I’m not sure exactly where Guerneville is, but I do know it lies north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m sure it will take me a few days to get there, but I don’t care. Once I’m there I can survive by stealing loaves of French bread and salami from the local Safeway supermarket, and sleep on Johnson’s Beach while listening to the sounds of the cars rumbling across the old evergreen Parker truss bridge that leads into the city. Guerneville was the only place I ever felt safe. Ever since I was in kindergarten, I knew it was where I wanted to live.And once I make it there, I know I will live in Guerneville for the rest of my life.
I begin walking down Eastgate Avenue when a cold chill whistles through my body. The sun has set and the evening fog begins to roll in from the nearby ocean. I clamp my hands inside my armpits and make my way down the street. My teeth begin to chatter. The thrill of the great escape begins to wear off. I begin to think that maybe, maybe, Mother was right. As much as she beat me and yelled at me, at least the garage was warmer than out here. Besides, I tell myself, I do lie and steal food. Maybe I do deserve to be punished. I stop for a second to rethink my plan. If I turn back now, right now, she’ll yell and beat me—but I’m used to that. If I’m lucky, tomorrow she may feed me some leftover scraps from dinner. Then I can steal food from school the next day. Really, all I have to do is go back. I smile to myself. I’ve survived worse from Mother before.
I stop midstride. The thought of returning to The House doesn’t sound half bad. Besides, I tell myself, I could never find the river anyway. I turn around. She was right.
I picture myself sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shaking with fear, frightened of every sound I may hear from above. Counting the seconds and being terrified by every set of commercials; then waiting for the sound of the floor to creak upstairs when Mother gets up from the couch, strolls into the kitchen to pour herself a drink and then screeches for me to come upstairs—where she’ll beat me until I can no longer stand. I may be unable to crawl away.
I hate commercials.
The sound of a nearby cricket rubbing its wings brings me back to reality. I try to find the insect and stop for a moment when I think I’m close. The chirping stops. I remain perfectly still. If I catch it, maybe I could put the cricket in my pocket and make it my pet. I hear the cricket again. As I bend over to reach out, I hear the rumbling sounds of Mother’s car from behind me. I dive beside a nearby car the moment before the headlights spot me. The car creeps down the street. The sound of Mother’s squeaky brakes pierces through my ears. She’s searching for me. I begin to wheeze. I clamp my eyes closed as her headlights inch their way toward me. I wait for the sound of Mother’s car to grind to a halt, followed by her leaping from the car, then throwing me back into her station wagon. I count the seconds. I open my eyes slowly, turning my head to the left just in time to see the rear brakes light up before the brakes squeal. It’s over! She’s found me! In a way, I’m relieved. I would have never made it to the river. The anticipation drained me. Come on, come on, I say to myself. Just do it. Come on.
The car cruises past me.
I don’t believe it! I jump up from behind the car and stare at a shiny two-door sedan tapping its brakes every few seconds. Suddenly I feel lightheaded. My stomach tightens up. A surge of fluid climbs up my throat. I stumble over to someone’s grass and try to throw up. After a few seconds of dry heaves because of my empty stomach, I glance up at the stars. I can see patches of clear sky through the foggy mist. Bright silver stars twinkle above me. I try to remember how long it’s been since I’ve been outside like this. I take a few deep breaths.
“ No!” I yell. “ I’m not going back! I’m never going back!” I turn around and walk back down the street, north toward the Golden Gate Bridge.After a few seconds I walk past the car, which is now parked in someone’s driveway. I can see a couple standing at the top of the steps being greeted by the host. The sound of laughter and music escape through the open door. I wonder what it would be like to be welcomed in a home. As I make my way past a house, my nose detects the smell of food, and the thought of wolfing down something to eat possesses me. It’s Saturday night—that means I haven’t eaten anything since Friday morning at school. Food, I think to myself. I have to find some food.
Sometime later I make my way to my old church. Years ago, Mother sent my two brothers, Ron and Stan, and me to afternoon catechism classes for a few weeks. I haven’t been to the church since I was seven. I gently open the door. Immediately I can feel the heat seep through the holes in my pants and my paper-thin shirt. As quietly as I can, I close the door behind me. I can see the priest picking up books from the pews. I hide beside the door, hoping he won’t see me. The priest makes his way to the back pews toward me. I so badly want to stay, but . . . I close my eyes, trying to absorb the heat for a moment, before my hand again reaches for the door.
Once outside I cross the street, where I can see a row of stores. I stop in front of a doughnut shop. One early morning, years ago, Father stopped to pick up some doughnuts before he drove the family to the Russian River. It was a magical time for me. Now I stare through the glass, then up at the fat, jolly, animated cartoon characters that were painted on the wall and going through the various stages of making doughnuts.
From my left the smell of pizza makes my head turn. I stumble past a few stores until I stop in front of a pizza bar. My mouth waters. Without thinking I open the door and make my way, in a daze, to the back of the room. My eyes take a few minutes to adjust. I can make out a pool table, the sounds of beer mugs clashing together and laughter. I can feel stares from above me, and I stop at the far corner of the bar. My eyes dart around in search of abandoned food. Finding none, I make my way to the pool table, where two men have just finished a game. I find a quarter on the table and slowly cover it with my fingers. I look around before dragging the quarter over the edge of the pool table and into my hand. The coin feels warm. As casually as possible I stroll back to the bar. A voice explodes above me. I try to ignore the sound. From behind, someone grabs my left shoulder. Instantly I tighten my upper body, waiting for a blow to my face or stomach. “Hey kid, what are you doing?”
I spin around toward the voice, but I refuse to look up.
“I said, what are you doing?” the voice again asks.
I look up at a man wearing a white apron covered with red pizza sauce. He places his hands on his hips, waiting for a reply. I try to answer, but I begin to stutter. “Uhm. Noth . . . nothing . . . sir.”
The man places his hand on my shoulder and leads me to the end of the bar. He then stops and bends down. “Hey kid, you need to give me the quarter.”
I shake my head no. Before I can tell him a lie, the man says, “Hey, man, I saw you do it. Now give it back. Those guys over there need it to play pool.” I clench my fist. That quarter can buy me some food, maybe even a piece of pizza. The man continues to stare at me. Slowly I uncurl my fingers and drop the coin into the man’s hand. He flicks the quarter over to a pair of men holding pool sticks. “Thanks, Mark,” one of them yells.
“Yeah, man, no problem.” I try to turn away, looking for the front door, when Mark grabs me. “What are you doing here? Why’d you steal that quarter?”
I retreat inside my shell and stare at the floor.
“Hey, man,” Mark raises his voice, “I asked you a question.”
“I didn’t steal anything. I . . . I just thought that . . . I mean, I just saw the quarter and . . . I . . .”
“First off, I saw you steal the quarter, and secondly, the guys need it so they can play pool.Besides, man, what were you going to do with a quarter anyway?”
I could feel an eruption of anger surge through me. “Food!” I blurt out. “All I wanted was to buy a piece of pizza! Okay?”
“A piece of pizza?” Mark laughs. “Man, where are you from . . . Mars?”
I try to think of an answer. I can feel myself lock up inside. I empty my lungs of breath and shrug my shoulders.
“Hey, man, calm do
wn. Here, pull up a stool,”Mark says in a soft voice. “Jerry, give me a Coke.”Mark now looks down at me. I try to pull my arms into my sleeves—to hide my slash marks and bruises. I try to turn away from him. “Hey, kid, are you all right?” Mark asks.
I shake my head from side to side. No! I say to myself. I’m not all right. Nothing’s right! I so badly want to tell him, but . . .
“Here, drink up,” Mark says as he slides over the glass of Coke. I grab the red plastic glass with both hands and suck on the paper straw until the soda is gone.
“Hey, kid,” Mark asks, “what’s your name? You got a home? Where do you live?”
I’m so ashamed. I know I can’t answer. I act as if I did not hear him.
Mark nods his head in approval. “Don’t move,” he states as he grabs my glass. From behind the bar I can see him fill up the glass as he grabs the phone. The phone cord stretches to its limit as Mark strains to give me another Coke. After he hangs up the phone, Mark sits back down. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Mother and I don’t get along,” I mumble, hoping no one can hear me. “She . . . ah . . . she . . . told me to leave.”
“Don’t you think she’s worried about you?” he asks.
“Right! Are you kidding?” I blurt out. Oops, I say to myself. Keep your mouth shut! I tap my finger on the bar, trying to turn away from Mark. I glance at the two men playing pool and the others beside them—laughing, eating, having a good time.
I wish I were a real person.
I suddenly feel sick again. As I slide down the stool, I turn back to Mark. “I gotta go.”
“Where ya going?”
“Uhm, I just gotta go, sir.”
“Did your mother really tell you to leave?”
Without looking at him, I nod my head yes.
Mark smiles. “I bet she’s really worried about you. What do you think? I tell you what. You give me her number, and I’ll give her a call, okay?”
I can feel my blood race. The door, I tell myself. Just get to the door and run. My head frantically swivels from side to side in search of an exit.
“Come on now. Besides,” Mark says, raising his eyebrows, “you can’t leave now. I’m making you a pizza . . . with the works!”
My head snaps up. “Really?” I shout. “But . . . I don’t have any . . .”
“Hey, man, don’t worry about it. Just wait here.”Mark gets up and makes his way to the front. He smiles at me through an opening from the kitchen.My mouth begins to water. I can see myself eating a hot meal—not from a garbage can or a piece of stale bread, but a real meal.
Minutes pass. I sit upright waiting for another glance from Mark.
From the front door a policeman in a dark blue uniform enters the shop. I don’t think anything of it until Mark walks toward the officer. The two men talk for a few moments, then Mark nods his head and points toward me. I spin around, searching for a door in the back of the room. Nothing. I turn back toward Mark. He’s gone, and so is the police officer. I twist my head from side to side as I strain my eyes, hunting for the two men. They’re both gone. False alarm. My heart begins to slow down. I begin to breathe again. I smile.
“Excuse me, young man.” I raise my head up to a police officer smiling down at me. “I think you need to come with me.”
No! I say to myself. I refuse to move! The tips of my fingers dig into the bottom of the stool. I try to find Mark. I can’t believe he called the police. He seemed so cool. He had given me a Coke and promised me some food. Why did he do this? As much as I hate Mark now, I hate myself more. I knew I should have just kept on walking down the street. I should have never, never come into the pizza bar. I knew I should have gotten out of town as soon as I could. How could I have been so stupid!
I know I’ve lost. I feel whatever strength I had now drain. I so badly want to find a hole to curl up into and fall asleep. I slide off the bar stool. The officer walks behind me. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re going to be all right.” I barely hear what he is saying. All I can think about is that somewhere out there, she is waiting for me. I’m going back to The House—back to The Mother. The police officer walks me to the front door. “Thanks for giving us a call,” the officer says to Mark.
I stare down at the floor. I’m so angry. I refuse to look at Mark. I wish I were invisible.
“Hey, kid,” Mark smiles as he shoves a thin white box into my hands, “I told you I’d give you a pizza.”
My heart sinks. I smile at him. I begin to shake my head no. I know I’m not worthy. I push the box back toward Mark. For a second, nothing else in my world exists. I look into his heart. I know he understands. Without a word, I know what he is telling me. I take the box. I look deeper into his eyes, “Thank you, sir.” Mark runs his hand through my hair. I suck in the scent from the box.
“It’s the works. And kid . . . hang tough. You’ll be fine,” Mark says as I make my way out the door, holding my prize. The pizza box warms my hands.Outside a gray swirling fog covers the street where the police car is parked in the middle of the road.I hug the box close to my chest. I can feel the pizza slide down to the bottom of the box as the officer opens the front door of his car for me. I can hear a faint humming sound from the heat pump of the floorboard. I wiggle my toes to warm myself. I watch the officer as he makes his way to the driver’s side. He slides into the car, then picks up a microphone. A soft, female voice answers his call. I turn away, looking back toward the pizza bar. Mark and a group of adults shiver as they stand together outside. As the police car slowly rumbles away, Mark raises his hand, forms a peace sign, then waves good-bye. One by one, the others smile as they join him.
My throat tightens. I can taste the salt as tears run down my face. Somehow I know I’ll miss Mark. I stare down at my shoes and wiggle my toes. One of them pops through a hole.
“So,” the officer says, “first time in a police car?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “Am I . . . uhm . . . I mean, am I in trouble, sir?”
The officer smiles. “No. We’re just concerned. It’s kinda late, and you’re a little young to be out here alone. What’s your name?”
I glance down at my dirty toe.
“Come on, now. There’s no harm in telling me your name.”
I clear my throat. I don’t want to talk to the officer. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I know every time I open my mouth, I’m one step closer to Mother’s evil clutches. But, I tell myself, what can I do? I know whatever chances I had of escaping to the river are now gone. I don’t care. As long as I don’t have to return to her. After a few seconds I answer the officer, “Da . . . Da . . . David, sir,” I stutter. “My name is David.”
The officer chuckles. I smile back. He tells me I’m a good-looking boy. “How old are you?”
“Nine, sir.”
“Nine? Kinda small, aren’t you?”
We begin to talk back and forth. I can’t believe how much the officer is interested in me. I feel he actually likes me. He parks the car in front of the police station and leads me downstairs to an empty room with a pool table in the middle. We sit beside the pool table, and the officer says, “Hey, David, let’s say we get to that pizza before it gets cold.”
My head bounces up and down. I rip open the box.I bend down and suck in the aroma. “So, David,” the officer asks, “where did you say you live?”
I freeze. The toppings from my piece of pizza slide off. I turn away. I was hoping he would somehow forget why he picked me up.
“Come on now, David. I’m really concerned about you.” His eyes lock onto mine. I can’t turn away. I gently replace my piece of pizza in the box. The officer reaches out to touch my hand. By reflex, I flinch. Before the officer tries again, I stare him down. Inside my head I scream, Don’t you understand? Mother doesn’t want me, doesn’t love me, doesn’t give a damn about me! All right? So . . . if you can just leave me alone, I can be on my way. Okay?!
The officer backs his chair away from the table befor
e he begins in a soft voice. “David, I’m here to help you. You have to know that, and I’m going to stay here with you as long as it takes.” He leans over and lifts my chin with his finger. Tears roll down my eyes. My nose is runny. I know now there is no escape for me. I don’t have the guts to look the policeman in the eyes.
“Crestline Avenue, sir,” I say in a low voice.
“Crestline Avenue?” the officer asks.
“Yes, sir . . . 40 Crestline Avenue.”
“David, you did the right thing. Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can work it out.”
I tell him the phone number and the officer disappears for a few moments. After he returns, he again attacks the pizza.
I pick up the same piece of pizza. It’s cold and soggy. I so badly want to eat, but my mind is a million miles away. The policeman reassures me with a smile. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Right! I tell myself. The only time I ever felt secure, safe and wanted was when I was a tiny child. I was five that day when The Family waited for me as I raced up the small hill on the last day of kindergarten. I can still see Mommy’s face glowing with love as she shouted, “Come on, sweetheart. Come on now, David!” She opened the door for me after giving me a tight hug. Then she shut the door before Father sped away. Destination: the river. That summer Mommy taught me how to float on my back. I was scared, but Mommy stayed with me until I learned to float all by myself. I was so proud as I showed off to her, proving to Mommy I was a big boy, worthy of her attention and praise.That summer was the best time of my life. But now, as I sit in front of the policeman, I know nothing will ever be like it was back then. My good times are now only memories.
The officer looks up. I turn my shoulders to find my father in one of his red cotton shirts standing behind me. Another police officer nods at the policeman sitting with me. “Mr. Pelzer?” the officer near me asks.