The FBI has their ways: by M DeMarlo

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The FBI has their ways: By M DeMarlo

I was now part of the teenage drug crowd in 1974 from an upper middle class North West Suburb of Detroit, Farmington Hills Michigan. Getting high,

drinking, and taking all sorts of illicit substance. I was completely out of control, and my mom knew it. My mom is a news woman; she is in your front

room broadcasting the news on TV 7 News just about every night. A rumor once went so far about Jimmy Hoffa and where his remains were disposed it

actually was on the 6:00 evening news. A man claiming to be an informant with a somewhat believable story said Hoffa was entombed under an east bound

on-ramp of the Jefferies Freeway I96. No time was wasted, and yellow crime scene tape closed off the area. Cement was tore up making a mess of the

recently opened on ramp, never finding the corps of Jimmy Hoffa. My mom being one of the top newscasters with Channel 7 was reporting live or in the

studio. Either way she was on TV at 6:00 PM every evening, accept weekends.


After that story aired she came home one evening mad as hell, another fabricated story that threatened the integrity of the news she broadcast. It was

obvious she had too many martinis, being flirtatious, flipping her hair from side to side and showing cleavage. Some man was with her, telling her how

beautiful she looks when she is angry. This adding fuel to her sex kitten act, exaggerated movement with her hips walking across the room after

slipping off her high heel pumps. He too was quite tipsy with pick up lines only a desperate middle aged guy uses. Silly one eye winks while pointing

his finger "yea baby". My mom put on her sexy good girl look with a fake innocent smile. I was witnessing the power she had over men, she was reeling

him in for the kill. I already knew what would happen next, and my prediction was confirmed. While fixing myself a sandwich this confirmation became

clear as I watched her lead him upstairs. That was the excitement for the night, so I went to bed.

y mom and I live in a large old house. The master bedroom and guest rooms are upstairs. I stay in the old servant’s quarters which is downstairs and

next to the kitchen. I have my privacy and so does my mom. Also I have my own private entrance to the house, enabling me to come and go as I please. A

key latch kid I pretty much did as I wanted. This kind of freedom for a fifteen year old was out of control. As long as my mom was clueless, and

continued to think of me being a mature responsible teenager my life was without restrictions and I was having a blast.


I woke up to the sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. It was him, the schmuck my mom reeled in hook line and sinker. "What do you think

you are doing" I said to him wiping the sleep from my eyes. "Making your mother some breakfast. Would you like some, I have made plenty and you’re more

than welcome to join "I couldn’t quite place his accent. It wasn’t country bumpkin southern but had a hint of the south. He sounded educated, classy in

a way. And now that I got a close-up look at the guy he is older than what I thought. I was speechless and silent for too long because he broke the

awkwardness and said. "Your mom is up having coffee in the breakfast nook. Brunch will be ready at 11:30 if you’re hungry". My mom was now in view

coming into the kitchen wearing a silk sexy lacy robe, fresh make-up and her hair bouncing and behaving. "Stan this is my son Mark. Mark honey, come in

to the breakfast nook, I have something to tell you and its important" I gave Stan a look as if I had a piece of s**t under my nose and went back to my room to get dressed. Now what could this be about.
I was partially right about Stan the schmuck who reminded me of one of the "two wild and crazy guys" from Rowan and Martin’s Laugh in comedy show. He was from Oklahoma, had something to do with the FBI. Apparently he and my mother met one another with the false Jimmy Hoffa under the freeway report. Now knowing this guy is an Oakee I would put a hick twang now and then in conversation. When his back was turned I would make silly faces, flip him the bird and just about everything disrespectful and immature. Making sure my mom took notice of my disgust for the guy. So I asked "what is it you and the Lone Ranger want to tell me" I almost fell back in my chair when she told me they were engaged. She extended her left hand showing me a diamond engagement ring that was obviously real the way it sparkled in the light.
I was in shock and wanted to run, hide, no not this again. Husband number four was a disaster, as was three and two. Number one, who was my biological

father I barely remember? She talked of him as if he were a saint. Killed in a helicopter crash, her stories of him always seemed to perfect, fictional

.
Now this guy wants to give it a try, he even said it out loud. "I know this will be a challenge for all of us" he says. My mom eyes focused on her ring

; she breaks into the conversation like a news reporter. "This isn’t just for me, it’s for you also. Stan has experience with teenagers; he has a

daughter a few years older than you". Then The Lone Ranger interrupts "I have always wanted a son, and now I will have one. This is a most welcome

challenge. A beautiful woman like your mother that has the boy I can raise as my own". Then my mom throws another wrench into my happy life. "After the

wedding Stan is going to adopt you". My answer to that was "Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, are you two out of your minds"? "Now son, there is never a

good time to use the lords name in vain. It’s such a happy day we will let that go as a warning, but that kind of talk isn’t tolerated"

At that moment the look this guy gave me, and not just the expression on his face but his whole look in general scared me. Suddenly he looked like a

cop, the FBI, all the way establishment. He may have been drunk last night but today this man was very sobering. His clothes were not even wrinkled,
wearing a neck tie, fresh clean shaved face. I could smell the after shave lotion. My mom’s favorite Old Spice, she keeps a bottle of it for "her men"

.
This guy was clean-cut with a short barbershop haircut, and well groomed not a hair out of place. He must of just gotten his hair cut because it

looked fresh clipped to the skin tapered nape, and the sides and back also clipped short enough that in the sunlight when he moved his head one could

see his white scalp showing through jet black hair up over his crown. His eyes were clear, even after being drunk the night before. A chill ran up and

down my spine.

Tears filled my eyes and I ran from the table to my room slamming the door. I could still hear them talking. Stan saying "It’s a normal reaction, he

will come around. He doesn’t want to share his mother, perfectly normal. I don’t want to share you either" Stan reminded her of her beauty and then

silence. They were making out again. I heard them going back up the stairs.


Saying "Yes, I Do" must have been easy once she found out his parents left him a fortune when they passed. He was uprooting us, we were moving to

Oklahoma. This did not go over well with me. I was eves dropping on them and heard him tell my mom, "he will have to get a haircut", my mom answered

"he won’t do that, mark likes his hair Stanly sharply answered her "No, it’s time that boy learned some discipline, he is running wild, this is not

negotiable". Then I heard him calling out my name... a little louder Mark, Mark get in here NOW... "Yea what" I hollered back from the kitchen. "Get in

here I want to tell you something, on the double, NOW". Sarcastically I answered "Sir, Yes Sir Capitan Sir"; he did not like that at all. Especially

the sarcastic salute I gave him. He did not beat around the bush. "Didn’t I tell you to get a clean-cut haircut the other day"? You did, I told him.

Interrupting me, just a minute ago it was all Sir Yes Sir, which is the way you will continue addressing me. Now say it again like you mean it this

time. I stood there silent, until I said. "Yes Sir, again, starts with Sir, then say Yes Sir. The guy had a powerful personality, and I am no match for

this alpha male. I stood up straight SIR, YES SIR.

I saw you with your hippie friends today. You were passing a pipe around smoking marijuana. My new step father reminded me of the consequences

of any involvement with drugs which would be a strict boarding school; he found one that was mandatory JROTC already. It was real, sending me off to be


around and raised by strangers. They require a neat clean-cut haircut so you look sharp in uniform. Superintendent has asked you get your haircut a

day or so before summer school starts. The school barber will be on vacation for another couple weeks. When he returns the haircut will be maintained and a clean-cut haircut is mandatory, however they will take

your photo for school ID which must be shown when sent to the school barber. Who will give you the exact haircut pictured on your ID.?

I knew things would be different with him getting a firm control with my appearance. He really turned into an A-1 asshole. I told him he was an

ass too. The man took off his belt and chased me, caught me and gave me the strap on my bare butt. Tears were flooding my eyes. I was so humiliated

having to stand there calling out each hard whack by its number and a Sir, thank you Sir. Crying like a little baby the strap continued to blister my

bare butt. Then I started begging him to stop, all the time crying and apologizing calling him Sir. My butt had serious welts and blisters. I took 50


hard, real hard whacks. Sitting on my hands in the car he took me to a barbershop on the nearby military base. My new step father Stanly watched with a

gleam in his eye as I was being transformed. My hair kept getting shorter and shorter. I felt the steel blade right up on my skin plowing up, higher,

the barber was clipping my hair real tight. Scissors began snipping the top of my hair, reducing it to about an inch. Butch wax made the crew cut

stand up in the front. Just above my fringe which was an inch, under an inch tapering to the crown... It was buzzed with a #0.5 going to a 1 ½ over the

crown tapering to the skin with a zero blade. A week later at summer school I was given the same exact haircut, a tight crew cut flat bumper. In

uniform with spit shined boots, a crisp shirt & tie became my norm. The crew cut was maintained flat on the top by the school barber every Saturday


afternoon. This was a special request from the step father who was footing the bill and calling all the shots. He had asked for administration to

maintain a short military style haircut, and to cut the hair weekly.


The discipline this

young man’s step father used in the long run saved him from becoming a possible drug addict, criminal drug pusher and lacking the work ethics needed to

be a working member of society. Had the young man been allowed to run wild as a teenager this story would have had a different dark ending. What

worked in the later 20th century would be useless today in the 21st century. A teenager with a short barbershop haircut was a sign that this youth is

under control, somebody cares about how he turns out. A short haircut symbolized conformity, the establishment. A boy made to keep a short military

type haircut, not just one haircut but strictly maintained fresh would not fit in with the teenagers with the long hair and soon will choose friends he

blends in with. Of course there are a few rotten apples that never get turned around. This story is fiction, but I seem to remember teenagers that were

out of control having shoulder length hair and wearing open sandals, monster bell bottom pants and tie dye T shirts. Then one day that same teenager is

completely changed around. Instead of monster bell bottoms and tie dye T-shirts he is wearing shined shoes or boots, boot cut jeans and a sports shirt

or dress shirt and a tie. His shoulder length hair is now military cut to a tight crew cut, flat top or a very short Ivy/princeton. I remember, and it

worked. By M DeMarlo

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