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Adventures of a Nobody: A Memoir of Friendship, Art & Love
The excerpts posted on this site are copyrighted by Julie Cassar and any reproduction or retranscription is illegal.
Who knew what things were set into motion that tragic, crisp fall day in October. As I walked down the block, feet shuffling the fallen crunchy leaves along the cracked, uneven sidewalk, I hastily brushed the wet, salty tears away from my face. Sadness overwhelmed my heart, and I felt a pain and sorrow so great, I could only remember feeling such heartbreak once before. Funny, what a difference two weeks can make.
Two weeks.
I thought back to how this all began…
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Taken from Chapter 3: Septemberish, 1991
...Where was I? Oh yeah. I'm at EMU and an art student! Can you believe it? I am actually gonna make a living as an artist. Really. I am. See, I've decided I'm going to specialize in graphic design. Yeah, it's this cool field where you get to design print layouts, work on magazines, and do anything else with a computer. Computers. Wow. Those are still kind of new. I'm excited to get my hands on a Mac. Because those are the way to go for designers. Everybody knows that. Macs are IT. Anyhow, I'm getting off course here...
So, I'm in a bunch of artsy fartsy classes, included the dreaded Art History. I wander into class. There are about 25 kids or so. The room is that blah-beige color and has built-in risers, with desks on each successive riser, like a mini movie theater. There's even a big giant screen at the front of the room. I sit in the middle-ish, near the right side. Next to me, and directly next to the wall is girl who's about my height and build with the same blonde hair. I smile. Gotta be polite, right? She smiles back. As students are filing in, I notice the professor in the front of the room... He has a round face, with salt 'n' pepper hair, receding, (okay, I'll just say it - mostly bald on top) and a beard and mustache. Basically your robust, non-threatening older-ish guy look. But this guy had an earring. Yes. An earring. Which is a complete contradiction to the rest of his appearance. It's the unexpected. And that's when he turns out the lights...
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Taken from Chapter 16: House Living
...I wasn’t very close to my dad growing up. He worked all day, and in the evenings after dinner he’d sit in his chair and put his feet up and read the paper or watch the news. When I was small, he’d let me play on him like a jungle gym. He barely noticed I was climbing in and out of his legs, jumping off them like they were diving boards into an ocean of sculpted shag carpet.
My dad was the “enforcer.” As I got older, (those fun teenage years) we definitely didn’t talk much. I was busy with friends or homework or dance classes. And he liked to lecture us. (Oh, by the way, my dad was a former high school teacher.) He could put those guys in the Senate that like to filibuster to shame! (Ha! See Dad? Standing out like a beacon light from my U.S. History Studies: proper use of the word “filibuster!”) I don’t know how he could stand it, talking away, while we just sat there, glassy-eyed and staring off into space. Anyhow, my Dad expected nothing less than our best. He didn’t mind that we weren’t perfect or straight-A students…but by God, we were expected to perform to our capabilities…whatever they may be. For example, I am not a stellar math student. Far from it, actually. And a few years into high school, my parents figured that out. For me, a C in math was acceptable. Barely. Also, he drilled into us that giving your word was sacred. If we made a commitment to something, we followed through. No exceptions. He worked hard for us and he expected the same in return.
So you can see why I was so surprised when my dad opened up a dialogue in the car on the way back to campus to move into the new sweet house. It went something like this:
“So, Julie,” my dad started off.
“Uh. Yeah?” (Who else would he be talking to? I was sitting in the front seat next to him and there was nobody else in the car. Plus, he rarely used my name while talking directly to me. Usually, my parents shouted all of our names in some sort of mashed-up word, and I’d often get “Lestevekri-JUULIE because they never remembered which kid they were trying to call.)
“You’ll be living in a house with boys,” he firmly stated, hands gripping the steering wheel (10 and 2 of course) and staring straight ahead.
“Um. Yeah, Dad.” (Way to state the obvious.)
“Well.” (Long pause.) “Well, I just want you to know and I want you to tell those boys that I have a baseball bat. A big baseball bat. And I’m not afraid to use it on any of them if they so much as look at you the wrong way.”
Yikes! My Dad was goin’ all Commando on me! I was stunned. And touched.
That’s when I think my Dad started to see me as something other than the little girl who used to use him as a jungle gym. Conversation ended. Short and sweet. I think it was a first for my Dad. He went back to fiddling with the classical music radio station and I stared out the window, smiling.
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Taken From Chapter 23: Football Follies
After we had attended a college dance camp that summer, our coach had the brilliant idea of ordering “new” and “improved” uniforms! Woohoo! We were gonna get some new, upgraded little flouncy skirt made out of thick polyester and had to fork out more cash. I couldn’t wait. (Not.) Boy. Was. I. Shocked.
There we were, sitting around waiting for practice to start, huddling away from the girl who took garlic supplements. (Note to all you health food freaks out there: do not ingest whole cloves of garlic before you do sweat-inducing activity. P.U.!) In walked the coach announcing that our new uniforms were in! Three cheers for new uniforms! (She reached into the box) Hip Hip Hooray! (She slowly pulled out a bag) Hip Hip Hooray! (She held it up…) Hip Hip Hoo-what the hell!?
Dangling from her dainty hand was a ziplock freezer bag. I’m not kidding. My “new and improved” uniform fit nicely in a ziplock freezer bag. It also wasn’t made out of polyester. Surprise, surprise…This baby was made out of spandex. Yep. There ya have it. I was now the proud owner (and exhibitioner) of a short, mini, flouncy teal green spandex skirt (with matching panties of course), and teal green long-sleeved (why bother?) spandex half-shirt. Yes. We were gonna sport the bared midriffs in the 30-degree Michigan football weather. Couldn’t wait.
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Taken From CHAPTER 29: Take it Easy
...The light is green. Then the light turns yellow. No brake lights. I’m cruising along at 45 miles an hour. As the daycare shuttle bus thingy is now quickly approaching the stoplight (which is yellow) the driver apparently decides to suddenly slam on the brakes. At this point, she is driving under the stoplight. I react quickly. Or so I think. I hit the brakes. Hard. My hands are gripped on the steering wheel, my right leg is pushed straight out, brake pedal punched all the way into the floor, and my head and back are pressed back into the seat. CRRRRRUNCH! Then I slam into the steering column and I hear loud noises – the sound of breaking glass and crunching metal as my seatbelt locks – and then...nothing.
I’m sure I get shaken up like a rag doll, but I don’t go through the windshield (thank you, seat belt) and I’m in a daze. Somebody calls an ambulance and as I’m looking around the inside of the vehicle, the smells of burnt rubber and smoke are filling my nose. The girl from the other vehicle is knocking on my driver’s side window, telling me I should get out of the car. “…It’s really smoking,” she says. I try to get my bearings, becoming aware of what’s happened. I’m blinking my eyes profusely. Why is everything blurry? Oh. My glasses flew off. (Too lazy to put my contacts in that day.) I search around the car to find them. Amazingly, they’re intact. I stumble out of the car. Numb. I don’t feel anything. Yet.
Thankfully, the only person in the other vehicle was the driver. She was fine. Her bus-thingy was hardly damaged except the bumper. When I looked at where the accident occurred, I saw about 20 feet of skid marks, and my car was just past the stop light. Her shuttle bus-thingy was pushed several feet forward in front of that. My brother’s car was a wreck! Oh. My. God. The front end was all crumpled up and the engine was pushed back. One of the tires was bent and there was smoke coming out of it and all kinds of liquid leaking from it. I had smashed by brother’s car! Oh. MY. GOD! How was I gonna tell him that? “Um…So, remember how you let me borrow your car? Yeah. Well, I kind of smashed it up. Sorry ‘bout that.” Ugh. I felt horrible. Someone had already called the police and the ambulance arrived. Yep. I got a ticket. “Failure to leave assured clear stopping distance.” My first ticket ever.
I turned down the ride in the ambulance because I felt fine. And, because I was scared that the ambulance ride would be expensive and I didn’t want to burden my parents with a big medical bill like that. I felt guilty enough for smashing a car I didn’t even own. How could I add to the cost? Shortly thereafter, my dad arrived on the scene. (Of course, I called him. Even though I was scared to death to tell him I crashed a car.) I don’t know what thoughts were running through his head on the way to the scene. My dad, he’s a pretty composed guy. But I suppose he felt what every parent feels when their child gets hurt – panic, worry, anger, fear and about a million other emotions.
I realized shortly after my dad showed up that I wasn’t really feelin’ so hot. I had him take me to the emergency room. Thankfully, I only had “severe strained and sprained muscles” and I should heal quickly. They gave me a prescription for Motrin and Darviset and warned me to take it easy. Sure, sure, take it easy. After dealing with my first accident, the police, my first traffic ticket, a paramedic, and my father, I now had to face the wrath of my brother. Ugh. I felt like I was going to be sick.
This was not going to be pretty. My brother could have a pretty good temper when he wanted to. He should’ve been on the debate team, because boy, that kid could argue...
I chickened out and had my dad call my brother at work to break the news to him first, before I had to see him face to face. Okay, I’ll admit it. I think I was more scared of my brother than my dad that day. I figured he couldn’t actually murder me, because my parents wouldn’t let him, but the sick feeling in my stomach just wouldn’t go away. My dad took me home from the emergency room and by the time I crawled onto the couch at home and pretty much felt like crap, that’s when the real pain kicked in.
You know how they say your body goes into shock when something traumatic happens? Guess what? It does. And then that shock wears off, and you feel everything. It felt like I had a third-degree sunburn all over my body and every muscle and every nerve and every bone ached. Not to mention, I still had that horrible sick feeling in my stomach. I’m not a baby. Really, I can handle pain. But this sucked. And then, as if I weren’t feeling terrible enough, my brother walked in the door.
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Taken from Chapter 30: Surprise.
He had come home from work during his lunch hour. He walked briskly through the kitchen and into the family room where I had convalesced myself on the couch.
“Hey,” he says. No emotion creeps into his voice at all. None. He is staring seriously at me with those yellow-hazel eyes of his. (God, those eyes look scary at that moment.) Oh shit, I think. Here it comes. His voice was way too calm and even.
I look up, teary eyed, at my six-foot tall, crew-cut brother standing over me.
He thrusts out his hand, and says, “Here. This is for you.”
I’m scared. He hands me a box. It’s about five inches by five inches and looks like one of those small gift boxes from a store. I slowly reach up and take it out of his hand. I open it. It’s the new Erasure CD that has just come out that I have been wanting.
What??!? He bought me a CD? He left work at lunchtime to come home and see his mangled car, and stopped at the mall to pick me up a CD? What is wrong with this picture?
“What’s this? Why did you bring me a gift?” I ask, completely stunned and honestly confused. I was expecting to get my ass reamed out by him.
“Look,” he very calmly says. “It was an accident. At least you’re not hurt.”
“But…but…I crashed your car,” I stutter out.
My brother just looks at me. “Julie. I know you feel bad,” he states nonchalantly. “That’s what insurance is for.” He shrugged.
I blink and continue to stare like a deer in the headlights at my brother. I am stunned. “Wow. Thanks, Jay.”
“Yeah…Whatever.” He shrugs. “I have full coverage anyway.” And with that, my brother walks out of the room.
See, that’s the thing about family. They’re there for you. Always. And when you least expect it, they surprise you. Family loves. Family forgives. It’s what we were always taught growing up.
As I worked to finish up my last independent study class at home, I had found a job in a photography studio (just until I could find a real job as a designer), and that’s when I realized just how important family is. That’s when my world crumbled to pieces.
Two weeks.
I thought back to how this all began…
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Taken from Chapter 3: Septemberish, 1991
...Where was I? Oh yeah. I'm at EMU and an art student! Can you believe it? I am actually gonna make a living as an artist. Really. I am. See, I've decided I'm going to specialize in graphic design. Yeah, it's this cool field where you get to design print layouts, work on magazines, and do anything else with a computer. Computers. Wow. Those are still kind of new. I'm excited to get my hands on a Mac. Because those are the way to go for designers. Everybody knows that. Macs are IT. Anyhow, I'm getting off course here...
So, I'm in a bunch of artsy fartsy classes, included the dreaded Art History. I wander into class. There are about 25 kids or so. The room is that blah-beige color and has built-in risers, with desks on each successive riser, like a mini movie theater. There's even a big giant screen at the front of the room. I sit in the middle-ish, near the right side. Next to me, and directly next to the wall is girl who's about my height and build with the same blonde hair. I smile. Gotta be polite, right? She smiles back. As students are filing in, I notice the professor in the front of the room... He has a round face, with salt 'n' pepper hair, receding, (okay, I'll just say it - mostly bald on top) and a beard and mustache. Basically your robust, non-threatening older-ish guy look. But this guy had an earring. Yes. An earring. Which is a complete contradiction to the rest of his appearance. It's the unexpected. And that's when he turns out the lights...
*************************************************************************
Taken from Chapter 16: House Living
...I wasn’t very close to my dad growing up. He worked all day, and in the evenings after dinner he’d sit in his chair and put his feet up and read the paper or watch the news. When I was small, he’d let me play on him like a jungle gym. He barely noticed I was climbing in and out of his legs, jumping off them like they were diving boards into an ocean of sculpted shag carpet.
My dad was the “enforcer.” As I got older, (those fun teenage years) we definitely didn’t talk much. I was busy with friends or homework or dance classes. And he liked to lecture us. (Oh, by the way, my dad was a former high school teacher.) He could put those guys in the Senate that like to filibuster to shame! (Ha! See Dad? Standing out like a beacon light from my U.S. History Studies: proper use of the word “filibuster!”) I don’t know how he could stand it, talking away, while we just sat there, glassy-eyed and staring off into space. Anyhow, my Dad expected nothing less than our best. He didn’t mind that we weren’t perfect or straight-A students…but by God, we were expected to perform to our capabilities…whatever they may be. For example, I am not a stellar math student. Far from it, actually. And a few years into high school, my parents figured that out. For me, a C in math was acceptable. Barely. Also, he drilled into us that giving your word was sacred. If we made a commitment to something, we followed through. No exceptions. He worked hard for us and he expected the same in return.
So you can see why I was so surprised when my dad opened up a dialogue in the car on the way back to campus to move into the new sweet house. It went something like this:
“So, Julie,” my dad started off.
“Uh. Yeah?” (Who else would he be talking to? I was sitting in the front seat next to him and there was nobody else in the car. Plus, he rarely used my name while talking directly to me. Usually, my parents shouted all of our names in some sort of mashed-up word, and I’d often get “Lestevekri-JUULIE because they never remembered which kid they were trying to call.)
“You’ll be living in a house with boys,” he firmly stated, hands gripping the steering wheel (10 and 2 of course) and staring straight ahead.
“Um. Yeah, Dad.” (Way to state the obvious.)
“Well.” (Long pause.) “Well, I just want you to know and I want you to tell those boys that I have a baseball bat. A big baseball bat. And I’m not afraid to use it on any of them if they so much as look at you the wrong way.”
Yikes! My Dad was goin’ all Commando on me! I was stunned. And touched.
That’s when I think my Dad started to see me as something other than the little girl who used to use him as a jungle gym. Conversation ended. Short and sweet. I think it was a first for my Dad. He went back to fiddling with the classical music radio station and I stared out the window, smiling.
***************************************************************************
Taken From Chapter 23: Football Follies
After we had attended a college dance camp that summer, our coach had the brilliant idea of ordering “new” and “improved” uniforms! Woohoo! We were gonna get some new, upgraded little flouncy skirt made out of thick polyester and had to fork out more cash. I couldn’t wait. (Not.) Boy. Was. I. Shocked.
There we were, sitting around waiting for practice to start, huddling away from the girl who took garlic supplements. (Note to all you health food freaks out there: do not ingest whole cloves of garlic before you do sweat-inducing activity. P.U.!) In walked the coach announcing that our new uniforms were in! Three cheers for new uniforms! (She reached into the box) Hip Hip Hooray! (She slowly pulled out a bag) Hip Hip Hooray! (She held it up…) Hip Hip Hoo-what the hell!?
Dangling from her dainty hand was a ziplock freezer bag. I’m not kidding. My “new and improved” uniform fit nicely in a ziplock freezer bag. It also wasn’t made out of polyester. Surprise, surprise…This baby was made out of spandex. Yep. There ya have it. I was now the proud owner (and exhibitioner) of a short, mini, flouncy teal green spandex skirt (with matching panties of course), and teal green long-sleeved (why bother?) spandex half-shirt. Yes. We were gonna sport the bared midriffs in the 30-degree Michigan football weather. Couldn’t wait.
*************************************************************************
Taken From CHAPTER 29: Take it Easy
...The light is green. Then the light turns yellow. No brake lights. I’m cruising along at 45 miles an hour. As the daycare shuttle bus thingy is now quickly approaching the stoplight (which is yellow) the driver apparently decides to suddenly slam on the brakes. At this point, she is driving under the stoplight. I react quickly. Or so I think. I hit the brakes. Hard. My hands are gripped on the steering wheel, my right leg is pushed straight out, brake pedal punched all the way into the floor, and my head and back are pressed back into the seat. CRRRRRUNCH! Then I slam into the steering column and I hear loud noises – the sound of breaking glass and crunching metal as my seatbelt locks – and then...nothing.
I’m sure I get shaken up like a rag doll, but I don’t go through the windshield (thank you, seat belt) and I’m in a daze. Somebody calls an ambulance and as I’m looking around the inside of the vehicle, the smells of burnt rubber and smoke are filling my nose. The girl from the other vehicle is knocking on my driver’s side window, telling me I should get out of the car. “…It’s really smoking,” she says. I try to get my bearings, becoming aware of what’s happened. I’m blinking my eyes profusely. Why is everything blurry? Oh. My glasses flew off. (Too lazy to put my contacts in that day.) I search around the car to find them. Amazingly, they’re intact. I stumble out of the car. Numb. I don’t feel anything. Yet.
Thankfully, the only person in the other vehicle was the driver. She was fine. Her bus-thingy was hardly damaged except the bumper. When I looked at where the accident occurred, I saw about 20 feet of skid marks, and my car was just past the stop light. Her shuttle bus-thingy was pushed several feet forward in front of that. My brother’s car was a wreck! Oh. My. God. The front end was all crumpled up and the engine was pushed back. One of the tires was bent and there was smoke coming out of it and all kinds of liquid leaking from it. I had smashed by brother’s car! Oh. MY. GOD! How was I gonna tell him that? “Um…So, remember how you let me borrow your car? Yeah. Well, I kind of smashed it up. Sorry ‘bout that.” Ugh. I felt horrible. Someone had already called the police and the ambulance arrived. Yep. I got a ticket. “Failure to leave assured clear stopping distance.” My first ticket ever.
I turned down the ride in the ambulance because I felt fine. And, because I was scared that the ambulance ride would be expensive and I didn’t want to burden my parents with a big medical bill like that. I felt guilty enough for smashing a car I didn’t even own. How could I add to the cost? Shortly thereafter, my dad arrived on the scene. (Of course, I called him. Even though I was scared to death to tell him I crashed a car.) I don’t know what thoughts were running through his head on the way to the scene. My dad, he’s a pretty composed guy. But I suppose he felt what every parent feels when their child gets hurt – panic, worry, anger, fear and about a million other emotions.
I realized shortly after my dad showed up that I wasn’t really feelin’ so hot. I had him take me to the emergency room. Thankfully, I only had “severe strained and sprained muscles” and I should heal quickly. They gave me a prescription for Motrin and Darviset and warned me to take it easy. Sure, sure, take it easy. After dealing with my first accident, the police, my first traffic ticket, a paramedic, and my father, I now had to face the wrath of my brother. Ugh. I felt like I was going to be sick.
This was not going to be pretty. My brother could have a pretty good temper when he wanted to. He should’ve been on the debate team, because boy, that kid could argue...
I chickened out and had my dad call my brother at work to break the news to him first, before I had to see him face to face. Okay, I’ll admit it. I think I was more scared of my brother than my dad that day. I figured he couldn’t actually murder me, because my parents wouldn’t let him, but the sick feeling in my stomach just wouldn’t go away. My dad took me home from the emergency room and by the time I crawled onto the couch at home and pretty much felt like crap, that’s when the real pain kicked in.
You know how they say your body goes into shock when something traumatic happens? Guess what? It does. And then that shock wears off, and you feel everything. It felt like I had a third-degree sunburn all over my body and every muscle and every nerve and every bone ached. Not to mention, I still had that horrible sick feeling in my stomach. I’m not a baby. Really, I can handle pain. But this sucked. And then, as if I weren’t feeling terrible enough, my brother walked in the door.
*************************************************************************
Taken from Chapter 30: Surprise.
He had come home from work during his lunch hour. He walked briskly through the kitchen and into the family room where I had convalesced myself on the couch.
“Hey,” he says. No emotion creeps into his voice at all. None. He is staring seriously at me with those yellow-hazel eyes of his. (God, those eyes look scary at that moment.) Oh shit, I think. Here it comes. His voice was way too calm and even.
I look up, teary eyed, at my six-foot tall, crew-cut brother standing over me.
He thrusts out his hand, and says, “Here. This is for you.”
I’m scared. He hands me a box. It’s about five inches by five inches and looks like one of those small gift boxes from a store. I slowly reach up and take it out of his hand. I open it. It’s the new Erasure CD that has just come out that I have been wanting.
What??!? He bought me a CD? He left work at lunchtime to come home and see his mangled car, and stopped at the mall to pick me up a CD? What is wrong with this picture?
“What’s this? Why did you bring me a gift?” I ask, completely stunned and honestly confused. I was expecting to get my ass reamed out by him.
“Look,” he very calmly says. “It was an accident. At least you’re not hurt.”
“But…but…I crashed your car,” I stutter out.
My brother just looks at me. “Julie. I know you feel bad,” he states nonchalantly. “That’s what insurance is for.” He shrugged.
I blink and continue to stare like a deer in the headlights at my brother. I am stunned. “Wow. Thanks, Jay.”
“Yeah…Whatever.” He shrugs. “I have full coverage anyway.” And with that, my brother walks out of the room.
See, that’s the thing about family. They’re there for you. Always. And when you least expect it, they surprise you. Family loves. Family forgives. It’s what we were always taught growing up.
As I worked to finish up my last independent study class at home, I had found a job in a photography studio (just until I could find a real job as a designer), and that’s when I realized just how important family is. That’s when my world crumbled to pieces.