by Dave Pelzer
“But how do you know? My parents go at it once in a while when my dad’s had too much to drink, so what’s the deal?” I bowed my head down and away, refusing to answer. After a few seconds of silence David softly probed, “Do you know where you’ll go? How many foster homes will this be?”
I stopped to count on my fingers all the different placements. “This will be my sixth family I’ve lived with… And one home, the Turnboughs, I’ve lived in about three… no, make that four times. I’m hoping they’ll take me in. If not, I’ll end up in—”
“Juvenile Hall at Hillcrest?” David asked, knowing the answer. “But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just the way it is.” I nodded. “It’s happened before. I was with this one family and, well, they split up. Another time…” I paused. “Sometimes it just sucks. It’s like as soon as I get used to things and maybe… maybe feel like I can fit in…” I felt my frustration beginning to build and didn’t want to get too much into my past in front of my friend. “The bottom line is I gotta go. I don’t wanna, but I’ve got to move on.”
“So,” David sighed, “have you told Paul?”
I told him I had. “Sometimes talking to him is like trying to have a conversation with a rock. I can’t read him. I don’t know if he means to, but it’s like he just doesn’t care sometimes. When I said I was leaving he just nodded and looked right through me. Maybe he thinks I’m fooling around; I don’t know. At least with you I know you’re concerned. It’s not like I’ve had a lot of close ties.” I stopped to catch my breath before looking into David’s eyes. “Can I tell you something? I don’t know how to read people. I have no idea what they mean when they look at me or say something. Like at school, when they’re teasing me, I don’t know if they’re goofing around or really trying to tear me up. At times I feel like such a doofus. I don’t know who to trust. A few years ago, I kept to myself… I was by myself a lot. That’s why sometimes with Paul, I can’t figure it out. The only time I ever see him smile is when we’re screwing around. Just so long as he doesn’t get his minibike scratched…”
“Or he doesn’t get hurt,” David added.
“Or take the blame when we get busted,” I added. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to run him down. I know I’m the screwball out of the bunch, and I know his parents crack down on him, but it’s like he thinks he lives in a World War II Nazi prison camp. I just don’t think Dan or his mom treats him all that bad. So what’s the deal?”
“Yeah, man,” David chimed, “I see the same thing. Paul just thinks everybody’s on his case. He oughta deal with my dad…”
“Or my mom!” I cut in. “Again, I’m not running Paul down and I’d die for him in a heartbeat, but I’ve been through some serious and I mean serious shit with my own family and lived with enough foster families to know what’s going on. I just don’t think Paul knows how good he has it.”
“Paul can be a bit whiny and self-absorbed…” David continued. “Like, remember that time, at the park, when you tried to light a fire at the barbecue pit?”
I nodded while my brain replayed the time when we were off from school during Christmas break. The three of us, as soon as we woke up, would head out to nearby Flood Park. While Paul and I raced each other on our minibikes on the narrow, paved sidewalk, David trailed behind on his bicycle until we met at our “super secret hideout,” which amounted to a few scraggly bushes shielding a fire pit and a wooden picnic table and bench. This was our fortress of solitude. The three of us spent the morning hours as if we were grown-ups in Dan’s garage standing by the lit barbecue pit rubbing our hands to keep us warm.
One cold dreary morning at the fortress, after David and I scoured the area for any dry twigs and leaves we could find, I sprayed them in the fire pit with a fair amount of lighter fluid from a can I had snatched from Mr. Welsh’s garage. I was more afraid of the lit match going out that I held with the tips of my fingers than I was getting burned from a possible sudden fireball from the small puddle of lighter fluid. I carefully placed the match at the end of one of the small twigs. To my surprise a small flame ignited but, before it could catch, a chilling breeze blew it out. “Not enough fluid,” Paul advised, shaking his head while sitting on his minibike. “More,” David followed, “definitely more.”
After three more attempts that ended with the same results and nearly depleting the entire can of lighter fluid, my frustration took hold as the chants from Paul and David went on nonstop. Trying to be witty, I bent over the fire pit with my last lit match and bellowed, “Here in my humble hand, I possess the eternal flame. A flame that will unite all of mankind. I propose that before the end of this decade all of mankind will become united. As a country we do these things; we do things not because they are easy but because they are hard,” I stated as if I were President Kennedy making a monumental address. Before I could sing out a second verse, both friends yelled that my perpetual fire that would consolidate the masses of the world was about to fizzle out. Acting presidential, I quickly seized the can and squeezed its remainder into the dying fire. As I turned to Paul and David while my mind hummed “Hail to the Chief,” I failed to notice a sudden blackish-orange flame that shot up in the air and nearly burned the side of my head. Nor was I concerned about the loud echoing “whoosh” noise that reverberated around me, for President Dave did things not because they were easy but because he was obtuse. As I continued to squeeze the last remaining droplets of fluid, a warm sensation ran from my right wrist all the way up the length of my arm. When I twirled around I saw to my horror a small stream of fire from the inferno fire pit arc in midair, until it reached not only the spout of the can but somehow my right arm as well. As Paul and David broke out in laughter, I nervously squeezed the can, only to feed the flame all the more. Thinking the can would instantly explode, taking me with it, my frantic mind telegraphed to my hand to let go of the can. Letting out a sound as if I were Curly of The Three Stooges in a prank that went awry, I flung the lit can up and over my right shoulder. A moment later, David used a handful of dirt he had scraped from the ground to put out my burning shirt. Before my heart could slow down, Paul suddenly let out a high-pitched yell. Thinking the worst, David and I turned to see a small stream of fire that licked the sides of Paul’s minibike. In a flash Paul leaped up to the top of the wooden bench, grabbing my jacket and using it to beat away the flame. Within a few seconds, Paul’s valiant effort saved his prized machine. “Damn, that was close,” Paul huffed.
“Yeah,” David agreed while he and I both stared at the burnt trail on my long-sleeved shirt, “that was a close one.”
Replaying the story months later with David, it now seemed far more comical than before. “Man,” David howled, “I’ve never seen Paul move so fast. ‘My bike, my bike! Help me! Help me!’”
“Whoa! Whoa there, horsey! Talk about coming to my aid, what about you?” I asked jokingly. “What about the other time in the park? Remember?” I winked at David as I began reminding him of another “incident” at our favorite park.
That same winter, on the Sunday after Christmas, Paul, David, and I merrily strolled back to Duinsmoore after attempting to play with one of my presents: a gas-powered tethered airplane—which one had to constantly spin in a circle as the plane flew above the person, producing a high-pitched sound that made one’s ears bleed until the person either collapsed from dizziness or an aneurysm. I lasted three revolutions. Afterward, as we left the small baseball field, I cradled my other Christmas gift, my ultimate prize: a brand-new, no-frills tiny boom box, a combination AM/FM radio with cassette player, which I used to play my collection of Elton John tapes at all hours.
Regaining our hearing, David suggested we tinker with the airplane’s fuel mixture, thinking the toy would fly higher and faster, and thus would be far easier to control as well as make less noise. While Paul rolled his eyes, Howard added, “What would happen if we revved up the plane, took off the string, and let it go?”
; Suddenly Paul and I both stopped in our tracks. For a moment all I could do was stare at David. “With my luck, it would probably fly right into someone’s head and shred them to death.” For a moment I could see my cute little red airplane dive-bomb itself at Mrs. Brazell, or worse: straight into Amy’s mother, Mrs. Neyland, right into her beehive hairdo.
“Come on,” David urged trying to gain momentum. “We could launch it on the street from the house, like… like an aircraft carrier. Fly it up, let go of the string, and see what happens. It would be so cool! Come on, think of it, guys. The plane’s buzzing down Duinsmoore, it spots Marsh’s house, and does a kamikaze! Can you imagine The Sarge running out with his helmet on, yelling, ‘Take cover! Incoming!’? He would so freak out!”
Loosening up, Paul joined in the twisted fantasy. “We could use our bikes and follow it like chase planes; like they do at NASA’s test ranges. Alpha, Whiskey, Tango, Delta. I have a visual. I have a visual.”
“Yeah, we could watch it crash! Uh oh, I can’t hold it! I can’t hold on! It’s breaking up, it’s breaking up!… But wait! We could rebuild it. We have the technology!” Paul salivated.
“I so cannot believe you’re an altar boy. You, you heathen, devil child!” I scolded as if I were both Paul’s and David’s mothers. “Where did I go wrong?” I batted my eyes as if I were crying. “But officer, they were such good boys, quiet boys, practically angels, salt of the earth, the both of them. What’s a mother to do?”
“Get a face-lift!” David shouted.
“Nose job!” Paul added.
“Boob job!” David screeched in perfect timing.
“Oh, what nasty, nasty boys!” I whimpered in a motherly voice before again thinking of my tiny red airplane screaming down the middle of Duinsmoore, while hundreds of folks scrambled in every direction. Although it had a twisted appeal, I told both friends that I’d have to think about it for a while. Besides, I informed them, the toy was a gift from my favorite foster mother, Mrs. Turnbough.
“Momma’s boy! Momma’s boy!” they both chanted at the top of their lungs, as we rounded a sharp corner and spotted a gang of older, tough-looking boys who were laughing as they passed around a funny-looking cigarette to each other. Thinking they failed to see us, and me having the experience of getting creamed at school for so long, I felt I knew how to get out of this. “Whatever you do,” I whispered, “don’t look at them. Walk backward and don’t, I repeat, don’t make a sound.”
The three of us carefully retraced our steps with our heads bent down. After a few strides I thought that we might just escape, until the heel of my left foot snapped the only dry twig in the entire park. One of the boys who exhaled a cloud of smoke jerked his head up, locking onto my sweaty face. As if stalking their prey, the group of boys slowly formed a close circle around me. As I turned to look behind me, I could see Paul and David were magically outside the perimeter of danger. Before I could fire off for my two friends to come and help defend me, the tallest boy snarled, “Ay, that’s one fine ‘box’ you got there.”
Suddenly feeling less apprehensive, I smiled, “Why thank you, sir. I’m sure you could get one at Kmart or any other fine department store.”
“Could get one now.” The boy smiled back before taking another drag. “Now, give me that tune box. Give it up!” he ordered, taking a dramatic step forward.
As the bully approached me I took a step backward, bumping into one of his friends, who shoved me back toward their leader. Still thinking I could reason with the bully, whom I now realized had bulging arms, I thrust my red airplane into his face. “Here, take this! It’s motorized! It flies and provides hours of endless entertainment!”
A second later I felt a pythonlike grip squeezing my neck. “I’ve seen you at school. I know who you are. Give it up, man, and walk away. Just walk away.” The more I tightened my grip around the handle of my radio that contained my favorite Elton John tape, the more the bully seemed to coil his arm. As I began to feel lightheaded, I thought for sure that Paul and David would jump in any second and rescue me from certain death. A few seconds later I woke up on the ground to see the leader of the gang thrust my radio high into the air. I stood up, marched up to him, and pleaded with him to give me back my radio. “Your radio?” the bully chanted before tossing it over my head to another boy, then to another and another. As I tried to leap up and snatch back my boom box, a stinging blow hit the side of my head. “Just don’t listen, do ya?” the leader hissed.
“But it’s my radio. Not yours, but mine!” I yelled back as I closed my hands into a pair of fists.
“Don’t matter none. And now I gots to take you down. Gots to teach you a lesson,” he said while extending his arms and curling his fingers and looking exactly like the kung fu legend Bruce Lee.
I flashed “Bruce Lee” a nervous smile before uttering “Oh, shit!” He then bowed his head slightly, gave me a sly smile in return, twisted at the hips as if about to turn away before his right leg sprang up and his foot struck me in the middle of my face. A second later I could feel my head jerk backward as my glasses flew through the air. The moment my body fell back on the dirt, the gang of boys took turns kicking me from all sides. Learning from the endless stompings at school, I developed a technique of defending myself—absorb any blows by curling up into a ball, while praying no one would step on my glasses.
But that was my radio. I knew it was a cheap, no-name-brand boom box whose batteries barely lasted an hour and whose cassette device always seemed to drag my tapes until I hauled off and smacked the radio on its side. When it came to dealing with others my age, as always I knew I didn’t fit in at school. But big deal, I had told myself some time ago that half of what I saw at high school was idiotic social posturing. Getting my legs kicked out from behind me, forcing me to drop to my knees and scramble around to find my books was an elementary school prank. At Menlo-Atherton High School, the first time someone came from behind me and went through my pockets while I was standing up going to the bathroom was the last time I allowed myself to be that vulnerable. I could not prevent what others thought about me or how they treated me. On the outside I appeared to be a gullible, easy mark, but what others failed to recognize was that beyond the depths of my skin was a deep well of motivational reserve. I came to believe that if I could survive living with my mother and all that went with it, then I could probably overcome whatever life threw my way.
So I yelled at myself to get up. Then without thinking of the repercussions, I snuck over to the bully, somehow snatched back my radio, then took off so fast that I thought I was running on air.
When I reached the parking lot, to my surprise John Welsh’s golden Chrysler Fury bounced high into the air as he drove over the speed bumps in triple-digit haste. It took another full second for me to discover David Howard sitting beside Mr. Welsh and grinning from ear to ear.
“Man,” David huffed while shaking his head, “I almost forgot about that day. I thought for sure those guys were gonna kill you. You had bruises on your head for a week, remember?”
“Remember? What about that oath of brotherhood we took in Dan’s garage? Like, when one of us is in trouble the others will help out?” I jokingly asked David.
“Man, don’t look at me. Paul said that, not me. But I gotta tell ya, when those dudes were beating you up, I asked Paul if he wanted to jump in, and he says, and I’m not kidding, he says, ‘Nah, Pelz is doing just fine.’ Paul just chickened out. But hey, at least we ran home and got the cavalry!”
“That was very much appreciated,” I said before thinking how John Welsh, Howard, and I then crossed over the bridge that led to what we dubbed “The DMZ,” as we searched for the gang who jumped me. When my foster father spotted a group of older boys standing around a porch, he skidded the car to a stop and jumped out carrying an axe handle, while I hovered beside him, trying to act tough even though I was so close to relieving myself.
“And if memory serves,” I again chided my friend, “you opened the car door
brandishing a pair of… what? John’s drumsticks?… before slamming the door shut and locking yourself inside?”
“I got a pretty face,” David smiled before changing the subject, saving himself from certain ridicule. “Hey!” Howard almost yelled, “How ’bout that time, what was it… last week, when we launched that rocket engine?”
“I thought for sure Mr. Neyland would find me and kick my behind,” I stated with fear as I recalled another playful diversion that had gone completely awry. At the end of a lazy weekend, as I cleaned out a box of old toys, I came across an abandoned model rocket engine. I casually showed it to Paul, the whiz kid of the group, and David, and together, the three of us thought it would be interesting to see what would happen if we taped the cigar-shaped engine to a lightweight four-wheeled toy. Would the thrust of the monstrous motor make the toy lurch into the air and fly away? Or would it simply stand still and do nothing? Or just maybe it would rocket down the street so fast that it would break the sound barrier, creating a Star Trek-like “worm hole,” sucking the three of us into another dimension? After digging through another box of my baby foster brother’s unwanted toys, I found a small plastic yellow tractor with a man proudly perched in the driver’s seat. We immediately called the toy “Farmer Joe.” When David assured me that the length of the street was clear, I carefully leaned over to light the engine, thinking of what happened to my arm the last time I held a match in my hand. When the makeshift fuse was lit I proudly yelled out, “Fire in the hole!” a split second before a small, dark, orange-yellow flame spewed from the back of the toy tractor. As Farmer Joe sped away at Mach-like speed, something near the end of the block suddenly jumped out into the middle of the street. Through a cloud of brown smoke from Joe’s exhaust, I could see the object itself was none other than the Shirley Temple of Duinsmoore Way, little Amy Neyland. And, as if a possessed heat-seeking missile, Farmer Joe headed directly toward its target.