I'm going to make some mistakes," he stated and paused a moment to observe my reaction before saying, "ultimately, the decision is yours. But, I'm willing to try if you are. The question is, are you...son?"
That was the first time Dusty West called me "son". I hugged him tightly and thought, 'Things like this ain't supposed to happen to boys like me."
I told him, "I gotta go pack my stuff."
Before any of them could speak, I sprinted out of King Tubbo's office, passed the receptionist seated at her desk, crossed the foyer, flew up the stairs, and into my room on the third floor. Bluntly stated, I was hauling a--! Less than five minutes later, I returned with my small bag in hand.
Dusty West and I walked through the sliding glass door that led outside Hermitage Hall. We made our way to the Visitors Parking area. The boys I'd been kicking the soccer ball around with stood with wide-opened eyes and their noses stuck through the chain link fence surrounding the playground. Their hair unkempt and matted with perspiration.
"Where you going, Brett?" Rodney Cromwell curiously wondered, as we all did on these rare instances one of us boys was removed from Hermitage Hall.
Dusty West unlocked his truck and I emphatically replied to Rodney's question with, "As far away from this place as I can get. And, I'm never looking back!"
I climbed inside the cab of the truck, settled back, and eyeballed Dusty. The dam burst wide open and all the pain of the last ten months exploded out of me. I vowed Hermitage Hall is where it would forever remain, and I knew the unwanted dog was going home.
Off on the horizon I heard the rumbling sounds of distant drums. As I listened closely they slowly began to crescendo louder and louder and louder.
Author Notes
My autobiography is dedicated to the loving memory of the man who made it all possible, took in this stray mongrel when nobody else would, and proved to be the man he didn't have to be. Because, Dad, you didn't have to be.
A special thank you to all FanStorians who have faithfully followed the creation of my autobiography from its conception to its completion. I could not have written it without your constant support. Perhaps sometime I'll pick the story up from my being fostered to my adoption.
The Unwanted Dog
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Built Ford Tough, by CBL Photography, selected to complement this portion of my autobiography.
So, thanks CBL Photography, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this portion of my autobiography.
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