5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  “I never blamed her for that,” he said. “It wasn’t her fault. It was strictly him. Shelley and me, we got along okay. We weren’t real close. She was a girl, and older than me. But we got along. She was real popular. Always had friends in her room, giggling and trying on makeup.”

  “And you?”

  “I never hung around with other kids much,” he said quietly.

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Just liked being by myself, I guess.”

  “I need a better answer than that.”

  He gave it some more thought, his hands working the Silly Putty. “Other kids, they always seemed so cruel. Ganging up on each other, taunting, fighting. They weren’t fun. Not like the friends I made up in my own head. And the games I played alone. I loved to hide,” he recalled fondly. “Small, dark spaces. Under beds. Behind furniture. My safe places, I called them. They were mine. Other kids, they just got in my way.” Abruptly, his face fell. “This is it, Meat,” he said, looking out the window. “Nordhoff’s our turnoff. God, this feels weird.”

  I made a left at the end of the ramp and we were in Sepulveda, home of the drive-thru landscape. Nordhoff was a flat, scorched boulevard lined with minimalls and gas stations and fast-food franchises. It was devoid of personality, of uniqueness, of aspiration. It was nowhere. There was very little shade. The sun was blistering.

  “This feels weird,” Matthew said again, as he stared out at it.

  We passed a high school on our right, James Monroe. It resembled a minimum security prison. Matthew stiffened noticeably at the sight of it.

  “Yours?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  A sign at the curb announced Friday night’s upcoming football game.

  “The Tart game,” Matthew said, his voice sounding far away. “That was usually a good one.”

  “Did you play on any teams yourself?” I asked.

  “No, never.” He fidgeted, scratched at his arms. “Well, basketball briefly. But no, not really.”

  I nodded. I would come back to that. And to Monroe High.

  He instructed me to make a right at Woodley Avenue, where there were some low, dreary apartment houses. A few of the windows had been lined with tin foil to reflect the bright sun. Then I made the first left, Tupper, which plunged us into a cemetery. Our postwar dreams were buried here. Hundreds of acres of tract houses from the Fabulous Fifties, block after block after block of them. Starter homes, they had called them then, hopefully. Small, cheap one-story cracker boxes, vaguely ranch style. All of them plopped down at once. All of them alike. A handful had acquired bits of character through the years. Most had simply bleached out. It was a neighborhood of quiet resignation now. A slum of the not-too-distant future.

  Matthew’s old street, Sophia, was a cul-de-sac. His house was the second on the left, vaguely mustard-colored. I parked across the street and we sat there, looking at it. The garage had a rusty basketball hoop over it. A dented old Datsun pickup sat in the driveway. A big olive tree grew in the center of the small, dead lawn.

  “Seventeen thousand, Meat,” he said softly. “That’s how much they paid for it. Shelley and me, we each had our own little room. We shared a bathroom. There was a breakfast nook in the kitchen, where we ate all our meals. We never owned a dining table. The TV was in the living room. A big old Packard Bell with tubes.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Place hasn’t changed one bit.”

  “I like the olive tree.”

  “That was my corner.” He pointed to where the sidewalk ended at Tupper. “Where I’d wait for my dad to come home. Across the street from there, that was still open fields when I was little. I got in the one and only fight of my childhood there. This kid who lived down the cul-de-sac, Neal Bricker. A real bully. He used to take off his belt and chase me home, whipping me with it. You wonder why I preferred to play alone—he was a big reason. One day he started throwing dirt clods at me from over there. I started throwing ’em back. Hit him right between the eyes with one. Only it wasn’t a dirt clod—it was a rock. Blood started streaming down his face. He went running home in tears. I went running home and hid in my closet. I thought I’d blinded him and was gonna to get sent to jail.”

  “What did happen to you?”

  “Nothing,” he said proudly. “All Ma said was he’s a bully and sometimes you have to stand up to a bully. And she was right—he never bothered me again after that. Gee, I wonder what he’s doing now.”

  “Probably went into politics,” I said, noting once again how much Matthew seemed to see his life in cinematic vignettes. This one had a villain, a boffo climax, even a poignant moment with Ma.

  “I wonder who lives here now,” he said, gazing at his old house.

  “Want to knock on their door?”

  “God, no,” he said, nervously fingering his Silly Putty. “I just wondered, that’s all. The backyard was pretty neat. Seven orange trees, lots of bushes. After school I used to play cowboys and Indians. Had all kinds of wild shoot-outs back there—guys diving over bushes, jumping out of trees. Those were my earliest productions. I was writer, director, stunt coordinator, and sole star. Very low budget—all in my own head. I guess I was six or seven. Most of it came from television. I watched TV morning, noon and night. Couldn’t get enough of Westerns—The Lone Ranger, Wild Bill Hickok, Cheyenne, The Rifleman with Chuck Connors. I guess The Rifleman was my favorite. A boy and his dad together in the Old West …”

  “Because of a boy and his dad not together in Sepulveda?”

  He looked at me, startled. “Gee, I never thought of it that way before, Meat. I—I was just into his rifle. But I’ll bet you’re right.” He nodded enthusiastically. “That’s good. Real good.”

  The beeper on his belt went off.

  “Want to find a phone?” I asked.

  “No, no. This is much more important than whatever Sarge wants. I’ll call her later. Go on, keep asking me questions, Meat,” he urged.

  “Were you also drawn to those all-American family shows?”

  “You mean like Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best? Totally. I wanted that. Beaver Cleaver’s childhood, that’s the childhood I wanted. A big brother who was a best friend. A dad who was there for you, teaching you how to fish. A mom who was always home, baking pies. A family where everybody ate dinner together around a dining table with a tablecloth and cloth napkins and water glasses. I still love those shows—Ozzie and Harriet, Donna Reed, I watch ’em all the time. Penny, she could never understand why. She thought I confused them with the real world. Like I couldn’t tell the difference or something. I can. I’m not crazy, like she’s making me out to be. I just happen to like that world. It’s a happy place. Much happier than the real one. The real world’s pretty awful. There’s poverty, disease, death … It’s not good to dwell on that stuff. You gotta escape sometimes. That’s why people go to see my movies.” His face darkened. “Or used to, anyway.”

  “You had one dud. Don’t let it throw you.”

  “I’m not,” he insisted, sticking out his snow shovel jaw stubbornly.

  “Okay, you’re not.”

  “I liked horror movies a lot, too,” he reflected, his eye on the house. “The local TV stations had ’em on all day Saturday and Sunday—Godzilla, Rodan, The Thing. My absolute favorite was The Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas. I loved that movie. Couldn’t get enough of it.”

  “What made it so special?”

  “The monster wasn’t evil,” he replied simply. “Just sad. That made a real impression on me. And it stayed with me. When I got the chance, I remade it.”

  “Did you generally watch TV alone?”

  “Shelley watched with me sometimes. What amazed me about her was she could just get up in the middle of a show and walk away. There was other stuff she’d rather be doing. Not me. There was nowhere else I’d rather be. TV sucked me in, and held me. I shot baskets by myself sometimes if nothing was on. I had my homework, and chores. Otherwise, I was glued totally to the s
et. TV, it made me who I am today,” he said, without regret. “My dreams, my sense of right and wrong—that all comes from TV. It had much more to do with how I turned out than my folks did. Or school.”

  “Does knowing that bother you at all?”

  He thought this over, frowning. “I don’t want Georgie to grow up like I did, if that’s what you’re asking. I’d much rather see him grow up around people. People who love him and support him.” He let out a pained sigh. “Not that he’s getting off to a very good start.”

  The sun was overhead now, beating straight down on us. I put the top up to give us some shade, and pulled away from the curb.

  “Where to?” asked Matthew, eyes lingering on his boyhood home.

  “I want to see your schools.”

  “Leave no stone unturned, huh?”

  “I’m afraid there are always stones unturned. I just hope none of them turn out to be giant boulders.”

  “Cross over Woodley and keep on going.” His beeper went off again.

  “Sure you don’t want to phone in?” I asked.

  “Positive. I want to concentrate on this. Script ideas are already starting to swirl around inside my head.”

  “I’ve read it, by the way.”

  He stared at me anxiously. “And …?”

  “There are a couple of things I didn’t like,” I said gently. “Badger talking to the camera for one. That kind of device tends to invite self-indulgence.”

  “Meaning you think it’s self-indulgent?” he asked, his pink rabbit nose twitching at me.

  “I also think you’ve shortchanged Debbie,” I went on. “We have to care about her. We have to know that she and Badger had a good life together. Otherwise, we won’t care that they’re now apart.”

  “You didn’t like it at all, did you?” he demanded, rattled. He was tugging at his forelock again, his Silly Putty forgotten. “You hated it. You did. You hated it.”

  “I didn’t say that. It has potential. I just don’t think it’s finished yet.”

  “Neither do I,” he agreed hastily. “Neither do I.” He took a deep breath, recovering his composure. His hand fell to his lap. “Okay. I’ll think about it, Meat. And thank you for your honesty. I appreciate it.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Positive. I need this kind of input. I—I’m just not used to it.” He grinned at me. “Sorry if I bit your head off.”

  “You didn’t. It’s still attached to the rest of me, big as ever.”

  There were more cul-de-sacs on the other side of Woodley. After a couple of turns we found ourselves in front of his elementary school, Gledhill, a complex of small, squat concrete buildings connected by covered walkways. Temporary classroom bungalows edged out onto the blacktopped playground. It was recess, and the kids were out playing. Their teachers stood by, watching them.

  “I hated recess,” Matthew recalled gloomily, as we sat there. “I never knew where to go.”

  “Where did you?”

  “That bench right over there by the fence. Unless one of the teachers made me get up and play.”

  “Were you a good student?”

  “I was a good daydreamer.”

  Two of the teachers noticed us lingering there in the Vette, staring at their little charges. They eyed us sternly. I moved on. Matthew’s junior high, Sepulveda, was a few blocks away. Same design, if you can call it design. Somewhat larger scale.

  “I remember very little about this place,” he confessed, “except that I spent three years of my life here, my face broke out the whole time, and I grew eight inches in one semester. And girls became a major deal.”

  “How did you get along with them?”

  He shrugged. “Same as I got along with everybody—not at all. I never went to any dances. Never even learned how to dance. I still don’t know how.”

  “No girlfriends?”

  “None,” he replied crisply.

  “Anyone you had a crush on?”

  He fidgeted. “No one.”

  “Sure about that?”

  He laughed nervously. “You sound like you know different or something.”

  “I don’t.”

  “There was no one.”

  “And no friends? Not a single one?”

  “Why are you asking me so many questions?” he asked, peevishly.

  “That’s my job. I did warn you.”

  “That’s true, you did,” he admitted. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I had one friend—Sheldon Selden. He started dating Shelley when they were sixteen. I was thirteen. He was my first friend. My only friend. He watched TV with me. Dragged me along with them to the Monroe High football games. A couple of times he even took me to the Coliseum to see SC play, just him and me. His dad had season tickets. We saw Trace beat UCLA 21-20 his senior year to go to the Rose Bowl. Gee, Trace was something out on the field. Cool, fearless—a real hero.” Matthew shifted his long legs, gazed uncomfortably at his old school. “I never understood why Shelley was so nice to me.”

  “Maybe he liked you.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Matthew swallowed. “Nobody else did.”

  I circled back toward Nordhoff and pulled up outside of James Monroe. A couple of boys’ gym classes were out on the field in T-shirts and shorts playing flag football.

  “Sometimes, when I was in junior high I’d ride my bike over here after school and watch the varsity team practice in helmets and pads,” Matthew recalled. “They were always the most popular guys. The in guys.”

  “Did you want to be one of them?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  I thought about the way he’d reacted when we drove by here before. “And did you ever try?”

  He was silent a moment. “Shelley, he talked me into it. See, him and me used to shoot baskets sometimes when he’d come over to pick up Sis. I practiced at it a lot. Got to be a pretty fair shooter. I was also six feet six when I was in the eleventh grade. He kept telling me I ought to go out for the basketball team. I really didn’t want to. I was so clumsy and unsure of myself. But he talked me into it. He was so incredibly enthusiastic and persuasive. And I actually made the varsity team—as a backup center.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Not for me,” he replied, offhanded. “I quit the team after the first game.”

  “How come?”

  “Didn’t like it.”

  “How come?”

  “No real reason,” he said defensively.

  “I think there is,” I suggested.

  “I don’t care what you think!” he snapped. “It’s my life and it’s my book. I quit the team, period. Just leave it at that.”

  I did for a moment. Then I said, “Why can’t you tell me about it, Matthew?”

  “Can we get out of here now?” Matthew demanded, growing agitated. “Can we get on the freeway and get out of this place?”

  “As soon as you tell me why you quit the team.”

  “I told you—it wasn’t for me! Now would you please start this damned car?!”

  “I’ll find out the reason, Matthew. One of the Shelleys will tell me, Bunny will tell me—”

  “No one will tell you. They don’t know why. Nobody knows why.”

  “So there is a reason.”

  “There is not! How many times do I have to tell you?! I just quit, okay?!”

  “Matthew, let’s have a small reality check here. You’re thirty-eight years old. You’re the single most successful director in the history of the planet. What possible difference can it make why you quit your high school basketball team?”

  He didn’t answer me. Just sat there, breathing quickly in and out. Faster and faster. Until he abruptly bolted from the car and vomited on somebody’s front lawn.

  When he was done he got back in, and I got us back on the freeway. I pushed him no farther. I was satisfied for now. It wasn’t exactly a breakthrough, but it was a start.

  We didn’t go st
raight back to Bedford Falls. On the way he had me stop off in Northridge at Malibu Grand Prix, a go-cart raceway. Fairly elaborate one, too. The track had hairpin twists and turns. The go-carts looked just like Formula One race cars. I imagine it was quite the place if you were eleven years old, or Matthew Wax. He bought himself a fistful of tickets, pulled on a helmet, and took off into the bright, hot sun. A few kids who’d cut school were out there, too, but mostly Matthew had the place to himself.

  I found myself a shady spot in the bleachers and watched him. He drove his go-cart racer skillfully and hard. After his first lap he waved to me. From then on he stayed totally focused on the course. And his thoughts. He had a lot on his mind. Some people lose themselves in drink when they do. Some in drugs. Some in sexual liaisons. This was Matthew’s escape. I jotted down some notes while he drove. What he’d told me about his childhood that morning. What he hadn’t told me. I was anxious to talk to his sister. And to Bunny. I was sorry I couldn’t talk to Lou Wax about it as well. But probably not as sorry as Matthew was.

  Afterwards, we stopped for lunch at a Denny’s on Ventura Boulevard. Matthew ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake from our waitress, who recognized him and stared. He was still lost in thought, eyes watching the traffic on Ventura outside the window next to us, fingers absently working his Silly Putty. I ordered a Denver omelet and hash browns. Then I sat there, waiting him out.

  He took a deep gulp of his shake when she brought it. Then he unloaded. “The thing is,” he declared forcefully, “if you’re an ugly goon when you’re fifteen, you’re an ugly goon for the rest of your life. Until the day you die. You’re always a goon. Even if lots of years go by, even if you get married and have a kid, even if you’re more successful than you ever thought you’d be in your wildest dreams—you’re still that same goon who everybody laughed at. It never changes. It’s who you are.” With that he took another gulp of his shake and sat back in the booth, spent.

  I sipped my iced tea. “You’re saying you quit the basketball team because people laughed at you?”

  He shook his head, exasperated. “Why do you keep asking me about that?”

  “Because you won’t answer me about that.”