A Teenager's Journey

by Richard B. Pelzer

  Many nights I spent sitting with a few friends, from well after midnight to dawn, smoking joints and drinking bourbon at that simple homemade campsite. As I took on more and more paper routes I spent more and more time in the woods behind the apartment complex near the end of Crestline Avenue. At first it was almost every night. I was saddened when fewer and fewer friends were able to spend the entire night out. Before we left Daly City I was spending most nights in the woods at “Camp Paper,” and that’s when I realized that my preference was for drinking alone. More times than not I was alone in the woods. Just me and Jim Beam, my new best friend, and my small campfire; although he didn’t share anything of any value with me, my new best friend gave me more comfort than even Josh used to do. (Josh lived across the street, and had been my best friend since elementary school.)

  Sad as it is to admit, being alone in the woods with a small fire to keep me warm, plus whatever it was that Jim Beam put in those dark square bottles, kept me together, mentally and emotionally. By now I was making nearly three hundred dollars a week not delivering newspapers. Almost all of it went up in smoke, up my nose, or down my throat.

  Whenever Mom drove me and my brother Scott down to the Crocker National Bank near Serramonte shopping center I’d shake my head in disbelief. My brother would cash one or two checks while I would be cashing over a dozen. Mom never said a word—she never asked nor did she even care. She had no idea I was not delivering on all those routes. She assumed I was slow at delivering the one or two she knew of. And most of the time she never cared, either, that I was out of the house nearly all night most of the school week.

  The only time she would have a word to say about it was when I was still asleep when the truck honked after dropping off another load in the driveway; then she would yell for me to get out of bed and deliver those papers.

  As I reached into the sugar bowl I knew there wouldn’t be much left. I had been using the money on booze and drugs almost as fast as I wasn’t earning it.

  Finding just slightly more than I needed for the gun was a relief.

  As I stuffed the bills in my pocket, I looked down the hallway to Mom’s room and smiled.

  I’m going to beat you at your own game, I told her silently.

  I turned around and walked out the front door. The normal walk to my old elementary school took about forty-five minutes. This time I wasn’t going there, but to a friend’s house just past the school yard. I didn’t have many friends—I only knew a couple of boys about my age who didn’t make fun of me or treat me poorly. They simply accepted me.

  Jonathan was just such a friend. In the classroom, where other kids would tease me about the way I looked or smelled or about the clothes I had on, Jonathan would somehow make me feel better. He was smaller than I was and was picked on for different reasons. Together we sort of kept each other’s spirits up.

  He was one of the few people I had confided in other than my best friend Josh. He knew about Mom, how she beat me and how she constantly made me feel less than human. Jonathan couldn’t truly know how bad it was, yet he understood. Our conversations were short and usually started with him asking what had been happening to me, especially if I looked more tired than usual.

  He had offered to sell me a gun if I ever wanted to stop Mom. At the time I thought about it, but I’d never had the guts to seriously consider actually killing anyone—until now.

  As I walked the same streets that led me both to school and toward Jonathan’s house, I thought about why I was so comfortable with the idea of suicide. Ever since that night in the basement when I’d thought so much about my life and even seemed to have made some sense of it, I had been determined to end it one way or another. All I had to do was find a way. I knew my friend was serious about the gun. As I made my way along the path through the trees by Westmore Hill, I realized that I wasn’t scared; I was comfortable.

  Before long I made it to Jonathan’s house. I rang the doorbell, knowing in my heart that everything would be all right. His father answered the door, and I asked if his son was able to speak to me. He invited me into the house, and Jonathan came into the hallway and motioned for me to follow him downstairs.

  In the corner of the basement was a small cabinet with a few pistols and rifles.

  “If your dad finds out, there’ll be serious trouble,” I said.

  “I’ve done it before,” he replied smugly.

  He had little concern about selling one of his father’s guns without his knowledge. I knew that someday his father would discover it missing, but I wasn’t going to be around to learn of the outcome.

  He took out what looked like a chrome-plated thirty-caliber automatic handgun. Without hesitating, I handed him the agreed forty dollars. My friend unloaded the magazine from the handle and showed me the several rounds, then reloaded the magazine. I thought to myself: All I needed was one bullet, but it doesn’t matter.

  I stuffed the pistol in my pocket and we left the basement via the garage door. I said good-bye and walked down the street. I could feel the weight of the gun in my pocket. It gave me satisfaction.

  The walk back to the house I called “home” was almost spiritual. I took notice of the tree paths and the streets leading up to Westmore Hill. I will never see them again, I thought. At the steps to the high school I sat down, feeling the cold stone. I thought back to the house, and the basement. I was happy inside. For the first time in years I really felt happy.

  I found my favorite place among the trees where I would often go and talk with God. I’d been talking to God for a while now, but it was always a one-sided conversation. I felt this would probably be my last talk with him. As I pondered taking my own life, the feeling came over me that if I did I would in some way be offending him. I wasn’t sure why, but it seemed as if I would be giving up, and in an odd sort of way, giving in.

  So, if I do this what will happen to me? I asked God.

  As I lay on my back talking to him, I realized that the decision to take my life was all my own. God would have nothing to do with a teenager committing suicide.

  I know I’ve been a disappointment to you and I know that you’re angry with me. I just can’t do this anymore, I respectfully and sincerely said. If you’re going to help me then help me now!

  As the last words softly left my lips I waited anxiously for a response. The minutes passed and the anxiety became anger as I realized that I wasn’t getting any answers.

  Eventually I gave up and found comfort in the thought that I was once again on my own. I started to think about how and where I would do it. The thought of the gun firing and the impact of a bullet to the head made me wonder just how fast death would come.

  What if it isn’t as quick as I think it will be?

  What if I can feel the bullet rush through my skull tearing the bone apart, scattering it everywhere?

  As I pondered my fear of the unknown, I realized that there was just no way of knowing what to expect.

  It’s not like I can ask someone who’s done it, I thought.

  I sat and pondered some more, this time about when I learned that my neighbor down the street had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. She worked for the local phone company. When I was eight or nine years old, I used to secretly spend time talking to her when Mom was too busy with other things. As I thought about that day, I recalled the emotions that her mother shared with me: The sheer sense of emptiness and wonderment was overpowering. I kept wondering what could have caused her to actually go through with it. She was a pretty girl who seemed to have friends. I didn’t know what was on her mind or what was lacking in her life, but I knew that she felt strongly about it. She must have had a good reason. I recalled the few ink portraits I made. She had introduced me to a whole new form of speech by teaching me how to take ink to canvas and how to use pictures and not words to express myself. I wondered where they were now.

  I knew that I would never know the reason why she did it, and I felt empty inside. The only people I would want to und
erstand, when I was truly ready to do the same, were my two brothers Ross and Keith. They were the only ones that would even care, the only ones that would miss me.

  Once I realized that there would be no answers to my questions in my conversation with God, I felt a sense of sorrow.

  Please, please help me.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I’m afraid. I’m lost.

  Why are you letting me do this? I cried.

  The next few minutes ticked by so slowly. A part of me wanted some sort of divine intervention, yet another part of me wanted confirmation that my decision to take my life was the right one. Neither came as I lay on my back looking at the clouds passing overhead.

  Well then, I have nothing to lose, I said.

  I stood up and looked back. I could see the tree line and the trails made by the hundreds of us kids as we all walked the same path to school each day. I recalled the years before when I would wander the school grounds looking for an answer, the hours and hours I’d spent sitting in the school bathrooms crying.

  All I want is for someone to love me, I thought, as I started to make my way back home.

  A few yards farther on I found another place to sit and mull things over. I recalled better times, me sitting on Mom’s lap being comforted when I had a fever or banged my knee as a little child—I knew that she was capable of love.

  But that was back then, before David left. David was older than me; he was born after Ross, my favorite brother, and before Scott. For as long as I could remember, David had taken the brunt of Mom’s venom. He lived in the basement. Often when Mom referred to him she called him “It.” Mom made him work till he dropped, and most of the time past that point. She beat him daily, kicked him, cut him, and starved him. More than once she locked him in the bathroom with a pail of cleaning solutions mixed together to make a toxic gas. She made him eat out of the dog dish under the kitchen table when the rest of the “family” ate in the dining room.

  Then when he was thirteen or so, he disappeared. I thought at first that Mom had finally killed him; perhaps he’d failed to do something she’d told him to do. I was terrified. If she actually killed him, who else might she kill? It took me a while to learn that he was actually rescued and that the police had taken him away.

  One thing I had known. I’d just felt it and it was as real as those apparitions in the basement that night: Mom needed a victim, and I’d be the next one. It hadn’t taken long for my feelings to turn into a frightening reality.

  On the one hand, I hated her with every ounce of my body and wished her dead more times than I could count. On the other, I remembered the times I’d wanted her never to leave me, to protect me from all the bad things the world had shown me. In a way I felt sorry for her and wished that I could erase all the pain and embarrassment she must feel inside from the guilt of the horrors she’d committed. I often wondered whether, if I told her I was the reason that she was abusive, perhaps she would let it all go and return to being the “Mommy” I longed for.

  I thought about the big dinners she would serve and the games of Tripoli we used to play in earlier years, and the comfort we’d all felt. Trying to make sense of it all was near impossible. When I was small she could comfort me as a mother, while at the same time committing acts against my brother that bordered on attempted murder. That much I understood. She was simply not in control of her actions or her thoughts. I believed that at times she had different personalities. Looking back at my childhood and all the times that I thought were good, those same times when David was going through hell, what was so strange was the realization that she was the same person. She could comfort me while beating him senseless.

  I became convinced that she had lost her mind and was truly sick. In an odd sort of way that knowledge comforted me. The understanding gave me satisfaction, some sort of answer.

  With a feeling of strength renewed, I stood up and continued on my way back home. Once I turned the corner onto Crestline Avenue, I saw the house—that dismal, dark, cold house. As I got closer and closer to the front steps I became ever more determined to find the perfect moment and place to take my life. My decision was made. I had no reason to postpone it any longer. I didn’t want to just struggle on and on, endlessly questioning myself. I just wanted it over with.

  Confidently, I walked quietly up the steps and into the front room. Everyone was still asleep. I made it back in time, before anyone had even noticed that I was gone.

  Once in my room, I walked over to the black desk and sat down. Through the window, I looked at Josh’s house across the street and knew that within a few short hours I would either be on my way to Salt Lake City or in the morgue. Perhaps at last I would be somewhere I would be loved. A place where I could find the answers to the questions I had asked myself so many times as I lay on my back talking to no one—perhaps now I would find out if there was a God or not. I looked forward to the answers. But I struggled with the question of the exact time and place. Where? When? Before everyone got in the car for the ride to Salt Lake City? Perhaps I could do it in the backyard. I had thought about doing it in the backyard for a while now. It seemed almost the right place. Or I could wait until I was in the car and we were all together.

  But by now the removal men had pulled into the driveway and started to load what belongings we had already boxed up. Mom and Scott were packing the car. Once they were done, the neighbors came out one by one and said their good-byes. They all had kept silent about what they had seen and heard in our house. I watched them, and I shook my head sadly. I was more than disappointed—every one of them had known what was going on and yet not one had stood up to help us.

  Had this been 2006 and not 1980, anyone in the neighborhood, any of the teachers or administrators, any adult who had known what was happening in that house, would have stood up and helped me and my brothers. We have come a long way in twenty-five years. No one with a heart can stand on the sidelines and allow the kind of horrible abuse that existed in that house for so many years. Today, anyone knowing of such horror, such evil, would be held accountable. They would find themselves having to answer for their silence.

  Frank and Alice from next door came out and hugged each of us, then talked to Mom for a few minutes. I looked Frank and Alice in the face and sensed they genuinely felt guilty. Helen, the neighbor on the opposite side, came out, too, and said her good-byes. Even my older friend, Ben, who lived just down the street, hugged me and rubbed my hair as he often did to say good-bye. The last to show themselves were Josh and his family. They all came out and hugged each of us. Then Josh and I sat on the curb and talked about writing to each other. Josh had been my best friend all along. I was happy being around him and I’d enjoyed his friendship.

  In a dead serious but gentle tone, I told Josh that I wouldn’t be able to write back.

  “I am going to end this nightmare once and for all,” I said, as I patted the pocket that held my pistol.

  Josh had seen Mom beat me and he’d seen Mom embarrass me more times than I could count. Even when I was running away from her, mortified with shame, and Josh was standing there watching in horror, he was always my friend. For years he had seen what I had gone through and tried not to make a big deal about it when I was so ashamed.

  One of the more difficult and awkward situations I experienced was when Josh and I were freshmen in the same class at Westmore High School. It had to do with my smoking, which I had managed to keep hidden from Josh and his family for a couple of years. I was able to get away with smoking at school by keeping my cigarettes tucked into the top of my sock.

  In the middle of class one day Josh turned to me and asked: “Did you drop these?”

  “Yeah—thanks,” I replied, as he handed me the pack. It had somehow fallen to the floor as Josh sat down in front of me.

  He was obviously mad at me. He had commented several times how he hated the way my mom smoked and smelled of cigarettes. Having handed me the pack, he simply turned away and ignored me for
the rest of the class.

  I felt both embarrassed and relieved. I was sad that he’d found out I was smoking by some simple accident rather than me talking to him about it. But I was relieved that I’d only dropped the cigarettes and nothing else.

  As I casually slipped them back into the top of my sock I leaned toward my other leg to check that I hadn’t also dropped what was hidden there. I was relieved to discover the couple of joints and the small bag of cocaine I had stowed there.

  I knew if Josh had ever found out I was doing drugs he would have written me off and never talked to me again. Thank God, I thought as I sat back in my chair and continued to ignore the teacher and everything else that was going on around me.

  As we sat there on the curb outside the house in those few moments before I would leave and never see him again, Josh turned and looked at me. His face told me that he understood. He reached out and put his arm around my shoulder. I held back my tears. I was feeling the loss of a true friendship, and I knew he felt the same. But now I was being instructed to get in the backseat of our new car. Once Mom was in, we backed out of the driveway and turned down Crestline Avenue for the last time. I sat up and watched Josh out the back window as he waved good-bye. Once the car turned off the street Josh, Ben, and all the others were out of sight.

  As I turned back into my seat I looked at Mom, and she glanced back at me. If you only knew what you’ve done to me, I said to myself as she turned back to her driving. I placed my hand over my pocket, felt the pistol, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

  All I need now is the perfect place and time, I thought to myself as I drifted off.

  I felt in my heart that soon enough I would be where I’d wanted to be all along: a place where I would be safe and warm, a place where I was loved, a place called heaven, a place I could really call home.

  2

  THE ANGEL

  There was nothing that impressed me as a teenager. I found little pleasure or happiness in anything I experienced. But then I saw the angel, and I was deeply touched. I found myself questioning my decision to take my own life. There was just such a peace about the face of the angel that I was no longer sure about my decision, or about anything else.