Page 15 - Gary's Book - Final Copy 7.9.2017_Active

reputation preceded him, the hospital personnel attempted to keep him out of the
hospital, but often to no avail. He would sneak in the rear entry of the hospital, in
his police uniform, and threaten Mom, telling her to get her ass home immediately.
Mom told me that the only time she ever saw Dad cry was once when he had

beaten her so badly. When she asked why he was crying, he said, “Because I could
not bring myself to kill you.” Unfortunately, because of the impact of all the
beatings, Mom’s teeth were knocked out. I remember that she had a full set of
dentures.

Dad did not drink regularly but would often binge drink. Many times, he sat at our
metal-framed kitchen table and made me stand there and watch him drink until he
got drunk. I was just barely tall enough to be eye level to the table top. Once when
he finished a bottle of beer, he slammed it down on the table, and slivers of glass

flew everywhere, even into my face. Mom had to remove the glass from my
eyelids and forehead. How I avoided getting pieces in my eyes is beyond my
comprehension. It was just another guardian angel in my life; no, it was God
protecting me.

I was not circumcised at birth, so Dad, having been in the Army Medical Corps,
decided one Saturday morning after a bout of drinking, that he was going to
perform the surgery. Mom said I was four or five years old at the time. He sat me

on the upstairs bathroom toilet and began cutting me with a double-edged Gillette
razor blade. I bled profusely, but Mom could not take me to the emergency room
or to a doctor. Dad would never allow that, and Mom was afraid that she would get
beaten if she tried. Our doctor, Dr. Runn, was afraid of Dad; the hospital
employees were afraid of him. He had threated everyone. Who would they call?
The police? He was a part of the police department. So, Mom placed compresses
on my penis and placed Dad’s army helmet over it, so the blanket was not lying

directly on the wound. When Dad went to work the next day, Mom called Dr.
Runn who sneaked over to see me. I recall lying in that bed for a long time.

Dad was known at work to be one who had no fear. When I was about seven years
old, Dad was a motorcycle cop. One time he was chasing a car down Grand
Avenue in South St. Louis, and the front wheel of his motorcycle got caught in a
streetcar track causing him to wreck. He ended up with seven compound fractures
in his right leg – all between the knee and the ankle. During his recuperation, he

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