My only chance was to somehow outthink my opponent. If in the past I could concoct painstaking plans to the slightest movement that helped me survive in my abnormal environment, or to outwit the pack of bullies from junior high and high school, I could certainly apply that same technique to outsmart Paul.
The next afternoon, after briefing David on my plan, he suggested to Paul that instead of racing the length of the block, we’d make the circuit around the entire neighborhood. I figured I needed the extra time and distance for everything to come together. Yes, I informed myself, Paul and his bike were superior, but his one folly, his only mistake was he had become complacent. After eating his fumes and following Paul dozens of times, I had gotten to know his riding style. This was my strategy: While Paul always rode in the middle of the street, I would now shave every corner. When Paul would apply his brake before taking a corner, my plan was to jam my bike’s throttle wide open. For all his adjustments, for all his computations, Paul never rode full out. And now I would. Nothing would stop me. As excited as I was from a swirling sense of fear, I knew I could do it. For years I had kept my confidence locked away deep inside to survive my mother. But now I could apply it to something adventurous.
With David as the demented starter for the great race, Paul and I revved our engines as if we were Indy-500 Formula-1 race car drivers. In front and behind Paul and me, it was hard not to notice how both sides of the block had become lined with clusters of small kids, who protected themselves behind parked cars that scattered the driveways. While their eyes opened wide in anticipation, some of the kids’ mouths hung as if they were salivating for some up close eye-candy carnage. Milking his immortal place in the annals of Duinsmoore Way, Howard bellowed, “Gentlemen… start your engines!” It didn’t seem to matter that no one could hear David due to the deafening roar of the bikes, making more noise and pollution than the supersonic Concorde jet aircraft. Quick to recover, and as if trying to redeem his error, David raised a finger before again bellowing to half the audience who cowered behind the cars’ bumpers, “I want a clean race. No hitting below the belt. No spitting. And no, uh, banana peels in the street. On my mark, on the count of three. One, two, two and a half, two and three quarters…”
Paul was smart enough to get the jump. Before I knew it, he was blazing away at full steam, while I leaned forward, frantically peddling to obtain single-digit speed. As my minibike gained momentum, Paul, as usual, rode in the middle of the street without a care in the world. Before taking the first corner, Paul let up on the gas and turned to check on my position, before gently applying his brake.
That’s when I made my move. A few seconds later, approaching the same corner, I scooted my butt off my moldy seat and leaned my body and minibike over in a sudden ninety-degree turn, as if I were the legendary motorcycle racer Kenny Roberts. To my surprise, besides a few sparks from the frame’s peg, I executed the maneuver without killing myself. I was too stupid to be scared. And Paul was too bewildered to believe that I was now nearly beside him, until he again leaned forward and gunned his throttle. Staying on the inside of the street I gained a few seconds before I readied myself for the next corner, rolled out, sucked in another deep breath, and honed in on the final turn. Beginning to feel a little cocky, and with Paul just ahead, I again performed my “Kenny Roberts” tactic, when I felt the minibike’s left peg dig into the pavement. Stealing a quick glance, I saw a shower of orange sparks fly by my sneaker.
Being preoccupied with the possibility of my shoe catching fire was my mistake. A second after straightening the minibike upright, I stared into the eyes of a small girl who stood frozen directly in front of me, screaming at the top of her lungs. Time seemed to stand still as I could see with perfect clarity the girl’s pretty floral dress and the bright yellow ribbon in her ponytail. The child’s high-pitched wail brought me out of my time warp. Even as I let off the gas and began to drag my heels, I knew it wasn’t enough. At the same time and to the far left, another girl, the older sister, I assumed, sprang up and ran to pluck her screaming sister from impending doom. Yet to the right of me, just a few feet away, Paul seemed oblivious. I thought for sure Paul, realizing the situation and knowing I had no brakes, would slow down so I could zip in front of him to avoid colliding with him and, more important, avoid the terrified child. To make matters worse, to the left and just behind the girl was a jumbo-sized station wagon resting near the sidewalk that I had somehow not seen before we started the race.
My arms seemed paralyzed as I couldn’t help but steer my bike directly at the girl. My brain screamed, Oh my God, I’m gonna hit her! I’m gonna hit her! like a broken record. My head began to replay the countless times how I could never do anything right—how incredibly stupid I always was, how much hardship I had constantly caused, or how I always, always screwed up everything. I never had the guts to change the outcome, to alter my course. I knew I would forever be destined to fail. I hated myself for not doing something, anything to avoid another Pelzer-induced disaster.
All I could do was tell myself to close my eyes, suck in a deep breath, tense my feeble body, and pray the girl would miraculously evaporate.
As I began to inhale, my mind spun into overdrive. My head suddenly began playing James Bond theme music. I tensed my face and analyzed my predicament. In front, the girl remained statuesque and had more air in her lungs than an opera singer, as she proceeded to wail. My mind began spinning off various options. Jumping off the bike wouldn’t work—either me or the minibike might somehow become entangled with the child. To the right, Paul was still absorbed in the race and continued on his heading. If I deliberately collided with him, there was still a chance I’d hit the girl. The only option was to lean to the left, then lay the bike down and into the front of the Spruce Goose–sized station wagon. With any luck I would roll under the car. My only concerns were that the bike would slide under with me, trapping me under the car, or that I would somehow flip up and crash against the windshield. Either way, I was about to ruin one of my favorite pair of expensive bell-bottom jeans.
As I positioned myself for the maneuver by sliding my butt off the seat, I suddenly saw an opportunity. Between the girl and the front bumper of the car was a few feet of clearance. By staring directly at the child and the car, I had only had a one-dimensional view. I had somehow stupidly become locked into the idea that they were both side by side. But there was only a small gap and worth the chance. Tensing my face, I committed by opening the throttle wide open, tilted the bike as far left as it would go, while praying the peg didn’t dig in and flip me and the bike over. As I passed the girl, her eyes followed me as she sucked in another breath to scream. I wanted to turn my head and nod to her that everything was going to be fine, but I was too focused on not screwing up. Suddenly the child jerked her head toward me. I could imagine her jumping out in front of the minibike. I glanced at her feet, which were still planted and facing the middle of the street. I knew if she did move, by the time her feet went into motion I would be behind her while she would be running forward, away from me. A fraction of a second after breezing past the girl, I swung the bike over to the right, missing the shiny chromed bumper by a few feet.
Minutes after the near catastrophe, I sat near my bike, which lay on its side, while fighting to catch my breath. I wanted to run up the street to check on the girl, but the intimidating glares from a group of adults surrounding the crying child kept me away. Howard was the first one to break the silence. “Man, that was too cool. I thought for sure you were gonna get creamed. I just wish I had my mom’s camera.”
Catching my breath, I leaned back and, oddly enough, soaked in the praise. For once in my life I didn’t flinch, I didn’t choke. I actually did something right. Just a couple of years before when I had tried out for football in junior high, I was the smallest, scrawniest kid on the team. I couldn’t run, catch, block a mannequin, or even snap the football. I always felt an overwhelming pressure swell up inside me, to the point that I’d hike the foo
tball up and over the quarterback’s head. Even as a preschooler, whenever my mother would stand over me, my fingers trembled so bad that I couldn’t tie my shoes. I never did well under any kind of pressure, especially if someone was in the vicinity. But just a few minutes ago I succeeded. With all that was swirling around me, I had a clear vision. I found a sense of calmness and followed through. I had threaded the eye of the needle.
And yet part of me wanted nothing more than to rip into Paul. “Why didn’t you back off or give me some room?!”
Probably sensing my anger, Paul sat on his prize with his arms crossed and looked up and replied, “Oh, it wasn’t as close as you think. You were gonna miss her by at least a mile.”
I clamped my mouth shut, but inside my head I let loose, That’s not the point! You… you… butt head! I got no brakes to slow down, no room to maneuver, the girl could’ve bolted like a scared horse, and I could have become a hood ornament!
A few seconds later my anger subsided, and Paul’s stoic pose loosened. “You should have seen your face, man. If I were you, I’d check my shorts,” Paul laughed.
I had suddenly become infamous. The incident about “that foster kid who tried to run down little Amy” became the ongoing topic of the tranquil block. No adult ever approached me, but Paul and David kept me well informed: I was marked. Whenever I’d cross the street to Paul’s house or stroll down to David’s, nearly everyone would suddenly snap their heads in another direction to avoid looking at me.
The next Sunday afternoon, the three of us lay on our backs on an old shed in the Welshes’ backyard. This became our hangout. At times we would just lie still, not uttering a word, staring straight up at the birds fluttering above us in the trees. The weekend before, Paul had convinced me that if I walked from one edge of the shed to the other and maintained the same pace, my momentum would allow my feet to catch onto the large overlapping branch of a nearby tree. With absolute calmness Paul assured me that he had figured it all out. “Besides,” Paul had shrugged, “you’re only a few feet off the ground. And, uh, if you fall, you’d just have to grab on to a branch, to break your fall.”
“Dude,” David added, “it’s cool. You gotta do it!”
Taking a deep breath while keeping my chin up, I was way too scared to back down from a “dare.” I took large militarylike steps, and with the precision of a drill cadet I marched perfectly straight off the shed. When my right foot stepped into space, I snapped my head down—discovering Paul’s meticulous calculations were absolute nonsense—as the nearest branch was just beyond reach. My forward momentum lasted a nanosecond before Newton’s law of physics went into effect. Before my mind could engage my mouth to cry out for help, my arms shot straight up, grabbing only molecules. My body then pitched forward, hitting every branch until I flipped over, landing squarely on my back with a sickening thud.
Above me, Paul and David seemed to be in the far end of a long dark tunnel, giggling back down at me. My lips went dry. I couldn’t lift my arms or move my fingers to gesture to them to help me. As my vision sharpened, a jarring pain crept up my back. For an instant I thought I’d live out my life in a wheelchair for something so incredibly stupid. But as my head cleared and my limbs responded, I knew I was going to be fine enough to choke the life out of both Paul and David.
Seven days after nearly becoming paralyzed, the three of us sat with our feet dangling over the edge of the shed. Breaking the silence, for no apparent reason Paul let out a laugh. “I still can’t believe you did that last week, Pelzer,” he said, shaking his head.
David snickered, “You should have heard it. It was like… someone dropping a bag of wet flour,” he emphasized with a closed fist hitting the palm of his other hand.
“No,” Paul corrected, “more like a sack of cement. And if you look, you can still see your outline. I mean it, stand up and check it out. Really, if you lean over, you can just make out where you fell. Come on, check it out.”
“After you,” I offered with a wave of my hand.
Looking at one another the three of us broke out in laughter. “What a week.” David huffed. Glancing at him for a moment, I knew where the conversation was heading. Even though we had all rehashed “the Amy incident” dozens of times, whenever any of us began the tale it was as if it had just happened.
“What were you thinking, when you came barreling down the street and came face-to-face with Amy?” David grilled. “I mean, weren’t you scared?”
I, too, had reveled about the incident, but in the late afternoon sun, while the world seemed still, I searched for the moral perspective. “Yeah, I guess… I mean, I don’t… I dunno,” I stammered. “When I first saw Amy, yeah I was afraid. Part of me locked up and thought for sure I was gonna slam into her. And then, part of me washed it away and figured as long as Amy stayed still, by the time she did anything I would have already passed her. I just didn’t want to wipe out and hit her or the car. I took a chance. I got lucky. That’s all it was, luck,” I nodded to David and Paul as well as to myself.
“But Pelz,” David followed up, “man, you were like… like so intense. It’s like you were fearless or something. I gotta tell ya, man, ever since I met you, I can’t figure you out. It’s like everything for you is the first time. Riding bikes, hanging out, or even this shed, man, you really dig this shed.”
I knew what David was getting at and, by Paul’s expression, he felt the same. “Remember as kids, when our parents would take us on summer vacation?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Paul interrupted, “grandmas! ‘Oh, look how much he’s grown! Here’s a nickel, why don’t you run down and go buy you a nice piece of taffy.’ All they do is smell like formaldehyde and always want to bend down and squeeze your cheeks. One time, by accident, I looked down my grandma’s blouse. Man, that was gross.”
“Oh, you loved it!” David fired back. “Go on, Pelz.”
“Anyway, at that time it was just my two brothers and me, and my mom and dad would take us to the Russian River. Man, the trees were kinda like this but only redwoods, and they were huge, as tall as skyscrapers. Ron, Stan, and I would play outside all day on this tree stump or just goof around doin’ nothin’. It was so cool. Back then I felt safe. No matter what happened, no matter what I did, everything was gonna be cool. Everything would turn out okay. That’s why I like hanging out here. It’s so peaceful. You get away from all the everyday bullshit.”
“I know what you mean,” Paul huffed.
“What are you griping about?” David jumped in.
“You know, my dad’s always on my case, and my mom’s always telling me what to do. I’m not even supposed to be here. If she finds out, I can get into trouble. It’s like I can’t do anything.”
David shook his head. “You’re an altar boy; you’re not supposed to be doing anything. What’s the diff’, same at my place. Besides, your dad’s, like, way cool.”
Deflecting, Paul turned to me. “I bet it’s easier at your place.”
“Definitely. It’s weird though; it’s like they don’t care,” I replied while realizing that out of all the foster parents I had had, John and Linda were extremely easygoing.
“So, what’s it like?” David asked. “I mean, what do you do?”
“I dunno, same as anyone else. Help out with chores, do as they say… you know, normal stuff,” I answered.
“But being a foster kid, that’s gotta be weird,” Howard stated.
Looking up at the trees and without thinking I blurted, “I gotta say something. I uh, I’ve seen some stuff… For years, every day, and I mean every day, I was terrified of my own shadow. I was so scared of every move I made. I couldn’t even pee straight. You’re taking a leak and your hand’s shaking and you get piss all over your pants and shoes. Do you have any idea what that’s like? When I was put into foster care, I somehow thought everything would change,” I emphasized, snapping my fingers. “But at school, man, I got my ass kicked, stomped, beaten, you name it, every day. New kid this, skinny rat th
at, hey four eyes. I’ve heard it all. Man, what a pain. And all I wanted was to be like everyone else; you know, fit in. I never really had friends. In the beginning Ron, Stan, and I were close before things turned bad. My family, my brothers, man, they all hate me.
“When you’re in the system, in foster care, you can’t get too close ’cause you move around so much. You don’t know who to trust. You never fit in. You keep your wall up, so you don’t get hurt. The only time I used to fit in was when I worked. I’d channel everything into that. But the thing is with you guys, I ain’t scared. I mean it, I’m not scared. I don’t have to prove myself; you guys accept me. It’s like… like I belong. With you two it’s like I’m this totally different guy, who’s not afraid and can do anything. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, man,” David replied. “Totally, I get it.”
“I dunno,” Paul warned, “you’re pretty intense. You didn’t see that look on your face.”
“Well, next time, move the hell outta the way,” I berated.
“Never!” Paul fired back.
The remainder of the afternoon the three of us rehashed the Amy incident over and over again until it included sound effects and Paul’s desire to have somehow filmed the event, as if he were the director of the movie Jaws. As the sun’s rays slid past the trees, I took in a deep breath. I turned to Paul and David and merely stated, “Today was a good day.”
Savoring the moment, with our hands behind our heads, the three of us gazed upward and nodded in unison.
“So,” David chimed in, “what are we gonna do tomorrow?”
5. Brotherhood
With “the Amy incident” still fresh in our minds—and especially on the minds of those in the neighbor-hood—late one afternoon the three of us decided to implement what Paul designated as the “ROEs”: the Rules of Engagement. Once initiated, “the rules” would somehow prevent us from diving too far into the depths of despair. We rarely had the vaguest idea of what we might do, for we only craved to do something and now. After an hour of mindless chatter in the heart of Mr. Brazell’s garage, Paul pulled in the reins. “Look, man. This is serious. You two quit goofin’ around. Grow up, will ya. We gotta come up with a plan.”