The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"

By

S. Jeffery Sands

Edited and Approved By

E. S. Young

Chapter One: The Hazy Years AKA, Childhood

Recently I had to write an autobiography for English class. 9.9 I didn't enjoy it mostly because I had to write about myself. That's incredibly hard for me to do, but I got through it and, in the end, I gained an idea for a new story! This one will be short mostly because I'm following the guidelines I was given in English class. See, we were given four packets that each contained different questions. We were supposed to have thought of each packet as a chapter of our autobiographies, get it?

Sands: Doubt it. -.9 You should just let me do the talking from now on, sugar. You're too confusing.

Sidney: I know. That's why most of this is written from your POV. :)

Sands: What? Why? These kids don't need to read what I'm thinking. They're fucked up enough as it is. 9.9

Sidney: Too bad. You know the idea won't leave my mind until it's written down, so hop to it, mister. u.u

Sands: (thinks she's crazier than he is and edges out of the room) 6.6

Sidney: (rolls eyes) Anyway . . . hope this tides you over 'til I get the next chapter of Smoke Gets in Your Eyes posted. Enjoy!

"Shaddap," a rough voice demanded.

The chatter of the classroom died down immediately as every student swerved around in their seats, wanting to look as though they were intent on paying attention.

At the front of the room stood their teacher, Miss Kovinski, – 'Miss K' to her students – hands on her hips, brow furrowed, thin lips pursed, and beady eyes scrutinized her students. Twelve years of teaching eleventh grade English had not affected the teacher's appearance in the least. Her face still held a permanently squinted image, her figure was still tall, lean, and slightly muscular, and not once in her teaching career had she worn a skirt. As far as Miss Kovinski was concerned, it was pants all the way. Recently, however, the teacher had ditched her shoulder-length hairdo for a short, spiky butch cut with platinum blond highlights. She was, in some student's opinions, a poster child for feminine rights.

"I trust you all did your homework," she stated rather than asked.

There was instant mayhem as the pupils scrambled to unearth their assignments before the teacher had to ask a second time. All except one, however. Not one to be shaken by a teacher's wrath – no matter how burly they were – seventeen-year-old Jeffery Sands leaned back in his seat, casually picking at a hangnail. Miss Kovinski saw this at once and pounced.

In just three strides with her long legs Miss K was in front of Sands' desk, her most fearsome glare plastered upon her ever-scowling face. Several heads turned, each one wearing an eager look of malice. Completely unperturbed, Sands glanced up at his teacher.

Ah, I see she bleached the 'stache again . . .

He lowered his eyes, his attention attracted to his nails once again.

Miss K cleared her throat theatrically. A few people snickered. By now, the entire class was watching her, save for one single person. Sands knew he couldn't continue his charade forever – while his nails were far more exciting than one of Miss K's ramblings about English, they weren't that interesting. He would need to acknowledge his teacher sooner or later, and though he would much rather do it later, the former option was the one he had to go with.

Looking up with large, innocent eyes, he asked, "Did you want something, Miss K?"

It was an act, and the class knew it. Smirking at the quiet laughter that followed his question, Sands met Miss Kovinski's angry glare with a cool gaze of his own. It soon changed, however, when his teacher answered him.

"As a matter of fact, I did, Shelmo."

Now the class was really laughing, but Sands ignored them, refusing to let his irritation show, yet he could not stop the dark cloud still crept into his eyes.

"Do you have the assignment?" Miss K demanded.

"Actually –" Sands began.

"I knew it," the teacher announced, looking around the room to see if her kids were watching. "I knew it. You don't have it done, do ya, sword-face?"

Sands arched an eyebrow at the name but chose not to comment on it. Instead he said, "Actually I do." Reaching down, he pulled a thin, slightly crumpled pile of papers out from underneath his desk and presented them to Miss K. The class snickered again. Not wanting to be shown up by one of her students, Miss Kovinski kept up her sarcastic attitude even as she accepted the assignment.

"Why thank you, Shelmo, I'll make sure to grade this one right away. Lord knows it's bound to be interesting."

Without another word she turned on her heel and stalked back over to her desk. The students glanced around at each other, each one just as confused as the next.

"Did she give us any work to do . . . ?" someone murmured to their neighbor.

"Shut it," Miss K snarled, looking up from her desk. "I didn't forget."

Doubt that, Sands mused, certain that several of his so-called peers were thinking along the same lines.

"Turn to page 335," the teacher ordered. "Start reading and then answer the questions when you get to the end of the story."

Ah, hell. I've already read this one, Sands muttered, frowning down at his literature book. Heavy, bold lettering spelled out the title The Miracle Worker. Letting out a sigh of frustration, Sands stole a glance at his English teacher. She didn't notice, already submerged in correcting someone's homework for errors. Leaning forward to get a closer look at the papers in Miss K's hand, Sands grinned, realizing that the assignment was his.

The Autobiography of a "Troubled Soul"

As told by said troubled soul

(Without his consent)

S. Jeffery Sands

Part I

So, it seems as though I have been goaded into writing an autobiography, my own, no less. If this be the case, then before I begin I want to state that I do not enjoy talking about myself. I find it incredibly uncomfortable, mostly because I'd rather not reveal my past to a person who's chosen to call me 'Shelmo.' However, I shall condone in this writing activity — it is a grade after all and, though I have absolutely no idea why, I would like to attend college. Also, I must warn the reader(s) that I have the tendency to ramble. Normally this would not happen, but since I'm supposed to talk about myself . . . tangents are more than likely to occur. Forgive my aberrant behavior; after all, I did give you a warning. The ramblings are annoying, I know, but sometimes very useful. For instance, many years ago, in Ireland, there was a game entitled "Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden." This was too long to say, however, so the first letters of each word were combined to form the term we all know as golf. It may not seem useful, but one never knows. One thing I do know is that it had nothing to do with anything in this autobiography. This is all part of getting to know me, ladies and gentlemen, like it or not.

Several distinct traits run through my family. The dark brown hair is a visible example, but there are some that cannot be seen. Considering this, it's probably best list the good things I have inherited before I begin on the . . . unique . . . ones. I received my negative outlook on life from my father, Robert – lovingly called 'Rob' by my stepsisters – and my pessimistic attitude from him as well. I can't forget being a control freak either, although I would hope that I'm not as obvious about it as he is. Those aren't exactly good things, are they? That would be my negative side kicking in – thanks, Dad! However, there are some nice things about my genetics. My mother gave me my insight and good taste, as well as my interesting taste in reading material. I can also thank her for my nearly obsessive compulsive behavior when it comes to cleaning and blame my mother for my abilities to confuse the lesser being.

Aside from their genetics, my parents had much more to give, my name being one example. After coming to the decision that Robert Jr. was just not unique enough, my parents went all out. Not considering how it would affect their son later in life, they finally made a decision, and that decision was . . . . to name me Sheldon. At first, it wasn't that bad a name, at least I didn't think so. Then, however, I started kindergarten and when my fellow six-year-olds fell into hysterics during roll call, I began to suspect that Sheldon wasn't such a hot name after all.

While I am on the subject of names, I may as well express that I have always liked my sister's title more than my own. Aside from her first name, that is. Got to say I hate her first name, and I'm sure she'd agree. Beatrice (see? Doesn't that just suck?) Lynné Sands is twelve years old, looks very much like her heart-throb of a brother (moi), and is a mean badminton player. Just ask my older stepsister, Catherine. She knows from experience.

While my relatives – mostly my grandmother – can rattle on about all of my favorite toys, games, and stories from my childhood, I can hardly remember anything. The only thing that comes to mind are the soft, simple lyrics to the song that was the theme for the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's. Why I can only remember the words to Moon River remains a mystery. I know that my mother always used to sing it when I was younger, but she used to sing many things so why would one particular song stay prominent in my mind, I have wondered. As I have said, it is one of many strange things about me that have yet to be solved.

1971 was an important year for the world. The microprocessor was introduced, which was the foundation of all computers, or just about anything electric. The NASA Mariner 9 became the first spacecraft to orbit another planet on November 14th. The Soviets Mars 2 and Mars 3 arrived a month later, and sent a probe down to the planet (which unfortunately didn't work for long). Even more unfortunately, cigarette ads were banned on TV.

Musicians were also busy during the year of my birth. Rod Stewart reached the top of the charts with Maggie May, and Me and Bobby Mcgee sung by Janis Joplin was played in clubs across the country. Also, the song Brown Sugar brought the Rolling Stones back on the top ten charts once again.

Thinking of an early memory from my childhood has probably been the most difficult thing to do while writing this autobiography. Admittedly, it took me a good portion of the English period to recall an event that has stuck with me for so long. Finally, I settled on Santa. However, I would like to make a note that when my uncle Bernard told me the tale of jolly ol' Saint Nick, he had my best interests at heart.

It was December of 1974 when my father decided to fill me in about the mysterious, bearded, red man. I was only a child of three, then – young, innocent prey just waiting to be snared by corruption. I was curious to know what the older children meant when they talked about 'Santa Claus' and my uncle (corruption) saw this as his golden opportunity to alter the mind of his youngest child. He explained to me that Santa was a man who came down everyone's chimney each and every Christmas Eve, that if children were good, they would wake up the next morning to find presents under the Christmas tree, and that if they were bad, they would be left with nothing but coal. However, if the kids did not go to sleep right away then Santa would eat the cookies, make off with the television, and perhaps he would even raid the refrigerator while he was at it. After all, his reindeer needed sustenance, too. Well, being a child growing up in the '70s, TV was my best friend. I just could not let Santa take it away from me, so when it was time to go to bed, I promptly fell asleep with a baseball bat just in case.

For seven long years I waited in horror for Christmas to come. Each year it would pass with ease, but that did not mean I would let my guard down. Finally, I learned the truth about Santa: that he did not exist, that he was just a story made up by parents to trick children into behaving themselves. Naturally I was heartbroken but only until the fury of being afraid of something that was not real for seven years kicked in. Immediately, I confronted my father, demanding to know why he would tell me such a terrible thing and insisting that it was a completely awful thing to tell a child. His response was: "Il a travaillé, n'est-ce pas ?" Well, it worked, didn't it?

I never really had many babysitters. Usually our housekeeper, Rivka, watched me while my parents were away at work, but when he had business to attend to, I stayed with a neighbor girl, Erin (last name unknown), and her eleven-year-old brother whose name escapes me. The only thing I remember about them is an experience involving a broken pair of glasses.

"What's this?" I had asked, holding up the clear nosepiece of the eyewear.

"Oh, it's –" Erin began, but her brother cut her off.

"It's a teardrop," he explained, nodding knowingly. "It's frozen."

Looking back on that and then scrutinizing the clear, rubbery part from the glasses – does anybody know what those things are called? – I can see the resemblance, though I am proud to say that I did not believe Erin's brother for a minute. Even as a child I was skeptical. I usually trusted the adults but older kids were all liars to me. One might consider this the quintessential training for what would later become a paranoid adolescent. However, I have to wonder . . . is that necessarily a good thing?

When Erin was unavailable, I was sent to stay with my dad's mom, Grandma Beatrice, or 'Bea' as everyone else calls her. Now, let it be known that I love my Granny dearly . . . but she is a bitter and spiteful crone who is older than dirt itself. She is obsessive compulsive when it comes to cleaning, going to great lengths to make her house spotless. She vacuums and dusts daily, gets her dog and cat groomed every Saturday, and criticizes her daughter-in-law's housekeeping skills. Considering how cheap she is, she could pass as the female equivalent of Fred Mertz. Penny pincher to the end, she once bought her only grandson – moi – a pair of socks for Christmas, saying in her wavering, high-pitched voice, "Now I got these for fifty cents at the thrift store." Gee, Gram, thanks a bunch. This really shows me how much you care.

The monotonous yet vital droning of a bell rang throughout the classroom, indicating a change in period. It's sound hit something in the minds of the schoolchildren, something that hand a link with the bell and the human psyche. At the sound of the tone, the students immediately snatched up whatever they had carried with them, sprang from their desks, and, with a glazed look reserved only for those under severe hypnosis, darted out of the room.

Sands, not one to be controlled by anything especially something as ridiculous as a bell, took his time gathering his books together before exiting the scene. Before he left he cast one glance back at Miss K who paid him no notice. She was still absorbed in his autobiography. Even more cocksure than before, Sands allowed a smirk to cross his face as he disappeared down the hall.

Wide-eyed with interest, Miss Kovinski turned the page of Sands' autobiography and continued on with Part II.

So how was that? Good? Bad? Funny at least? Let me know! Oh, but I must tell you, that part about Santa Claus being evil? (points to self) That is what I was led to believe throughout my entire childhood. Invader Nicole and the Gilatas Monster can vouch for me on this. Oh, and Miss Kovinski? She's based on my ninth grade English teacher, just so ya know. And, yes, she really does act and look just like that. It's scary. But she liked me. . . . . which was even scarrier. o.o;; But, anyway, I'm off to finish the next bit of my other OUaTiM story. Catch you guys lata. R&R!

o