The Troll Toll

"Always Sunny,"  on Showtime is a program my kids just love. One particular favorite is "Got to pay the Troll Toll." They can watch it over and over again and laugh just as hard each time, and I must confess when I see that one.... I do too.  Last night when I couldn't sleep, ( it seems 4-ish in the morn is the witching hour for me lately),  I meandered out to the living room. A peanut butter eating boy was lounging on the couch, with a coffee clenched amigo (my husband) to his left. This looks like a party, hmmm...

The fellows soon were ready to pass out and stumbled back to bed by five.... lightweights. My mind was racing, and I hadn't even had any coffee and that peanut butter and jelly was looking pretty darned good.
I wasn't going to let Ray off that easy as his eyes drooped further into coma like state. That is when I am the most revved up. Isn't that what bed time is for?  I could solve all the world's problems at about 2 in the morning.

Somehow by the time I decided I might get some sleep,  I knew I would write this story about paying The Troll Toll. That seemed to appease my brain for a few hours. It wouldn't even matter if I explained the story of the meaning of The Troll Toll on TV.... real life will make so much more sense. I have paid that toll for so long, as I think many people have in every day life. The one that both makes me laugh and is sad at the same time.... My Father.

He would be the Temple City Troll Toll at the window. The kitchen is located in the front of the house, facing the street. This is and has been my father's domain for as long as I can remember. He has always been an early riser ( I mean 2 or 3 am, gets that radio cranked up, coffee pot going, and welcome to his world. With some people in life, you step into their orchestrated piece of reality, very carefully constructed  to the letter, this is his. Nothing changes. I think that is why I have probably changed so much in my life.... from nothing ever changing. It is not that I don't appreciate tradition, I absolutely do. I love it and am very traditional in so many ways. But a life built on fear, stagnation, rules.... I have never been able to breathe in an environment like that, and consequently left at the tender age of 16.

Part of The Troll Toll's job that is critical it would appear... is being the Gatekeeper.
The curtain in the kitchen, when The Gatekeeper  has clocked in at his post, is cracked opened at just enough of a rakish an angle that only the most discerning eye ( translating into one paranoid mo' fo' who has grown up with such behavior) knows.  The Gatekeeper is watching, waiting, lurking. This keeps people such as myself  very trained and observant when coming in contact with other Troll Tollers/ Gatekeepers.
Over the past couple of weeks I found myself toe-to-toe with such magnificent specimens to their craft.
My reaction, once my head blows up inside and goes off like The 4th of July,.... I want to flee.
The trapped feeling I get, I cannot explain. I have always felt like a wild mustang that needs to roam freely in the meadows. When the Troll Tollers/ Gate Keepers appear... I know they want to put me in a cage- harness me,  I cannot breathe, think, .... I am a roamer by nature.
We all have encountered Troll Tollers in our lives, just waiting under  the bridge to have us pay some toll they believe we owe.  Our freedom, our joy, our love...any light that shines brightly, that they interpret makes  their space darker.
Why? I believe because sitting under that bridge so long, keeping score of all the people going over the bridge, not living, has kept the Troll Toller empty. Empty hearted, empty life, empty spirit.
Their ultimate goal is to rob the unwitting person who is simply living, loving, breathing in, enjoying life as they cross the bridge, somehow making the Troll feel invisible and powerless.

I say this.... as we cross any bridge, let's stomp! Sing, dance... be our most joyous selves.
The Troll Toller only gets the power from what we give it. It's looking cuter by the second the smaller it becomes.