Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  Even after completing our time in the hole, we wouldn’t return to a normal unit. We would go to a four-by-eight-foot single-man cell in an isolation unit. There would be no TV, shower, or phone in the cell. If we wanted to shower, it was every other day, and we would have to walk down the tier and be locked in a dark and dank shower stall.

  Finally, they put chains on us—leg irons, wrist cuffs, and chains to connect them all.

  We walked to the hallway just outside the hole and were told to wait while the cops prepared our paperwork. I stood there, getting very angry. Another cop came up and explained the hole program. Breakfast and dinner were like normal for inmates, but for lunch we would only get onion soup. We would not be allowed phone calls, mail, or any communication. Showers were twice a week. There would be no talking. We would receive a mattress and sheet at 8 p.m., and at 3 a.m. we would turn it in. We would get it back the following night at 8 p.m.

  I knew the routine, but it didn’t ease my anger. I said nothing.

  Trigger started joking around with Shotgun and laughing. I didn’t know what was so funny, but it set off a firestorm of rage inside me and I began to boil. I watched Trigger as he continued his clown act.

  “Hey, ese. Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” I said.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to him that way, but I didn’t care. I was angry and I wanted any excuse to focus my rage on someone so it wouldn’t consume me.

  “Fuck you, Mad. You ain’t nobody. When we get out of here, we’ll see if you have anything to say.”

  That’s all I needed. I didn’t say anything else. I had a goal when I got out of the hole and Trigger was it.

  We were escorted down the stairs and into the hole where I was placed in a single-man cell with a heavy outer steel door. Inside was a toilet, sink, and bunk—nothing else in the cell. It was extremely hot and dark.

  As the heavy door closed, a thought entered my mind. What would my father think if he had known as he held me at the age of six months that his son would one day be held in a dark cell, surrounded by killers. Alone.

  Chapter 21

  Adolescence, 1978–1979

  I argued about what high school I wanted to attend, but it accomplished nothing. My mother had her own agenda and she was determined to put me in a private school.

  She took the position that, since I had not been in a single fight at Immanuel First Lutheran, I should continue on at a private high school. She told my father that La Puente and Los Altos High Schools were full of gangs, and that instead of beating me up they would shoot me. She told him if he truly cared about me he could sacrifice a few dollars.

  My mother ignored the obvious if it didn’t fit her interpretation of reality. My main source of stress and abuse was centered at home from the two people who said they loved me—my parents.

  If only I didn’t care so much about my parents, then their problems wouldn’t have affected me so deeply. But every time my father drank and my parents fought, I was consumed by distress, fear, depression, and despair. The turmoil I experienced meant one thing—I loved my parents, and while destroying themselves, they were also destroying me.

  Throughout the summer, my mother scheduled appointments at private high schools for entry examinations, including Don Bosco, Bishop Amat, St. Francis, and others. The memories of Immanuel First Lutheran were fresh in my mind, and I didn’t want to be singled out any more in a private school. I just wanted to be normal—another face in the crowd. I didn’t believe going unnoticed would be possible at a private school. It was so overwhelming, I wet my bed almost every night, and that shame led to even more emotional scars. I was determined to somehow avoid the fate my mother had planned for me.

  I sat outside under a tree waiting for my turn to take an entrance exam at Don Bosco. Another kid came over and asked if I had a light. I didn’t know what he was talking about until he pulled out a cigarette.

  “I don’t smoke,” I said.

  “Oh well, no biggie. You here for the entry exams?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t wanna go to this school or any other one. I want to go to a public high school.”

  “Just fail the test. It’s what I’m gonna do. They never give your parents the score, and you’re scheduled to do the meet-and-greet today, right? Well, your parents will never know why they didn’t accept you. As far as they’re concerned, it could have been because they didn’t like you. It’s no big deal. These schools turn down just about everyone who applies, so don’t sweat it. The main thing is you won’t have to go to this school.”

  “Man, are you sure my parents won’t see the score?”

  “I’m sure. My brother did it last year and all my parents got was a nice letter saying that the enrollment had been filled.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed him. The last thing I wanted was for my parents to find out. If that happened, I’d be in serious trouble.

  “Hey, I’m Kent. Sit next to me and just watch me. I’m going to fill out the little squares without even looking at the test. Then I’ll sit for a while and leave. It’s that simple.”

  “I’m Bill. All right, I’ll check it out.”

  We walked in together and, true to his word, he did exactly what he said he’d do when he received his test. I took a deep breath and did the same. Halfway through, I looked over at him and he was almost done. But what if things had changed since last year? What if they sent my parents the test score? Even worse, what if my mother came to the school and demanded to know why I hadn’t been accepted?

  I decided attending another private school was worse than any beating my father could give me, and I continued filling in the blank squares without looking at the questions.

  On the way home, my mother was excited about me attending Don Bosco, and talked about how it was a great school, and that from there I would attend a major university.

  On and on she talked, until she suddenly stopped and began crying. I was used to my mother’s changes of mood, but it still confused me and made me uncomfortable.

  Nevertheless, I purposely failed every test I took that summer, and as the school year neared it seemed I would end up at Puente or Los Altos High. At least that’s what I thought. My mother was more resourceful than I gave her credit for, though. Since I had not been accepted at any of the private schools that required an entrance test and interview, she simply found one that only required tuition payment.

  What my parents didn’t take into consideration was the simple fact that, since no entrance test or interview was required at Heights Lutheran, a lot of the kids there were trouble and had been kicked out of other schools. All of the kids weren’t bad, but plenty of them were there only because their parents could pay the high tuition. Heights Lutheran was in Turnbull Canyon, in the midst of some of the most expensive homes in the area.

  As the school year started a lot of things were different in my life. Most notable was the physical difference. By the midway mark of my freshman year, I was no longer the little five foot two inch, one-hundred-pound boy with short hair and painfully awkward looks. In his place stood a six foot one inch, 170-pound young man with lean muscle and long black hair that reached past my shoulders. Still, the biggest change was internal. I no longer feared anything or anyone.

  The steroids my father continued to give me changed everything. I was a walking time-bomb with a hair-trigger temper.

  I was still me, but my mood swings were sudden and violent. One moment I was fine and the next, for no apparent reason, I’d become angry and the storm inside me would explode, led by my beasts.

  I was sensitive to anyone’s criticism, and more than that to any attempt to push me around. Of course in high school that sort of thing always happened, but I made it obvious that if anyone messed with me they’d be sorry.

  I was only a freshman, but thanks to my height and athletic ability, I went out for the cross-country and basketball teams, making varsity in both.

  All of those accomplishments only added to my confidence. Unlike
other freshmen, I was accepted by the older kids. Although I felt good about all of those things, resentment grew inside me and led me to hide who I truly was. I still believed if anyone saw the real me they’d laugh, as so many had in the past. I was so afraid that I buried my true self deep down and wore a mask to compensate. I wore one at school, one at home, another at the beach, and at fighting competitions, yet another.

  It came to a point that I didn’t know who I was anymore. It was all a performance and the lines of truth blurred. I simply changed my personality according to environment and those who surrounded me.

  The one true thing I knew—the thing that never changed no matter what mask I wore—was my rage and pain. To me, those elements were as real as the clothes I wore. They protected me and gave me the will to take on anything, simply by touching that part of me. With my beasts, I could overcome any odds.

  Sometimes, when my emotions were raw, I didn’t have to reach for the beasts. They simply took on a mind of their own and controlled me.

  It became apparent after the fight at the beach with The Boyz. When it happened again and the results were the same, it didn’t scare or worry me because it gave me the reputation I wanted—to be the guy nobody should mess with.

  In high school, being feared made me popular and it led to acceptance. I knew I didn’t want only to be feared. I wanted to be liked too. But a part of me felt that if I couldn’t be loved, then being feared wasn’t a bad alternative.

  To say I was extremely sensitive to other’s opinions of me would be an understatement. I still didn’t see how I appeared to others. To me, I was still an ugly kid no one liked, and the only real reason anyone spoke to me was because of my reputation and the mask I hid behind.

  Most days, I went to class alone. A lot of people said hello to me and I’d always acknowledge them with a simple smile or “what’s up.” No one knew a lot about me aside from what they saw at school, and heard. I was aloof without trying to be. I was just unsure of myself, so I kept everyone at arm’s distance.

  As I walked to class just after the Christmas holidays in 1978, I came around a corner and saw three juniors had a little kid up against the wall, messing with him. I was late for class, but I slowed to see what was up. One of the juniors, a guy named Benny, had the small kid up by the neck and had slapped his glasses off his face and kept calling him “Frogman.” His friends, who I knew as well, were Mark and Greg. They were all bullies and they thought they were being funny.

  As I neared them I saw a scared kid who was powerless and hated that he couldn’t do anything to help himself. I knew exactly how he felt because, not long before, I’d been him.

  “Hey, give it a rest, man,” I said.

  Benny and his friends turned around, saw me, and ignored me.

  I walked up to them and noticed the little kid was crying.

  “What, you didn’t hear me? I said leave him the fuck alone.”

  “Fuck you, Bill. You ain’t gonna do shit,” said Benny.

  I passed Mark and Greg and shoved Benny back.

  “Fuck you, punk, I said leave him alone.”

  Benny, used to bullying anyone he wanted, didn’t hesitate and attempted to push me back. I didn’t have time for a shoving match. Before his hands touched me, I sidestepped his advance and punched him twice in the face. He fell and turned to look up at me.

  “How does it feel? Get up. I’m dying to trash you,” I said.

  He got up, but the look in his eyes said it all. He was afraid. But I didn’t want it to end there. I knew his ego was hurt and he was scared, but it wouldn’t take much to get him to react.

  “You just going to stand there, punk motherfucker? I knew you were a bitch and all talk.”

  I hadn’t finished the sentence and he was already moving toward me, which was exactly what I expected him to do.

  “Fuck you, I’ll kick your ass,” he screamed as he rushed at me headfirst as if he meant to tackle me.

  Benny didn’t know how to fight. He pushed people around and bullied them because they were smaller and weaker. But when faced with someone who hit back, he was lost.

  As soon as he lowered his head and attacked, I jumped up and kicked him in the face with a jump front kick, and he pitched forward and fell again. This time he didn’t get up.

  I turned to his two partners. “If you fuck with him again, if you even call him some fucked up name, I promise, I’ll fuck up both of you punks,” I said as I went to Greg and shoved him hard.

  “You hear me, punk?” I asked.

  “Dude, we were only playing with him.”

  I slapped him hard across the face.

  “Shut the fuck up. You heard me. Fuck with him and I’ll fuck you up.”

  I turned around and walked up to the kid, who I didn’t know.

  “If anyone fucks with you, come tell me and I’ll make them sorry.”

  He just nodded. God, I felt bad for him. I was once that little scared boy. We were the same age, but I had changed. No one would ever make me feel that way again, and if I saw someone doing it to someone else, they’d have to answer to me. I hated bullies and I was just looking for an excuse, any excuse, to make them feel what they made others feel.

  Benny and his buddies had recovered enough to give me a dirty look, but they knew better than to say anything to me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked the kid.

  “Yeah.” He was still crying. “Thanks. They always do this to me and I don’t know why.” He began to cry harder, and my anger simmered.

  “They won’t anymore, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “Come on, let’s go to class. What class do you have? I’ll walk you.”

  “Algebra with Ms. Shelton,” he said.

  I took him to Ms. Shelton’s room, and when she saw us she came out.

  “What happened, Bobby? Are you okay?”

  I answered for him. “Some guys were picking on him and I stopped it. He’s okay.”

  She looked at me, and for a moment, I could tell she wondered if it had been me who had bullied him.

  “Ms. Shelton, Bill helped me and beat up Benny because he was hitting me.” Bobby was crying again.

  “It was nothing. They won’t hit him anymore. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Bobby, go sit down,” she told him. He went inside and, as he did, he said, “I’ll see you later, Bill.”

  “Right on, Bob,” I said.

  Ms. Shelton turned to me. “Thank you for helping Bobby. He’s small and everyone picks on him and he just doesn’t know how to deal with it. But please don’t get yourself into trouble.”

  “No worries, I’ll be fine,” I said.

  She nodded and I went to class.

  By lunch time, just about everyone knew about what I had done to Benny and his friends, but most importantly they knew why I had done it. I sat alone next to the stairs at the front of the school drinking an Orange Crush, just watching the cars pass by, when Bobby came up to me.

  “What’s up, Bill?”

  I turned to him, but the look on my face must not have been pleasant because Bobby started to walk away.

  “Hey Bobby, what’s up? Come and kick back with me.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you and you don’t look happy that I’m here.”

  “It’s not that. You just surprised me. You’re cool, and any time you feel like talking, don’t trip. We’re friends.”

  Bobby had seen my face when I wasn’t hiding behind a mask. What he saw was hurt and pain—raw and in plain sight. When I realized what he had seen, I shoved the mask in place so the anger would show through my eyes.

  “So, what’s on your mind? Are you okay? Benny and his girlfriends haven’t messed with you, have they?”

  He laughed. “That’s funny. No one’s ever called them that. But they’re afraid of you, so you can say anything.”

  “Yeah, but if they pick on you, tell me. I want them to know that picking on you is like picking on me. We’re
friends and friends look after each other, right?”

  “Yeah, but what can I do for you? I don’t know how to fight.”

  “That’s the great part about being friends, you don’t have to be or do anything. Just be you, all right?”

  He nodded, but I could see he was uncertain. No one like me, or at least who looked like me, had ever offered him friendship, and he didn’t understand. The truth was I wasn’t entirely sure myself.

  I wanted to protect him from the pain and humiliation he suffered at the hands of bullies. I also didn’t want him to go through what I had, and that’s what moved me to action.

  Maybe it wasn’t friendship I offered him, but he didn’t have to know that. What was important was he wouldn’t be messed with as long as I was around. That thought alone made me smile. It gave me the excuse I needed to make bullies pay.

  High school is a strange place. Appearances and opinions are everything. Something so simple, such as hanging around the right person or group, can give you a certain authority or right to act a certain way. I was a varsity athlete, but I never hung around with the team. It just seemed cheesy to put on a letterman jacket and hang out together.

  Most of the time, I was just off listening to music, drawing, and doing my own thing. I did that in part because I had spent so many years alone and felt uncomfortable in groups. I still wasn’t sure how well I wore my mask, or whether there were holes in it where people could see the real me.

  Another reason was, none of those guys measured up to The Pack. To me, the guys in high school, at least the ones I knew, were lames and wannabees. They dressed and talked like surfers, and some even surfed a few times, but that didn’t make them surfers.

  Bobby didn’t want to impress me and he didn’t try to be someone he wasn’t. For that reason, I talked to him and sometimes we ate lunch together. In the process, I began to like him. His father was a doctor and his mom was a lawyer, and often they’d wave at me when they picked Bobby up.