by Dave Pelzer
The next afternoon, while I was tinkering with my minibike, a tall man walked up to me with a beer can in one hand and a baby stroller in the other. “So, you’re the neighborhood threat?” he said with a sly grin. I kept my head down as I felt my body temperature begin to rise. Before I could mouth off, the man breezed on by.
About half an hour later, the man reappeared in the opposite direction. I waited for another putdown, but this time I was ready to fire off an insult. He gave me a wide smile before saying, “Good on you, boy! Get some!”
I shook my head, thinking my ears were clogged. Good on me? Get some? Get some what? I asked myself.
I stood up, wiped a spot of black oil onto my dirty white tank top and watched the man as he bobbed past me to the driveway next door. He gave me another nod before disappearing into the garage. I was so stunned that I sat down on the grass and thought about what the crazy man meant. As demented as he seemed, he did have a way with words.
The next afternoon, at the same time, the man reappeared in the same outfit: a pair of white shorts that showed off his ash-white, bony knees, an undersized T-shirt that read “Fudpuckers— We’ve Been Flying Since the World’s Been Square,” a baseball cap with silver-winged feathers pinned in the middle and a cigarette that seemed to dangle from his bottom lip. Again, with a beer in one hand and a baby stroller in the other, he stopped in front of me and winked. “Airborne material you’re not, but don’t worry, Slim; every dog has his day.” And he pushed on.
I repeated his message over and over again as I tried to find a meaning to the phrase “every dog has his day.” Just like clockwork, the man returned 30 minutes later. I jumped up and waited for his eloquent words of wisdom. “Know this,” the man said with a bow, “there’s always profit in mass confusion.”
“Hey, mister . . .” I said before I could think.
The man’s head spun around like a top. “You inquired?”
My mouth hung open. I didn’t know how to respond. I could feel myself choke up. He bowed his head. “If you can wash your hands and change your attire, you may join me at my humble abode.”
In a flash, I raced through the Walshes’ house, scrubbed my arms and hands, dirtying their bathroom sink, and changed my shirt before bursting through the man’s front door. Before I could yell my presence, a giant hand slapped me in the center of my chest. I lost my breath and thought my chest would cave in. The man looked down and smiled. “Let’s try that again, shall we?” he said, as he led me out the front door and closed it in my face.
I frowned to myself. “How rude!” I said out loud. For a moment I thought I was being put down the way The Brady Bunch lady had done. I was about to leave when I heard a muffled voice from behind the door state, “Knock on the door.”
I rolled my eyes as my knuckles rapped on the front door. A moment later, the door flung open, and the man bowed at the waist as he waved his arm, permitting me to enter. He smiled as he introduced himself. “Michael Marsh: keeper of the faith, soldier of fortune and the Doc Savage of Duinsmoore Drive.”
And so began my first of many visits to “Marsh Manor.” Days later I met Mr. Marsh’s wife, Sandra, who was quiet and shy compared with her peculiar husband. I was instantly taken with their two boys, William and Eric. Watching their toddler, Eric, dribble as he crawled around the house reminded me of my brother Kevin when he was that age.
The Marshes treated me like a real person. While the Walshes argued more than ever, the Marshes’ home became my safe haven. Whenever I was not promoting chaos with Paul and Dave, I spent hundreds of hours sitting in a corner of Michael’s famed “Hall of Knowledge,” reading books about movies, race cars and airplanes. Ever since I was a prisoner in Mother’s house, I developed a fascination for aircraft. The many times I would sit on top of my hands in the bottom of the cold garage, I’d escape by fantasizing I was Superman. I always wanted to fly.
Although I was never allowed to take any of Mr. Marsh’s books to the Walshes’ home, I’d sometimes sneak off with a book and stay up all night, reading about the real-life adventures of World War II fighter pilots or the development of specialized aircraft like the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird. Michael’s library opened up a whole new world to me. For the first time in my life, I began to wonder what it would be like to fly aboard a real airplane. Maybe, I thought, one of these days . . .
Paul’s father, Dan Brazell, was the Mr. Goodwrench of the neighborhood, and he had the same effect on me as Mr. Marsh. At first Mr. Brazell was wary of me, but eventually he grew to tolerate my standing over his shoulder, quizzing his every movement. Sometimes Paul, Dave and I would peek into Mr. Brazell’s garage and stare in awe at whatever projects he was building from scratch. Whenever he left the garage for a few minutes, Paul would strut in, while Dave and I followed in Paul’s footsteps for fear of disturbing a piece of metal or a placed tool. However, as soon as the door opened, the three of us would scurry out of the garage before Dan caught us. We knew that the garage was a special domain where Dan, Michael and a host of other men from the neighborhood gathered for their daily meetings.
Sometimes during the daily gatherings, a few of the men from the neighborhood frowned at me, as they complained about the fear of “plummeting real estate values in the local area.” Mr. Marsh always came to my rescue. “Back off, boys,” Michael once warned. “I have plans for my young ward. I predict that Mr. Pelzer here will become the next Chuck Yeager or Charles Manson. As you can see, I’m still working on the details.”
I smiled at the compliment. “Yeah,” I nodded in defiance, “Charles Manson!” I did feel a little foolish that I did not recall Charles Manson as an Ace fighter pilot.
My times at Duinsmoore were the best in my teenage life. At night, after reading one of Mr. Marsh’s “borrowed books,” I’d fall asleep to the scent of flowers from a soft outside breeze. Every day after school carried a new adventure, waiting for my two friends and me to discover.
My stay at the Walshes was not so good. Raging arguments were a daily occurrence, and at times both of them would storm out of the house, leaving me to watch their children. Sometimes I’d try to time the fights, so that before John and Linda began to hit each other, I could grab the youngest child and order the other two children to follow me outside until things calmed down.
As much as I loved Duinsmoore, I knew I couldn’t keep living like I did. I felt that I had to do something. Finally, after an explosive argument I called Mrs. O’Ryan, my probation officer, and begged her to move me, even if it meant returning to The Hill. Mrs. O’Ryan seemed pleased with my decision and thought she could convince the Turnboughs to take me back.
Leaving Duinsmoore was one of the hardest decisions I had to make. In a matter of months, in the tiniest fraction of my life, Duinsmoore had given me so much.
I made it a point not to say good-bye. Paul, Dave and I seemed choked up, but we hid our feelings behind our age. At the last moment Dave gave me a hug. Mr. Brazell saluted me while holding a wrench, while Mr. Marsh presented me with a book on airplanes—the same book I had sneaked out of his house dozens of times. “This way you won’t have to break in my house . . . you hooligan.” He also gave me an autographed Delta Airline postcard. On it he scrawled his address and phone number. “Stay in touch, Slim,” Michael said, as I felt myself beginning to get emotional. “Day or night, Sandra and I are here for you. Hang tough, Airborne! Get some!”
Before climbing into Harold Turnbough’s ancient, blue-and-white Chevy pickup, I cleared my throat, then announced in my Michael Marsh-like voice, “Shed no tears. Have no fear . . . for . . . I shall return!” As Mr. Turnbough and I motored away from Duinsmoore Drive, I saw The Brady Bunch woman, who stood on her immaculate front porch with her arms tightly across her chest. She gave me a sneering smile. I smiled back before shouting, “Love you, too!”
Almost an hour later I burst through Alice Turnbough’s screen door. After a quick hug she pushed me away. “This is the last time,” she warned. “Speak now or f
orever hold your peace.”
I nodded before replying, “I know where I belong: 555-2647!”
CHAPTER
10
Break Away
During the middle of my sophomore year in high school, I grew frustrated and bored. Because I had moved so much and never stayed in one school for more than a few months at a time, I was placed in a class for slow learners. I fought the idea at first, until I discovered that very little was expected of me. By then I abandoned all of my academic studies, for I knew my future lay outside the school walls. I was putting in over 48 hours of work a week through a string of jobs, and I believed that nothing I learned from high school could be used in the real world.
My hunger for work was fueled by the fact that I was 17 and had less than a year to go in foster care. During sixth period, I’d race from school to Alice’s home, change clothes, then speed off again to one of my jobs at a fast-food restaurant or the plastic factory, where I worked until one or two in the morning. I knew that the odd hours and lack of sleep were taking their toll on me. In school, teachers had to prod me awake as I snored in their classes. I resented the kids who laughed at me. Some of these same kids acted high and mighty whenever they saw me labor at the restaurants, strutting in to show off their dates or flashy clothes, knowing they would never have to work like I did in order to survive.
Sometimes during my free period, I’d stroll over to visit my English teacher, Mr. Tapley. Since he didn’t have class that period, Mr. Tapley used his time to correct papers. I’d plant my elbows on his desk and bug him with an endless stream of questions about my future. He knew how hard I struggled, but I was too embarrassed to tell him why I would always fall asleep. Mr. Tapley would look up from his pile of work, run a hand through his thinning hair and feed me just enough advice to get me through the weekend—to bury myself in my homework assignments.
As much as I labored through the week, I tried to schedule every other weekend off, on the off chance of visiting Father in San Francisco. Over the years, I had left hundreds of messages to all the fire stations throughout the city. Father never called back. One afternoon I lost it when a hesitant fireman tried to put me off. “Is this the right station?” I pleaded. “Just tell me, what shift does he work?” I begged, raising my voice.
“Uhh . . . Stephen works at different stations at different times. We’ll get the message to him,” the fireman said before the line went dead.
I knew something was horribly wrong. Alice tried to stop me from fleeing her home. “My dad’s in trouble,” I shouted, my chest heaving.
“David, you don’t know that!” Alice blasted back.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “I’m tired of living in the dark . . . of hiding secrets . . . of living a lie. What can be so bad? If my dad’s in trouble . . .” I stopped for a moment as my imagination began to take hold. “I just have to know,” I said, kissing Alice on the forehead.
I hopped on my motorcycle and sped off to the heart of San Francisco. On the freeway I dodged and swerved through the traffic, and I didn’t slow down until my motorcycle rumbled into the alley next to 1067 Post Street—the same fire station Father had been assigned to since I was a baby.
I parked my motorcycle by the back entrance of the station. As I walked up the steep incline, I noticed an old familiar face. At first I thought the face belonged to Father, but I knew it wasn’t him when the face smiled. Father never smiled. “My Lord, son! How long has it been? I haven’t seen you boys in . . . I don’t know how long.”
I shook hands with Uncle Lee, my father’s longtime partner and best friend. “Where’s Dad?” I asked in a stern voice.
Uncle Lee turned away. “Well . . . he just left. He just went off shift.”
“No, sir!” I demanded. I knew Uncle Lee was lying—firemen changed shifts in the morning, not in the middle of the afternoon. I lowered my defenses. “Uncle Lee, I haven’t seen Dad in years. I have to know.”
Lee seemed choked up. He rubbed a tear from the corner of his eye. “Your father and I started out together, ya know. I got to tell ya, your old man was one hell of a fireman. . . . There were times when I thought we wouldn’t make it. . . .”
I could feel it coming. My insides became unglued. My eyes searched for something to grab onto, to keep me from falling. I bit my lip. I nodded my head as if telling Uncle Lee to just let it out and tell me.
Lee’s eyes blinked, showing that he understood. “Your father . . . doesn’t work for the department anymore. Stephen—your father—was . . . asked to retire early.”
I let out a sigh of relief as I fought to control my feelings. “So he’s alive! He’s okay! Where is he?” I shrieked.
Uncle Lee laid it all down, telling me that Father had not had work for over a year. So when his money ran out, he moved from place to place, and at times Lee feared that Father slept on the street. “David, it’s the booze. It’s killing him,” he said in a soft but firm tone.
“So where is he now?” I begged.
“I don’t know, son. I only see him when he needs a few bucks.” Uncle Lee stopped for a moment to clear his throat. He looked at me in a way he never had before. “David, don’t be too hard on your old man. He never really had a family. He was a young man when he first came here to the city. He loved you kids, but the marriage destroyed him. His job wasn’t easy on him, either. It’s all that kept him going. He lived for the station.
But his drinking . . . it’s all that he knows.”
“Thanks, Uncle Lee,” I said, as I shook his hand. “Thanks for not putting me off. At least now I know.”
Uncle Lee walked me down to my motorcycle. “I should see your dad in a few days. Hell, maybe you can help him out of this mess.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “maybe.”
Two weekends later, I rode on a Greyhound bus to the Mission district of San Francisco. At the bus station I waited for Father for over an hour. From outside I spotted a rundown bar. I took a chance, walked across the street and found Father slumped over on top of a table. My head swiveled around, searching for help. I couldn’t believe how people strolled by Father’s table without the slightest concern, or sat by the bar nursing their drinks as if my father were invisible.
I gently shook my childhood superhero from his slumber. Father’s coughing seemed to awaken him. His stench was so bad that I held my breath until I could help him stumble from the bar. The outside air seemed to clear his head. In the sunlight Father looked worse than I ever imagined. I deliberately did not look at his face. I wanted to remember my father for the man he once was—the tall, rugged, strong firefighter with gleaming white teeth, who placed himself in danger to help a fellow fireman or rescue a child from a burning building.
Father and I walked for several blocks without saying a word. I knew better than to question him on his drinking or his lifestyle. But Uncle Lee’s warning about doing something, anything, to help Father echoed in my mind. Without thinking, I closed my eyes, spun around and held out my hand, stopping him. “What happened, Dad?”
Father stopped and let out a hacking cough. His hands trembled as he struggled to light a cigarette. “You’d be better off forgetting all about it, the whole thing—your mother, the house, everything. It never happened.” Father took a deep drag. I tried to look into his eyes, but he kept dodging my glance. “It’s your mother. She’s crazy. . . . You’d be better off forgetting the whole thing,” he ordered with a wave of his hand, as if sweeping the family secret under the carpet for the final time.
“No, Dad, it’s you! I’m worried about you!” A chill blew across my face. My body shuddered, and I clamped my eyes shut. I wanted to cry out to Father, and yet I didn’t have the guts to tell him how much I was scared for him. My brain struggled with what was right and what was proper. I knew by Father’s look that his life was his business and that no one ever questioned a father’s authority, but he was a walking death. His hands rattled every few seconds and his eyelids
were dropped so low that he could barely see. I felt so awkward. I didn’t want to make Father mad, but I soon found myself becoming upset. Why weren’t you there for me? Couldn’t you have at least called me? Can’t you be like a regular dad, with a job and a family, so I could be with you and play catch or go fishing? Why can’t you be normal? my brain screamed.
I sucked in a deep breath before I opened my eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re my dad . . . and I love you.”
Father wheezed as he turned away. I knew he had heard me but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. The river of alcohol and the destroyed family life had stripped him of his innermost feelings. I realized that inside, my father was truly dead. Moments later he and I continued our journey to nowhere, with our heads bent down, looking at no one—especially not ourselves.
Hours later, before Father loaded me onto the bus, he pulled me aside. “I want to show you something,” he said with pride, as he reached behind him and plucked out a black leather covering with the emblem of the fireman’s shield on it. Father smiled as he opened the casing, revealing a bright, shiny silver fireman’s badge. “Here, hold it,” he said, as he gently placed the badge in my open palms.
“R-1522,” I read aloud, knowing that the R signified that Father was indeed retired and not fired as I had feared, while the numbers were those assigned to Father when he first joined.
“That’s all I have now. That’s one of the only things in my life that I didn’t screw up too badly. No one can ever take that away from me,” he stated with conviction, pointing to his prize. “Someday you’ll understand.”
I nodded my head. I understood. I always had. In the past I had imagined Father dressed in his crisp, dark blue fireman’s uniform, as he strolled to a podium to receive his badge of honor in front of a frenzied crowd shouting his name, with his beautiful wife and family standing by his side. As a child, I had dreamed of Father’s big day.