Stories That You'll Never Believe

Foreword

Who am I and why would you want to read about me? I honestly don’t know the answer to either question. But maybe we can figure it out together…

I guess this is the foreword?

In an attempt at catharsis, I’ve decided to write my memoirs. At age 35. Who the fuck does that? Evidently, he is I and I am him. As audacious and ridiculous as that might be.

But you are in for a wild ride, friend. I’m going to refer to you – the reader – as ‘friend.’ Because shit’s about to get mighty personal. In a hurry.

But first, this foreword likely needs a bit more meat. So I guess I’ll give some warnings. If you want to laugh, cry, cringe, and possibly puke while reading about someone you may not even know – buckle up. If stories involving promiscuity, drug use, alcohol abuse, mental degradation, failed love, unrequited love –and pretty well everything in-between-- might bother you, go borrow something from the SFW section of Amazon. I have peppered fun facts about popular music throughout, too. An apt move, you’ll agree once you get to know me.

Some names will be changed; others maybe not. I’m not really here to coddle, impress or protect.

I’m here to keep it real.

Chapter 1: October 18, 1983

It was roughly 2’C in the capital city (Capital City is what people, who feel they need to fancy shit up, from Edmonton, like to call the city) the day I was born. Edmonton’s in the heart of Alberta, one of the western provinces in the sprawling country we call Canada. My parents were at the Royal Alexandra hospital in Edmonton’s inner-city, where (as my Mom has pointed out), people were permitted to smoke cigarettes down the hall in the waiting room. Now I feel old.

I was born at 4:23 AM. A cute, healthy boy weighing 7lbs 2oz (1). Born to two teenage parents who’d – as I understand – been sweethearts as much as sweethearts can be at such an age, for years. My mother Karen Marie Wieczorkowski aged 16; my father Kim Allen Gagnon aged 18. And little Steve Roland Michael Wieczorkowski.

You are going to have to forgive me, as I don’t actually remember this day all too well. However, I have interviewed family, so here’s the picture that’s been painted.

My father was working road construction by day; Chi Chi’s Mexican restaurant by night. He’d ride his 10-speed at 5 AM from Balwin (an older, rougher neighbourhood in East Edmonton) to West Edmonton Mall where they were expanding roads nearby. Following his stint by day, he’d get a ride back home, change and head to the restaurant to work ‘till 1 AM. And on his off days, he’d work temp labour over at Action Force, getting paid cash at the end of the day.

Prior to my birth, my Mom had been working a telephone soliciting job. All of the staff there had chipped-in for a playpen. And if that wasn’t enough, they had it filled with stuffies and other pertinent items for the occasion. The collection of stuffies included our infamous set of Looney Tunes puppets (more on this later).

All things considered, my parents were fairly prepared for the event. They would take the bus with pillow in-hand for Lamaze classes. My father had painted my room baby blue with white trimmings. A mini crib was in tow. Stuff like that. My Grandmother (Dad’s side) helped furnish the apartment with various baby friendly fare – a type of gesture that would continue to be common over the course of my life. Thanks, Grandma.

Had I not been born a boy (i.e; born a girl), I would have been named Rainbow. Some real hippy shit right there. Instead, my father alleges that I was named after the head honcho of Iron Maiden, Steve Harris. No, not Paul Di'Anno or Bruce Dickinson. Steve Harris played bass but founded the band and wrote most of the songs. This approaches all I want/need/do know about Iron Maiden (2).

You’ll find that this is far from the last hard rock reference as it relates to my father (or my life, for that matter). While a bit of a teenager here, for reasons that will surely become clear as we all get acquainted, he’s often referred to as “the eternal teenager.”

Elsewhere in the world, yet less importantly, Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” single had propelled Thriller to #1 to become the greatest selling album of all time. Metallica, Slayer and Madonna all released their debut albums: Kill ‘Em All, Show No Mercy, and Madonna, respectively. Motely Crüe were one album ahead, releasing their sophomore follow-up Shout at The Devil. It’s been said (at least once, anyway) that 1983 was the last great year of Pop. I don’t know about that. But clearly, it was a pretty bitchin’ year for metal. The artists mentioned heretofore –akin to any ones mentioned hereafter— all play a bit of role in my story or upbringing. (Well, maybe not Slayer. But they warranted a mentioned just the same).

(1) If you’re wondering why I’m using Imperial measurements being Canadian, where the metric system’s firmly in-place, I blame the influence of our southern brothers.

(2) Actually, I do have a real vivid, agreeable memory of an Iron Maiden video as a kid now that I think of it. But I’ll save that for its chronological fitting.

That same year —pre-Much Music— a music video show called Good Rockin’ Tonite started its ten year run on CBC. My parents introduced me to it at some point later on – I vividly recall a little TV in the top-corner of a room airing videos by Prince and the likes. I can’t seem to deduce exactly which Prince video that has been burned into my brain from those years. But research denotes that it might be “Raspberry Beret” or “Mountains.” Hosted by Terry David Mulligan, it aired Friday nights at 11:30pm for the majority of its run. I guess I was allowed to stay up till midnight at a very young age. Come on, I had teenager parents. My Mom used to “wind me down” at night with chocolate milk. And I love for that.

I’ve heard a number of tales over the years about being a rotten, temper tantrum-laden toddler. Part of me wonders if this was a sign of things to come – what with having less than ideal emotional responses throughout adult-hood as well. That or I was just a little shit. And maybe the adult shit’s unrelated. I suppose there’s little point in trying to connect certain dots. I will say that the language I used (at such a young age, no less) during these outbursts do, in my opinion, warrant the wooden spoons and Tabasco sauce (administered orally) as form of punishment.

We would move regularly from one low-rental apartment (and later houses) to another, progressively climbing the quality chain my entire childhood and teenage life. In retrospect, I wish we didn’t move around so much, but I get why we did. My parents always wanted better for us. Whether that meant little upgrades locally or moving from city to city as we did to facilitate next-best opportunities for my father’s flooring career.

My memories from the first couple, or maybe few, places are pretty sparse. I suppose that’s fair, being a toddler and all. But I do have a few that have always stuck. After the Balwin area apartment that I came home to once born, we lived in a few more northside dwellings, including a couple of townhouses next – one where I distinctly recall trading cards in a crack in the basement’s wall with the kids next door. Somehow, it seems unlikely to me that there’d be such a small space between each side to allow for that. But we’re also not talking Grade A builds here… That’s how I remember it, anyway.

I recall, in what might be my earliest memory, having a red lamp in my bedroom that gave an ominous vibe. One night, in particular, I had a night terror. One where I was partially awake and partially in dream state. I found myself on the ground at the base of the bed with a blanket on my head trying to evade some sort of evil presence emitting from the ceiling. Although I don’t believe the main bedroom light on the ceiling was red (that would be fucked up), everything in the room had a tint of red reflecting from the lamp. And this ceiling light fixture had basically absorbed the red glow.

If I’m not mistaken, in and around that same era, my Dad would pull me around the neighbourhood in a little wagon. My mother feels I only know this due to pictures and stories, and not the actual memory. Who can be sure? A pretty fun and happy picture I have in my head and that’s what counts.

On December 6, 1996, my brother James was born. James Douglas (3) Wieczorkowski was born. While I maintain that I have some memories as early as three (the ones above, for example), I don’t have any recollection of this happening. I believe my earliest memory of James is me holding him and dropping him, feeling guilty as fuck. But my mother reassuring me he was alright. This is where my Grandmother would chime in “He was dropped on his head just like your father!” We get it already, Grandma.

We lived in one more apartment on Edmonton’s northside before moving to Mill Woods on the polar opposite side of town to what would be forever known as “The brown apartments.” From that point on, we basically had a naming convention for each of the many places we lived in. Often by the landlord’s name. “Wing’s house,” for example.

We lived in the “the brown apartments” for roughly 5 years. I’m going to say age 3 through 8, give a take a year. This is certainly where the lion’s share of my child-hood memories stem from. Some of the silliest and fondest. But also the darkest and most damaging outside of late teenage years  some people call this foreshadowing. I mean, not that childhood ended at 8. But the formative years, if you will.

Walking inside the apartment, you’d find the living room to the left, the kitchen and dining room to the right. Pretty basic fare. Being a technology and music nerd, I recall the brands, size and details regarding our television and stereo more than I do regarding furnishings. I suppose there was this blue sectional couch that we probably had the entire run in that place. And I’d bet we had it at future dwellings. That couch was an honorary member of the family, really. A blue twill with little lines of pink woven throughout. Pretty comfy.

I remember the day my Dad brought home the 26” Emerson brand television. I’m unsure what we were watching on before that. I know we had a B&W set with dial knobs at one point, but I can’t say if that was the precursor. Something tells me I’m too young to have “upgraded to coIour” circa 1989. Anyway, I felt rich. But we were anything but. Presumably just over the poverty line in the early days, but cheque-to cheque with my father working crazy hours like he always has, to make ends meet.

Dad had a Fisher brand, multi-component stereo: a turntable on top, a radio tuner, an equalizer, and a dual-cassette deck. Man, did we ever use that stereo for all that it was worth. Recording records, recording from the radio, from VHS. MuchMusic was even broadcasted around the clock on cable radio. Don’t know what cable radio is? I’m not sure that many people do. And I’m not even sure that you can do it anymore, now that everything’s digital. But basically, if you split your cable TV connection and hooked up a coaxial cable to your radio tuner, you’d get a shit-load of additional regional and non-regional radio stations, including the aforementioned video channel. My Dad’s always had a knack for electronics and stereos at a hobbyist and consumer level. A bit of his influence mixed with my curiosity and natural knack for the craft, had me hooking up RCA cables, headphones, splitting cable to other TV’s, and all kinds of related nerdery at a young age. Absolutely nothing in this department has changed over time.

Dad was always about the fun. He’d make us forts, both inside and out. I know for the winter ones, he’d use long 12’ carpet roll tubes for structural integrity and then make the rest out of snow. When he wasn’t doing that, we’d be inside wrestling – a routine engagement I recall begging for time and time again. And then, probably best of all, the aforementioned art of the mix-tape he taught me, or the amazement I held over his 1500 vinyl records. He would usually “pause” out the swears in my tapes. Though, I do recall initially having an uncensored dubbing of Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction recorded. My Mom put a stop to that, encouraging the “paused” version. A notable fun vs. mature dynamic those two would carry throughout my life. And still do to this day.

Guns N’ Roses. There could be an entire chapter dedicated to them and what a welcomed infection they’ve had on our lives. Perpetrated by my rock-music fanatic father. In fact, there is a chapter dedicated to this. So hold your breath.

On second thought, Dad wasn’t always about the fun. Or maybe he was – his version of selfish fun. Not always so fun for the rest of us. I wonder when reality sunk in to my Mom that she started a family with an alcoholic. On that note, I wonder when that reality sunk in for me. I was too young to know what that was, of course. So that probably slowly sunk in over the years. The years of loud, abrasive and abusive domestic strife between my parents related to his binge drinking, disappearances and infidelity (as I understand it, anyway).

Sporadic therapy over the years has highlighted a fair bit of trauma as it relates to the fighting…

(3) Named after James ‘Jim’ Douglas Morrison from The Doors. Confirmed by my father; routinely denied by my mother.