“Yeah,” I jabbed, staring at the small bulge in his mid-section.
“Back off, Slim, you’re looking at a lot of years and a lot of beers. These eyes have seen a lot of adventure and soon enough you will too. Maybe we can check out what the army recruiter thinks your chances are. I might even put in a good word for you. No one likes a high school dropout, but we’ll have to see what we can do. Here’s a new set of maxims, and don’t even ask what it means, look it up. Anyway, Be all that you can be… the few, the brave, the proud. It’s not just a job, but an adventure. And finally… Aim high. Think about it!
“Thus endeth today’s lesson,” Mike smirked.
Ranger Marsh and I never made it down to the recruiter’s office together, but between him and Dan, both men gave me a much deserved kick in the psychological backside. I kinda knew what I wanted to do with my life, but lacked the motivation to nudge myself forward. I was just too scared. My immediate short-term plan was one of sustenance. By pure coincidence I had an interview at another car dealership within a few days. I had to get that job. Next, as aggravating as I knew it was going to be, I had to get my GED. I had thought about returning to high school, but I was nearly half a year behind, and way too embarrassed to re-enroll as a failure in the slower classes, which would only make me farther behind, while still having to contend with earning a living full time in the adult workplace. With the short time I had left I was determined to get my act together. By the time I turned eighteen, if things weren’t going too well, then, I told myself, I’d consider the military—if they’d have me. I saw enlisting as a last resort, even though it could fulfill a childhood dream of either becoming a fireman or living the adventure flying jets. My biggest fear was not only not passing their academic testing and the physical examinations, but the background checks that might reveal my severe childhood. By dropping out of school I had not only limited my employment options, but I had also stupidly painted myself into a corner.
Within a week I caught a lucky break. After my Vega’s engine imploded, I was not only hired as a Chevy car salesman but the dealership loaned me a new truck! Within a few weeks I was back on top, selling cars and saving money while secretly studying reference books for my upcoming GED test. When I took my first weekend off, I drove back to Duinsmoore and blew the socks off The Sarge, Dan, and the other doubting Thomases when they saw my shiny new step-side brown truck. “Maybe I steered you wrong,” Mr. Marsh conceded. “You more than appear to have a knack for the car barter business.”
Paul and David were so impressed when on my next weekday off I proudly drove up to the high school—the same high school where I had been frisked for change while going to the bathroom—and picked them up when they planned to skip school after their second-period class. About an hour later, after I smashed the rear bumper into a pole, Paul advised me not to worry about the serious possibility of getting fired for wrecking the new truck since his father had a set of tools that would fix anything. As David and I sat in the back of the cab, Paul—with the seat pushed to its forward limit—did his best to drive over an abandoned, mud-infested hilly area, only to beach the Chevy truck in the thick bubbling ooze. As much as the three of us took turns trying everything possible to free the truck, we only ended up burying the back end more. When the late morning faded into mid afternoon, I began to worry when Paul and David stated they would soon be forced to abandon me to return home. I began to fear being stranded without food or water throughout the night, but then some passerby in a heavier truck pulled us free. The moment Paul, David, and I returned to Duinsmoore, I pestered Paul about the tools he said would fix the truck. When my friend brushed me off, I yelled, naively believing that Dan would suddenly drop everything and instantly fix the damaged bumper, as well as paint the grazed side of the truck, to perfection, free of charge, and all within a matter of a few minutes.
The next day, with my head lowered in shame, I confessed to the concerned managers at the dealership that I had somehow accidentally struck a pole while carefully backing up. They bought it. For among the group of high-strung, caffeine-addicted, chain-smoking, down-and-out, unreliable sales staff, I appeared extremely shy, professionally composed, and clean-cut, never missing a day of work, while selling a fair amount of cars. Because I didn’t go out, drink, smoke, or indulge in any normal, everyday vices, no one suspected my opposite unrestrained life with my two friends. However, after another series of incidents that paralleled every time I visited Duinsmoore, the dealership became very concerned of the damage to their small fleet and threatened to fire me, as well as financial retribution, unless I sold a certain quota per week.
Yet part of me still couldn’t help myself. At work I was intensely focused to the point of being overly stoic, but during my rare time off, the moment I drove through Menlo Park and turned from Bay Road onto Duinsmoore Way, a carefree adventurous persona took over. One Friday afternoon, after working the opening shift and having the rare luck of selling a car to a person who was just looking, I was rewarded by my manager with a brand-new Camaro for the weekend. After the group of men at Dan’s garage spent a few seconds gawking at my latest acquisition, and failing to rally David to join me because of his after-school job, Paul and I cruised through the back streets, admiring the celebritylike mansions. Within a few minutes of trying to pump Paul for any form of conversation, I became frustrated. A few minutes before at Duinsmoore, Paul’s eyes seemed to shine with anticipation of the next exploration in adventure, but sitting beside me now he seemed cold and withdrawn. By the time we reached the side road that paralleled my old high school, I huffed, “Okay, out with it. What’s the deal?”
Paul gestured toward Menlo-Atherton High. “That’s the deal. School sucks.”
Without any thought, I surprised myself by instantly replying, “I agree, but so what? School always sucks. What’s the prob’?”
Paul shook his head as he crossed his arms against his chest. “You don’t get it. I hate going there. The classes are boring, the teachers suck ’cause they’re too busy trying to run classes that have become zoos. I get mugged like two, three times a week. I get picked on ’cause I’m short. I hate it. I hate it all, I hate everything about it, man. It totally sucks!”
“Man. I thought I was the only dude that got mugged. Did they take you while you were in the bathroom?” I asked.
“Man, I get picked on all the time, everywhere, just because I’m short and am way smarter than like half the goofs in the classes who act like animals and don’t want to learn anything anyway. Then, by the time the teachers get the class quiet, the period’s almost over, so what’s the use. I tell my parents, but they brush me off. No one gets it, man,” Paul stated.
I shook my head. For Paul to open up like this was a big deal. “I don’t know what to say, except everybody goes through it. Maybe not the same thing, but everybody goes through something.”
“No, man, you don’t get it. I get beat up. I can’t walk through the hallways; I can’t go to the bathroom to go take a leak; I can’t do anything.”
“Me either,” I replied. “The same shit happens to me. The exact same thing and I thought, ya know, I was the only one. But it ain’t so. And when I get picked on, and I don’t mean teased or harassed, I mean I get slaughtered every day. In junior high I must have gone through four or five dozen pairs of glasses. I got creamed ’cause I was the new kid, ‘the foster kid,’ who didn’t fit in, had four eyes, was too skinny, too geeky, I stuttered, I mumbled, said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I never stood up for myself and when I did, I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t have the cool clothes or any real friends, and I can’t tell you how alone I felt. Every single day.”
Paul continued to stew. “No, it’s different now.” But I shook my head in disagreement. “And whatever you do, don’t lecture me. I get enough of that from home. They can’t even talk to me. My mom just thinks if I sit down and watch some ABC Afterschool Special on TV about drug addiction, teen pregnancy, or the dangers of getting in
to a car with strangers, it will, like, solve all my problems. They treat me like I’m still a little kid. I can’t talk to them. They didn’t get mugged at school. They didn’t have to deal with all the crap that goes on in the classroom. Even when they ask, ‘How was your day in school?,’ they don’t really want to know. I can’t talk to them.”
“I know what you mean,” I agreed. “I can’t really talk to my foster parents on some things. And don’t ask me where I learned about the opposite sex from. You know, it’s kinda weird. I mean, I love my foster parents, the Turnboughs, but at times I feel I can talk more to Mike and Sandy Marsh about that stuff, or to your dad on other things, than anybody else. Maybe it’s that whole breaking away thing—the more we try to pull away, the more they try to control us and corral us in. I dunno.” I took a deep breath before confessing, “And I don’t care if you hate me for saying this, but I love your dad.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Everybody says that, but you don’t live with him.”
I quickly cut Paul off. “And you don’t live in my world. If everyone loves your dad, then chances are he’s pretty cool. If I had a dad, I’d wish…”
“I can’t tell you how many times David and everybody else says that about him,” Paul interjected.
I reached my boiling point with Paul. “Then shut the hell up and listen, man! Your dad’s awesome, and your mom, well, she scares the hell out of me but she’s only protecting her family. You have no idea what it’s like out there!” I said, sounding like Mr. Marsh just a short time ago. “And I know at times life seems like a bitch and all, but you’ve pretty much got it made in the shade. There’s so much crap out there, I can’t even begin to tell you. At least your dad’s not some drunk and your mom’s not some psycho with the sole intention of trying to kill you.”
“You don’t know what goes on in my house,” Paul countered. “It ain’t all tea and cookies.”
“I do know a good thing when I see it. So why the attitude? Ever since I’ve known you…”
“Sometimes I hate it. I hate it all. Home, school, everything.”
I lowered my voice, whining like a baby. “Oh, so what ya gonna do? Drop out of school and run away from home?”
Paul raised a finger at me. “Look who’s talking. You quit. And it was you that was talking about going off to Hollywood.”
Suddenly I felt ten years older. The Hollywood thing seemed like a long time ago. “Yeah, you’re right, the stuntman thing was my idea, but it was just some stupid run off and join the circus thing. And you wanna know who saved my bacon on that one?” Paul just looked at me, already knowing the answer. “Yeah, that’s right, your dad and Mr. Marsh. My own foster parents didn’t have a clue of how many times I came so close to splitting. All because life sucks.
“Thank God for your dad and The Sarge,” I continued. “There’s people who wouldn’t give me the time of day and these guys cared enough to tell me like it is. It just made me think, that’s all. They didn’t tell me what to do, but made me really think.”
“Everybody’s telling me what to do,” Paul responded. “Go to church, become an altar boy, get good grades, join NASA.”
“So?” I shook my head.
“So, I’m always being told what to do and I’m sick of it!”
I had to laugh. “I know, that’s the thing that sucks, but it never ends. I’ve always been pushed around, bullied around, ordered around at home and at work. It’s just life. Half the time I don’t fight it and just do it, so I don’t get so stressed out. But that’s my point: You have folks who care enough about you to give you the time of day. It’s different for a lot of other kids like me. When I’m eighteen, I’m out on my own, but even if you screw up, you’ll always have a place to call home. No matter what you do or whatever kind of jam you get into, you’ll always have your mom and dad.” I swallowed hard before I stated the one thing to Paul that I held back since I had first met him. “I’m sure you’ve heard this from David, but I’ll tell it to your face: I’d kill to have a father and a family like yours. I’d climb any mountain, I’d crawl on shards of glass, I’d go to hell and back, I’d do whatever it took to be a member of your family, the Howards, the Marshes, or any other family on Duinsmoore. Everyone’s always telling me how naive and inept I am, and maybe that’s true, but I know enough to know your family is it. I’ve been through some crazy shit, and I’m here to tell you, my own brothers and I would switch places with you in a heartbeat.”
Paul lowered his arms and sat still while I wound down. “On the school thing: You’re right, I messed up. Out of all the things I’ve done, well, that’s the worst. But it’s different for me. I’m almost eighteen and I gotta work ’cause I’ll be out on my own. I shoulda studied. I shoulda applied myself, but it’s kind of a bitch putting in all those hours at work, then going to school trying to learn fractions.
“But it’s different for you, Paul. Okay, school sucks and your folks drive you batty, but you have a home, you’re not being bounced around from place to place. Don’t you get it? You don’t have to wake up every day thinking, is this the day that your mom flips out and snaps your neck. It’s different for guys like me. You’re always saying how I make a big deal every time I come to Duinsmoore, well, now you know why.
“It’s no one’s fault, it’s just different. And you’re smart, and I mean brilliant. You’re like the Einstein of Menlo Park. Everywhere I go, it’s always ‘Paul, Paul, Paul.’ Maybe your folks have high expectations for you ’cause you have this gift, this brilliance that Howie sure as hell doesn’t have and what makes me feel like a retard in front of you at times. Howard and I talk, we talk a lot, and we know how this is all gonna go down. David’s probably gonna go into construction. Me, hell, after working with these old burned-out salesmen with big bellies and frayed rayon shirts and who live in some crappy upstairs studio apartment, I’ll probably get a job sweeping floors, and that’s okay by me. But you, you, Paul, if you don’t use your gift… well… that would be the biggest tragedy of all.”
I could feel pent-up pressure from within my chest begin to ease. Surprised with all that I had said, I looked at Paul, who sat completely dumbfounded. “For a guy who used to get nervous and stutter, you sure can be a windbag,” Paul stated. I shook my head at the same realization. “Maybe you can be one of those traveling preachers or one of those Zig Ziglar types.”
I huffed at Paul’s statement. At one point I thought that, as much as I had lambasted my sensitive friend, he would have either flipped me off, become a statue, or fled from the car. Now, for a moment, both of us just sat in the car, looking at each other. As much as I loved Paul, in some way I was also jealous of all that was placed before him. I only hoped that whatever he kept to himself didn’t eat at him and spoil his chances of going for his dreams. With the shiny Camaro idling in front of a fork in the road, Paul and I weren’t sure which direction to go.
10. Stepping Out
I couldn’t believe I, of all people, after all the gigantic blunders I had made in my life, had leaned on someone, let alone one of my best friends and basically told him to get over it, appreciate his blessings, and grow the hell up. I surprised myself on how adamant I was to Paul, who may have thought he had it pretty rough. As I lectured him, the words seemed more like those coming from either his father, the Marshes, or the legion of my concerned apprehensive foster parents. Even though on some things I felt I had a good head on my shoulders when it came to some of the pitfalls and temptations of teenage life, whenever I received a stern lecture from anybody way over my age group, I felt they didn’t know what it was like for me and were overly sensitive over nothing. As a teen I felt that at times it was an us against them situation: “the sky is falling” adults versus “well, if it does let’s see what happens” youth. Yet, after disclosing to Paul how good he had it, I wondered if I had somehow inched over to the other side. As frustrated as I was with my friend at times, I hoped he would not follow the path of some of the dozens upon dozens of foster kids
I had known, who, for one reason or another, had thrown up their hands and quit on themselves or adopted an “I’ll show them. No one’s gonna tell me what to do!” attitude. While some of them probably had every right to initially rebel after all the crap they endured, I prayed that my brilliant friend, with all the assets he had, was smart enough not to travel that path. By sticking my neck out and telling Paul like it was, I felt I was upholding our Rules of Engagement—if one of us fell down, the other must pick him up.
With the air cleared between us, Paul and I continued to idle the Chevy Camaro through the sides street of Menlo Park. Yet within a few minutes of my “pull yourself up by your bootstraps and show some gratitude” sermon, we once again simultaneously diverted from maturity when we stopped a few feet in front of an inclined set of railroad tracks. “Remember that movie…” I began.
“…when the car jumped over the tracks…” Paul flashed a rare smile as I nodded in agreement. Then as if activating his high-speed internal computer, Einstein, Jr., instantly calculated what it would take to approach the incline and “fly” up and over the railroad tracks. Paul’s summation seemed so elementary: Back up several hundred feet, floor the accelerator, and see what happens. The only oddity that Paul insisted on was, rather than approach the slope head-on, do it at a slight angle. In this way, my friend deduced, this method would prevent the heavily weighted front end of our Chevy from somehow bottoming out from the hurling airborne speed.
But I still had a few concerns, ranging from safety to any possible damage, as well as financial and legal liabilities. “But,” I raised my finger while thinking out loud, “we now have the driving ROEs that will see us through!” Paul, rubbing his chin, most certainly agreed that, before any activity commenced, ensure no law enforcement agency is within “The Area of Operation.” Second, ensure that The Area of Operation is clear of any and all children/civilians. Third, for reasons of safety, make certain there is sufficient clearance in front of the driver at all times. And, lastly, reverify checklist, take a deep breath, say a quick prayer, and think about what you’re getting yourself into. Just as the initial ROEs the three of us initiated in Dan’s garage had assisted us all those years, the new driving ROEs again kept Paul, David, and I from straying too far on the wild side.