OATMEAL KILLED THE DINOSAURS

Allen Anderson

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Oatmeal Killed the Dinosaurs ™

Copyright © 2010 by Allen Anderson

As the author, I have made every effort to verify details of my true story through research, family interviews, and available documentation; however, some details are as I remember them. Names of those individuals associated with my childhood have, in most cases, been changed.

First printing: December 2010

Cover photo and graphics © 2010 ALE

ISBN-10: 1-453-78501-9 EAN-13: 978-1-453-78501-0

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For Jeanne and Leroy

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Introduction

My father’s baby book states that his first words were: “Get Out.” One could surmise that his parents either fought a lot (they did) or my father repeatedly heard his mother yell those choice words to fleeing door-to-door salesmen.

As strange as those first two words were coming out of my father, it would be his last five words to me that would resonate as I entered adulthood. Those five words put into perspective our relationship and helped me answer the question posed by my mother in their Christmas card to me.

In that card she asked, “Your father and I wonder sometimes what we did as parents that made us such heels in our children’s eyes?”

Well Mom and Dad, here is my answer…

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Contents

Chapter Relocating School Grade

1 Alaska to Billings 5th grade summer

2 Billings to Yuma 6th grade

3 Yuma to Tahoe 7th & 8th grade

4 Tahoe to Yuma 9th grade

5 Yuma to Quantico 9th grade

6 Quantico to Billings 10th grade

7 Billings Summer 10th grade

8 Billings to Las Vegas 11th grade

9 Las Vegas to Tahoe 11th grade

10 Tahoe to Las Vegas 11th grade

11 Las Vegas to Cocoa Beach 11th grade

12 My Letter Home

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13 Cathy Calls

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Chapter 4

Our long road trip to Utah is filled with FM elevator music and little conversation. Dad orders all our meals and requires me to consume my restaurant beverages last.Dad loves his coffee, and we stop at many Denny’s and Sambo's along the way so he can take advantage of their standing loss-leader coffee deal; a nickel a cup with free refills. I get to drink only water or milk. In the car, my hands remain on my knees while our Cadillac is in motion. This too is a family rule Dad has enforced for as long as I can remember.

We arrive in Zion National Park where Mom is busy working making salads and desserts in the lodge’s main restaurant, which swells with busloads of elderly tourists during the summer and fall seasons. Dad and I enter her private room, which contains its own bathroom. Mom has a supervisory role in the kitchen and this upscale employee accommodation is one of the perks. No dormitories for her. She appears thin and looks tired as she enters and greets us.

“Hello sweetie.” Mom hugs and kisses me. “How was your trip?” She puffs on her favorite cigarette brand, Benson & Hedges.

“It was pleasing to me Mom.”“Knock it off,” Dad says.“What? I just answered Mom.” After the rude

readjustment to Dad’s regimented rules I am feeling very flippant.

“You know damn well what you are doing.” He is suddenly agitated, as if I am crashing his private party. He must be thinking, “Damn it Marge, we’re stuck with the irritating chirpy bird again.” I cannot win. Do as I

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am told and I still get admonished. If I had simply said, “The trip was fine,” I would have invoked another response from Dad: admonishment for being an evaluator. Maybe I should just start grunting. I know I am not an evaluator Dad, the backside of your hand constantly reminds me of that. All hail Dad (Note…at this point don’t forget to kneel and bow).

With so little talking in the car between us on the trip to Zion, things went pretty well. No arguments. No decisions for me to make. Just do what I was told. Eat what was placed before me, and crap at the designated time and place. Everything the Army offers but without the standard issue green underwear.

“Sit down and listen,” Dad tells me. I sit in a chair and face them. Mom smokes and smiles. It doesn’t take long for the civil atmosphere in our cabin to deteriorate. “While I traveled with our son from Tahoe to San Francisco a month ago I was psychoanalyzing him,” Dad starts.

“What is this?” I immediately complain.“I said shut up. Keep your hands on your knees

and be quiet,” Dad admonishes me. Mom quietly observes. Is this some sort of mental ambush?

“I am concerned about our son.” “Mom, he was psychoanalyzing me? I hate you!

Why do I have to sit here and hear this?” I stare directly into Dad’s eyes.

“You will sit there and listen because I’m telling you to,” he says.

“Sweetie, please listen to your father.” “We need to control our son. He has been

running wild this summer, out of control. We need to limit his free time, his money, and get his attitude under control.” Dad insists on referring to me in the third

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person. My stomach is in knots and tears of frustration are welling up in my throat and eyes. After a summer away from Dad and all of our family’s dysfunction this blind-sides me completely. 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds.

For several minutes Dad continues talking to Mom, but I am entering a state of shock. I am in physical and emotional pain. I want to rush Dad and hit him; stop him now. But I would have to see him again, maybe in a day, a week, a month, and my situation would be invariably worse. Dad has told me in the past “I’ll hit you so hard your nose will be on the side of your face, right here, and I may spend six months in jail, but you’ll be a freak for life.” I know no minor infraction like jumping up and hitting him is worth it. He’d snap me like a twig. If I ever confront Dad, to put an end to all of this forever, it will have to be UforeverU; no coming home, no continuation, no seeing him again. Or he’ll snap me in half. I burst out, “Why, why are you doing this to me Dad, why?”

“Just like a little sissy, my god you are an embarrassment. Look at him Marge, he’s a mess, a goddamn mess.” He is enjoying this. But he is right. I am a goddamn mess. What will I become after four more years of him? I hate my life. For about an hour I sit, listen, cry, then I am told to get into my pajamas and, “Go perform your bathroom routine.” The next day Dad and I are on the road again.

As our cigarette smoke filled Cadillac lumbers along at 50 mph, an instrumental version of “Up, Up and Away” plays on the radio. I watch the reddish gradations of the Utah landscape slowly transform and eventually give way to the bland sandy tone of the Nevada desert. It all just plods by, like my youth. His left hand holds his cigarette and again both of mine are mandated to stay on

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my fourteen-year-old knees. Before I know it, I doze off again and Dad’s right hand smacks my dipping head.

“Wake up...no sleeping in the car!” “Yes sir.” Mom is only hours behind us in the

kitchen at Zion National Park and…I doze off again. Smack!

“Damn it, I told you to stay awake.” “I’m tired.” Dad stops our car on the shoulder, tells me to exit, and we stand in the desert heat. Dad retrieves an orange and appears to survey the surrounding area. I’m groggy, and as he eats the orange, the peels seem to fall in slow motion before me. Sweating in my long sleeve shirt and mandatory t-shirt, I wait for my orders.

“Come here and stand in front of me,” Dad says. I straddle that imaginary line of ‘close-enough-to-

be-slapped and maybe-I-can-jump-back-faster-than-you-can-strike-me’ distance. After years of test trials my research is almost complete. I am too far back as Dad tells me, “Step closer in case I want to hit you.” Closer, but be careful buddy.

“See that sign up ahead?” he asks. I look far down the gray stretch of road and see

what is either a “Speed Limit 70 mph” sign or the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, or… The intense heat waves rising from the scorched pavement make it almost impossible to tell what is down there. I avoid any flippancy.

“Yes, sir, that sign.”“Now walk to it and back and that will wake you

up.” It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk there and back, as speeding cars and big rigs whiz past me. I wonder what they must of be thinking; seeing a teenager walk seemingly all alone in the 100 degree desert heat. I once again find myself standing before Dad.

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“Will you stay awake now?” he asks. Unfortunately I am more awake and feeling very, very flippant.

“I’m still tired.”“Alright, now you will run there and back and

don’t you dare stop,” Dad demands. I jog off to the sign and draw even more curious stares from passer-bys. One truck driver blows his horn as he comes up behind me, and I practically jump out of my long corduroy pants. Jerk.

We are soon on the road with no conversation to interrupt the continuous stream of elevator music Dad so enjoys. Dad will not let me buy or listen to any albums by popular artists because, “You’ll be supporting their drug habits.”

I don’t dare comment about the instrumental version of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” that is currently playing on the radio. Hey Dad, it’s a rock song in disguise and it’s making the Beatles rich and supporting their drug habits. But he won’t turn this irritating, abomination of a rock classic off. Its royalty producing and drug enabling capabilities have safely slipped by Inspector A-hole, and it has been summarily endorsed “elevator music” suitable for all ages! Ugh!

My hands stay on my knees as Dad drives toward our newest residence. Dad opens up a bit and tells me it is a single-story rental house with a pool in Yuma, Arizona. What, you’re going to drown me now? Are your attempts at driving me crazy taking too long father? Newsflash, I still don’t know how to swim, or is that your master plan on how to rid yourself of chirpy-bird once and for all?

We stop at a McDonald’s, where all I get to eat is the family rule mandated small hamburger, small fries,

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and small strawberry shake. A regular freakin’ happy meal…at least it ain’t peanut butter and jelly. For all my years at home that is all I am allowed to eat at McDonald’s when I am with Dad. No options. Do as you are told Allen.

The highlight of the trip from Utah to Arizona is to be a four-day stop in Las Vegas. We pull into town and Dad drives toward the end of the famed strip, which dances under row after row of neon signs. Several straggling signs come to life before me, as the sun begins its final descent behind the horizon.

Dad soon wishes he had reserved our arrival in advance. After pulling our car into several small, off-strip motels, he discovers they are either sold out or too expensive for his liking. Dad enters the car each time saying, “Goddamn it.”

Dad avoids air conditioning at home and in the car because of his bronchitis, and the desert heat is unbearable with our car parked or stopped for even a few minutes. Dad parks in front of the reservation desk of the Klondike Inn, where apparently four other car loads of weary travelers have the same idea. There is a line at the front desk and we are in last place.

“Go ask them what their best rate is for an adult and one child from Alaska,” Dad says. I get it…Alaska, Klondike. Ha, ha. That is too funny...and embarrassing.

“That’s dumb. They don’t care where we are from.” Which the last time I looked, was South Lake Tahoe, California.

“We have Alaska plates and I have an Alaska driver’s license. Just go in there and ask or we will leave town this minute.” I step out of the car as serenading crickets provide the score and the Klondike Inn’s neon comes to life, the last to join the illumination bandwagon.

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The desert heat hits me full blast, yet I am enjoying the magical twilight transition. The car door closes with a thud behind me. It will be dark soon, I am very tired, and I want to sleep in a comfortable bed, but I won’t do this. It’s too stupid and embarrassing. Instead of the comfort that I know awaits me inside one of these rooms, I turn to Dad.

“I don’t want to do this. Can’t I just ask their best rate? An Alaska rate is stupid Dad.”

“That’s it. You just blew yourself a nice vacation in Vegas. Get in!” Dad starts the car up and our tires toss gravel indiscriminatingly as they struggle for traction in the loose footing. Once on the road, we slow to Dad’s usual 50 mph highway speed, regardless of the posted speed limit. “Get your goddamn hands on those knees before I stop the car and do it myself.” I do it, but turn to catch a last glimpse of Sin City and the famed casinos of the strip.

“Turn around and look straight ahead damn it. I am going to work on your attitude. Yes, I am. You are my project,” Dad says. We drive on through the night, stopping for coffee and a few catnaps. I don’t make eye contact with him the entire time we are in the car. Eyes straight ahead and hands on knees. I don’t want to spend four days anywhere with you Dad…even Vegas.

The house in Yuma is nice—built in the 1950’s, plain, ranch style. It has a swimming pool and plenty of square footage, although our belongings are in almost every room waiting to be unpacked. Dad has not opened the boxes he brought down from Tahoe over the summer. What has he been doing all these moves besides playing psychiatrist?

A day of unpacking and soon the evening has invaded this desert city. Dad and I head out for what I

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am told will be a short walk, but it turns into a seven-miler. Twenty minutes into it, I ask Dad, “When are we going to start heading back home?”

“After the post office. But we will be done when we are done. The post office lobby stays open all hours, so there is no rush,” Dad says. His arms sway by his side while we walk. On both hands Dad rotates his fingers, one at a time, touching each to his thumb, then repeating the process. It is a habit he has had for years.

Although the sun has been long gone, it is still a draining, stagnant 95 degrees. We walk without conversation, only stopping momentarily to check coin returns on payphones and paper-racks. Does this qualify as a hobby Dad? It sure does feel like quality time to me, there I go again being flippant. Bad Allen.

Six foot, 250 lbs, US Army Airborne in WWII, Dad towers above my soon to be 9th grade frame. School registration is why we are in Yuma without Mom, who will remain at her job until the end of the tourist season. Cathy, 19, will be moving in too when the prime tourist season ends at the Grand Canyon National Park. Both parks are managed by the same employer, TWA Services. Judy too will eventually relocate to Yuma, where she will live with a roommate only a few miles away from our rental.

Dad exits the post office with letters and a white box. A box that is going to cause me a lot of trouble. I read the label and it is addressed to me, from Warner Lambert Co. He wants to know what it contains and why it is addressed to me. My personal possessions outside of clothing amount to only a cashless wallet, a comb, and my Timex watch. A mystery for you Dad.

“It’s my timer from Listerine labels,” I say.

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My hobby for the summer was collecting Listerine labels from discarded Listerine mouthwash bottles at Tahoe Inn. The bigger the bottle, the more points the label was worth under a Listerine promotion. More points meant I could redeem them for nicer gifts. As it turned out, I had enough at the end of the summer for an appliance timer. The maids used to collect bottles for me too, and on a few occasions they even let me soak off the front label of a bottle, even if it was still in use! I simply turned the bottle around so the remaining rear label was visible. After a year of this no guest complained and all my efforts culminated in a timer worth about ten bucks retail.

“I am confiscating this,” Dad says. Unauthorized. I know better to say anything, and will wait for Mom and plead my case then. Not that I have a use for it, but it is something I have worked for and I want it. We walk home and I enter our kitchen dead tired and thirsty. Dad walks away to put the mail in his room and I get a drink of tap water. Without warning, the china cup flies from my hand as Dad smacks me upside my face.

“Aaah!” I yell, completely taken off-guard as to the cause for this. The cup shatters on the kitchen floor.

“Goddamn it, you don’t drink from the china, you could chip it,” Dad yells. Crying, I stand there with half my face numb. In defense and between tears and coming up for air, I tell Dad, “I’m sorry, but I, I, I wash these cups all the time and I wasn’t going to chip it.”

To resolve future issues on what damn cup I can freely drink from, Dad simply bans me from the kitchen unless he is present with me. If I want anything to drink, I will have to ask him first. That was easy, way to go Dad, way to handle the situation. First the milk, now the

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water. If I had been born into this family as a camel, I’d have it made.

My room is plain. Dad has always required they be that way, and this room is no different. Even though I start high school in several weeks there will be no posters, no pictures, no television, and no phone...just a room with a bed and an open door. Will the warden personally be doing the nightly bed-check?

“A room is to sleep in,” he reminds me. My few remaining movie posters I bought in 1974 remain rolled up or folded on the closet floor: The Towering Inferno, Earthquake, and the Marathon Man. If I want them displayed on the walls Dad tells me they have to be framed. Since I have no money that is not going to happen (and it never does).

In bed I cry as the Arizona night slips away outside my window. I wish Mom was here already. Tomorrow I get my first pair of glasses. Thankfully that argument has already played itself out in Mom’s Zion cabin. She persuaded Dad, “The boy wants wire frames so let him have his wire frames for goodness sakes.” Thanks for listening to me Mom, besides you both told me it’s my money from Tahoe Inn paying for them.

I wake up and conduct my morning routine: make the bed, bathroom usage, and oatmeal. We hardly speak as Dad drives me toward the Marine base on the outskirts of Yuma for my eye exam and glasses. Hand on knees. Look straight ahead. Dad’s window is down, as usual, and his exposed left arm bakes under the sun. No air conditioning. He puffs on another cigarette.

The guard at the gate salutes the blue officer’s sticker on our car. After obtaining my prescription, we walk to the optical shop where Dad is more than ready to

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order the free Buddy Holly black plastic military frames for me to wear.

“Mom said I could get the wire frames,” I protest immediately.

Dad takes me outside, grabs my arm, and pulls me close, “There will be no wire frames worn in this family. Now do as you are told.”

“Why, you promised?”“I didn’t promise you anything. You’re mother

did and I have the final say.”“Why?” I start to cry. “I don’t need you getting an eye injury for one

thing.” I think to myself it would be pretty hard to get apiece of wire frame in my eye checking phone booths and doing chores. What’s the difference between wire or plastic impaling my eyeballs? It is no use. Dad places the order ensuring I will not be wearing the frames I wanted to start 9th grade with.

We proceed next to the high school. As we exit the car Dad reminds me again, “Damn it, you will do as you are told. And you will remain quiet as I pick your classes.”

With just one child out of six left at home, there is definitely $36 around for a pair of wire frames. I’m not going to let go of this…they promised me…WIRE FRAMES! We have color televisions, a Cadillac, a monthly military retirement check coming in, a rental house with a swimming pool...but I have to walk around like a nerd in military black frames.

My bad luck is being the last of six children at home with Dad fully retired and with nothing productive for him to do except to make me his project.

On a daily basis since Tahoe I have faced the full wrath of Hurricane Randall Anderson Sr., a.k.a., Dad.

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Yes, there have been lulls, mini eyes-of-the-storm, but I am resigned to a stressful existence at home until I can finish high school and go to college on the money I have saved. Black frame glasses or not, thank God for school and the valuable time away from home (and Dad) it provides me.

With a full schedule at school, eight hours of sleep, and, when allowed, outside employment, I just might make it. Throw in Dad’s extended trips from home and it looks promising and quite plausible. I can make it. I can save money and get good grades for college. Caesars Palace Sports Book, can I help you? Yes, can you tell me the latest line on Allen surviving his childhood? Sorry, we’ve pulled that wager from the boards…not enough bets on YES.

The front desk employee at Kofa High School needs Dad to make a decision.

“Your son can select either the first shift or the second shift,” says the registrar. “Morning classes run from 7:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. and the second shift is 10:45 a.m. to 4:45 p.m. The lunch times are staggered due to the large number of students.”

My desires are not solicited. Dad picks the afternoon shift. The distance between our address and the school means I will be riding a school bus both ways. The lady hands Dad the school bus information, my class schedule, and Dad and I depart the school grounds in our Cadillac once again accompanied by the bland mellow tunes Dad favors. Why doesn’t Dad pop in a Glen Campbell 8-track? I wonder if Lawrence Welk has a drug problem?

My first thought is how my morning is going to be utilized since Captain Bootcamp here requires a 5:45 a.m. wake up routine out of me. My second thought is

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how lucky I am this school doesn’t have a swimming pool.

The fewer embarrassments I have to suffer the better. To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or by opposing them, end them. My list is growing. Crappy glasses and flood pants, military haircuts, no muscle tone, low self-esteem, lack of coordination, and igloo shade skin tone. No Crayola crayon for that shade exists.

I hate P.E. classes and cannot wait for the mandatory 2-year gym requirement to be over. The only upside is I will be able to shower five days a week at school instead of my one bath on Saturdays.

“Bridge to Scotty, damage report?” At 14, I still have not caught a fish or made it past first base in baseball. The only time I made it to first base, I was immediately tagged out because of my ignorance. Not knowing any better, I took my foot off the bag facing second base. You’re out!

“You mean if I just would have run straight I would have been safe?” I never make it to first base again…ever. Athletics for me means being in a constant state of stress, whether I am swinging a bat, bouncing/hitting/catching/throwing any type of ball, and any interaction with water. All these invite performance anxiety and potential embarrassment. Hell, the only thing I can catch is a cold. A stumbling newborn fawn has more coordination than me.

Granted I am a fast runner and according to Dad that ability is thanks to the bullies who chased me home in 4th grade. Omnipresent. All knowing. Yes Dad, that’s what you are. Mr. Clairvoyant.

Back home from the high school, Dad assigns me my Yuma Chores List: watering the front yard (yes, even

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if it is raining), cleaning the swimming pool, and the dreaded Saturday field days. A field day still means a complete attack on all things dirty, and if I finish too quickly, Dad calls an audible and quickly adds a new chore. Bottom line: it’s an all day event. Scrub the oven, clean out the refrigerator, clean both bathrooms, vacuum, and of course all the tile floors have to be scrubbed.

“Remember the baseboards,” Dad says from behind his newspaper and coffee.

It is so hot here and nothing like Lake Tahoe. To my surprise Dad approves my request to cool off in the family pool as long as it is between 5:30 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. I take command of the shallow end. Even though I possess no swimming skills, it is still fun, refreshing, and oh, so cooling. My bedtime in Yuma occurs after I finish washing and drying the family dishes, unless an ad hoc chore is added. At this house, like the others, Dad implements the door-open policy for all rooms I occupy alone.

“I’ll say it again. I don’t care if you are taking a shit or combing your hair…the bathroom door will remain open.” Yeah, got it Dad, this isn’t the first time remember? And it always stays open when he is around; however, when the cat is away…this mouse craps with the door closed.

Occasionally I find myself jumping up off the toilet mid-use to swing the door open because Dad has arrived home unexpectedly. Until school starts, I clean and walk and brace for more family rules and the inevitable outbursts that will emerge. Like walking on eggshells. I need Mom home to be the equalizer. But her contributions are normally nothing more than that of a witness or a sound effects technician adding screams to

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my pitfalls. From the Director: “Look love, unless you sync up your pleas for old man hubby here to stop hitting the boy, then I won’t be able to use this scene. Quiet on the set, except you son, you’re getting pummeled in this shot. And queue the hand slaps, Action!”

Mom and Cath arrive home together the day before my high school classes start. Trying to take my one bath a week and using the toilet with the door open with two females in my mist is once again going to be awkward.

“I’m sorry for you Allen,” Cath tells me. What I really what from her is to forget her habit of occasionally not flushing. And to think I found her smacking at the dinner table irritating and in bad taste. With Cath living with us again I am informed I have the additional ‘privilege’ of washing and waxing her silver Toyota Celica, along with our Cadillac, at least one Saturday a month. But this is just the tip of the iceberg in changes coming my way.

Dad informs Mom at dinner that I am going to the first and second shifts at the high school. Like watching a wild west telegraph operator banging out the signal, Dad’s words register in my mind one letter at a time…did I hear what I think I just heard? Dad tells us exactly how I am going to pull that off. First I am going to walk to school, arrive at the start of first shift classes, study in the school’s library until my classes start, attend classes, then ride the school bus home. I cannot believe it! Every kid in my school loves the idea of sleeping in during the first shift, but I have to walk to school hours earlier. That is why they provide a bus Dad…the distance between point A and B warrants it.

Kofa High, with 1500 students, is the largest school I have ever attended. My first thought is how

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easy it will be to blend in, out of sight, and keep a low profile even with my flood pants and military black-frame glasses. 1 in 1500, I like those odds a lot.

The library is my hangout as first shift starts and I pass the time reading magazines. Classes are uneventful. The usual math, English, gym, etc. Nothing too challenging. Occasionally various black, Mexican, and white gangs have a skirmish, but it appears amateur time here in Yuma compared to what I hear about in New York and Los Angeles. After classes I board the school bus, and once back home Dad has me either doing chores or studying in the bathroom at the built-in makeup desk. Eat dinner, do the dishes, then off to bed.

I have the small transistor radio Dad bought in Reno, and I hide it in my room. On those special nights, I steal a clear signal of Reggie Jackson hitting a home run for the Yankees. Conserving the 9-volt battery is a major consideration since there aren’t many of those in the house, and I have no funds to replace a dead one. I also seek out and enjoy the CBS Playhouse Theatre, the vivid scenes created by the actors takes me far from this boring routine. Even though I know shaking a sheet of tin is used to create a thunderclap, for an hour I am witness to another murder, part of a daring prison escape, or in a Wagon Train under attack. But the real monster could be outside my door any second. I have to listen carefully for Dad coming down the hallway or I’ll be involved in my own thunder-slap. I will lose this radio and the feeling on one side of my face. My split attention has saved me on more than one occasion as Dad has stopped to peek in on me.

In faking being asleep I learned a long time ago to forego the mummy position, opting for the more believable dead man chalked out in the street look…arms

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and legs twisted askew. Covers more than half off the bed. I’m awake you bastard.

We live on the other side of town from where I attended 6th grade; therefore, my former friends and classmates go to Yuma High School, not Kofa High. Nobody knows me at the ‘Kings of Arizona’ High School.

The weekends are the most stressful times for me because I do not know what Dad will spring on me next. The weekends potentially mean I’m home all day with Dad and that’s when he seems to invent more crap for me to do. New routines. More arguments.

Saturday’s routine is solidly in place however. Like following the dotted line on a crinkled pirate’s map, I conduct my field day room to room. Cleaning activities not completed just move up to a higher priority for next Saturday. X marks the spot on my imaginary map and tells me where I’ll be in my skivvies in seven days.

There is no homework on the weekends since Dad has me studying in the school library Monday through Friday, and after school at the bathroom desk. If Dad is out of town the dishes can be carried over to the next meal or Mom sometimes does them herself. Mom even lets me stay up late with her…watching television in an argument free ambiance, although I always have to keep an ear out for you know who.

“Don’t let your father find out,” Mom says. Unfortunately, even with these minor variations, the majority of my time and existence is controlled.

Sundays become a nightmare as Dad tells Mom that I will be attending church services for my “religious upbringing.” Apparently I will again be representing the family since they never go, do not own a Bible, and I have only seen them do a perfunctory prayer over an

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occasional holiday meal. We stopped going to church even on holidays years and years ago, and I can not remember every going to church with Dad. In fact I am sure it never happened. Always Mom and us kids, at least the ones that had not runaway or were in jail.

I am instructed to walk to a different church each Sunday as selected by Dad, who has me enter the Kingdom Hall of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, a Catholic church, a Lutheran church, and so forth. When the plate comes around I smile and pass it on. No money is provided for me to place in the collection plate. Can I have a cash receipt Father?

Dad finally selects a Presbyterian church for me to attend regularly, and I find this is where most of my Sunday mornings will be spent. I can only assume this religion won out because it was the furthest from our house, a six mile roundtrip walk.

“Where is the bulletin?” Dad asks. This is how he knows if I at least walked to the church and entered. I hand it to him.

Nobody knows I draw cartoons during the services. I hate sharing the customary handshakes, smiles, and cursory “Good morning, hi, God Bless.” Being forced to come here is nothing but a power controlling punishment by Dad. Head down, back to sketching. On Sundays with communion, I exit the church as the lines form, which is about twenty minutes earlier than normal. I have to delay my return though by the same number of minutes or I’ll draw suspicion from Dad. Give me your papers…I mean bulletin. Yes, der father.

It is very stressful sitting in services not knowing where to go and what to do during the communion. Who is God? What is it all about? I have so much to learn but

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I don’t want to listen or learn because I don’t want to be here in the first place. So formal. Intimidating. Being forced to go…I hate it. Upon arrival at home, I eat lunch and do the dishes.

For the first several weeks or so I have free time around the house until dinner. If Dad isn’t around or hovering over my every activity, I watch, ‘ABC’s Wide World of Sports.’ It’s the glory days of Evil Knievel, Muhammad Ali, and Howard Cosell. The rule is, once home from church, I have to stay inside. No leaving; no unsupervised free time outside, not even in our swimming pool. Then one Sunday Dad adds to my routine.

I walk in the door with my Presbyterian bulletin in hand. Lunch looks like soup, sandwich, and eight ounces of milk. With no cheap casino buffets to drag me along to, we rarely eat out. This is Yuma, not Vegas. I wonder how Mom and Dad are dealing with their bingo withdrawals. Mom asks me how the service was.

“Fine.” Dad has a letter for me that came from Tommy in

Tahoe. Apparently he mailed it to our old address and it finally arrived after forwarding. “You will write your little friend after lunch,” Dad says.

“Do I have to?” I ask. I am more bored than defiant. I feel Dad’s control coming on again.

“Yes you do, in fact you will be writing letters to all your friends that write you and all your brothers and sisters.”

“What? Judy lives only a few miles from us and I have to write her a letter in the same town?” Mom looks on and does not contribute to the newest debate. But it really isn’t a debate since this is a dictatorship and I am a peasant.

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“You will seat yourself in the front room and use this yellow legal pad to draft six pages to each individual,” Dad says. “I want you to write two pages on the past, two on the present, and two on the future.” How about we skip to page six, last paragraph in the future section, where I detail why and how I killed you.

“Mom, come on, do I really have to do this?” Dad answers for her, “Yes, every Sunday after

church.” So I sit at the front room desk. My lunch travels through a series of twisting knots, as I am totally frustrated with life and this latest deviation from the normalcy I so crave. My face continues to break out with acne from my growing tensions around here. I do what I am told, even as my insides churn and tighten at each weird, new tasking. In a word: I am a mess. This family is a mess. I hate it here! And it is surely only going to get worse.

Six pages to Tommy, Randall Jr., Judy, and Frank. Dad does not speak of Mark; therefore, I do not know where he is living, where he is employed, and when I do ask I receive the usual, angry retort, “Don’t ever bring up his name.”

By the third week I am beside myself with frustration and realize this is total bullshit! I sit at the desk pissed off at this all day ordeal. Another damn waste of time. Taking a cue from Henry Ford, I decide to mass-produce my product. Each page progresses down my production line sans a few personalized inserts.

Dear Tommy, How is the weather in (Blank), Dear Judy, How is the weather in (Blank) and so on. I fill in Tahoe, Yuma, etc., and other personal information to flesh out my deception. I seal the envelopes. Dad opens two to see if they are complete. They are. By the

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next week I have an even bigger problem…no material. Seriously.

What can be going on in my life six pages a week! Dear (blank), steel wool is very useful for cleaning a stove as I discover every Saturday during my chores. I complain to no avail. My hope of going from six mandatory pages to just one page fails. Plan B: I tell Tommy never to write me again. No luck. Just because he hasn’t written back in the last three weeks does nothing to eliminate Dad’s requirement I write him.

“You will write everyone a letter no matter what. Keep writing him,” Dad instructs me. Thank god I have no other friends. Dad tells me to write about what I ate if I have to, but he warns me, “There will be six pages in each envelope damn it.”

“Yes sir.” Screw off! My solution is to construct a normal page and a half to each person then I will scribble any word that comes to mind prefaced by, “You know what is going on by now so here are just words in no particular order until the last paragraph. Goodbye.”

I write any and all words that come to mind, page after page of incoherent babble, over and over to each person for months on end. Dad never catches me, doesn’t open the letters, and then one day it stops. Dad says my letters are no longer necessary. Someday all this crap will end. Someday. Like Lincoln, I too hold these truths to be self evident. Unfortunately, when one door closes, another door opens.

Dad has been perusing the church bulletins I bring home every Sunday and decides to let someone else supervise my Sunday afternoons…the church staff. I will be walking back to church for the various after service concerts, potlucks, and other events. My protests

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are a waste of time. Arguing is a waste of time. My life is a waste of time.

Complaining only serves to inform Dad that he has succeeded in getting to me. So I decide I will curb the complaining. By implying I enjoy these new diversions I hope to throw Dad a curve ball. But can the student teach the Master? Of course not you pimply punk. The truth is all of my options suck. I cannot tell what is worse…sitting for hours writing any word down that comes to mind, or listening to a piano recital in the fellowship hall after already walking six miles roundtrip to church earlier in the day.

"Marge, there is a fine opportunity for our son to attend a wholesome dinner at church tonight,” Dad says week four into his bulletin scavenger hunt. Another buried treasure among the printed church announcements, eh, Dad? Arrr punk, hoist your finest slacks on and get thee to the church. I interject, “I saw that too Dad and I don’t want to go. Besides, it is a fundraiser and it cost $10.”

I’m trying to derail this train before it pulls out of the station. Walking to church twice on Sundays is all the reason I need to squash these unnecessary pilgrimages. But showing up to functions without the necessary funds is too embarrassing. The cost factor may be my best hopes at a reprieve.

“They will just send me home,” I say. “You are going. Just show up early to help out in

the kitchen and they will feed you.” Dad has all the answers. Genius for the dark side. Under threats of surveillance, I find myself entering the church kitchen and in the center of frenzied activity. It is less than an hour before the scheduled dinner as the pastor approaches me and asks if I am here to help.

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“Yes, I am sir,” I answer not knowing what to call the leader of the church. He is casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Pastor, Minister, Reverend, Father? Hell, I don’t know.

“Fine, you can help Mary make the salads.”Mary, a parishioner, is not having a good

afternoon and immediately sees me as something else she has to contend with. Mary and the Pastor move away from me to ‘chat’ and I hear her say, “We are short of food and he hasn’t bought a ticket.” She shows the Pastor her list of names.

“The steaks had to be preordered,” she complains. The pastor asks if I have a ticket and I lie, “No, my Mom was going to take care of that. And I didn’t bring any money.”

“Well, what’s your last name again?” He double checks my name against those on the clipboard. Of course I’m not listed.

“Well if we run short Allen won’t get a steak. If we get some no shows then Allen can join in but he can definitely have vegetables and dessert,” the Pastor tells Mary with a smile. She tosses me a head of lettuce and tells me to start cutting it up. I grab the knife and after cutting for just a minute I cut my finger. Blood gushes everywhere and the frenzied kitchen comes to a halt as I am tended to. Someone asks my name, where I live, and how I feel. They bandage my finger. It is not that bad, no stitches required this time, but I cannot do anything but stand around and wait to eat. The hour goes by and I grab a paper plate and get in line.

With my plate full I scan in fear deciding where to hide, err, I mean…sit. The tables are small and lots of families know each other. They are filling up fast. I know no one and I feel like the outcast, the imposter, I

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am. I find an almost empty table, eat my vegetarian meal, and leave. The tables behind me are full of happy families. I attend recitals, plays, lectures, and more potluck meals…all for free. Dad won’t fork over a dime.

“Just show up. They won’t turn you away…it’s a church.”

He is right; the church doesn’t turn me away. They even learn my name and many worshipers say, “Hello Allen” upon seeing me. I learn some of their names too, and I see a former teacher of mine from Mary Post Elementary. She smiles and I smile, and I feel she remembers me. But I dodge her on purpose in the future, and never let her close enough to start a conversation. I just want to melt away into the background.

As the last of six children I look forward to getting my high school semester grades so I can get my dollar per ‘A.’ This incentive has been a family tradition and a good investment for Mom and Dad. About the only A’s ever earned by my siblings were for gym class. If ‘A’ had stood for arrests, Mom and Dad would have had to file for bankruptcy many times over. The payout has been minimal at best, but I present Dad a different challenge since I am mostly a straight-A student.

He refused to pay me in elementary school. His excuse? Since the school issued E’s for Excellent and not A’s, it didn’t meet the criteria he had established. Then in junior high Dad changed the rules on me again and said it didn’t start until high school. But that hadn’t been the case for my older brothers and sisters.

I walk into the house with my high school grades, which are very good:

English: AHealth/P.E. AScience: B

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Algebra: ASocial Studies AInd. Arts: ADad enacts emergency legislation and puts an end

to the Anderson tradition of $1 per ‘A.’“You will not get money under this program.”“What! Why? I earned it!” “We are not doing it anymore,” Dad says. “You

wouldn’t have those A’s if it wasn’t for my program you are following.” My frustration makes me think the worst of my father. Then why don’t you write the English paper that’s due next week, you fat lazy slob? Dad saved himself $5 by simply passing a new family rule.

My clothes are a mess and I am back to complaining to Mom and Dad about my limited wardrobe. More emergency legislation needed sir. They don’t seem too concerned that my pants are again several inches too short and getting worse. I walk around school pulling my pants down all day some how believing it is actually going to make them look longer. I’m a failing magician.

This is Arizona and it is hot. I am forced to wear the mandatory long pants, a white t-shirt, and a long sleeve shirt that in reality is not ‘long enough.’ If Frankenstein were alive (was he ever really?) a Universal Studios’ lawyer would be serving me lawsuit papers for sleeve length trademark infringement. I have to keep my sleeves rolled up to avoid comparison to the Monster and any embarrassment that would surely ensue if I didn’t. I get heckled occasionally and I need to end this fashion trend before it gets out of hand. If there is smoke, there is fire. Fire bad. Fire bad.

My request for clothes almost backfires. Dad sits at the table clipping coupons from the many newspapers

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he collects on his walks each day through the bus stops and airports (on and off base).

“Marge, I believe these would be fine for our son to wear,” Dad says handing Mom a Sunday insert for old man polyester slacks. Something like four pair for $19.95.

“No way,” I protest without hesitation. “This decision is ours. You are a minor and will

wear what we dictate.” Dictate, from dictator. Dick, from dictator: slang for the Anderson head of household.

My agreeing strategy falls by the wayside. For weeks Dad makes me think he is awaiting the ordered package of slacks and I dread the thought of walking around wearing my black military frames, white t-shirt, the long sleeve dress shirt, and eh gads, polyester slacks! Sporting these Buddy Holly frames around school in that outfit will make it more like the day fashion died. Dad never orders them and they never arrive. I only get a new pair of pants after one particularly embarrassing incident during school lunch.

I sit down with my lunch tray and the butt splits in my pants from the crotch to the belt. The cafeteria is packed. Corduroy shreds are dangling from my rear and all I can do is take my long sleeve shirt off and tie it around my waist. My white t-shirt would make a great surrender flag about now. I surrender! I SURRENDER! Sorry son, no quarter here. I call home and Cath answers.

“Get over here. My pants are totally ripped,” I scream into the phone. Classes start in about twenty minutes.

“I’ll drive over another pair Allen,” she says. Unfortunately I’m already wearing the longest and loosest pair of pants I own. Cath’s Toyota pulls up to the

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curb where I told her I’d be sitting, and she hands me a pair of shorts and no belt. Dad has made shorts off-limits to me unless I am at home cleaning. If I was a professional wrestler they’d fit fine, but I am not! They cling like a pair of wet swim trunks.

“I asked for pants Cath!”“The other pair of pants are dirty,” she says.

“And this is all I could find.”“Okay.” I head to the restroom. I squeeze into

the denim shorts and stare into the dented sheet metal the school district has installed instead of glass mirrors. Allen, you look like crap. With sleeves rolled up I limp through the afternoon looking like one of Captain Von Trapp’s children from the Sound of Music. Hopefully like one of the male children. You’re nothing but a sissy Dad’s words repeat in my thoughts. Keep this up Dad and I’ll be a pummeled sissy.

Hearing of my disaster at school, my parents relent and Mom drives me to the W.M. Grace department store. I have no idea what I will be allowed to purchase, but on the way out the door Dad implied it would be dress slacks. Please God, no.

We leave the store with two pairs of Levi jeans! The length is at least 2-inches too long because as Mom puts it, “They will have to last you.” We have the money, but instead I will have cuffs until my next growth spurt. My pleas for new socks, shirts, and shoes go unheeded.

“No more clothes,” Dad says to my request for a wardrobe that fits.

“But it’s my money,” I argue. This line of persuasion is both failing and irritating Dad.

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“Your Tahoe Inn money is off-limits, damn it. It is for college or a car, and I don’t want to hear one more damn word about it.”

Kofa High School is progressive for the 1970’s and offers a full range of fast food options for lunch, but I cannot partake of their shakes, hot dogs, hamburgers, taco, pizza, and soft drink selections. In the Yuma paper, Dad scans the school district’s hot meal menu, “Friday: Fish sticks, corn, apple cake squares.”

“Sounds like a nutritious meal,” Dad says rustling the newspaper. Mom smiles at me as if everything is perfect in Shangri-La. I am always comforted to know the menu is published in the newspaper because the emergency room will know exactly what they are trying to pump out of my stomach. Maybe I should clip it and carry it in my wallet. Do they sell Medical Alert ID Bracelets for SLC (School Lunch Consumed)?

Staying in true form Dad overrides my request for the optional menu items and informs me, “You will eat the school board endorsed hot meals because they are balanced and nutritious.” So members of the School Board are the bastards responsible! They must all die! Die I say. Ha, ha, ha.

Dad buys a prepaid meal card from the High School so I have no access to cash. They actually sell these things? Damn! In short order I find myself standing in line everyday holding the same hot meal tray in use since Dick and Jane taught me to read.

Seventeen minority students join me in line everyday, unless of course one or two skipped school or fell ill. Their parents, however, unlike mine, are obviously poor because these kids are using State vouchers entitling them to a free meal. They can’t believe I’m paying for this crap. I know there are only

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eighteen of us because I count them everyday, and I am the UonlyU white student in line…ever. The other students in the cafeteria actually taunt us for getting a ‘hot meal.’ I have the privilege of walking this unique gauntlet of jeers and ridicule five days a week.

Seriously, if it weren’t for the Future Farmers of America in this school and our little select group of 18, the students would have to work pretty hard to find another group to wield their disparaging comments at.

One day as I stand in line an Hispanic male in front of me turns around and says, “Hey white boy, you play that funky music?” His friends start laughing.

I stare at him and say, “What is your problem?” I am mad; what the hell is this, “Hey white boy crap?” I strain to show as much anger as I can in my facial expression, but all they do is laugh even more.

“Relax, man, it’s only a joke. It’s a song. You know, Play that funky music white boy, No problemo,” he says. They sense I am oblivious to what they are trying to explain. They quietly turn around leaving me alone and begin laughing and speaking Spanish to each other. It is not until about a week later I hear the top 10 song they were referring to playing on the radio, and I realize those guys meant no harm.

No movies, no television, no authorized radio, no dating, and no extra curricular activities are allowed outside Dad’s planned life for me. Popular culture is again slipping past me.

When classmates specifically ask me if I have seen the latest popular movies I say, “Yeah, I liked the part where the shark pulled the dock away.” If it ain’t G-rated I haven’t seen it pal. All my lies are based on a newspaper ad or television commercial I might have seen for the movie.

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As the weather gets cooler and this desert city enters winter, I do not want to get in our swimming pool anymore. But Dad brings to my attention the privilege of swimming in our pool is based on my continued swimming in our pool. My past occasional dips after school have without warning suddenly turned into a mandatory requirement. I must have missed that memo. Dad tells me, “Get your skinny little ass in that pool.” Even the ducks are wearing parkas Dad. I refuse.

“If you don’t get in that pool you will never swim in it again,” Dad says. Again I refuse, and I am never allowed to swim in our pool again. At least this time I had a choice and got to exercise it.

I walk toward school Tuesday morning and a metal trashcan tumbles down the street towards me. A major storm is entering Yuma and I see palms swaying and bending against the ever-increasing wind. No TV, no radio, no weather forecast to warn me in advance.

One of the kids who rides the school bus home with me says, “The news said all schools are closed man.” I run the two blocks back home. Dad, surprised to see me back just ten minutes after leaving for the day, doesn’t want to hear anything about “a damn storm.”

“Dad, I never would have come back if the news hadn’t said school is cancelled today.” He doesn’t want to hear it.

“Walk to school. If there is no school you can walk back home.” What an asshole. What a waste of my time. How’s he going to know if I walked all the way to school? By bringing home a damn bulletin?

I walk past the tumbling palm leaves and uncollected, swirling trash toward school, and yes, upon my arrival there are only a handful of cars in the staff parking lot. Hello! Classes for the day UareU cancelled.

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Today’s forecast looks tumultuous with increased frustration at home as depression Allen collides with this massive stationary front we’re calling Randall. Stay tuned throughout the day folks. It should be a wild one. Unfortunately, I’ll be spending all day at home with Dad. No fun expected. After darting further debris, I return home where Dad has my day planned.

“Get in the bathroom and start studying. I will call you for lunch.” This is how my day off from school is going to go? No trips to the mall, no baseball, no friends, and no television. But at least my homework will be done. Oh wait, I sat at the bathroom desk yesterday and completed it all, or did I finish it during my mandatory morning stay in the library? After lunch it is back to the desk. I sit there feigning interest in front of a few open textbooks used simply as props in case Dad happens to walk by. Guard, guard, I want to make a phone call!

Several days later I board my school bus for the ride home when suddenly someone behind me flips my right ear. Yeap, it’s my one-day-old military haircut and billboard ears causing me trouble again. Let’s see, the last time some guy did this he died. This time I decide to fight back. I swing around blindly. My right fist barely misses the face of the perpetrator but successfully knocks his red baseball cap out the open school bus window.

“Go get it,” he tells me. I sit there and try to assimilate all the facts. I only saw him briefly but he appears the same size as me, probably a little more muscular, but not by much. He’s behind me and has an advantage solely because of where he is sitting, but I’m thinking stand firm and maybe he’ll leave me alone. One thing is for sure…I am not getting his nasty-ass hat.

“Get my hat dude.”

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The bus driver starts the bus and is about to pull the door shut. The guy jumps off, retrieves his Future Farmers of America hat, and sits back behind me. I get a real good look at him, but do not recognize him since I haven’t been paying much attention to others on my daily ride home. Somebody in the rear calls to him.

“Chuck, you going to kick the shit out of him for knocking off your hat?” Great, a convention of Future Farmers of America onboard. Would somebody please cue the Dueling Banjo theme from Deliverance?

“Yeah, I’m fix’n to teach him a lesson.” Central Casting just called, and stranger behind me, you have everything it takes to become a hick voice over star. En route, this jerk doesn’t talk to me or hit me again so I figure the showdown will come at my bus stop. His stop is the one before mine, or about three-quarters of a mile difference.

The bus stops at Chuck’s stop first, and as he stands up he says to me, “Get off so I can kick your ass.” What a lazy ass…if you won’t ride to my stop to kick my butt, then I sure ain’t getting off at your stop. I don’t say anything and he gets off. His friends in the rear of the bus taunt me on how Chuck’s going to fight me (eventually, I guess) and how he will “kick your ass!” I expect it to be tomorrow.

The next day Chuck, once again, stands up at his stop and taunts me, “Get off so I can kick your ass.” Would somebody please turn off that damn “Dueling Banjo” theme from Deliverance? It’s giving me a headache.

Again, if he really wants to beat me up he’d ride the extra three-quarters of a mile to my stop and get it done. Lazy farmer. I shake my head ‘no.’

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“Pussy, queer,” some of the seniors in the back shout out laughingly. The bus pulls away and I exit the bus at my stop with Steve, who has been the only other male student getting off at my stop all year. He doesn’t like FFA’ers.

Since I never catch the bus to school I haven’t gotten a chance to learn anything about him or the three females who use our stop. I haven’t said hardly a thing to him or anyone else. Did you like the part where the shark pulled the dock away? Man, that movie was out a year and a half ago. Oh, right.

As I enter our kitchen Dad has a surprise for me. I learn my days in this rental house, at Kofa High School, Steve, Chuck, and everything else Yuman are going to be over in about twenty-eight hours.

In private calls between Dad and Randall Jr. they decided I would live the rest of the school year and the whole summer with my brother Randall Jr. and his family.

Dad tells me, “Pack. Tomorrow night you will board a Greyhound bus to the Marine base in Quantico, Virginia, to live with Randall Jr.” Randall has his wife, Lisa, and their two children living with him in base housing. I have been praying for a change, any change, and it has come true. It is all set. I am to go to school tomorrow, get my final grades and then catch the 8:00 p.m. Greyhound for Washington, DC.

Having walked to school for the last time, I spend my day sitting in classes with nothing to learn or do except get my transfer grades, turn in my books, and think excitedly about the upcoming trip. Steve approaches me in the hot meal line in the cafeteria.

“I wouldn’t ride the bus home today,” he tells me. “Chuck is going to get off with his friends and they’re all

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going to fight you.” Okay, who is the wise ass who is playing the “Oh, the cowboy and farmer should be friends” song. Knock it off. This is serious.

“Thanks,” I tell him. But walking home is not in my plans for no better reason than I hate walking to school every morning and there is nothing going to keep me from my free ride home. Ambulances are still free to bleeding teenagers clinging to life right? But I have so much pent up frustration I don’t plan on losing if Chuck and I do fight. I am concerned though about Chuck’s friends.

English is my last class of the day, year, and forever at Kofa High School. Mrs. Taylor’s reaction is of true surprise and apparent regret to the news of my transfer. Hey, I just found out too! She has taken an interest in me ever since discovering me sitting alone in the library during first sessions.

“What are you working on Allen?” she had asked as I sat practicing my cursive writing.

“Oh just trying to improve my penmanship.” The next day she handed me her husband’s expensive writing improvement course and for a month I spent my mornings looping L’s and crossing T’s from the kit. I gave her husband’s correspondence materials back to her and let her know I appreciated the use of something so nice that personally belonged to her. Since those mornings, Mrs. Taylor has been very personable with me and has made it a point to ask, “How are you today, Allen?”

So much of school is boring and again today’s last class seems like a waste of time. Today we watch the movie, ‘Shane.’ Great, I can trade in my one ‘Jaws’ clip for a 1950’s conversation stopper. Did you see the part where the boy yells ‘Shane, Shane.’ Bad idea. Stick

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with a winner. Back to that shark. The wilderness scenes remind me of Alaska and I suddenly remember as a much younger heathen so much of my life in the woods of Alaska was magical. Dad worked fulltime then at the JC Penney warehouse in Fairbanks, and at seven I would wander into the forest, follow worn paths for a mile, and emerge at the airport. Or I could take another path to a seemingly isolated clearing, where wild berries hung like unlit Christmas lights. To be so young and free then. I drew, explored the woods, and waited for dinner and dessert. Being seven again, for that one summer, would be wonderful. Even though it was a short period in my life it still provides me some of my greatest memories. Shane, Shane, are you from the child welfare office? Are you here to help my friend Allen? Yeah, I heard about how hard his Saturday field days have been on him. Here kid, this should help. Gee thanks mister…just what I need, a new sponge for the floorboards.

The movie is hard to see because the projector’s beam collides with the sun’s rays that are entering unabated from the numerous windows high above us. This hastily put together, make-shift theater is failing terribly. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting in a darken movie theatre with popcorn and a Dr. Pepper, surrounded by friends. Like I’ve seen any movie theaters lately.

I look at my grades and I am very happy that I have received all A’s so far. My grade for English will come later, and I am sure it too will be an A. Twenty minutes until school is out.

Mrs. Taylor asks me to go to the front office to get her a form she needs and I leave the room. When I return, the movie is over and the projector rolled back into a corner of the classroom. She calls me to the front of the class.

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“Allen,” she says, “the class just found out you are leaving and we will miss you. Here is a gift from the class.”

I am shocked. Especially since I have only talked with those few classmates that sit near my desk. In fact, after a full semester and then some, I know very few of the students by name, but now they all seem to be expressing genuine warmth toward me. I open the envelope and it is a card signed by the class and Mrs. Taylor. The gift is a candy bar hastily wrapped and taped. I feel like crying. I have been drifting in and out of here feeling like no one cared, like a long lost lifeboat floating in the middle of the South Pacific, and now someone is waving at me. They have seen me and acknowledged my existence. If I find out who just put on the Loveboat theme you are fired. You hear me? Fired! Cue the exit sign…time to wrap this episode up.

“Thank you everyone, thank you,” I successfully hold back my tears. The bell rings and it is time to go.

“I hope you have a happy life,” Mrs. Taylor tells me. I thank her again.

My grades are in:English AHealth/P.E. AScience AAlgebra ASocial Studies AInd. Arts A

These grades improve my first quarter report card, when I received a B in Science. This time I met my goal of straight A’s. If I have an ‘attitude problem’ as Dad claims, then I’m sure there are a lot of parents out there who wished their kid had one too.

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On the bus for my final ride home Steve is surprised to see me. Chuck is in back with four juniors and several large seniors I have never seen before. Obviously they are his posse. First the movie “Shane,” then this. My life has suddenly taken on a Wild West theme. Seems I’ll have to stand up to the bad guys too Shane. No rehearsals though, I have never been in a real fight. Never had to hit someone with my fists. If the joy I felt minutes earlier in class was the crest of a wave, then inside my belly was the trough. I am out numbered and scared.

I fear the impending confrontation. All I want to do is run as soon as my feet leave this bus. Heroes conquer their fear and all I want to do is run away from it.

This morning after Steve told me their intentions, my plan was to run the several blocks to my house if Chuck and his buddies got off at my stop. But now, if Chuck picks a fight, I will do it. I have to fight him. I know I have to do it. I want to leave Yuma having faced my fears.

The fact I am never coming back to this school takes care of my fears of dealing with the daily threats and intimidation I could expect from Chuck and his senior buddies if I wasn’t leaving. Hey, I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night. I’m alone in this venture, unlike Chuck. It all depends on Chuck and his friends. One on one, I’ll tango. But no pack mentality here, and not today. Keep it on a level field of play, boys.

Chuck stands beside me before taking his seat and tells me he is going to kick my ass. The others on the bus turn and watch. I am on deck, the center of attention.

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“No, I do not want to fight you,” I say. Chuck releases a verbal assault.

“You’re a pussy and a chicken!” I stare straight ahead and say nothing. The taunts and jeers continue from behind me too as the bus rolls out of the school. Chuck should be getting off one stop before mine…alone. If his buddies stay on the bus I will get off and show him what I have stored up inside of me.

Sure enough the bus stops, the door opens, and Chuck gets in a parting insult as he passes by me. I just sit. His muscle force stays seated…apparently not needed this time. Chuck exits, the door starts to close, and I tell the driver to wait, “This is my stop.” I exit quickly and simultaneously put my plan into action. The bus pulls away. Perfect. Reports have rocked this little community outside of Rome as Mt. Vesuvius is about to erupt. Apparently all the pent up frustrations of this relatively young volcano are about to explode on Chuck’s face. Chuck, who is Chuck? Back to you in the studio, oh no, it’s happening…!

Chuck is surprised, no shocked, and before he knows it I have tackled him onto the ground. Everything is silent and in slow motion as I swing at him as hard as I can. We are on our knees, his head in my left arm and my right arm swinging away at his face. Slow motion…I swing harder but feel nothing; hear nothing. Why won’t my arm move any faster? But it is. Chuck’s face is bloody and as quickly as it started it is over. The bus driver, having heard “FIGHT, FIGHT,” stopped the bus and exited to pull us apart.

Compared to the muscular build of our driver, we are like two young puppies tangling in their box of shredded newspaper. He holds us at bay by simply grabbing our shirt collars, one in each hand. We are both

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literally dangling in the air. Sound is coming back to my senses.

“You go that way and you go that way and anymore fighting and you are both off the bus for the rest of the year,” the driver says without even breathing hard. “Anyone who gets off the bus loses a week’s riding privileges,” he says to the students peering out from the top half of bus’s windows.

The driver waits until Chuck and I depart, then the bus drives off toward my stop. Steve appears out of nowhere and walks beside me.

“Hey man, you did great,” he says. “You got off the bus?” “Yeah, I heard the driver’s penalty for getting off,

but I wanted to help you if you needed it.” I look at Steve and realize I have my first friend in Yuma. Too bad it is on my last day in town.

“I’ll help you fight all of them next time,” he says. “They’re jerks and always have been since elementary.” But Steve doesn’t know there won’t be another time.

“My concern now is that Chuck’s buddies will get off at our stop and comeback this way,” I tell Steve. I’m either thinking smart or I have fear creeping back into me. He agrees and suggests we go home a different way. We do.

“Thanks for wanting to help me, Steve.” “Sure man, what are friends for?” How about

committing a murder-for-hire for say, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a practically unused wallet and comb, and this nifty Timex?

I enter my house alone and Dad and Mom are hammering out my trip details. It will be the 8:00 p.m. Greyhound bus that will take me to DC. No surprise

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final logistics are still being hammered out, with only a few hours remaining.

Dad, having acquired an official Greyhound master schedule guide, writes down the dates, times, and locations of each stop. He methodically plots out my timeline. Meal money in sealed envelopes is labeled for which food stop they should be used at, how long each stop will last, and what I am to buy. My belongings have been crammed into two suitcases and a large box bound with twine. Dad is agitated (apparently no intention on his part to alter the usual atmosphere around here in light of my imminent departure) and Mom hums happily in the kitchen as she prepares my last meal.

After dinner, while I hand wash and dry the dinner dishes, Dad asks Mom, “What is Randall Junior’s number in Quantico…I can’t find it in this mess?”

“I don’t know honey,” Mom says. My first thought is they should know that. But I wrote it down once on page 234 in my Webster paperback dictionary and leave the sink to retrieve the book from my travel bag.

“It’s 234-4553 Dad.”Dad suddenly gets flush in the face and yells at

me, “How do you have your brother’s phone number? Marge get in here.”

“Dad, I heard it one day and I was studying and I wrote the last four digits down in my dictionary behind the page number. Honest. That’s it. I never called him. I don’t even know the area code. I’m just trying to help.” Oh shit.

“You are not going and that’s it. The trip is off,” Dad yells even before Mom gets into the room. My stomach lands in one large clump in my lower bowels as a cold chill runs simultaneously up my spin. Chuck!

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The repercussions I’ll have to face from his mini-gang scares me terribly. Mom and Dad don’t know it, but I have to get on that bus tonight to Virginia.

How can I go back to school and tell my teachers I’m not leaving after all? Great, Mrs. Taylor will want her candy bar back. Life will be all the more difficult with my jaw wired shut, both my arms in a cast, and FFA branded across my forehead. Thank God I wasn’t wearing wire frames, huh Dad? I have to get on that Greyhound bus! “Go to bed goddamn it,” Dad yells.

Mom is totally lost to the controversy…one minute I am to leave, then I am to stay, Dad needs the number, Allen has it…ahhh. My nerves are shot as everything I ate tonight suddenly registers in my mind as a massive bowel movement on deck. I strain to hear my parent’s conversation from inside the bathroom, even though the bathroom door is wide open.

“Our son had Randall Junior’s damn number Marge, he probably has been calling him. Who knows what they have hatched,” Dad says. I’d never make Randall an accessory to murder Dad, really.

“Honey, Allen said he just wrote down the number for no reason. I believe him,” Mom says. She is probably thinking, “What is the big deal?” Back in my room I start to cry. I am totally confused and emotionally drained especially when I do what I am told only to have it change time and time again. My stomach aches and there is nothing left but acid churning inside of me. The bus leaves in several hours. Tick, tock.

I lay on my back looking up at the ceiling trying to wonder how life will turn out for me. Not just tonight, but over the next few years at home. One thing is for sure, there is Uno wayU I can go back to this school. I feel close to vomiting. Tick, tick, tick. The bus leaves in 45

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minutes. Dad suddenly appears at my door. Maybe I am going after all!

“Goddamn it, get out of your clothes and get into your pajamas.” Changed into my sleeping garb, I’m officially in bed now and more conversations taking place as Dad talks to Randall Jr. long distance. With 20 minutes until the bus leaves Mom enters my room, “Get dressed for your trip.” Thank you God, thank you. I scramble to get dressed and into the car hoping Dad won’t change his mind once again. Make no eye contact with the beast! I don’t say a word until I am standing in front of the idling Greyhound, ticket in hand.

“Goodbye Dad, I love you Mom.”“We love you too sweetie,” Mom says. I sit on

the bus behind the driver as instructed by Dad, who smokes and stares at me. Close the damn door driver. Let’s get the hell out of here. Lingering white smoke drifts from Dad’s cigarette, the metal doors finally shut and I wave goodbye.

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