by Dave Pelzer
The three of us snapped our heads at one another in disbelief before waving our arms, signaling for Amy to step aside. We only confused the little girl all the more by flailing our arms in different directions. Sensing imminent danger, Amy wisely sidestepped out of the missile’s path. But Farmer Joe, as if advancing into “target acquisition mode,” adjusted its flight path toward Amy. When Paul, David, and I gestured for Amy to step in the opposite direction, the plastic tractor’s wheels skipped for a moment, before readjusting its trajectory to Amy.
Now I was worried. What Paul and David didn’t know, what I kept to myself as a climactic, dramatic surprise was, before attaching the rocket engine to Farmer Joe, I had deliberately crimped the end of the engine, knowing the engine would explode when it reached its end. In my mind I could imagine sweet little Amy sidestepping back and forth as if she were square-dancing, as the runaway missile maintained its target lock and before detonating, burning Amy’s hair, singeing her clothes, or worse, causing instant decapitation and loss of limbs. In the middle of the street I suddenly dropped to the pavement and covered my head in anticipation of any fallout while chanting, “Jesus, God! Jesus, God! Don’t explode. Don’t explode!” After a few seconds I opened my eyes and removed my hands from the sides of my face, expecting the worst. Beside me, Paul and Howard stood roaring with laughter. After a few squints I could see that Farmer Joe had stopped several feet in front of Amy, in one piece.
“You really thought that Farmer Joe would blow up?” Howard asked.
“Not a doubt in my mind,” I responded. “I got lucky.”
“Man, we did some crazy stuff,” David stated.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “but, I gotta go.”
“But why? Why do you have to leave?”
“You just don’t get it. The deal is, once a foster kid turns eighteen, they ‘age out’—out of the system. I’ll be on my own. So whatever money I’ve saved at that time is all I’ll have when I’m on my own. I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not gonna be homeless or go hungry. No way, not me. I’m gonna do whatever I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Howard shook his head in disagreement. “Dude, chill out! You’re too paranoid. That’s years away.”
I could feel my entire body tense up. “I’m not being paranoid. I just turned fifteen. Do you know what that means? I’ve got less then three years and that ain’t a lot of time. Do you know how much an apartment goes for? It’s anywhere from three to five hundred dollars a month. And, that’s for a run-down, unfurnished studio. I’ve checked it out. They want first and last months’ rent up front. My last job as a busboy, they started me out at $1.65 an hour. At my last burger joint I worked for I thought I was Rockefeller when I got a raise that paid me $2.65. You do the math. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got to get a couple of jobs!”
David playfully punched my arm. “It’s no big deal. You’ll be fine.”
Without intending to, I lashed out at my friend. “It is a big deal! You think I wanna end up like some of the other guys I knew who ‘aged out,’ or… end up like my dad?”
David simply stared at me with an open mouth.
“I’m sorry, man,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to blow a gasket.”
“I understand about aging out; that’s cool. But what’s this about your dad?” David quietly asked.
“My parents,” I began, “well, they drank a lot. They’re, uh, both alcoholics. My mom, well, she’d get hammered and would go off on me. It was pretty bad; that’s why I’m in foster care…”
Howard’s eyes grew wide as he interrupted, “Man, why didn’t you run away or fight back?”
I turned away from David’s piercing stare. “It’s a long story. Anyway, it all started before kindergarten. Back then I thought it was normal to be treated that way. By the time I realized what was going on, I was too scared to do anything. Don’t get me wrong; my dad never did anything to me. At first I thought it was the booze that drove my mom past the edge, and as a kid I used to fantasize that if she got sober, my mom would like just wake up, realize all the crap she did before, and she’d make up to me, and we’d be The Brady Bunch forever. But it just got to the point I had to survive any way I could.”
“Man, that’s some sick shit. But your dad; didn’t you tell me once that he’s a firefighter up north in Frisco? Why didn’t he do anything?”
I let out a deep sigh. The last thing I wanted to do in front of David, another guy, was open up my past and cry like a baby.
“Come on, man, it’s cool, you can tell me.”
“My dad,” I paused, “my dad was a drunk who wasn’t there a lot and really didn’t know what was going on.” As the words spilled out I quickly covered my mouth when I realized I had uttered out loud ‘my dad was a drunk.’ “When I was either nine or ten, he told me he wasn’t going to put up with it much longer. ‘The next time she throws you down the stairs… the next time she starves you… the next time she has you swallow ammonia… I’m not gonna put up with that… the next time…’” I paraphrased in a deep fatherlylike voice.
“Swallowed ammonia!” David shrieked.
I waited a few seconds before nodding my head. “Yeah, twice. The second time was in front of my dad. The thing is, you can’t breathe. It’s that quick!” I said, snapping my fingers. “So, I’m on my knees, trying to force this, this invisible air bubble out so I can breathe, and I remember staring at my father’s shoes. They were black and not a scuff mark on them, just a few inches in front of me. And all he did was stare down at me as if I were some kind of animal. He used to ‘negotiate’ with my mom, but I dunno, over time and all that booze… he never stopped my mom. And neither did I.”
“You swallowed ammonia? No way,” David repeated.
“Promise you won’t say anything to anyone, even to Paul? I don’t want anyone to know,” I said in a soft voice. David gave me a nod. With my eyes darting in both directions to make certain that no one was nearby, I then opened my mouth and exposed my discolored tongue.
Howard leaned forward, inspecting it, before uttering, “Dude, that’s gross.”
“Anyway,” I said, cutting off David and wanting to flee the subject before I totally lost it, I continued, “back in ’73 I had just turned twelve, and a couple weeks into January my mom basically loads my four brothers and me into her beat-up station wagon and takes us to this run-down area in San Fran. She gives my dad this cardboard box with all this stuff. You get it, man? A box—his entire life in a box. I remember trying to breathe in, to suck in his cologne. I think it was Old Spice. I just wanted to… to hang on to… something that was his. And my mom wouldn’t let me look at him. So, as my mom drives off, I turn to steal a glance at my dad and here’s this guy, this guy who rescues kids from burning buildings, and… and, uh… he can’t even save himself. Imagine that’s you standing in the rain, drenched to the bone, watching your world drive away. You think that doesn’t stick with ya?
“When it comes to what happened, sometimes I just don’t know what to make of it. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to lose it, but it passes and I try to keep it together. I know I’m an idiot, but I also know this: I don’t ever want to end up not knowing where my next meal’s coming from.”
Glancing back up at David, I could see a tiny stream run from his eyes. “Why do some people hate so much?”
“I dunno,” I said, shaking my head. “I used to think about my mom and I can’t figure it out. I mean, look at the Middle East. Every time I turn on the news, there’s all this killing. Over there, like across the bridge at the DMZ, they’ve been so pissed off at whatever for so long that after a while they forget why. They just know they hate. Marsh says Iran’s gonna be the next big thing. Those folks over there, they hate the shah.
“I mean, look at Hitler and all the sick shit he did. Do you know how many millions upon millions of people died on both sides of the war, just because of this one guy’s hatred?”
David nodded. “I read in school that he
was abused as a kid…”
I waved my hand in front of my friend. “I don’t buy that. It may have been true, but it’s just an excuse. That doesn’t give him the right to do what he did. I’m not trying to run anyone down, but I can’t tell you, David, how many foster kids I been with or these tough guys I see in Juve’e Hall who use whatever happened to them as an excuse for anything they’ve done, or how they think they can, like, milk it for the rest of their lives. Just because of some shit from their past. It’s like if they hate so much, maybe they figure no one will ever hurt them again. But like I said, I think they hate so hard for so long that they forget what made them that way. I don’t know how I feel about what all my mom did to me. I just know I don’t want to end up like her or my dad. That’s why I gotta maintain my focus. I gotta go. You get it now, man?”
David bowed his head before nodding in agreement. “Maybe you could live here with me. We could, like, share my room. Think of it. It’d be so cool. We could be like brothers.”
Without thinking, I took David’s hand. “Thanks, I really appreciate it. But if I stay here, I know what’s gonna happen. I’m just going to goof off until one day I wake up and bam: I’m eighteen and out on my own without a stake. I’ve gotta move on and grow up—hunker down, keep that nose to the grindstone, and apply a little elbow grease!—I said, imitating The Sarge during one of his endless “take on some responsibility” sermons.
“Come on, David, cheer up! It’s not like I’m not ever going to see you guys again. Mike and his wife, Sandy, said I could crash at their place on the weekends. Me leaving doesn’t change a thing. We’re still brothers!”
David smiled back. “Brothers,” he announced.
Trying to break the tension, I added, “I look at it this way: Living here, getting to know you and Paul, and all the stuff we did together was the time of my life. It was like, like, Disneyland for incorrigibles.”
David and I then walked around the block after stopping at Paul’s and trying to pry him out of his room. After much pleading from David and me, Paul decided to remain inside, so my friend and I took one last stroll together for the last time.
The next Saturday Mr. Turnbough—my former and now final foster father—helped me load my belongings into his ancient grayish-blue and white Chevrolet pickup truck. Before driving away, my two friends and I tried to play it cool and act as if my departure was no big deal, until David leaned over to give me a quick hug, while Paul perched on his minibike, acknowledged me with a nod. As I closed the door to Mr. Turnbough’s truck, my eyes caught sight of Dan, who had momentarily stepped out from his lair, giving me a mock salute with one of his gleaming wrenches.
As I motored away, my fingers tapped on a set of books The Sarge had given me, along with his stern encouragement to “keep the faith” and “persevere at all cost.” Leaning back on the worn bench seat, my mind flashed back to the endless stream of adventures I had had in the last four months since moving to Duinsmoore Way. For me, it was never pushing our misguided shenanigans to the limits, but the constant exploration of an everyday world that I cherished in amazement. Paul, David, and I knew that at any moment of any day something wonderful, something magical, could suddenly happen, and the three of us would take part in it. And, for the first time, I didn’t overanalyze. I didn’t hold back or instantly retreat deep within my inner shell. For years, feeling inferior about myself also provided the perfect cocoon. I did it all and relished every moment. To me, Duinsmoore Way was Disneyland… and I couldn’t wait to return to the “Happiest Place on Earth.”
7. Girl World
Within weeks of moving back in with the Turnbough family, I fell into my pre-Duinsmoore routine of barely applying myself at high school, while my sole intention was to obtain any and all menial jobs I could find. More than ever my mind-set was that school was a place that stole precious time away from me trying to earn a living. I strongly believed that history, science, English, and especially learning fractions in math had no practical applications in the “real world.” Over the months, the drive to apply myself declined to the point where, after scanning through what project lay on my school desk, I’d daydream of Duinsmoore and cover my head, and pass out from exhaustion from working yet another lengthy shift at the local plastics factory.
As the months passed into different seasons, I became more robotic than before. I would shave any second possible by checking my weekly work calendar pinned to my bedroom wall, frantically peeling off my school clothes and scurrying off to work. Yet, twice a month, no matter how much grime stuck to my tattered work clothes, face, or matted hair, I’d proudly march into the bank, carefully unfold my crumpled check, and empty my pockets of any loose change I had received from any of my odd jobs. I would then triumphantly stroll out with my head held high, calculating my worldly savings with a seven percent interest rate.
After work when I walked home at night, I’d stroll through the streets seeing the rusted-out cars resting on worn cinder blocks and homes where the only activity came from blaring television sets. During the day, while some neighborhoods had a few kids riding bikes or playing outside, none had a sense of community. I’d sometimes deviate from my direct route and search for that one street or even part of a neighborhood that formed my idea of a happy neighborhood. While some were well groomed and others seemed to have a sense of togetherness, I felt that nothing came close to the magic of Duinsmoore Way.
On a rare weekend off, I easily convinced the Turnboughs before pestering Mike and Sandy Marsh to allow me to stay with their family for a few days. After catching a shuttle bus to the nearby airport, I caught a ride with The Sarge as he drove home from work while he rattled off diatribes—the plight of the working man, greedy corporate management, taxation without proper representation, and scandalous, no-good, no-sense, scum-sucking politicians or third world countries running amok. After Mike blew off some steam, I realized that when it was just the two of us, he acted more like a concerned uncle than a performing comedian. As he piloted his red Toyota SR-5 hatchback into Duinsmoore, I felt like an excited puppy with my nose plastered against the window. Before Mike could apply his parking brake, I had disappeared from his sight, running into the middle of the street to find David. He saw me immediately and ran over to give me a quick hug.
We wasted no time with the small talk. With wide, smiling eyes David asked after our embrace, “What ya got planned?”
“I dunno,” I said with glee, “I just got here. But we’ve got to do something! Let’s get Paul!” While David and I strolled on the new redbrick walkway that Dan laid leading to their house, we both jabbered away interrupting each other. After rapping on the screen door, Paul answered, acting as if we had just woke him from a nap. “Hey!” I exclaimed, “I’m here for the weekend! Let’s go do something!”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m kinda busy,” Paul said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Doin’ what?” David countered.
“You know… stuff,” Paul mumbled.
“Come on!” I said, nearly jumping out of my skin from enthusiasm. “I haven’t seen you in months! We’ll go to the park, we’ll goof around. Come on, let’s hang.”
Seconds slipped away, then Paul said, “Well,” while rubbing the back of his neck, “when you guys know what you’re gonna do, come over and get me.”
Without meaning to, I let out a sarcastic sigh in front of Paul before turning away. After a few paces I asked, “Man, what the hell’s up with Paul?”
“Dude,” David said as he gave me a pat on the back, “that’s Paul. Sometimes he gets withdrawn and I won’t see him for weeks. Forget him. Let’s take a walk.” The next half hour David and I could barely shuffle our feet forward as I was absorbing every scent and capturing any slight nuances of the neighborhood. Finishing the walk, David and I stopped in front of Mr. Brazell’s garage, which was already filled with the usual group. Feeling unsure I cautiously hovered outside until Dan spotted me, and he walked over, smiling. “Hellooow, David.”<
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After shaking hands, I stood with David by Dan’s workbench, taking in the scene. Nothing seemed to change. The Sarge regaled us with tall tales while clutching his beer, the street was littered with laughing children, and the entire block maintained its immaculate crispness.
As the months passed, I savored my weekend visits, bunking at either the Marshes’, David’s, or Paul’s house. One weekend while staying at David’s, he and I spent the majority of the day listening to his Captain and Tennille record. After hearing the record for the umpteenth time I jokingly stated, “Man, this is worse than… what was the name of that song… ‘Wild Fire’? What the hell is ‘Muskrat Love’ anyway? I tell ya, Tennille, she’s a fox, but I don’t see how love’s gonna keep them together.”
“Dude,” David whimpered in a fake cry, “I’m a sensitive guy. How can you say that? You know I love Tennille.”
“Why can’t they call it ‘Foxy Love’? Check it out: A hunk, a hunka foxy love. A hunka, hunka foxy love,” I crooned, imitating Elvis Presley and ending with, “Thank ya, thank ya vary much. Momma, momma, I’s ready for another deep-fried peanut butter sandwich. ’Cilla, Priscilla. Woman, where the hell you at? Daddy needs a foot rub.”
“You like Elvis?” David gasped. “He is sooo uncool.”
“Man,” I said shaking my head in mock disgust, “I thought you said you was a sensitive guy? The King’s okay. My foster sister, Nancy, goes gaga over this guy. Every time he’s on TV and wiggles his hips or legs, it’s like she’s gonna faint. What’s up with that? I don’t see anyone fainting over the Captain. Tennille, now she’s a fox, but the Captain, he has so got to go!”
“Agreed,” David huffed. “But if you want to know why girls go crazy for guys like Elvis, you have got to check this out,” David said before leaping up from his bed to ensure his door was closed and locked. Then, to not set off the “Parent Detector,” he tiptoed back to the bed, lifted up a corner of his mattress, and pulled out a thin worn book.