Gerald Lee Godsey Sr.

My sister has a joint bank account with my father.

My Father is an instigator, in this story. He had to go along with pressure from Raebecca Grabowski and her Gangsta' Crack Dealer, her Biker buddies and my sister because he shouldn't be forced to take heat because of me

I discovered a letter from PNC Bank that also had my nephew as a joint account with my father

I thought a long time about blurring my Father's face and editing it somehow to avoid having my Father part of this story. But, it can't be done. No matter how I shuffled it into my head, there was no way he wasn't going to be a part of this story.

I have his name, and, if my name is involved, unfortunately, his is too. I have mixed feelings about his involvement in this story, so I decided to just tell the story, regardless of what it seems like.

His entire reason for being involved is a petty, very petty reason, but definitely the real reason is my sister and the need or debt to her and Raebecca's crack dealer who will be named after other issues are taken care of.

I was shaving in the bathroom one afternoon, and my father walked to the open bathroom door and, staring down at the floor, said "Malia's moving in [my sister] and she'll be here until the day I die." I scoffed and he said, "No, really."

My sister has a habit of jumping boyfriend-to-boyfriend (pretty much anyone who will tolerate her) but between those times she moves in with my parents until she can find her next victim, err, boyfriend. It's always been the case.

Her children's father (Christopher Flemings) never paid child-support - ever. My dad signed the rights to pay for her child support. Don't ask me, it's really weird. When my sister was around 11-years-old, my father discovered the lump on my sister's breast and made sure she went to the doctor. Which is odd, because we never went to the doctors or dentist unless it was required by the school. I had my upper teeth removed when I was 16 because my probation officer was going to recommend putting me in the Department of Corrections if they were not fixed. Really.

My nephew and I weren't getting along because my father was taking him shopping every day, doing favors for any and all of his friends, and a woman named Jenny Hurlbrink. My father was taking care of Jenny's obese aunt, taking her to appointments, taking Jenny where she wanted to go. It was just over the top and that was after he got off work at Circle-K or when him and I wasn't mowing yards or doing landscaping for Circle-K (we inherited it when they were converted from Shell gas stations).

Justin moves out, no one told me and while cleaning his bedroom, I found receipts for TVs and other things that was purchased months before, so that told me it was methodically planned.

Among the left behind mail was a letter from PNC bank that stated they were welcoming Justin to the account, the shared bank account with my father. Whoa! That was news to me.

If you wonder why I refer to myself as "cancer boy," this is why. When I got transferred next door to ADM Trucking from where I worked previously (biosys), I was fired because I told them I had Hodgkin's disease. They had to rehire me, but they harassed the fuck out of me.  This was my father's handwriting to help them harass me. Fucked up

Where things get fucked up.

People between the houses.

This is what I mean by instigator, clearly

Black dudes just milling about between the 1175 N Wilder Ave house and the house next to us. Go ahead and go there and look. The house on the corner right behind the gambling building where people go to buy drugs and gamble

My father would sometimes say my nephew, Justin, would talk shit to my dad, which may or may not be true because he does get hot-headed.

But on more than one occasion, I heard some strange things. This is before I was diagnosed with cancer, maybe a couple months, and it was deafening silent in the house. My father forced to lay in a small chair in the living room in complete darkness - no heating or air conditioner on or a fan. I mean dark and silent the way my sister required it.

I was sitting downstairs in the basement where the computer desk is doing design or whatever when I hear the door open and my father saying "Oh, nothing, the same shit again. He's threatening to kill me."

Wait. What? He opened the door and pronounced it to some unknown person and you never heard the person. Exactly like it was at the Decatur Inn Motel over two years later as I would find out in the future. And this happened a few times, especially while I was on hospice. The first few times I didn't go upstairs because my sister and Raebecca was always on some secret bullshit. Later, while on hospice, I couldn't walk up the stairs to find out.

I was getting stronger after hospice, not much, but enough to move around and on this particular evening, I decided to test out my bandages, to see if they would hold since I now could order bandages because I found out I qualified for disability. And boy, were there issues with my medical packages - receiving them, the packages all fucked up, my sister chasing after the Amazon delivery truck like a dog - really. I have video of us constantly arguing about it.

This particular evening I walked slowly about two blocks to Fairview Plaza. I went out the back door, quietly, down Leafland Street towards MacArthur School, down the sidewalk and to the store. On the way back, wanting to test my bandages, I decided to walk down the stairs at the old Burger King, across the parking lot and onto Wilder Street. There were two black dudes stealthily lingering around the houses, even though no one black lived on that block. Weird. I see this black guy, looking at me surprised as I walked by him, and he softly yells "Cuz! Cuz!!" and then I saw movement. It was a chunky black guy at the corner of my house peeking in either our windows or the neighbor's. He saw me, spun a couple times in circles to play it off and then had the courage to look me in the face to "save face." So I went in the 1175 N Wilder Ave front door, woke my father to make him aware, and he cussed me out saying there wasn't such a thing - that's how my dad lies - absolute denial. 

The next day when my sister arrived with my father in-tow like a pet, they went through a whole thing. My sister saying "Yeah, like there's black people at my [actually my father's] bedroom window!" as they both laughed and repeated the same shit. What I didn't realize is that they were looking in the basement window that I leave open for the cats to lounge in the sun or hang out in during the night.

Offering to take me to Cancer Care.

He seldom would, but when he did, I'd be stranded there in the blistering sun or freezing winter. To put me on display

I won't go into details how and why, just that when you have a hole in the middle of you and paper towels holding your insides in and a tube coming out of your dick with a bag, you're not very mobile and everything comes apart.