9.5.01

So how was your long weekend? Chances are you drank some beers, ate some wonderful meat charred on the grill (or tofu for you veggiesaurus’ out there), probably got together with friends and/or family, probably had a good ending to the summer that flew by way too quickly.

I had a pretty good time myself. Saw quite a few movies, ate some steak charred on the grill, threw back some brewskies…oh, and I might have experienced a life-changing event. Sounds about like your weekend, huh?

So there I was Sunday afternoon, had just finished those steaks I was talking about when I decided that I had better take advantage of one of the last weekends of the summer. Went out to my car, ran by the QT (QuikTrip - for all your Northeners, that’s like an Amoco), got gas and a Big Slam Mountain Dew and just decided to take a drive, do a little spelunking.

As I’m heading north out of town on Rte. 79, a wholly unfamiliar road to me, I see a sign that says Hannibal is a little ways up on this road. For those of you unfamiliar, that’s where Sam Clemens (AKA Mark Twain) was born, raised, and wrote about in his books, that unless you’re part of a very elite grouping you’ve probably never heard of, called The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, among other, more obscure pieces. So, being part of this elite stature of folk, I thought this might be an interesting place to visit. Needless to say I soon discovered that Hannibal had worn out its usefulness after birthing Twain.

However, as is so often the case in life, it was the journey and not the destination that mattered – and what a journey it was. Rolling hills, huge tracts of land (not those kind – Nee!) with luscious forests of towering trees, the occasional beautiful view as you’re driving down a hill, wonderful winding roads that go up, down, and round and round, and there were more cars on the road in Mad Max than there were on this day – perfect for a whimsical Sunday drive. (Did I just say “whimsical”?)

As I was driving up 79, through small towns such as Elsberry, Foley, and, oh, hey, there’s Pittsfield, IL. Pittsfield, IL!!? My heart skipped a beat when I saw this on the road sign. Why would I lose it over a small town in Illinois that no one’s ever heard of? Because, ladies and gentlemen, that town has some special, unknown-to-most meaning to me – that town might be the key to why I have green eyes, why I’m 5’8” with my boots on, and why my beard is red.

Ya see, I’m adopted; have known this virtually since I was aware and have always been curious, but never let it rule my life. As you have read in my past entries, my parents did a pretty good job raising me, so I sure as hell can’t blame who I am on them and for that I thank them. But that doesn’t explain anything to me, if you know what I mean. Look at your family pictures and you say “I have my Mom’s eyes, my Grandma’s nose, my Uncle’s hairy back, and my no-good-Father’s inability to show affection.” Well, I can’t say that. I have no clue why I am the way I am physically, most scary of all is I have no idea what diseases I’m genetically prone to. Although these things don’t make you who you are as a person, you don’t understand their importance until you don’t have any way of knowing them. That’s the position I’m in.

Back to Pittsfield. When I was, hmmm…19, I’d guess, my parents took me along to pick up their new car from a dealer in Clinton, IL. As we’re waiting for the dealer to put gas in it, vacuum it out one more time, and probably roll back the odometer, we went to Dairy Queen for a celebratory Blizzard (M& M for me, of course). It was then that somehow my adoption came up and then my parents dropped a bomb on me – they knew my birth parents’ names.

The mother’s name was Marla Suppes (Supez) and the father’s name, which was somewhat of a mystery – it couldn’t be confirmed if he was the father or if she had simply used his name because she didn’t know who the father was – but the name was George Zebrun (pronoucned like zebra).

Being the internet guru that I am, I looked for them on the web. Marla Suppes was nowhere to be found – probably married and changed her name. George Zebrun, on the other hand, was located in…Pittsfield, IL. I had had this information known to me since 1995, had thought many times about acting on it, but never actually did anything about it.

Then, this fateful day, when I had randomly decided to go to the birthplace of Huck Finn, I had run into the town he was living in…or so I thought. I found myself pulling into Pittsfield, looked him up in a phone book from an Amoco, and used a payphone, as well as every ounce of my manhood I had left, to call him.

I didn’t just come right out and say “Hey, Dad”; I went with the idea that I was looking for a relative named Marla Suppes and had seen his name in my research while looking for her. Well, the guy on the other end had no idea who I was talking about when I asked about Marla, so at first my spirits were downtrodden. Then he said, “I wonder if you’re looking for my son, George?” Gulp! George, Jr! Moments later I had George Jr.’s name, address and phone number in Alto Pass – some podunk town in southern Illinois I’d never heard of. With that I thought to myself, “Well, I was close”, and was going to let this whole thing go. By the time I had gotten back to O’Fallon, I just couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by.

I sat nervously in my office chair at work and dialed the number.

When he answered he thought I was his friend, Ron, so this helped break the ice a little bit with some confusing chatter. By the time we had gotten things straightened out I started in with my “I’m looking for a relative of mine” spiel and he seemed intrigued. He did know Marla Suppes, in fact, this being his 50th birthday, he was looking through some old photo albums and saw a picture of her and thought to himself that he should try to contact her. Woah, did he say it was his 50th birthday? Oh shit.

Well, it was then that I began explaining why I was looking for Marla, that I was adopted from a hospital in Peotone, IL and my parents had discovered that her name was on my birth certificate as the mother…and the name for the father was George Zebrun.

I had panicked. I had thought about what I was going to say all the way home and had come to the realization that there was just no way I could tell this guy who I was, and who he might be to me, gently; it’s just one of those things you have to come right out and say. Needless to say the pause was quite substantial. Great, I’ve given this poor guy a heart attack on his 50th birthday.

When he came back on, he simply said “Oh. Oh my God.” I replied with a hearty, “Yeah, I know.”

I went on to explain to him that this name might have been supplied by Marla because she was unsure of who the father was, that he might not be the guy, that what I was really trying to do was to find her and try to figure out just what the hell was going on – and now that he had a stake in finding out the truth, too, I figured he could help.

I told him my story, he told me his. He came home from Vietnam in 1973, started dating Marla in Fall of ’74, broke up in late Summer of ‘74 and hasn’t seen her since. Well, I was born in February of 1975, so it sounds like she might have been pregnant, they broke up, it was bitter, she didn’t want to tell him she was having his baby, and just gave it up for adoption when the time came. It all seems to make pretty good sense. However, it only takes one night, so he might not be the guy after all – who knows? Only Marla Suppes knows.

He is now, as you know, 50 years old, married, has an 8-year old son (possibly my half brother), and is a merchant marine. Luckily, a friend of his from that same era of his life had tracked him down through the internet not six months earlier, and was still living up in the Peotone area, so he is calling this friend to see what he can find out about the present location of Marla Suppes.

He took my name, address, phone number and said he’d call me back in a few days to let me know if he’d found anything out and we hung up, both our hearts beating, I’m sure.

What does all this mean to me? Well, it means a lot, but at the same time it doesn’t mean a thing. I want to know what my family heritage is, why I have a red beard, green eyes, am short, all that stuff, but it won’t really change who I am. I’m still the wonderful son that Steve and Barb picked up from the Montgomery Ward’s parking lot in March of 1975 (the adoption agency wanted to make sure the mother wouldn’t try to come and get me back, so a neutral location was chosen. My sister thought they actually got me at Montgomery Ward’s – I’d say it was more like the Target value bin)

Even if I find out that George Zebrun is the second cousin of Rob Schneider, that the Suppes family runs the largest cocaine smuggling syndicate in North America - these things won’t make me a better person, make me like lima beans, nor will I suddenly be able to sit through Deuce Bigalow:Male Gigalo. It just means I’ll have the answers to all those questions I’ve been asking myself all my life – the answers that the rest of you have known all your life.

Thanks to all those who are visiting for the first time or haven’t been here in a long time. Yes, I realize this isn’t an especially intimate way to tell you all, but please forgive me for not wanting to type this whole thing out in somewhere around 30 AOL Instant Messenger windows (Damn 1024 character limit!) to each of you. Either way, I’m glad you came and took the time to learn about this huge event in my life. I’ll be keeping you updated here on Space Monkey X, so keep checking back periodically and you’ll see if I have some new news (Updates are guaranteed done by Thursday at noon every week).

Thanks again and please come back when the time allows.

Space Monkey X