BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 11
to get a birth certificate for something when I was two years old. Two years before he
died. His legal name was Willy John Thurston. I‟m sure it broke his heart. He was a
tough little German, Grandpa was. Maybe five-six, five-seven, he was a very big guy
when he was pissed. Bald, with a dark ring of hair on the sides and back, he was as
stocky as a blacksmith.
The hospital refused to release me without someone substantially reducing the
bill. Rather than argue, Grandpa took matters into his own capable hands. He called the
police and reported his grandson was being kidnapped. By the time all the cops left,
Grandpa had his way. He took his daughter, her lovely little boy, and his shit eating son-
in-law out of that damned place. Must be he‟s the one who gave Mom her “Don‟t you
dare screw around with me!” side.
So, not only do I own nothing, including my freakin‟ diaper, at birth, I‟ve got an
outstanding balance owed to the hospital before I even get home. My cosigners are the
people who couldn‟t pay the hospital‟s ransom. Helluva start, so far, wouldn‟t you say?
My folks had two cars. Repos from Al Capone, who knows? The cars were old,
but a ten-year-old car is very old in Michigan. With all the salt on the roads, most don‟t
last much longer. Not like here in southern California, where a forty-year-old car only
draws a glance from half the people who drive past it.
I have two mementos, a legacy from my old man. A beautiful Marlin .22 rifle,
still in showroom condition, built in 1946, and a handgun. An Iver-Johnson hammerless
.38 revolver. He tried to kill me with the revolver in 1967 when I was drunk. We‟ll get
to that later. All he ever killed with the rifle was crows and squirrels. I wonder why he
used something with that much range to shoot at a raised target?
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