My existence would be that of manual labor. Since I didn’t have enough brains, I would survive by relying on my brawn—and a string-bean brawn at that. As long as I could come home to a nice, well-kept place that I could call my own, with a reliable clean car, and without ever worrying about where my next meal would come from, I would be content. But I simply no longer wanted to just get by from hustling my tail off for a few dollars, back and forth in the vast maze of fast-food chains. In my heart I knew there had to be something better out there for me. All I had to do was discover it and conquer it for myself.
Yet after pedaling as far as my bike could take me, the only professions that would consider me for employment were those in the quickie hamburger arena. Dejected, I scanned through the want ads, discovering opportunities for those who “craved a challenge, were highly motivated, willing to make untold sums of money, and receive their own automobile, free of charge, in the exciting field as… a car sales associate!” The last thing I wanted to do was wear tacky polyester suits and squeeze every dime from hard-working folks who simply wanted to own an automobile. But, then again, I began to convince myself, this job would solve two problems for me: First, I wouldn’t have to break my back and come home covered in sweat and grime every day for the rest of my life and, second, I would have a car, and a new one at that. The next day I put on my best terry cloth shirt and casually brushed the white flakes from my shoulders before happily appearing for an interview for my new career.
As impressed as the sales managers may have been from my overpleasing, I-can-do-anything intensity, they felt I was a wee bit too young and inexperienced for their prestigious positions. Back at the Turn-boughs’ I brooded over my age, feeling trapped in the middle—not being old enough to work in the adult arena, yet tired of and overqualified for flipping burgers and cleaning bathrooms for the rest of my life. But the more car lots turned me away, the more I persisted. Luckily, after a few relentless weeks and dozens of interviews with other dealerships, I was hired by a Ford dealership on the conditions that my pay was based strictly on commission and I would not receive a car. I didn’t care. I was just ecstatic to have a different kind of opportunity. Knowing this was a career that could possibly change my life, I immediately rushed out, cut my shoulder-length hair, and purchased a full wardrobe—two suits, two shirts, and three ties.
But after a few months of the high-pressure grind from furious managers who either hyped the sales staff every Friday morning at the weekly meetings, spinning fables of untold riches, or threatened us with doom and banishment, I quickly lost interest in the job. I hated competing with forty slimy salesmen who did practically anything—running to attack anybody that walked onto the car lot, or playing the psychological “if I could… would you?” games with the customer—in their desperate attempts to get the poor soul to commit to buying a car right then.
I lasted four months. At that time it was the largest Ford dealership in the continental United States, but I still left, and I announced—of little surprise to Alice and Harold Turnbough—that I would not be returning to high school either. It seemed beyond me, after dressing in corduroy suits and mismatched frayed ties, working in a high-pressured fast-paced job during the summer, to simply come back to school wearing faded bell-bottom jeans and sit at a desk while trying to comprehend social science or the importance of Shakespeare, as the kids around me chewed bubble gum and gossiped within their cliques. I knew I was making a huge mistake, but after working and flourishing in an adult world that could pay more in a single day than two weeks of busting my hump, at my age and for all my social perplexities, I believed high school was a huge step backward for me.
Even though unemployed, I at least now proudly drove a rust-infested 1974 Chevy Vega that I owned outright. With the Vega, I finally learned not to strip every gear in the transmission, but now prayed that every time the car attempted to crawl up a hill the gas filter wouldn’t clog up and stall the car in traffic; or whenever I took the car on the freeway that the ultra-sensitive clutch didn’t suddenly break down, leaving me stranded as cars whizzed by.
The first time I triumphantly piloted the Vega to Duinsmoore, it mattered little to me that the car backfired every ten feet or so while leaving a trail of gray smoke. Even when Dan gave a quick inspection before turning away displeased, I still stood tall. But only after The Sarge blasted me that he had purchased a Vega when they were new and how he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough did I begin to doubt the validity of my surprisingly good deal when I had dickered for the compact hatchback. “Well,” Marsh shook his head, “at least at school you won’t have to suffer any envy from your compadres.”
Without thinking, I squinted up at Michael while shaking my head. “School? I haven’t been to school in months. I dropped out!”
“Was that before or after someone dropped you on the head?” Marsh blasted.
I tried to calm him down, explaining my situation that I still had two years to complete while being out on my own. To me it didn’t make sense to stay. “Besides,” I surmised, “I got a career selling cars. I’m doing fine.”
“Right,” Marsh agreed with false praise. “You’re nearly eighteen, unemployed, or excuse me, ‘between jobs,’ an academic flunky, driving around in an aluminum death trap. Yep… sounds like you’re doing just fine. And tell me, young Rockefeller, what if you can’t find placement in the grand odyssey of being a car huckster? What then, pray tell?”
I had expected this. The Turnboughs, having had dozens upon dozens of kids in my similar position, were slightly more understanding. But I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, as well as Dan, would blow their tops when I finally told them. It wasn’t like the end of the world, for I already had another plan that I had discussed with Paul and David some time ago. “Well, if you must know,” I slowly began to mumble in a low voice, suddenly feeling less confident, “I thought about going to Hollywood…”
“As what?!” Mike interrupted. “The next prodigy discovery for George Lucas or Steven Spielberg? Oh, I get it, you want to take a chance at the leading man’s roles, right? Trust me on this, Slim. Roger Moore is ensconced on Her Majesty’s Secret Service and Clint Eastwood isn’t going to ‘high plain drift’ out of town.”
I kept my mouth shut until Mike ran out of steam. “No man, you don’t get it. I’m not gonna be an actor…”
“Thank God! For now I won’t have to call Frank Sinatra and tell him all the lovely damsels are about to flee his harem and flock to your tent. I’m sure ol’ Blue Eyes will be most appreciative.”
Losing control, I yelled, “I’m not going to Hollywood to become an actor! I’m gonna be a stuntman!”
Mike was speechless. For the first time since I had known him, The Sarge—The Great Communicator, who fought for truth, justice, and a six pack of Coors—was stunned stupid. The only sound evident was the raspy breathing that escaped his lungs. I also noticed that for the first time Mike had a set of thick veins that were now pulsating from his forehead.
“Let me get this straight,” he began, “you lost your job at the plastics factory, which I say good riddance to. You had to return your Chevelle, due to lack of employment. So far, I understand. Then, you get a brainstorm that if you sell cars, the dealership will grant you a demo to drive around in, but, come to find out, for reasons of common sense and enormous liability, the good people at Ford Motor Company decided not to grant you this privilege. So, you purchase this… this jalopy”—The Sarge pointed at my humble Vega—“from some loser who was probably turned away from every low-life car lot from here to Baja, and who most likely tried to parlay this piece of excrement as a trade-in for another car. Tell me, young Skywalker, do you really think ‘The Force’ was with you on this good deal? When this guy sold you this car, did you sell him another car from that Ford establishment that you so proudly worked for?”
Since the transaction had happened so fast, I didn’t have the chance to think it all through as deeply as Mike said. “Come to think of it, he
never bought a car. But,” I excitedly defended, “the guy does have my card and promised to give me a call.”
“The guy, is that who he is, ‘the guy’? You don’t even know his name, do you?
“I apologize.” He continued, “It appears I have deviated from my plethora of deductions. So, as of now, at this moment, you have four rubberlike tires, an AM radio, a shell of a car being held together with Band-Aids and bubble gum, and a mode of transport that will only get you ten feet in your journeys, and that’s with you pushing from behind. You’re a few hundred dollars shy in your token bank account. In turn, you drop out of high school to, ‘to pursue a career in the exciting world of automotive sales’ in which now you are unemployed, or excu-u-u-u-se me,” Mike said in his Steve Martin voice, “as they say in Hollywood: You’re simply on hiatus. And if all else fails you’re gonna become a stuntman? Is that the gist of it? The only thing you haven’t told me is that you might be a little bit pregnant.”
“That’s impossible,” I said to the last statement, trying to keep Mike from blowing a gasket.
“Oh no, not for you it’s not. You’re like some strange amphibian, some frog from the darkest jungles of South America; one day you’re male, then next you’re a female carrying a bounty of eggs.”
“Wow.” I stood in front of Mike fascinated. “Are you for real? I didn’t know that.”
“You would if you went to school!” Mike fired back. “So tell me, stunt-wanna-be extraordinaire, how does a person of your stature and grace, who can’t throw a baseball, can’t catch a Frisbee, who has never played any sport in his entire life, with the aptitude and coordination of an invalid, accomplish such feats of grace, balance, precision, and courage, without getting turned into hamburger?”
I started to see where he was headed.
“What’s your plan? Something of this importance must have been thought through. Do you even have a plan? Do you have any contacts?” Before I could inform Mike that I had indeed given the idea much thought of cashing out my bank account and hiding the large bills in my shoes, then praying the car would make it to Southern California, where I could get a job part time selling cars while taking classes somewhere, learning my new craft before working professionally on the big screen. I had figured four to six weeks, maybe half a year’s time max before I’d be on my way to fame and fortune.
But The Sarge refused to back down. “I can see it now: As you pilot your dilapidated Vega, your trusty steed, as it may, through the Boulevard of Dreams, and the mayor of Hollywood, the Grand Pooh-Bah himself dressed in ceremonial garb, will stand on a podium addressing a throng of spectators, proclaiming Dave Pelzer Day, then hand you a key to the city. You’re in like Flint, pal. You’ve got it made.”
I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm. “I know what you’re saying. And, I know it ain’t gonna be like that. And I know I may not make it… but…”
Mike put a hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, Slim, I know I’m bombarding you more than the battle of Khe Sanh, which, by the way, was a seventy-seven-day siege in the Vietnam war, if you still have an interest in world history. I’m not tryin’ to pee on your new set of boots, if you had any that is, but right now and I mean right at this moment in your life, as you make that step into adulthood, I cannot emphasize enough to you, because of your luck and everything else that swirls around your little solar system, all that’s against you. Right now you have one foot in the grave and the other one on a banana peel. Out there in the world, it’s a lot different than you think. Look at my bride and me; all we do is work our tailbones off. And that’s every bloody day. You’ve only had a taste of it. Just wait till you get married and have a litter of your own. Everything’s peachy keen, then one of your kids needs to see the dentist and you’re losing sleep at night thinking how in the hell are you going to scrounge that extra $317 for fillings. It’s a bitch to get ahead, let alone hold your own. And what if something happens to you, and it will—you fracture a bone, you’re out of work, or with your luck you’d probably become paralyzed.”
“But that ain’t gonna happen to me,” I countered.
“Slim, if I hear those words ain’t gonna, one more time… You better choose some new words from your vernacular.”
Squinting my eyes, I stuttered, “Ver-nac-u-lar?”
“Look it up in your dictionary. If you weren’t an obtuse high school dropout, you’d know that word and a cornucopia of other things that would prepare you in the ways of the world. And that’s precisely my point: You’re way out of your league, Slim. If you don’t have a basic education you won’t amount to diddly. Ever! And that ain’t gonna happen to me attitude doesn’t fly. I admit that when I was your age I thought I was bulletproof. Everybody does. Did you know I used to be a mountain climber?”
“Wow!” I gasped.
“I’m not talking Mount Everest with Sir Hillary, but I’m here to tell ya, my overzealous, ignorant Sherpa, a lot of folks are so gung ho, thinking nothing’s gonna happen to them and all they gotta do is put one foot in front of the other and watch where they step. That’s an okay plan, but that’s not enough. It’s not making it to the summit that counts, but making it back down to base camp in one piece with all your fingers and toes. I’m here to tell ya, Adventure Boy, in the game of life shit happens. Up there, there’s avalanches, windstorms so bad you can’t see your hand in front of you. And something always, and I mean always, happens to a member of your team. Up there when, not if, but when the shit hits the fan, the higher you go, meaning the deeper you get into it, you can’t get anybody down and they die. I’m not trying to be a drama queen here, but I’m trying to get through that thick noggin of yours that you’re stumbling up a mountain, without any equipment or expertise and into a blizzard, but you’re still at base camp. Am I getting through?”
I nodded my head.
Marsh’s throbbing vein in his forehead began to recede. “I just don’t see you as a replacement for someone like Burt Reynolds who, by the way, played football in his youth and almost made it to the big leagues before a knee injury sidelined him. I even think he did a stint as a stuntman before making it to the big screen. And I surely don’t see you schlepping cars for an eternity. You’re at that fork in the road now, son. This is your time to think, really think about where you’re at, what you’re doing, and where you’re going. You haven’t passed the point of no return just yet. You’ve still got a few months, and if I were you I’d make ’em count.”
Mr. Marsh was right. And so was Dan, who just a couple of weeks ago had driven over to my foster home to pick up my battered motorcycle that I had sold to Paul. Mr. Brazell sat in my bedroom for over an hour pleading with me to think carefully about my half-baked scheme. In reality it was a simple idiotic fantasy that Paul, David, and I fed into whenever I performed a stunt—driving down a street backward while staring straight ahead, which I had picked up from the Burt Reynolds movie Hooper, about the drama and endless adventures of a Hollywood stuntman. Thinking back, the idea began as a release from my mundane life—working twelve-hour workdays at the car dealership for weeks at a time, only to return home to collapse in my messy room. My sole relaxation was either sleep, watching movies, or my visits with Paul and David. Because I had dropped out of high school, I constantly lied to Alice and Harold Turnbough about how great my job was, while within me I hated the constant backstabbing tactics among the salesmen, the tension from the sales managers, and how utterly desperate I felt whenever I worked anybody who was “just looking.” The Turnboughs were clueless about my stuntman fantasy. Nor did anyone know that I kept a pillowcase filled with clothes and enough cash to get me to Hollywood. Several times I had returned home from work so upset that I nearly ran off in the middle of the night. I wanted nothing more than to flee from my pathetic life. I had a craving to do something that wasn’t overscrutinized, praying for a chance to take off and become part of the bright lights in the big city.
Part of me just didn’t want to grow up, “be a man,” and become resp
onsible. As hard as my childhood was and as much as I had pushed myself to survive and move on, I began to have serious doubts about making it out there. As a teen there was a certain order of going to school and scurrying from job to job. Since I had planned every moment, I always knew what was around the next corner. Now, standing on the border to the next phase of my life, I realized knowing Paul and David and their relationships, how much I had missed when growing up as a child.
I suddenly felt naked and alone in a vast new world, compounded by the fact I didn’t have an inkling of what lay ahead. Looking up at Mr. Marsh, I sniveled, “So what do I do?” As the words slipped, so did my quasi-fantasy of living a life of freewheeling adventures in Hollywood.
“Well, my young apprentice, that’s the age-old question,” The Sarge began. “I know it may seem a bit overwhelming right about now, but you’ll be fine, if you keep your head on straight and get your act together. You’re not going through anything that any of us soon-to-be geriatrics already haven’t. It’s a rite of passage. There’s a big world out there and you can do anything. Follow your strength, ‘use The Force,’” Mike imitated from Star Wars. “You told me once you wanted to be a fireman. Well, go do it. Maybe the service would be a good place to get your feet wet in the pond of life. Sign up for a few years, see what you’re made of, get an education beyond what any classroom can teach you. Hell, son, you can join the army, get your Jump Wings as a paratrooper, and maybe become a ranger. You could become a lean, mean, fightin’ machine! Hell, look what it did for me!”