THE UNLOCKED DOOR

Christmas 2000.  Sunday evening.

As the joke goes, no good deed goes unpunished.  On Christmas Eve 2000 a simple act of kindness on my part backfired in a very unusual way.  An unlocked door would lead to the most unusual story of Predestination I have ever encountered. 

I was raised a Quaker.  There are two branches of the Quaker Religion.  90% of Quakers belong to the branch which includes singing and a pastor who delivers a prepared sermon.  I grew up in the No Frills 10% branch.  No singing, no preaching, no leader, no nothing.  Quaker Service consists of members who sit there quietly for an hour.  They meditate and perhaps ask a prayer.  Once in a while someone will stand up and offer a brief thought, but this is not common.  Quakers believe if one can silence their mind, they open themselves up for God's inspiration.  Hopefully the still small voice of God will offer a suggestion on problems and spiritual development. 

I like the Quaker Religion.  Whatever they do, it works.  The Quakers I have known are peaceful, conscientious, very caring.  They make the world a better place.  The principle of skipping the preacher and looking directly to God for inspiration has always appealed to me.  And yet at the same time, this wonderful principle might explain why the 10% off-shoot branch has not exactly thrived.  Let's say it is Sunday morning.  You have worked your butt off all week and now it is time to go to church.  You wake up, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.  According to Quaker principles, you could just as easily go sit in a quiet corner of your house for an hour of reflection.  For this reason, I sometimes wonder if the Quaker 'do-it-yourself' philosophy is counter-productive.  

The Quaker Meeting of my youth was small, 30 people or so on a good day.  Back when my parents and I moved to Houston in 1955, the group was so tiny that meeting for worship was held in someone's living room.  And so we fast-forward to 1995.  40 years had passed and the Quaker Meeting was still 30 people on a good day.  One problem was the lack of a permanent home. 

In 1995 the Quaker Meeting located an affordable property in the tree-lined Heights area of town.  Even better, famed artist James Turrell, born a Quaker, wished to donate a beautiful Light ceiling he had created specifically for the new building.  However, as usual the members were badly strapped for cash.  The dream of owning this very special Meeting House seemed just beyond their reach. 

I was so busy with my career that I had lost touch.  One day my mother explained the Live Oak Friends Meeting was having trouble financing the new meeting house.  I knew about the ongoing headache.  Wandering from spot to spot, the local Quaker Meeting was a collection of nomads who spent more time looking for a home than Exodus.  The desire for a permanent meeting house was always there, but the funds were lacking. 

I immediately saw an opportunity to pitch in.  The kindness of people I met through the Houston Quaker Meeting had rescued me from a rough childhood on many occasions.  This was my chance to return the favor.  I told my mother the dance studio remained empty on Sundays until 4:30 pm.  Why not let the Quaker Meeting use my dance studio for free and stop paying rent at their current location? 

The Meeting accepted my offer in a flash.  By the time the Millennium rolled around, SSQQ Dance Studio had served as the Quaker Meeting House for several years while their new home was being built.  As it turned out, the Quakers loved the arrangement.  The privacy and absolute silence of my dance studio was perfect for their needs. 

Although I held a soft spot for my Quaker friends, not once did I attend a Sunday Meeting held at the studio.  The demands of running the studio were so great that Sundays were indispensable as my only chance to get some rest.  The last thing I wanted was to be back at the dance studio on my day off.  Knowing these people were trustworthy, I gave them a key.  This allowed me to stay home on Sunday mornings. 

Ordinarily the Quakers were gone by 2 pm.  However, in Year 2000, Christmas Eve and Sunday coincided.  Since there were no dance classes scheduled on Christmas Eve, the Quaker Meeting had the studio to itself all day long.  The group held their traditional Christmas Eve candlelight service at 11 am.  Next up was a sumptuous Potluck dinner with an extended social gathering to follow.  It was a splendid celebration.  Good tidings, comfort and joy.

Everyone was excited because their new home would be ready soon.  It was only natural they stuck around longer than usual to enjoy the warmth of the day and expectations of the future.  To be honest, I don't even know who forgot to lock the door.  What I do know is this harmless mistake initiated a chain of events which led to the 'Gypsy Prophecy', one of the three most remarkable Supernatural events of my life. 

So what went wrong?  The person with the key had absent-mindedly left the premises without locking the door.  Two people who had stuck around for an extended chat made the discovery a half hour later.  Uh oh.  That is what this 5 pm phone call was about.  When my wife Judy hung up the phone, she turned to me with the bad news.  "The studio door needs to be locked."

I was very irritated, but not at Judy.  Suffering from extreme burn-out, this mistake meant I would have to take an unwelcome trip on a day when I did not wish to be anywhere near the studio.  I was resting in the comfort of my home only to be forced to waste an hour of my day thanks to someone's dumb mistake.  I immediately began griping over the inconvenience. 

Since the Quakers were my responsibility, it was my duty to go.  But Judy went instead.  As I vented my frustration, without warning Judy grabbed her keys and stormed out the door.  Shocked, I stared at my 9-year old daughter Samantha who in turn stared back at me.  We were both taken by surprise.  After a moment of silence, Sam asked, "What is Mom so upset about?"

I shook my head.  I was just as confused as Sam.  Yes, I had raised my voice at having my Christmas Eve disrupted, but my words were not directed at Judy.  This was not her fault.  Nor did I ask Judy to handle the problem.  I had just been on the verge of grabbing my keys when she left.  I had no idea why she decided to go instead of me.  My instinct said her mood was much darker than the moment called for.  As it turned out, I was right.

One hour later, Judy returned.  She got right to the point. 

"I want a divorce."

Judy was my second wife.  My first marriage in 1984 was short-lived, a year and a cup of coffee.  Pat was an interesting woman.  I could write a book or I could write a few paragraphs.  Let's settle for paragraphs and save the book for another time.  On paper, our marriage was perfect.  Pat had a lot going for her.  Attractive, very talented.  However, Pat had two fatal flaws.  She was jealous and liked to argue.  In my opinion there was nothing to argue about.  We had money, health, good jobs, and security.  We didn't drink, smoke, gamble or cheat.  So what was there to argue about?  There were countless women at the studio who flirted with me at the studio.  In her mind, it was just a matter of time.  Pat's jealousy was unnecessary.  I only had eyes for her, but Pat didn't trust me.  Infuriated by needless bickering over Pat's persistent fear that I would stray, over time the tension became insurmountable. 

It was a shame this marriage failed.  I tried hard, but I could not get Pat to see that infidelity went totally against my nature.  My father had an affair with the office secretary when I was 8.  Desperate to marry his mistress, Dad insisted on a divorce.  Mom said no.  The ensuing year of arguments drove me crazy.  I was so upset that my performance in the 4th Grade was abysmal.  Now my father was angry.  Since he was a genius, how was it possible to have such a stupid son?  They took me to a psychiatrist to have me tested.  The psychiatrist suggested an unusual solution... put the kid in a private school where he will be challenged.  Dad flipped out.  No way he was going to spend that kind of money!  Besides, if I could barely pass 4th Grade in public school, I was sure to flunk out at the toughest school in the city.  Forget it.

Fortunately my mother understood, so she made a Devil's Bargain.  If my father would pay the expensive St. John's tuition for three years, he could have his divorce.  Once apart, Dad quickly forgot I existed.  My new stepmother was an evil woman who drove a wedge between us.  I saw the man four hours a year for the next nine years.  Basically I exchanged my father for a good education.  In a way, I lost my mother too.  She became a nervous wreck who couldn't hold a job.  At age 9 I was forced to begin raising myself.  I didn't do very well. 

Here is my point.  The consequences of my father's affair turned me into an emotional cripple.  Thanks to my dance career, I would eventually overcome my childhood handicaps.  But I never forgot my bitterness over the cheating incident that ruined my childhood.  This explains why I swore to Pat I would never do something like that to her.  But Pat refused to trust me.  She chose instead to nag me day in and day out.  It is one thing to stray and be punished, but I deeply resented being flooded with warnings for a crime I had not committed.  I tried to appease Pat at first, but the day came when I refused to tolerate her tongue-lashings any further.  I told Pat to knock it off, but she defied my demand.  This is when the sparks began to fly.  Since neither of us was willing to bend, we both could see it was hopeless.  One night I came home and Pat was gone.  For the record, I never strayed.  That is not who I am. 

Five years later, I married Judy in 1991.  During our ten year marriage, we raised our daughter Sam and built SSQQ into a behemoth.  Judy played an impressive role in the studio's phenomenal growth.  Thanks to her tireless work with the Swing, Salsa and Ballroom programs, SSQQ was teeming.  At its peak, 1,400 students streamed through our doors every week.  This amazing total is why I believe SSQQ was the largest independent dance studio in the country. 

I was proud of Judy.  Her innovations built the SSQQ Swing program into something very special.  We had been recognized two years in a row as the finest Swing program in Houston.  One would think with this kind of success, our marriage would be solid.  Unfortunately, there was a fatal rift that never healed.  The problem started in 1998 when I discovered an SSQQ Swing instructor named Carnell was teaching at a competing dance studio behind our back.  Even worse, Carnell had the nerve to openly persuade his SSQQ students to come check out his class at the other studio.  Carnell knew full well I had a rule against teaching for other studios.  I had never encountered a more serious case of disloyalty.  And so I fired him. 

Six months later, Carnell created a major scandal by accusing us of racial discrimination.  I was incensed.  This had nothing to do with skin color.  Carnell knew quite well the reason I dismissed him was treachery, not race.  I would later fire a white country-western instructor for the same reason.  With vicious rumors about our so-called racism flying throughout the Swing Community, something had to be done to restore our reputation.  Since none of the students at SSQQ knew the true story, I wanted to write an article to explain the situation.  To my dismay, Judy said no.  Do not say a word!  Judy was already upset by the wide-spread hostility emanating from the scandal and feared the added publicity would make things worse.  I hate to say it, but Judy was right.  The tension would have gotten much worse before it got better.  However, we had to fight back!  To say nothing would allow this lie to remain unchallenged. 

While Judy and I argued over which direction to take, Sam was hiding in her room and crying.  When I realized how upset Sam was, I was mortified.  Oh my God, here I am subjecting Sam to the same horror my parents had inflicted on me.  As a child, there were many nights I fell asleep scared to death with insecurity.  Haunted by those memories, I had vowed never to put Sam through a similar nightmare.  So much for good intentions.  Ashamed of myself for putting Sam through this ordeal, I gave in.  What choice did I have?  Judy had created the Swing program, so she deserved the final say.  Although every bone in my body screamed to fight back, I honored Judy's wish and kept silent.  But that did not mean I agreed with her decision.  I watched in fury as the unchecked fall-out from the scandal spread like poison.  Over the next two years, we lost half our Swing students to HSDS, the competing program. 

There is something you need to understand about me.  As my story unfolds, it will become crystal clear why I believe I received considerable help from God in creating the dance studio.  Furthermore, I believed I was handed this studio for a purpose.  The studio served as a place of healing for many people coming out of broken relationships.  It also served as a meeting place for countless singles.  For this reason, I felt the studio was my mission in life and I felt intensely protective.  Watching Carnell's lie sabotage my studio was akin to letting someone molest my child. 

Judy was a good person, a good mother and a good business partner.  She worked hard to grow the studio and deserved a lot of credit for the studio's recent success.  However, try as I might, I could not accept her decision to allow this traitor to damage our reputation and hurt our studio.  It aggravated me no end to be considered a racist when nothing could be further from the truth.  And so I withdrew from Judy.  The wound caused by Carnell had festered for two years.  Although I could not imagine how we would ever heal the rift, I was willing to stay married for my daughter's sake.   However, the moment Judy asked for the divorce, I instinctively realized she was right. 

"Okay, Judy, I will agree to the divorce if I can have joint custody of our daughter."

Judy nodded her assent.  "That seems fair."

Divorce is one thing, but abandonment is far worse.  Recalling how my father's abandonment had broken my heart, when Sam was born, I promised to be a better father to Sam than my father had been to me.  So much for wishful thinking.  At this point, I wasn't doing much better than my useless father.  My guilt over the impending divorce was overwhelming.  I was upset that Sam would suffer the same consequences of a broken home as I had.  Overwhelmed by an encompassing sense of failure, I needed to be alone to lick my wounds.  So I grabbed my keys and drove to the studio for sanctuary.  As I unlocked the front door, it crossed my mind that if I had driven here two hours earlier, I would still be married.  Talk about irony! 

I spent Christmas Eve alone in the dark, empty building.  Not my idea of fun.  With nothing to do, I had plenty of time for reflection.  Sitting here in the gloom was not smart.  Christmas had been a time of many bitter moments during my childhood.  Sure enough, throughout the night a parade of ghosts from Christmas Past dropped by to torment me.  Gee, now I can add the memory of getting divorced on Christmas to my growing list of Holiday Horrors.

There is no way to wallpaper a divorce and disguise the ugliness.  As I sat alone in the dark, I could not recall feeling more miserable.  Not only had I failed in two marriages, I had let my daughter down.  So much for that good old Christmas Spirit. 

QUAKER MEETING

001

st. john's school

I have Father's mistress to thank for my elite education.  Thanks to that witch, the course of my life changed dramatically in 1959.  I was 9 at the time.  That was the year I was forced to trade my father for St. John's, the prestigious Houston private school I attended for 9 years. 

A sniper's bullet to the hip finished my father's participation in World War II.  Taking place during the Battle of the Bulge in the Argonne Forest, the army sent him home to recuperate.  Dad was a bright guy, but he was also dirt poor.  Dad enrolled in college, but money was such a problem he wasted no time finding a meal ticket.  After marriage, Mom dropped out of college to support my father while he got his degree in electrical engineering. 

Life was pleasant enough till I turned 8.  That's when my parents began to argue.  It was brutal.  Every night my father would come home from work and find something to criticize.  The shouting would begin and I would run for my bedroom in terror.  With my border collie Terry huddled beside me on the bed, I would read a book on Greek Mythology till I fell asleep. 

Sometimes the shouts would turn to screams, so I would put the book down and bury my head in Terry's fur.  I would cry and cry till sleep mercifully put me out of my misery.  As an only child, Terry was my best friend in the world.  Terry was the main reason I made it through this tough time. 

Unfortunately, as the marriage crumbled, so did my father's opinion of me.  I was in the 4th grade and not doing very well.  I was a huge disciplinary problem and my grades were below average.  I had once been my father's pride and joy, but my poor performance was an affront to his dignity.  Dad was a genius and I was a dud.  My parents decided to have me tested. 

The psychiatrist, Dr. Mendel, told my parents to calm down, I was smart enough.  He said my problem was a combination of boredom with the undemanding class work and insecurity as to what the future held.  What I needed most was a good challenge.  My underachieving ways could best be solved by sending me to a tough private school. 

My father immediately objected.  Public school was good enough for him so it was good enough for me.  Why spend extra money on a private school when I was barely passing as it was?  More than likely I would flunk out and waste his hard-earned money. 

Fortunately, my mother saw the wisdom in the advice.  So now the arguing shifted to the private school issue.  For the past year, Mom had refused to grant my father's divorce request.  However, she could see it was a losing battle.  One night she decided to confront my father with the forbidden subject, his Mistress.  This topic had never come up before.  Nor did Mom have any evidence.  But she was pretty sure she was right.  The moment Dad's face turned white, Mom knew the truth.  Pay your son's tuition for three years at St. John's and you can have your divorce.  Isn't blackmail wonderful?  And so I began my education at the finest school in Houston.

After the Divorce

In retrospect, it is a shame that Mom wasted her leverage on getting me into St. John's.  I don't think she realized just how unfit she was for the job market.  Considering Mom sacrificed her own education to put Dad through college, she didn't get much in return.  I suppose they divided the property evenly enough, but Dad was the one with the education.  Mom ended up with $100 a month in child support and medical coverage for me.  That was it.  No alimony.  Oh well.  No one ever said life was fair. 

Mom was ill-prepared for life as a single mother.  She was cursed with a fatal flaw... a big mouth.  Her tendency to speak her mind a bit too candidly had already cost her the marriage, but she did not learn her lesson.  Mom seethed with resentment at being told what to do by male bosses who were not quite as bright.  Extremely smart but lacking a college degree, she bristled at her situation.  Well aware she was smarter than the men she worked for, Mom continued her bad habit of speaking her mind.  If that didn't work, she would do things her way behind the back of her boss.  Inevitably she would pay the price.  I don't know why, but Mom refused to play Politics.

My mother was a bright woman, but emotionally unstable.  She fell to pieces after the divorce.  She drifted from man to man, job to job, apartment to apartment.  Bills were a huge problem.  Something was always wrong.  Sometimes the water was turned off, other times the electricity was turned off.  Sometimes Mom wrote hot checks at the grocery store.  We were always getting evicted.  Or to avoid paying rent, Mom would skip out in the dark.  We moved 11 times during my nine years at St. John's.  

In loco parentis.  That's Latin for when a school replaces loco parents (small joke).  As we will see, St. John's turned out to be a better parent to me than my own parents.  Due to the instability of my childhood, St. John's became my anchor, the one constant in a sea of problems.

Prior to the divorce, my father loved me, there is no doubt about that.  However, things rapidly went south after the August 1959 divorce.  The key event took place at Christmas.  I was 10 years old.  We were in his apartment full of seasonal cheer, just Dad, me and the Christmas Tree.  Under the tree was an enormous gift-wrapped box.

I ripped open the paper to discover my father had bought me a gigantic erector set complete with some kind of fancy electrical motor. This was a very expensive gift. It came in a heavy metal box so large I could barely lift it. Dad was extremely proud of his gift. I have a hunch this was the kind of gift he had coveted when he was my age, but of course never received because his mother was so poor.  Dad beamed at his lavish present.  Being an electrical engineer, this erector set was right up his alley.

As for me, I gulped. I had never tried this sort of thing before and wasn't sure how I would I do.  But I kept my fears to myself.  When I hugged my father and thanked him, Dad looked at me with a huge smile.  For a moment there, it was just like old times. Dad was really excited.  He could not wait to build something really cool with his son.  That would make this his best Christmas ever!

"Well, sure, of course, Dad, let's build something!" 

I was beside with myself with happiness. I missed my father so much.  Dad took out the list of projects and looked it over.  He immediately suggested we build a drawbridge so we could take advantage of that fancy motor.  I wasn't so sure.  That idea seemed a little ambitious. I was thinking the beginner stuff on the first page was more my speed.  But Dad insisted.  With a huge gulp in my throat, I took out the parts and the instructions.  When I saw how complicated those instructions looked, I had a very bad feeling about this.  However, if Dad said I could do it, then I would give it try.

Despite the elaborate instructions, Dad said all we had to do was follow the steps.  What could be easier?  Dad handed me the tools and worked with me for a while.  I was game, but didn't do very well.  The instructions made no sense.  As I had feared, this project was way over my head.  I felt sick inside.  Why was I so stupid?

I suppose it took about 15 minutes for my father to realize how totally overwhelmed I was.  At that point, Dad got the strangest look in his face.  He stared at me in disbelief.  When I saw the pained expression on his face, I gulped.  I knew what he was thinking.  I firmly believe when my father was my age, he had the talent to build stuff like this without anyone's help.  So why couldn't his son do it? 

Dad's frown deepened. He could not believe how inept I was, especially when compared to his own immense natural ability at mechanics.  At that moment, something terrible snapped in the man.  I could see it in his angry expression.  It saddens me to say this, but when he began shaking his head in disgust, I believe he was bitter being stuck paying all this money to a private school for a kid who couldn't even put this damn drawbridge together.  He had just discovered his son had no mechanical ability.  There would be no clever son following in his genius footsteps, now would there? 

Dad set his coffee down and wordlessly studied me in disbelief. His face was crestfallen. What a disappointment I was to him.  Perhaps even darker thoughts crossed his mind.  How could I possibly be his kid?  And even if I was his kid, my value had plummeted.  At best, maybe I could get a job doing something noble like cleaning public toilets.

Impatient, Dad snatched the tools out of my hands and began to build the bridge himself. Dad told me to watch carefully and he would show me how to do it.  Then I could do it again by myself tomorrow after he took me back to Mom's apartment.  Yeah, sure, Dad.

With the sparkling Christmas tree as our backdrop, Dad got down to business right there on the carpeted floor of the living room.  The happy smile on his face said it all.  The moment he stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth, I knew he was in 'The Zone'. That was Dad's characteristic signal that he was locked in.  Dad didn't even bother with the instructions.  One look at the picture was enough.  I was incredulous... not even a second glance!   Dad was in another world, so I stayed silent lest I interrupt his reverie.  The entire time I did not exist.  Despite my own sadness, I smiled at seeing how happy Dad was.  Dad was probably reliving some of his own boyhood Christmas memories.  I marveled at my father's immense talent.  Building that drawbridge came so effortlessly to him, I was reminded of the good old days when Dad had built a gigantic electric train complex in the attic.  Dad was a natural, a born engineer.

Three hours later, Dad finished.  It is a good thing I paid close attention as he built that drawbridge.  Little did I know this would be the last time in my life I would ever see my father display his amazing ability.  I have to hand it to Dad. The completed drawbridge was a magnificent structure.  It was huge.  Hit a switch and the drawbridge went up and down.  Dad was so proud of himself. This is what he was capable of.  He looked at the bridge and beamed with pride.  Then he looked at me and frowned.

You want to know something sad?  If it took my father three hours, that in itself should explain how complicated this project was.  I never had a chance, did I?  But I was so young, I did not know that.  Nor did my father bother to reassure me that this was a tough place to start.  My father was so brilliant, he just automatically assumed that because he could do it at my age, I should be able to do it too. Instead he took another long look at me and his satisfied smile switched back to the frown.  I got the message.  I had failed him.  I wasn't good enough.  When I went home that night, I was totally ashamed of myself.

After Christmas, Dad disappeared from my life.  I was supposed to see him every other weekend, but he skipped our next weekend visit. Then he skipped the one after that.  An entire month went by without hearing from him.  I was sick in my stomach the entire time.
Meanwhile, things were really bad in my new home.  Mom was struggling with the divorce and had brought this awful man Tom Cook to live with us.  She did not know it at the time, but this man had just been paroled from prison.  My mother really knew how to pick 'em.  Among other things, Tom Cook stole my silver dollar collection to pay for alcohol.  When my mother protested, he beat her up after getting drunk.  He even tried to get me started on smoking.  What a pal.  I was badly rattled and needed my father.  Where was he?

My sad little 10-year old mind jumped to the conclusion that Dad's absence had something to do with how badly I had done with the erector set.  What else was I supposed to think?  He didn't even bother to call.  Missing him, I asked Mom to check.  Unfortunately she was still too angry about the divorce to get in touch with him.  So I stayed lost in the dark assuming his disappearance was all my fault. I went around criticizing myself for being so stupid.  Probably other sons my age could have built that drawbridge with no trouble.

Half a year went by without seeing or hearing from him.  Six long months!  Can you believe that?  What father ditches his scared son for half a year, especially with Mom going off the deep end and marrying an ex-con?  One day out of the blue Dad called and said he was coming over to pick me up for our scheduled Saturday visit.  I was thrilled!  I've got my father back!  Finally Dad has forgiven me for being so stupid.  I was going to be the best kid possible.  Now get this.  I went to my closet and got out the erector set which had sat there untouched like a betrayed kingdom.  I needed to impress him, so I tried building beginner models every day for the next few days leading up to our visit.  I wasn't very good, but I finally figured out how to build a simple house frame.  Mind you, it had no moving parts like the drawbridge, but it was a start.  The point is that I tried as hard as I could to do something to make my father proud of me again.  When Dad came to the door, I had my giant erector set kit in my hand.  It was so heavy I could barely lift it, but I was determined to show Dad what I had taught myself to do.  I was going to build that house frame for him without his help.

Dad took one look at the kit and frowned.  He said, "You won't need that, son.  Leave it here."

When I got to his apartment, there was a surprise waiting for me.  Dad introduced me to his attractive girlfriend.  I had no idea this was the same woman who had broken up the marriage, but I disliked her from the start.  She ignored me when my father's back was turned and acted phony nice when he was looking.  Weren't my parents a pair?  One falls for a convict, the other falls for a con artist.  After lunch, Dad suggested I turn on the TV.  Dad spent the rest of the day hanging out with that lady in the kitchen where I could barely see them.  I watched nervously out of the corner of my eye as the two played court and spark in the background.  Then they went into the bedroom for a while and closed the door.  I wasn't quite sure why Dad was ignoring me, but in hindsight I suppose she was better with erector sets than I was.  No doubt she raised his drawbridge. 

Obviously the big winner here was Mistress.  The old joke is that every man needs a mistress to break up the monogamy.  It turns out Dad had traded one shrew for another.  However, Mistress had two big advantages over my mother.  She was thin and she understood Politics.  The Mistress did not open her mouth until after the Wedding.  After that, she never shut up.  Thanks to her, Dad learned that marriage is a three-ring circus.  Engagement Ring, Wedding Ring, Suffer Ring. 

My new stepmother was incensed to see a huge slice of Dad's paycheck fly out the window every month to pay for St. John's.  Dad would eventually become a wealthy man, but at this stage of his career, money was tight.  Thanks to me, Stepmother didn't get a a fancy honeymoon or a new house.  Plus she had to delay starting her own family.  Stepmommy Dearest was not happy.  Every night Dad had to listen to this shrew's bitter song over and over.  Dad was a weak man.  He did not have the guts to stand up to Stepmother's wrath, so he stopped seeing me as a way to appease her.  From that point on, I saw him for lunch four times a year.  Ironically, his office was less than a mile from my school.  I could have walked to see him, but Dad forbade it.  I missed him terribly. 

I lost a father and gained a school.  How did that work out for me?  St. John's was the one bright light of an otherwise miserable childhood.  My elite education meant the world.  However, at the same time St. John's was tough on my confidence.  Socially, I was so far out of my league it was ridiculous.  Houston is a prosperous city with oil tycoons, shrewd lawyers and gifted doctors.  Guess where their children go to school?  Academically I did just fine, but socially I found myself on the bottom rung.  While my classmates jetsetted to Colorado ski trips and European vacations, my concerns were much different.  I rode my bike home after school wondering if the lights had been turned back on, if Mom had found a job yet or when we would be moving next.

Over time my classmates realized just how poor my circumstances were.  At this point I became largely ignored.  By the time I reached the 6th Grade, I had next to no contact with my classmates outside of school.  By this time I had turned into a shy loner who kept to himself.  I had a few friends I played chess with at lunchtime, but that was the extent of it.  My mother wasn't doing well.  She dealt with her loneliness by going dancing 3, sometimes 4 nights a week.  Some nights she came home, some nights she didn't.  And so I continued to raise myself.  I just wish I had done a better job. 

THE BOOKWORM AND HIS DOG

In her 20008 Commencement Speech at Harvard, noted author J.K. Rowling revealed her fascination with Greek Mythology.

“I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying classics, they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all the subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard-put to name one less useful in Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys of an executive bathroom."

When I read that quote, I grinned.  There are three things in life I love... chess, basketball, and Greek Mythology.  And let's not forget Terry, my beloved border collie.  Her quote reminded me of a poignant memory involving both Terry and Greek Mythology. 

Greek Mythology and Terry had been the only reason I made it through the year of bickering between my parents in the year leading up to the divorce.  That is how I got hooked on reading.  After the divorce, things were even worse, so I kept on reading.   As an only child with dysfunctional parents and no neighborhood friends, I became quite the bookworm.  As coping mechanisms go, thank goodness I chose a healthy one. 

My favorite Greek Mythology stories were about the invincible Greek warrior Achilles.  I reveled in his Trojan War exploits and anguished over his vulnerable heel.  My favorite Goddess was Athena and I liked Odysseus because he was so clever.  His Trojan Horse deception is what won the war for Greece.  I read every book about Greek Mythology I could get my hands on. 

It was 1961 and summer had started.  Age 11, I had just finished the 6th Grade at St. John's.  With my chess buddies off to summer vacation in Europe, no more chess till the 7th Grade.  That left Terry, basketball, and Greek Mythology. 

I loved Terry with every ounce of my being.  Terry was such a wonderful dog.  He was my closest companion for the nine years stretching from Mom's divorce till college.  No matter what I did, Terry always wanted to be by my side.  We went everywhere together, especially to the neighborhood park where I constantly practiced basketball. 

However, I couldn't play basketball the entire day, so I needed something to read.  The Iliad and the Odyssey were calling to me.  One hot summer morning in early June I was getting ready to visit the downtown library.  It wasn't far, at most a twenty-five minute bike ride away.  As I got ready, Terry stared at me expectantly.  "No, Terry, you can't come with me.  It is too dangerous to take you downtown with all that traffic."

Terry immediately began to pout.  That dog had my number, so I relented.  Since it was the start of summer, I was in no hurry.  So I decided to try an experiment.  I put Terry at the end of a long rope so he could run along beside my bike.  Keep in mind we were headed DOWNTOWN.  Busy streets, many cars, lots of moving parts to watch out for.

This idea really wasn't very smart, was it?  But you know what, Terry and I were a heck of a team.  Terry listened to me without question.  All I had to do was speak his name sharply and he would freeze.  Since Terry was smartest dog I ever knew, I decided we could pull this off.  So I took a chance.  I rode my bike down Bagby, a semi-busy one way city street.  I took it slow and made sure to keep my dog between my bike and the sidewalk.  However, once we hit the downtown skyscrapers, the traffic was too intense.  I got off my bike and we walked together the rest of the way.  I tied Terry to a giant oak tree outside the Library, then went inside to collect 12 books, the maximum allowed.  Half the books were Greek Mythology, the other half were baseball and Hardy Boys mystery books.  Typical boy stuff.  While I was in there, I joined the Summer Book Club.  I put the books in my bike basket, collected Terry and off we went.

On the way home from the library, a passing delivery truck swerved out of its lane and clipped my left handlebar.  The accident was not my fault in any way.  My guess is the driver didn't see me.  I went flying out of control and hit the concrete pavement hard on my hip.  The truck was pulling an empty U-Haul trailer behind it.  A heavy wheel of the U-Haul went directly over my right ankle, cutting it to shreds.  It was a bad injury. 

In addition to my ankle, my bruised hip was killing me.  I was badly hurt, but I was more worried about oncoming traffic.  Unable to walk, I had the presence of mind to crawl on my stomach to the curb.  As I writhed in agony at the edge of the street, Terry came over and stood guard.  I inspected my ankle.  I did not think it was broken, but it bled heavily and throbbed like crazy.  There was no skin left and I could see the exposed bone.  Yuck!  Just then a kind lady rushed out of her store to say she saw the whole thing and had called for an ambulance.  Grateful, I gave her my mother's number at work.  She picked up my bike and took it to her store, then went inside to call my mother.  Soon she returned with water for me and for Terry.  The lady was very nice.  Seeing I was scared and suffering with pain, she kept me company.  While Terry and I waited for help under the hot Texas sun, the lady collected my library books which were strewn all over the street.  We did not have long to wait, ten minutes at the most. 

When the ambulance showed up, the two men were very aggressive.  Without a bit of explanation, they tried to grab me and put me on a cart.  Lying flat on the ground because my hip hurt too much to sit, I put my hands up and resisted.  I said, "Hold on, guys!!  Wait a minute!  What about my dog?" 

The moment I protested, Terry went on alert.  All he had to do was hear the tone in my voice.  It was amazing to watch him go into action.  Terry had a magic power.  I called it 'The Look'.  I had seen it before, but never quite like this.  When Terry tensed up due to the urgency in my voice, the men froze.  Terry was not growling or showing his teeth, but he intimidated the men just by staring directly at them.  It was pretty amazing to see Terry hold his ground.  He pointed his long nose straight at them and sent a stern warning with his eyes.  The two men got the message.  They practically fell over in their haste to step back.  I smiled grimly.  Tears welled up with the realization my dog would protect me with his life.

Once they backed away, Terry instinctively took up a position between those men and me.  He was unwilling to let the emergency personnel anywhere near me from that point on.  Meanwhile, I was not about to leave without my dog.  Yes, I was badly hurt and in a lot of pain, but I wasn't in any immediate danger.  I could live with a broken ankle, but I could not live with a broken heart.  I needed take care of my dog first, foremost, and forever.

Keeping a safe distance, the men asked me to tie up my dog.  Despite my pitiful condition, I actually laughed at the absurdity.  Here I was lying on the curb of a hot city street with a badly damaged ankle and a hip so numb I could not move.  In addition there was a small puddle of blood collecting on the street from my ankle, but these guys were asking me to help them with the dog.  Sure, guys, I'm gonna hop up and solve your problem.  The thing is, in their mind, Terry was not their problem.  Terry was my problem.  We had a stand-off.

Meanwhile my situation had turned into street theater.  Several bypassers had collected nearby to watch the drama.  They said nothing, but I noticed their fascination with the unusual tension.  Fortunately, I still had my usual defiance to rely on.  But first I needed a stronger position to negotiate from.  From my prone position on the ground, I forced myself to sit up.  Now we began to argue.

"Look, mister, I am not going to tie up my dog.  Furthermore I am not leaving without him.  Why don't we just take the dog with us?"

"No way!!  You're gonna have to leave the dog here, young man."  

"Why not?  Why can't he go with us?"

"We can't put a dog in our ambulance!  We will lose our job!"

Realizing just how serious they were, I suddenly felt sick in my stomach.  "Are you guys crazy?  There is no way I am going to leave my dog behind!!" 

The men were frowning and had their arms crossed.  One of them said, "Look, kid, I'm sorry, I know how you feel, but why don't leave your dog with that lady?"

The woman offered to take Terry, but I shook my head.  Staring at the men, I spoke up as firmly as I could. 

"I am not leaving my dog.  That is not going to happen.  Dogs have feelings too.  Right now my dog is very worried about me.  If Terry sees me get in your ambulance and sees you drive away, he will go berserk with fear for my safety.  I am not going to torture him like that.  Furthermore, my dog is a born escape artist.  If he escapes trying to find me and I somehow lose my dog, I will never forgive myself as long as I live.  He's coming with me or I am staying here till my mother shows up."

It was a speech worthy of Winston Churchill.  My growing audience cheered and clapped.  However, the two men were unmoved.  They meant what they said.  They believed their job depended on getting their way.  I was panic-stricken because I feared they would use force to put me in the ambulance.  Then I realized as long as Terry was next to me, that wasn't going to happen.  So I brought Terry closer to me and put my arms around him.  This reinforced the message that if I go, he goes too.  These men clearly did not understand my extreme loyalty.  They would have to knock me unconscious before I would leave my dog.  This dog was the most important person in the entire world.   Losing Terry would be unbearable.  I would rather lie here bleeding in the street till my mother showed up than take any chance of losing my dog. 

This dog was my best friend... my only friend... in the whole world.  I had my life wrapped around him.  So, after a pause, I asked again, "Why can't we put Terry in the ambulance with us?  He won't cause a problem, I promise."

"It is against the rules!  An ambulance must be kept clean."

I shook my head in frustration.  "Then I am not leaving.  You guys can go, just go, I don't care.  I will lay here till my mother comes.  And you better not touch me.  You will have to fight my dog to get to me." 

The two men looked at each other.  There was a tacit agreement that neither man wanted anything to do with my dog, so they retreated to a safe distance to talk it over.  Terry was not a dangerous dog.  In our ten years together, not once did Terry ever bite someone.  Nor did he snap or bark at someone.  He growled once or twice, but only with good reason.  So far Terry had not growled at these men.  However, he had that uncanny way of staring at them that paralyzed them with fear.  I was proud of Terry for being so protective.  Terry was the reincarnation of Old Yeller.  No one would dare touch me if Terry thought I was in danger.  As I said, I believed Terry would sacrifice his life to protect me.  Well, that made two of us.  Our loyalty went two ways.  I was willing to risk losing my leg to stand up for him.  Well, maybe not stand up, bad choice of words.  But you know what I mean.  I was ready to lie here for eternity to protect him!

My biggest fear was I might lose control of the situation.  The pain was so terrible I feared I might pass out.  Then they might be able to sneak up from behind, grab the rope that was still attached to his collar and subdue him.  The thought of losing Terry was too much to bear, so I cracked.  No more tough kid... I began crying.  Talk about crocodile tears!   I cried my eyes out at the thought of losing my dog.  I pulled Terry to me and buried my face in his fur so the people could not see how upset I was.  I could recover from my injuries, but not from losing Terry.  There had been times when this dog was the only friend I had in the world.

Those tears turned out to be my saving grace.  As the drama mounted, this spot was turning into quite a spectacle.  The onlookers stayed glued to see how it was resolved.  Seeing the crowd of pedestrians, cars slowed down to see what the fuss was all about.  Some of those cars pulled over and people got out to get a better look.  I guess there were at least twenty people watching the spectacle.  And what a sight it was... a wounded kid lying helplessly on the ground and a loyal dog who resisted two very large, very determined men who were acting like bullies.  

Just then, a man in the crowd spoke up for me.  He hollered, "C'mon, you guys, let the damn dog ride with the kid in the ambulance!!  Can't you see the kid is crying?" 

With that, everyone cheered.  Suddenly the entire throng followed his lead and voiced similar sentiments to the ambulance drivers.  I didn't see this coming, but I was grateful.  Seeing so many people were on my side helped restore my determination.  With the crowd urging them to do the right thing, one ambulance guy looked at the other in frustration.  But they still wouldn't budge.  They threatened again to leave me laying there.  That didn't work.  Despite my ever-increasing pain, I barked, "Then go!  Just leave!  That's fine with me, I don't care.  I am not going to leave my dog!"

This test of wills had gone on for easily ten minutes.  Here I was hurt, crippled and bleeding, but I remained defiant.  Not that it did me any good.  The men would not relent, but they could not leave either.  They knew they could get in trouble if they left an injured kid lying there, so the stand-off continued.

Choking back tears, I said, "You men don't understand!!  I would rather take the chance of losing my leg than lose my dog!  This dog means everything to me!"

The crowd loved my protest.  Seeing how upset I was at leaving Terry, the crowd stepped up the pressure.  They raised quite a racket and I could see the men cracking under the sway of public opinion.  Sensing this might be the moment to try again, I said, "Hey guys, what if I said 'please'?  Please, guys, please let my dog come with me.  He's my best friend in the world."

Well, that did it.  The crowd cheered again and finally the men relented.  When they said Terry could ride with me in the ambulance to the hospital, the onlookers roared with approval and clapped.  Recognizing their role in the breakthrough, I saw two guys shake hands to acknowledge the teamwork.  I grinned because they were taking credit.  And you know what?  Given how strongly the ambulance drivers held their ground, I don't know if they would have backed down without the heckling of the onlookers.  A couple people said 'Thank you' to the drivers which helped ease the tension.  To my surprise, now that they were heroes, even the two ambulance drivers grinned a little.  Good grief.  What a circus. 

Now it was time to get me in the ambulance.  First I handed Terry's rope to that nice lady.  Next I gave Terry a kiss on the nose and reassured him in a soothing voice.  "Don't worry, Terry, I'm okay.  These men won't hurt me."  Then I asked the two men to come over one at a time and shake my hand.  I made a show of smiling at them and thanking them for helping me.  That was my way to let Terry know they were on my side now.  It was time to let them pick me up, so I said in a firm voice, "Terry, Stay!"  Terry was so unbelievably intelligent, he did exactly what I asked.  Terry stood still and watched as the men lifted me onto to the stretcher.  

Once the men had me on the gurney inside the ambulance, I clapped my hands and said, "Terry, come here!"  With that, Terry jumped in the ambulance and the lady placed the rope inside the vehicle.  The crowd roared with approval!  They laughed and cheered.  Too much fun!  I rolled my eyes.  Here I am practically on my death bed and these people are cheering for my dog.  But I understood.  They could see why I had stood up for my dog.  Now that the tension was gone, one of men in the crowd shouted out, "Hey, kid, you've got one heck of a smart dog!" 

I grinned and nodded.  Then I thanked the two men for helping me.  Both guys were smiling now.  This was going to be okay.  Now that I was in the ambulance, the nice lady came up and placed the library books she had collected on the floor of the ambulance.  I was glad to get those books back.  In the drama, I had forgotten all about them.

Then she grabbed my hand in an affectionate way and said, "Well, young man, it looks like you'll be needing these books this summer.  You take care of yourself and that great dog of yours." 

I smiled wanly and thanked her.  Then I remembered to ask a question.  "What about my bike?"

"Your mother is headed over here.  She can pick up it then and I will let her know you are going to Jeff Davis."

"Thank you, ma'am.  I am really grateful for your help.  I will remember what you did for me."

The ride to Jefferson Davis Hospital didn't take long.  It was only a mile from my accident.  Before entering the hospital, I asked the men to wheel the gurney over to a shade tree next to the entrance.  They lowered my stretcher to the ground next to the tree so I could tie Terry up.  Crying profusely due to my fear of losing my dog and knowing how worried Terry was, I hugged him and told him to wait for my mother.  It broke my heart to see him tugging at the rope trying to follow me into the hospital.  The poor dog was so worried about me.  I was his entire world.  Terry had his life wrapped around me.  Leaving him hurt like hell, but I made sure not to cry again and raise his anxiety.  However, my courage didn't last very long.  Once inside the hospital, I broke down badly.  Separated from my dog, I wasn't brave any more.  Not at all.  I absolutely could not stand the fear of leaving him out there alone.  What if somebody called the dogcatcher?  What if someone let him loose?  My worst fear was that Terry would chew through the rope.  My helplessness to protect my dog was too much for me to bear, so I cried profusely.  

A nurse heard me crying, a tall black woman.  She thought I was in serious pain and came over to comfort me.  She was surprised to find I was crying for my dog, not my injury.  Between sobs, I begged the sympathetic nurse to please give Terry some water and tell him I was okay.  Terry was capable of chewing through rope, so I asked her to check the rope for bite marks.  The lady smiled and said she would check when she had a moment.  When she said that, I made her also promise to tell my mother where to find Terry in case I passed out from my considerable pain.  The lady squeezed my hand and told me not to worry.  I cannot begin to express how grateful I felt towards that lady.  The kindness of strangers like her and the lady who phoned my mother made such a difference that day.

After she left, I lay there in a constant state of worry for my dog.  I had no idea whether the nurse had done what I asked.  Fortunately, the nurse did indeed go take a look.  She came back ten minutes later and said Terry had water and was doing fine.  She said Terry was a great dog and that he had even let her pet his head.

"When I asked your dog if his name was Terry, he actually licked my hand!  I reassured Terry that you were okay.  Gosh, I think your dog actually understood what I was saying!"

Choking back tears, I whispered huskily, "Oh, thank you so much, ma'am.  It is killing me not being near him right now."

The nurse took a shine to me and kept me company. 

"You really love that dog, don't you?  I have never seen a boy care more for his dog in my life.  Don't worry, things are going to be okay."

As the nurse was talking to me, Mom showed up.  Relieved to find that I was relatively okay other than the pain, Mom reassured me she had found Terry and put him in the car for safety.  "Don't worry, I locked the car doors.  Terry is safe."

"But what about the heat, Mom?  We can't let him suffer."

"I found a tree to park under so the car won't get too hot.  Plus I rolled down the window a bit.  Let me speak to the doctor first, then I will drive him home and come back if that's okay."

That made sense.  Our apartment was at most ten minutes away.  "Absolutely, Mom, take Terry home and come back.  Don't worry about me.  I have a bum ankle and a bruised hip.  I'll be okay."

Once Mom found that I was more worried about the dog than myself, she was incredibly touched.  Now my mother started crying too.  You know what?  My mother wasn't a bad person.  She may have been an emotional cripple, but there is no doubt she loved me.  I regret so much that we constantly butted heads throughout my childhood. 

As it turned out, this story had a happy ending.  Nothing was broken and no surgery was necessary.  Just bed rest.  The insurance company of the driver who hit me settled quickly.  Mom was able to get out of debt for a while and was very happy.  She even thanked me which I thought was odd.  Hmm.  Sure, Mom, always glad to take one for the team.

Terry and I spent June and most of July in bed while I recovered.  The bad news was that basketball was out of the question.  The good news is that I had 12 books to keep me company.  In short order, I read every book under the sun.  My favorite story was reading how Penelope, wife of Odysseus, waited ten years for him to come home after the Trojan War.  Now that's loyalty!  There were dozens of suitors vying for the hand of Penelope, so when Odysseus sat that, he used his bow and arrow to clean house.  Considering my last name is Archer, I thoroughly approved. 

Terry and I had a fine time together.  Since I could hop on one foot well enough to fetch peanut butter sandwiches, I wasn't in any danger of starving.  Nor was Terry.  He got a big corner out of every sandwich.  That was our deal.  I made sure to put extra peanut butter on Terry's slice just to torment him.  I would laugh as Terry went nuts twisting his tongue to lick the sticky peanut butter off the roof of his mouth.

Terry had a special spot beside me on the bed.  A boy and his dog.  As Terry slept contentedly, I read book after book.  In July, Mom was nice enough to drive me to get another supply of books.  I easily won the library's summer book club reading contest.  It took two months, but my ankle healed just fine.  The companionship of my dog made my suffering bearable.  As long as I had Terry beside me, I would be okay.  Peanut butter, Terry, and Greek Mythology.  Hey, that turned out to be a pretty good summer!  

A Step in the Wrong Direction

Unfortunately, my next story is not quite as charming.  It was 1964, I was 14, I was in the 8th Grade and I was very unhappy.  Neither parent paid a lick of attention to me and I was really floundering.  None of my classmates paid much attention either.  If it wasn't for Terry I would gone out of my mind with loneliness.  I was starved for attention and desperate for praise.  What I really needed more than anything was someone to pat me on my back and appreciate me for how hard I was working in school.  That is where my teachers really pitched in.  Their daily concern is what made my life bearable. 

However, Idle Hands are the Devil's Workshop and I left alone way too often.  So far the 8th Grade had been a bad year.  My wealthy classmates had all that money and I was penniless.  Fully immersed in a sea of self-pity, why not help myself to a candy bar treat at the nearby grocery store on the way home?  Unfortunately, I was caught stealing by a plain clothes cop.  I never saw him coming.  He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to the storeroom in back.  Then he shoved me into a cage enclosed with wire.  I was trapped.  This cage was used to protect the large cigarette containers from employee theft, but for my purposes the cop used it to drive home a much-needed message. 

Together we waited for the manager to appear.  At least 30 minutes.  I think the long wait was deliberate.  The cop was bored, so he idly picked up my book bag.  Maybe he was looking for more contraband.  Whatever the reason, the detective decided to leaf through my school books.  First he looked at my Algebra book.  Then he moved on to my Latin book.  Inside the Latin book, he discovered a recent test I had inserted between the pages.  Curious, he looked at my paper.  In big red letters, the test was marked '93', the equivalent of an 'A'.  Mrs. Randolph's handwriting in the margin said, "Nice work!"

 

The detective stared at that test with a puzzled look on his face.  Then he looked up and stared at me.  Obviously something did not make sense because he had the oddest expression.  The man held my test up to make sure he had my full attention. 

"Hey, kid, what is this paper I'm looking at?  I don't recognize the language."

I had a bad feeling about this, but answered quietly.  "That is my Latin test."

"What is Latin?"

"Latin is the ancient language of Italy."

The cop frowned.  "I've never heard of Latin.  Does anyone speak Latin anymore?"

"No, not really, not unless you are a priest or lawyer or something.  It is the language Julius Caesar used."

"Julius Caesar?  You've got to be kidding.  I thought Caesar spoke Italian."

"No, sir, Caesar spoke Latin.  That test you are looking at is my translation of something Caesar wrote during his conquest of Gaul."

"Gaul?  Where's Gaul?  Never heard of it."

"Gaul is modern day France."

"What happened to Latin?"

"My teacher said Latin died out 1,000 years ago."

Now another puzzled look came over the man's face.  "A thousand years ago?  I don't get it.  Why do you waste time learning a dead language?"

I did not want to answer.  From the moment he looked my test over, I had a powerful hunch this line of conversation was not going to turn out well.  However, I was very intimidated.  Reluctant to antagonize the man, I responded with candor. 

"That is a good question, sir.  I ask my teacher that same question all the time.  She says I learn Latin because it gives me a classical education whatever the heck that means.  They make me learn it whether I like it or not."

"I don't get it.  What kind of school makes you learn a dead language?"

I said nothing.  Still worried where this line of questioning was headed, the less said the better.  During my silence, the cop stared at my Latin test some more.  Then he looked through a few more pages of the Latin book.  When he began to shake his head in disapproval, my sense of dread increased.  Then he picked up my test paper again and held it six inches from my nose.  He was in a mood to rub it in. 

"Hey, kid, I don't understand a word on this test, but it looks like you got a good grade.  Did you make an 'A'?"

I nodded yes.

With a grin, the cop answered sarcastically, "Did you cheat?  That seems to be your style."

I winced.  He got me with that one.  His insult made me really angry, but I kept my temper.  "No, sir, I did not cheat."

"Well, I'll be damned.  It looks like you might have brains.  You could have fooled me.  In that case, I have another question.  Why in the hell did a smart boy like you do a dumb thing like this?" 

When he said that, I stopped breathing.  His words hit like a punch to the stomach.  I had a really big mouth in those days and I detested authority.  But for once in my life, I did not sass back.  This guy had me on that one.  Even worse, he wasn't finished yet. 

"Tell me again what you use Latin for." 

"They say it will improve my vocabulary.  My teacher says a background in Latin will help if I ever become a lawyer."

Oops, that was a take-back.  It was a mistake the moment I said it.  Sure enough, the cop snorted in derision. 

"Lawyer??  Think again.  Now that you have chosen a life of crime, you won't be no lawyer, you will need a lawyer.  I can tell you that right now.  I've never heard of a school that makes kids learn a dead language.  Where do you go to school?"

I did not answer.  I did not under any circumstance want to go down this road.  But I was not given a choice.

"Did you hear me, kid?  I asked you a question.  Where do you go to school?"

"I go to St. John's, sir."

"St. John's?  Never heard of it.  What kind of school is that, a church school?  Do you go to a church school with nuns and priests?"

"No, sir, although St. John's has a loose affiliation with a nearby Episcopal church of the same name, my school is not religious."

"Where is it located?"

"St. John's is next to Lamar High School on Westheimer."

"Lamar?  You go to that school next to Lamar?  I've seen that school.  That's a private school!!"

The cop eyed me suspiciously.  "Do you go to a private school?"

I nodded without saying a word.  Then I took a long, deep breath.  This was the secret I had prayed to keep to myself. 

Seeing great irony in the situation, the cop laughed incredulously.  "I don't believe it.  You go to that private school next to Lamar, the one with the fancy marble exterior?  You're talking about that rich kid's school over in River Oaks, right?"

Unable to make eye contact, I nodded.

The cop could barely contain his glee.  "Yeah, I know that place.  It's not that far from here.  Do you ride your bike?"

As I nodded, the cop shook his head in disbelief.   The moment I saw that, I groaned.  I knew what was coming.  Sure enough, the cop lowered the boom. 

"So you go to a rich kid's school and here you are stealing candy bars."

Ouch, that really stung.  I stayed silent, but it didn't work.  The cop was just getting warmed up.

"Doesn't your rich Daddy give you any money?  You are pathetic.  You've got money coming out of your ears and here you are stealing candy bars."

I wanted to protest.  I wanted to tell him my father abandoned me after the 6th Grade and my mother didn't have a job, but he did not strike me as the sympathetic type.  Instead I clammed up and stared out my jail cell.  That made him mad.  He didn't like being ignored.

"Look at me, kid!  What in the hell is wrong with you!?!  What possible reason do you have to steal candy bars?  Do you have any sense of pride?  Take a guess how many kids in this city would die to go to a school like yours."

A knife through the heart.  Speaking of dying, that seemed like a pretty good idea at the moment.  The shame I felt was unbearable.  To be honest, the cop was not trying to be mean.  He was actually curious to understand what would make a boy with my advantages do something inexplicable.  The cop had asked a very good question.  It was such a good question I was forced to ask myself the same thing.  Was my life really so bad that stealing candy bars was going to make any kind of difference?  Why had I sunk so low?  As I hung my head, the cop snorted with disgust.  He had contempt written all over his face.  To him, I was some pampered little rich boy who was too cheap to pay for a couple of candy bars.  I had never felt more humiliated in my life. 

Just then Mr. Ocker walked in.  He was the store manager.  The sad look on his face made my shame even worse.  He knew who I was, but not for a good reason.  My mother played a dangerous game.  She would write a bad check, then hope my father's child support check would arrive in time to cover the amount.  Two times in the past my mother had gotten burned.   Fortunately Mr. Ocker preferred not to prosecute.  Instead he patiently worked with my mother, allowing her to pay a little back each month till she caught up.  Now he was looking at a troubled kid who was following in his mother's footsteps.  Mr. Ocker chose not to throw the book at me.  Instead he asked me to give him my word I would not do this again.  Then he said 'Please don't do this again.'   Wow.  Mr. Ocker said 'Please'!  That was the perfect way to reach me.  Chew me out and I would lash back.  But not this man.  Rather than shame me, he had asked me to do him a favor.  I had so much respect for Mr. Ocker and his gentle approach that I silently vowed not to repeat my mistake. 

Following my unexpected reprieve, I could not get that cop off my mind.  His needling helped me see my elite education was the great blessing of my life.  So what if I was poor?  It was a rare privilege to attend such a fine school.   Considering all I ever did was feel sorry for myself, I was glad his edgy barbs had snapped me out of my self-pity.  Living in a bubble, this guy had given me my first inkling about the value of an education.  This guy had no idea what Latin was.  This guy had no idea where Gaul was located.  Those small details suggested a good education could open doors not available to this man.  That's probably why he was so rough on me.  I would wager he wished he could have had a better education.  This newfound awareness improved my attitude dramatically.  Sure, I went to school with classmates who enjoyed overwhelming privileges far beyond my humble status.  At the same time I was getting the finest education imaginable, a gift that was deprived to so many others.  This understanding was like electroshock therapy to my soul.  I woke up from my diseased mindset keenly aware of how incredibly fortunate I was to have a St. John's education. 

So was this a Supernatural Event?  It's borderline.  In hindsight I was very surprised to have been caught.  I had made sure to look left and right three times before swiftly inserting four candy bars into my coat pocket.  I was so quick the cop had to be looking right at me.  If he could see me, then why didn't I see him?  I have no idea how he caught me, but that is unimportant.  It was the impact of the event that persuaded me to add this incident to my list.  Say what you will about that cop's sarcasm, but he did me a real favor.  Thanks to him, my life of crime ended right there.  It is my theory that God sends certain people into our lives for a reason.  If this incident had stood alone, then I would dismiss it as just one of those things.  However, considering the number of people who briefly entered my life, handed me an important message, then disappeared, I am inclined to add it to my List. 
 

The Value of Study

Shortly after my ill-fated grocery store heist, I caught a major break.  Following the 6th Grade, my father refused to continue paying my SJS tuition.  At the time, Mr. Chidsey, the school Headmaster, offered a half-scholarship.  He told my mother he did not want to lose a good student.  Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dick stepped up to pay the other half for two years.  Unfortunately, now that Uncle Dick had started a new data processing business for banks, money was too tight to continue.  Towards the end of the 8th Grade, it looked like I would be leaving St. John's.  This time Mr. Chidsey offered a full scholarship for the remaining four years of school.  I was so excited!  The chance to continue my education at my beloved school was a dream come true. 

But there was one problem.  I was lonely!  With Freshman year around the corner, like other boys my age I wanted to begin dating.  However, given my awkward social status, this was bound to be an uphill struggle.  It did not help that I had trouble talking to the Über-confident girls in my class.  I was an okay-looking boy, attractive enough to receive the occasional smile.  However, I was way too shy to make a move without further encouragement.  Fortunately, I did have one advantage.  I was athletic and very tall for my age.  If I could excel at sports, I was sure to catch the eye of a pretty classmate. 

Unfortunately, I also had a handicap.  When I was 5, I accidentally blinded my left eye with a knife.  I was trying to cut a rope by pulling the knife towards me.  When my mother called from another room to hurry up and finish whatever I was doing, I panicked and gave the knife a big jerk.  You can figure out the rest.

Due to my blind eye, so far the St. John's coaches had refused to let me play contact sports.  However one coach said he would let me try Basketball in the 9th Grade.  Yes, my lack of peripheral vision was a problem, but let's find out if I could overcome it.  That's all I needed to know.  I agreed football was a bad idea, but basketball was my passion.  I was tall and strong.  Plus I had a powerful incentive to improve.  If I was good, a pretty girl might take note.  After school, I practiced endlessly.  Lay-ups, jump shots, hook shots.  No one on the neighborhood playground could beat me.  I was good, very good.  Filled with optimism, I was certain Freshman year held great promise. 

Unfortunately, just when things were looking up, a nightmare appeared on my doorstep.  Shortly before my 1964 summer vacation, a taxi driver named Neal moved in with us.  Mom had met the guy at some bar.  Age 14, I despised Neal from the moment we met.  Of all the strays Mom brought home over the years, Neal was the absolute worst.  I told Mom how angry I was having this slob invade my home, but it did no good.  Mom was lonely, so Neal stays.  My resentment was limitless. 

Neal, 40, was not a pretty sight.  He had a strong resemblance to an unshaven Jack Nicholson.  Neal was a loud-mouthed, foul-smelling, chain-smoking alcoholic.  Neal was a dark-haired, six feet tall, seriously overweight, with the thickest eyebrows I have ever seen.  A stranger to baths, brushes and razor blades, Neal honed his slovenly unshaven look to perfection.  But here is the incredible thing... Neal thought he was hot stuff.  One would think the guy would take a look in the mirror, but for some reason Neal never wavered from his lofty opinion of himself. 

As my dislike of Neal grew, I pleaded with Mom to throw the bum out.  Mom admitted she wasn't too keen on Neal herself, but since he was helping with the bills, he could stay.  With a frown, Mom said, "Look, I need the money, so you will just have to find some way to deal with the aggravation."

That gave me pause for thought.  This was the first time I had ever considered that money might be the reason Mom kept bringing home these strays to live with us.  Knowing how money was Mom's lifelong problem, I bitterly resigned myself to Neal's presence.  Neal had one special quality that separated him from the pack.  Neal liked to taunt me.  Because I had grown up alone, no one had ever picked on me before.  The moment Neal realized I had a thin skin and lacked the verbal skills to fight back, he subjected me to all kinds of ridicule.  I found myself seething at his put-downs.  Neal loved the fact that I went to a private school.  Since Neal considered himself a real deep-thinker, he lived for any chance to prove that he was smarter than me.  Neal took savage pleasure in humiliating me any way he could.  Once he guessed that some of my classmates looked down on me, he rubbed it in at every opportunity.  I have never hated anyone more in my life.

Neal was a lout, but he was also very bright.  I'll grant him that much.  I knew I was in trouble the moment he noticed my chess set.  Neal immediately began to brag loudly about what a great chess player he was.   "You'll never beat me, kid, no one beats me."

Chess became the battleground in our growing test of wills.  The moment he noticed my chess set, he immediately challenged me.  As we played, I could see he took the game seriously.  Puffing away on his perpetual cigarettes, I nearly gagged to death as Neal studied each move carefully.  It did not take long to see that Neal was a lot better than the boys I played with at school.  He was also better than me.  Neal seemed to know every trick play in the book.  Neal would laugh in a mocking way after each victory.  He would guffaw loudly and remind me not to take it so hard.  After all, since he was such a great player, I never stood a chance. 

"Don't worry about it, kid!  I'm an intellectual.  I beat everyone."

The low point came when school let out for the summer.  It was one thing to come home to this jerk after school.  However, since Mom worked days and Neal worked nights, it looked like I was going to be alone with this guy during the day all summer long.  Neal wasted no time.  On the first day of June he challenged me to another round.  As usual, he beat me twice.  I could not stand losing to Neal.  Choking on his cigarette fumes, how I hated losing to this guy!  But I didn't let on how angry I was.  After all, I had to live with him.  Privately, though, I chafed at my defeats.  I noticed that even though I lost, each game was pretty close.  I believed Neal wasn't really that much better than me.  I had the ability, but I lacked training.  If I could discover some way to improve, I might win.

As I feared, having Neal around the apartment was disgusting.  Neal smoked.  Neal drank.  Neal watched TV and belched.  The living room stank from half-empty beer bottles and cigarette ashes.  Neal hated to wear a shirt, so when he dozed on the couch, his giant beer belly and pale white skin reminded me of a beached whale.  Of all my mother's myriad one-night stands and live-ins, Neal was the one I detested the most.  The rest I learned to ignore, but not Neal.  Neal was Unforgettable. 

As I said, I believe God sends certain people into our lives for a reason.  Considering Neal was involved in two suspected Supernatural Events, in hindsight I suppose God stuck me with this guy because he was meant to teach me something.  That he did.  One day Neal decided to teach me how to fight.  I had never been in a fight, but decided to cooperate just for the heck of it.  As it turned out, Neal didn't know how to fight either.  But he did know a special move.  The dirty trick he showed me would one day play a major role in my Destiny.  Then there was Chess.  There are those who say our worst nemesis is our greatest teacher.  Neal proved there is truth in that.

Throughout June, Neal played Lord of the House.  I could not bear the sight of him.  Or the smell either.  Just to get away, every day in the early morning Terry and I would head over to nearby Cherryhurst Park.  For two hours I would practice shooting basketball while Terry ran free chasing squirrels and birds.  This was my official summer project.  Determined to go out for the St. John's Junior Varsity in the Fall, I practiced jump shot after jump shot till the Texas sun made it too hot to continue.

I would return and there would be Neal in the living room.  He would be puff puff puffin' away with a cigarette in one hand and holding a beer in the other while he watched his beloved soap operas.  Such an Intellectual.  Disgusted, I would head to my bedroom and shut the door.  I was a prisoner in my own home.

One day Terry and I returned from the park to find Neal sitting at the dining room table practicing his chess moves.  Neal saw me and ordered me to sit down and play.  The strident tone of his voice made Terry stare bullets at Neal.  Mind you, Terry did not growl or make a sound.  Instead he gave Neal 'The Look'.  Seeing the intensity in Terry's stare, Neal did a double-take. 

I quietly grinned.  Aha!  Neal is afraid of the dog.  As well he should be.  Terry never left my side when Neal was around.  Thank goodness for my loyal bodyguard.  Seeing an opening, I taunted him.  "Gosh, Neal, looks like Terry doesn't like you very much."

Neal frowned.  "Keep that dog away from me, kid."

"If I didn't know better, maybe you need to take a shower, Neal.  Terry has a very sensitive nose.  That's probably what's bothering him."

When Neal's eyes narrowed, I knew I had scored.  Neal had no comeback for the shower quip.  This moment marked a turning point in our tense relationship.  At first, I had no choice but to let Neal pick on me.  After all, I had never met anyone who deliberately went out of his way to humiliate me.  However, I had a wicked tongue of my own.  Just ask Mom.  So far I had kept my smart mouth under wraps around Neal, but seeing him flinch from my dog was the opening I needed.  Once I realized I was capable of fighting back, I gave free rein to my sarcasm.  To my delight, my biting style got under Neal's skin just as he got under my skin.  Considering how slovenly Neal was, I had a plethora of weak spots to target... smoking, drinking, obesity, etc.  In particular, Neal's odor problem was easy pickings. 

"Hey, Neal, there's something wrong with the shower nozzle.  Did you break it?  Oh, never mind.  I forgot you don't actually know where the shower is."

I ran variations on the same line any time I needed a cheap retort.  "Guess what, Neal, I was able to get the shower fixed.  Do you want me to teach you how to use it?"

Neal would glare and fume.  But what could he do?  Neal knew better than to get physical with me.  Terry had caught on to my game.  I think he could tell by the sound of my voice when I was messing with Neal because he would saunter over to my side.  Pretty soon I was smarting off to Neal any time I felt like it since I had Terry to back me up.  Of course Mom had no idea what was going on.  This was between Neal and me while she was at work.  Now that my hostility was out in the open, another confrontation was inevitable.  One day after my morning basketball practice, I came home from the park hot and sweaty.  Neal waved the fumes away and told me I stunk.

"Gosh, Neal, I didn't realize you had a sense of smell.  Could have fooled me."

Seeing Terry's ears perk up at my special taunting voice, Neal bit his tongue.  Instead he pointed to the chess board.  "Take your shower, kid, but then it's your move.  I can't remember, have you beaten me yet?  Nah, probably not.  No one beats me."

There was no love lost between us.  The tension had grown much worse ever since I began to talk back.  Although Neal outweighed me by a good 100 pounds, he did not dare lay a finger on me thanks to Terry.  Unable to smack me across the face like he wanted to and no longer able to best me in a war of words, the chess table had become Neal's final bastion of superiority.  Neal had just challenged me to our second chess match of the summer.  Okay, fine, let's play.  After my shower, I tried as hard as I could, but Neal beat me soundly.  Neal always insisted on playing twice, once as White, once as Black.   Losing twice, I fumed.  Meanwhile, Neal roared with delight at putting the smart-mouthed twerp back in his place.  Bellows of raucous laughter emanated.  Neal was Lord of the House once more.

I seethed inside, but kept my mouth shut.  For the next couple hours, Neal laughed every time he saw me and bragged about his victory.  Neal enjoyed humiliating me because it proved he was smarter than me.  Finally I couldn't take it anymore.  I grabbed Terry and the basketball and left the apartment to play basketball for the second time that day, Texas heat be damned.  Right now I was hotter inside than it was outside.  I really needed to let off some steam.  With this guy around, my summer was off to a lousy start.  Neal was ruining my life.  Following my latest defeat at chess to Neal, I cursed my futility.  Now that Neal knew how aggravated I was whenever he beat me, he had regained the upper hand.  How was I ever going to get rid of this guy? 

Throughout June Neal used his chess ability to goad me any chance he could.  Any time I got the better of him in our war of insults, Neal would say, "If you think you're so smart, then why can't you beat me at chess?"  The laughter would ensue.  This went back and forth for most of June.  I would insult him, he would insult me, but any time Neal wanted to shut me up, he would point to the Chess board. 

I cursed my inability to match Neal's chess skill.  One day after my latest defeat, I stomped out of the house for a long walk around the neighborhood.  I screamed my head off, "Darn it!  I wish I could find a way to beat that SOB!!"

To my surprise, when I returned, Neal was gone.  I suppose he started his taxi route earlier than usual.  Alone in the apartment, I took a shortcut through my mother's bedroom.  That is when I noticed a box of Neal's books lying on the floor over in the corner.  Curious, I put the box on the bed and leafed through.  There were books by Ayn Rand, Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.  There was Jack Kerouac's On the Road, Exodus by Leon Uris.  There were several Bertrand Russell books on philosophy.  I snorted with contempt.  These were just the sort of books an Intellectual would read.  I wondered if Neal had actually read them or just kept them around to impress whatever woman he was currently shacking up with. 

When I reached the bottom of the box, my eyes lit up.  "My, my, what do we have here?"  

Hidden at the bottom of Neal's box was a book covering the results of the 1960 World Chess Championship.  Reading the introduction, apparently underdog Mikhail Tal had gained an upset victory over fellow Russian Mikhail Botvinnik.  With a sense of excitement, I leafed through the book.  This book contained the moves from every tournament game written in chess notation, P-B4 (Pawn to Bishop 4), QxR (Queen takes Rook) and so on.  Even better, there were detailed explanations for Tal's reasons behind the most important moves.  Realizing Mikhail Tal had written this book as a way to explain the strategy he used to become the world chess champion, my eyes grew wide.  I immediately grasped the potential. 

I carefully put the other books back, then placed the box on the floor where I had found it.  Would Neal find out?  I doubted it.  The chess book was probably on the bottom because he never looked at it.  I pegged the odds of Neal missing this book at one in a million.  

St. John's stressed the importance of Achievement.  My school attracted extremely bright kids and turned us into scholastic gladiators.  Like fighting ability in ancient Sparta, academic performance was worshipped at St. John's.  A major reason for the school's exemplary academic record was its skillful use of head-to-head competition.  St. John's students quickly learned to compete or be weeded out. 

If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was study.  St. John's had taught me this.  Work, study, get ahead.  I might add there was a Supernatural vibe to my decision to research this chess book.  Noting the book had appeared within minutes after I had just wished to find a way to beat Neal, the perfect timing felt like an omen.  Convinced this chess book was the answer to a prayer, I carried my secret weapon to the bedroom.  This was my chance to get revenge.  Throughout July I made it my mission to replay every chess game in the book.  On each page there was a discussion of the reasons behind Tal's moves.  Every spare moment I would analyze those useful pearls of wisdom.  I had no idea if learning the secrets behind Tal's strategy would help me improve my own game, but I had to try.

Each morning Terry and I would head over to the park so I could practice basketball.  Terry would run around the park and I would play against the neighborhood boys for an hour or so.  When I returned home, I would see whale belly passed out on the couch with empty beer bottles on the floor and a still-smoking cigarette in the ash tray.  I would turn off the TV lest it wake His Royal Highness.  After a shower, I would return to the living room for further motivation.  There he was, Lord Neal, snoring his head off in another drunken stupor.  Disgusted, I would head to my bedroom and practice my chess moves with the door locked.   Terry would jump up on the bed and take a nap while I carefully replayed the games on my chess board. 

The vision of Neal laughing at me was an ever-present spur in my mind.  I used my anger to study that chess book with the fervor of a Bible scholar.  Once in a while, Neal would challenge me to more chess, but I always refused.  I wanted to finish the book before I played him again. 

"You're too good, Neal.  I can't beat you, so I have given up."

Neal would guffaw, call me a chicken, flap his elbows like chicken wings and make a few more squawks for good measure.  What an asshole.  Then he would go turn on his soap opera and smoke another cigarette.  Humiliated, I would retreat to my room, slam the door, and open the book.  Every time I heard Neal open the refrigerator door and grab another beer, my desire for revenge mounted.  Whenever I left my room, the lingering odor of cigarette smoke gave me headaches.  Oh, how I wanted to get rid of this man!  It took a month, but I finished every game in the book.  I carefully returned the chess book to the bottom of the box and waited.  I thought I understood the reasons behind the moves, but I had no idea if it would make any difference in my own game.  One day at the start of August, Neal challenged me to another game of chess.  As usual, I turned him down.  It was part of the trap.  As I guessed, Neal began to taunt me.  After resisting for a while, I gave in.  Trying to look casual, I said, "Okay, Neal, if it's that important, I'll play you."

Neal looked at me funny.  After ducking him for a month, why was I suddenly so cooperative?  Shrugging off his suspicion as needless worry, Neal sat down at the table.  This time I was ready.  I gleefully cleaned Neal's clock.  He never knew what hit him.  As expected, Neal demanded a rematch.  Since we started late in the day, Mom came home in the middle of the second match.  She watched in surprise as I handily won the second game too.  This was the first time Mom had ever seen Neal so flustered.  It wasn't just that I beat Neal, it was HOW I beat him.  I beat him so soundly that Neal was bewildered.  His expression was priceless.  Neal stared at me like a wounded prize fighter who has just been knocked down for the first time.  No one beats Neal.  Neal beats everyone.  Neal is an Intellectual.  But not this time.  It was no contest.  Angry, Neal got up and left early for work . 

No doubt as he ferried passengers around the city, Neal spent the night wondering how to explain my sudden improvement.  Assuming it must have been a fluke, the following day Neal challenged me again.  I cleaned his clock twice.  This time he got angry.  Using profanity, he demanded that I explain my improvement.  Hearing Neal's voice rise, Terry gave him The Look.  As Neal cowered, I just smiled.  It was uncanny how much I had improved.  It wasn't even that difficult to beat him.  Studying that book had made a huge difference. 

Seeing Neal lost in thought the next morning, I could not resist.  "Hey, Neal, how about another game of chess?"

Neal was so upset at me he could barely muster a lame retort. 

"Oh, go to Hell, kid!"

"No thanks, Neal, I just came from Hell.  Haven't you heard?  The Devil has been giving me chess lessons."

As Neal glowered in helpless rage, I grinned with delight.  Poor Neal.  He was definitely spooked by my mysterious improvement.  It served him right.  Unable to guess my secret, Neal began staring at me like I was Damien from The Omen.  Neal was so bewildered, he drove himself silly trying to figure out how I managed to improve so much.  No doubt he wondered what I had been doing alone in my bedroom all those hours.  For the rest of the day Neal walked around the apartment slamming doors and muttering to himself. 

That night I heard Neal and Mom arguing.  Losing his temper, Neal grabbed his suitcase and box of books, threw them in the car and moved out.  I never saw him again.  After Neal left, my mother thanked me.  When she said good riddance, I smiled.  Checkmate.

In hindsight, I knew the moment I spotted Neal's chess book that its coincidental appearance was way out of the ordinary.  That morning I had openly wished for some way to improve at chess so I could beat Neal.  The moment I returned home I received my unexpected gift.  The dramatic impact plus the uncanny timing of the book's appearance convinced me this was a potential Supernatural Event.

Although my Mystical view on life had not yet been awakened, I was getting small inklings like this all the time.  I instinctively nodded my gratitude to whatever Invisible being had sent this small miracle my way.   Yes, some people would dismiss this quirk as a silly coincidence, but to me it felt like this book had been the answer to a prayer.

QUAKER MEETING

001

INTRODUCTION

The Nightmare that Changed my Life

One month after Neal left, I began my Freshman year.  I was full of optimism.  I had been given a full scholarship to St. John's.  Over the summer, I had practiced basketball endlessly.  And, best of all, I had put my SJS training to good use by studying a chess book to defeat my enemy.  Now that Neal was gone, I was in a very good mood.  I even had a pretty girl smile at me in English class on the first day. 

Life is a Test.  No question about it.  Hardship comes to us all at some point and things don't always work out as we expect.  My basketball plan would have worked, I am sure of it.  Unfortunately, John Lennon was correct when he said, "Life is what happens while you are making other plans."  One night shortly after my 14th birthday, my world was turned upside down.  On the same day basketball practice was ready to start, I awoke beset by the great tragedy of my life.  My ordeal was caused by a sudden and quite bizarre attack of acne. 

Acne, that embarrassing scourge of many teenagers, had been a nagging problem for some time.  My mother had a great distaste for pimples, so the previous night she took matters into her own hands.  Using a sterilized sewing needle, Mom opened each pustule and used isopropyl alcohol as a cleansing disinfectant.  Here is what is strange... that should have worked.  But it didn't work.  Maybe she forgot to cleanse one of the wounds.  Who knows. 

That night the infection entered my lymph gland system as I slept.  I awoke in excruciating pain the next morning.   Running to the mirror, I screamed in horror.  I was staring at a monster!  My face had swollen to twice its size and it was covered wall to wall with thick clusters of pimples.  Overnight I had been transformed into a ghastly modern-day leper. 

The weird thing is my mother just sort of shrugged.  "Don't worry about it, Richard.  This is temporary.  The swelling will be gone in a day or so and you will be back to normal."

For reasons I will never understand, my mother did not take me to the doctor.  Ignoring signs of massive infection, she believed the problem would magically go away.  Wrong.  Four days passed without treatment until my mother finally realized how serious my condition was.  By that time, it was too late.  This raging wildfire had erupted beyond the point of control. 

There were two mysteries involved in the acne attack.  The first mystery was the freak nature of the attack.  When I finally met the dermatologist, he said he had never heard of an incident like mine.  Would I mind if he submitted my unusual case to a medical journal?  "After all, your face is a medical marvel!"  I just wanted to vomit.  Due to the gruesome condition of my face, many years would pass before I allowed someone to take my picture at close range.  As a result, I have no pictures of my condition.  However, I suppose if someone really wanted to see how horrible I looked, there might be a repulsive picture sitting in some medical journal. 

This was not temporary.  My condition was so serious it took a year to clear the problem up.  Then came the scars.  Like a receding glacier which leaves ruts in the earth, my face was now severely pock-marked.  I would never in my life see another person with a case of acne even remotely as serious as mine.  Nor would I see anyone with a worse case of scarring.  It took two skin operations just to bring my face halfway back to normal, but that was nowhere near good enough for me.  To this day I still cannot look in the mirror except at a distance. 

The biggest mystery was the negligence of my mother.  Here I am with a face swollen to the size of a balloon, an obvious sign of infection.  So Mom takes me to the doctor, right?  No.  She tells me it will clear up in a day or two, then sends me to school on Monday.  On Tuesday.  On Wednesday.  Finally Mom figures out this problem is not getting any better.  Maybe my moaning helps to convince her.  With my burning skin stretched to an obscene degree, I was in serious pain.  So she breaks down and takes me in on Thursday afternoon. 

My mother knew how to phone a doctor.  I remember two specific incidents prior to this when Mom wasted no time getting me help.  Nor was Money the issue.  My father had medical insurance for me.  Now that Dad was prosperous, he could afford to help.  So what was her problem?  My mother's hesitation baffled the dermatologist.  He took one look at me and gasped.  Turning to my mother, he barked, "What took you so long?"  Hey, I'm wondering the same question!  By waiting too long, the doctor was unable to control the problem.  Pumping me with tetracycline, it took the acne months to recede.  And then the really bad news hit.  My face was deeply scarred.

So how do I explain my mother's uncharacteristic behavior?  I am sorry to say I do not have an answer.  Mom and I did not get along very well, so she rarely shared her thoughts.  What I do know is my mother had a long history of making inexplicable mistakes.  For every crazy story I tell about my mother, I have omitted two others that are almost as bad.  This otherwise intelligent woman was prone to incredible acts of stupidity.  Her delay regarding my serious infection was a prime example. 

Needless to say, I was treated like the Teenage Werewolf at school.  Or a Leper from the Valley of the Damned.  Students stared in horror, then quickly stepped aside to let me pass.  No doubt they feared my condition would rub off.  Shamed by the look of disgust on their faces, I longed for the day this humiliating problem would clear up.  Unfortunately, once the acne finally receded, I was crushed to realize I had an even bigger problem.  I was staring at deep, permanent facial scars.  No one had warned me.  Acne was Temporary, but these scars were Forever.  It broke my heart to realize I was stuck with this face for life. 

The acne attack and resulting scars turned high school into a four-year long neverending horror movie.  Full of despair, I withdrew into myself and wrapped myself in a thick shell.  Fortunately, there was always college to dream about.  College was the Promised Land.  College would be the moment when the stigma of facing a social black hole at St. John's could be left behind.  Finally I would have a fresh start.  Hmm.  Guess again.  A very cruel Fate awaited me in college.  My acne problem would serve as the root cause of a Curse I came to refer to as the Epic Losing Streak.  And just how long did this Epic Curse last?  Twenty years. 

The Creepy Loser Kid

The defining moment of High School Hell took place early in my Sophomore year.  It was October 1965, one year after the acne outbreak.

So what happened to my Basketball Project?  As luck would have it, I would never play a single minute of high school basketball.  Nor would I have a single date.  I don't know which I regretted more, not dating or not playing basketball.  For a lonely kid with little self-confidence and no one to console me, this acne attack had been the closest thing imaginable to an Extinction-level Event.  What was I supposed to do?  Before acne, I was the poorest boy in the Land of the Wealthy, a nobody at this school, the Invisible Man.  Now I was the ugliest boy in the Land of the Beautiful, a dubious distinction to add to the list of reasons why no woman dared show interest in me. 

I think the easiest way to describe my situation is to use the word Perfection.  My privileged classmates lacked for nothing.  Perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect cars, perfect homes.  If it was something money could buy, my classmates had it.  That included Perfect Complexion.  By definition, all it would take to stand out among my peers was one pimple.  I had one hundred. 

What self-respecting girl would dare be seen talking to the Leper at this status-conscious school?  Let's get something straight... I wasn't just ugly, I was repulsive.  I had felt socially inferior before the attack, so imagine how I felt now.  What was the point of asking one of my beautiful classmates for a date?  Unless it was Be Kind to Vermin Week, all I would do was embarrass myself.  So I gave up.  Looking like I did, the door to any social life in high school was permanently closed.  As for dating girls in my neighborhood, my mother was so busy getting us evicted, by the time I reached high school I no longer bothered to meet my neighbors.  Without dating or playing varsity basketball, there was nothing else to do but turn my attention to academics and dream about college. 

Once it became obvious my face had more craters than the moon's surface, the doctor recommended dermabrasion, an operation used to smooth the skin.  The first one did not do the trick.  The second one did not do the trick.  But the doctor was certain the third operation would solve the problem.  Well aware that my father might object, he offered to do it for half-price.  Sure enough, Dad turned it down.  "Forget it, I'm tired of paying for your operations."  So for the princely sum of $260, I was stuck with this face for the rest of my life. 

Overwhelmed with disappointment, I made the mistake of assuming my father's rejection was as bad as it gets.  That's the problem with Rock Bottom.  Things can always get worse, right?   The two skin operations had not made much of an improvement and a recent secondary attack of pimples compounded my misery.  The upshot was that I looked pretty ragged on this fateful day.  It was late in the afternoon and I was headed to the locker room after Phys Ed.  We had been running track and I was the first to finish.  A boy named Harold and his two buddies saw me up ahead and sped to catch me.  I had never done a single thing to offend Harold, but a bully needs a target, so Harold picked me.  I was so defeated by life at this point, I was easy prey.  As usual, Harold wasted no time harassing me.

"Hey, look everybody, look who's here!  It's Dead-Eye Dick, the one and only Clearasil Kid!" 

Harold thought it was hysterical that I was blind in one eye and that my name was 'Dick'.  What a precious taunt that must have been.  Harold's barbs hurt like hell.  I wanted to murder this jerk in the worst way.  However I doubted retaliation had much chance of success, not with a three against one disadvantage.  So I just kept walking, stoically absorbing the taunts in silence just as I always did. 

Trying to get a rise out of me, Harold continued. 

"Hey, Dead Eye Dick, did anyone ever tell you that you are one hell of a Creepy Loser Kid?!" 

I froze.  That hurt.  That hurt a lot!  Should I turn around and hit him?  I sure wanted to, but slugging it out with Harold was out of the question.  With my face still healing from the latest skin operation, this was no time for a fight.  Just then a dark thought crossed my mind.  Did I really believe anything could possibly make my face look any worse than it already did?   Nevertheless, I backed down.  No one fought at this school.  I had never seen a fight, I had never heard of a fight.  Fighting at St. John's was done with insincerity, backstabbing and insults, not fists.  Far too ashamed of my grotesque appearance to trade insults, I kept walking with my back turned. 

What exactly was I supposed to do, turn around and get into a shouting match?  What were my chances of winning that argument?  With my purple mask of shame and three boys taking turns taunting me, they had the upper hand.  I was Quasimodo and they were handsome boys with perfect skin.  Looking like I did, where was I going to find the flaws in their superiority to fight back?  There was nothing for Dead Eye Dick to do but endure the insults just like I always did.   I despised Harold, but even more I hated my sense of utter futility.  When Harold called me a 'Creepy Loser Kid', I was afraid he was right.  Harold's cutting phrase had shaken me to the core of my being. 

Overwhelmed by Harold's cruelty, I was barely holding back the tears of frustration.  When I reached the locker room, I expected Harold would show mercy and stop the taunting, but I was wrong.  Since we were the first ones to finish running track, the locker room was deserted except for the four of us.  Harold decided to take advantage.  As I walked into the shower area with a towel over my shoulder, I found Harold and his cronies waiting for me.  Noting the sneers on their faces, I winced.  Oh no, not this again.  Harold had obviously rushed to the shower so he could continue his heckling. 

Sure enough, seeing me, Harold's face lit up with delight.  Grinning, Harold exclaimed, "There he is, it's Dead Eye Dick in the flesh!"  

It was just my luck to be naked.  The moment I saw Harold look me up and down, then grin, I knew what was coming.   

"Oh my God, it's Dickless Dick!  No eye, no dick and creepy all over.  Hey, Dickless, why don't you get the f... out of here!  Go use another shower, we don't want to catch your disease!"

Incensed, I stopped in front of Harold.  Harold was so used to me backing down, I guess he assumed I posed no danger.  The moment he opened his mouth to continue needling me, I snapped.  First I faked a knee to his groin.  Harold saw it coming and dropped his hands.  This allowed me to clap my hands hard over his ears.  Stunned, Harold reflexively brought his hands to his ears.  His throat exposed, I punched him as hard as I humanly could.  I hit him so hard I'm lucky I didn't kill him.  It had to hurt like crazy.  As Harold doubled over, I lifted my knee just in time to catch Harold flush on the chin.  It was brutal.  My knee strike snapped his head back hard.  Reeling, Harold crumpled to the wet tiles with his hands holding his throat.  I was about to kick him in the face for good measure, but barely managed to stop.  Harold was coughing and gurgling for breath.  Seeing Harold defenseless and writhing in pain, I figured enough was enough. 

Two blows, one to the throat, one to the chin, and the fight was over.  Thank you, Neal, for teaching me how to fight dirty.  So much for the civilized gentility of prep school.  I turned to face the other two boys who were trembling in terror.  My adrenaline was overwhelming.  Sick and tired of putting up with the taunts, I was ready to take them both on.  However, that was not going to happen.  Horrified at the viciousness of my attack, the boys were in no mood to rush to Harold's defense.  This savage shower fight had shocked them into submission.  Staring at their henchman writhing on the floor, the boys were too stunned to move.  What a sight I must have been.  I was stark naked, dripping wet, quivering with rage, clenching my fists ready to strike again.  For once, even my acne helped.  No doubt my scars and glowing red mask of pimples enhanced the fierceness of my scowl.  Knowing their ringleader wasn't getting back up, the two boys weren't so brave anymore.  Instead they retreated to the back of the shower lest the raging Hulk come after them. 

Disgusted, I took a quick rinse as the two boys ran over to check on Harold.  I gloated with satisfaction as my enemy lay there moaning on the wet floor.  Sprawled out naked with shower spray beating down, he was obviously in a lot of pain.  Tough.  Harold got what he deserved.  Fortunate for me, he was not hurt too badly.  Mostly it was his pride.  Ten minutes later I was surprised to see Harold approaching.  Almost dressed, I was putting my shoes on.  Harold demanded I meet him after school to settle this.  However, when I stood up, Harold took one look at my defiance and flinched.  Seeing him take a step back, that's all I needed to know.  This incident was over.  Phys Ed was the last class of the day, so I already had my books with me.  I got on my bicycle and rode home.  As my rage wore off, a deep sense of despair took its place.  I cried uncontrollably all the way home.  My life sucked.

There are several curious footnotes to this story. 

Worried about a sneak attack, shortly after the incident it was just my luck to run across a beat-up set of weights at a garage sale.  This odd coincidence was eerily similar to the time a chess book appeared shortly after making a wish.  Channeling all my frustration into weight training, inside a month the difference was already noticeable.  From that point on, no one ever said a mean word about my face again.  Or should I say no one ever said anything period?  My classmates tended to give me a wide berth. 

To my surprise, I was never punished for fighting.  In fact, I never heard another word about it.  My guess is Harold was too embarrassed by the results to report the incident.

I never spoke to Harold again.  He avoided me from that point on and left school at the end of the year. 

Although I won the battle, I lost the war.  'Creepy Loser Kid' became an insidious form of self-hypnosis.  I could not get that damn thought out of my head.  With Harold's phrase haunting me wherever I went, the message of my inferiority was driven deep into my subconscious.  It was like infecting a computer with a virus.  Now that Harold had placed his curse inside my head, he no longer needed to taunt me.  I did it to myself. 

Knowing my classmates saw me as repulsive, was there anything I could do to possibly change their minds?  I had no solution.  I was stuck with this face no matter what.  Nor did I have the heart to try basketball.  Maybe later, but right now I was too beaten down.  Since basketball heroics were out of the question, there were no image-improving miracles left in my bag of tricks.  Feeling hopeless, I retreated into a deep shell.  I had angry thoughts that scared me.  Every time I compared my pock-marked face, blind eye, and crooked teeth to the attractive girls with their perfect smiles, perfect teeth, and perfect complexions, I felt exactly like the monster Harold had alluded to.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not get 'Creepy Loser Kid' out of my mind.  With that nasty label tormenting me at every turn, my feelings of inferiority became overpowering. 

Someone who knew the details once commented it was a miracle I didn't turn Columbine Crazy at this point.  The parallels were certainly there... loneliness, alienation, bitterness.  Fortunately, that wasn't me.  Rather than hate my school, I dearly loved my school.  I wasn't a bad kid, just a very lonely one.  And a very unlucky one at that. 

A Simple Act of Kindness

Rock Bottom is a terrible place.  I don't recommend it.  However, I am not the only person who has ever feared things won't get much better.  When I was 25 I was hired as a social worker.  I spent four years investigating child abuse and neglect.  During this time I met many people who had seemingly given up.  After facing so much hardship in their life, they had reached a point of no return.  Rather than fight to conquer their problems, they gave up and drifted.  I often wondered how someone as depressed as these people would ever find the strength to make a comeback.  Having hit Rock Bottom several times myself, I was no stranger to depression.  The thing is, I always got back up, but how did I do that?  It dawned on me that every time I got knocked down, someone came along to throw me a lifeline. 

To me, the difference between my life and the broken lives of the people I dealt with might just be Divine Intervention.  It seemed like every time I was about to go off the rails, someone like the plain clothes cop would appear to set me straight.  Or a monster like Neal would mysteriously offer a hint that would one day help me defeat a bully.  Why me?  Why did a chess book appear out of thin air?  Why did a set of weights appear in a similar way?   With a blind eye, useless parents and this face, I considered myself extremely unfortunate.  And yet at the same time I also kept getting lucky.  Why did I keep getting a helping hand while others were left to continue their downward spiral?  I cannot answer that question.  I can only say that so far in my young life, every time I hit a bad spot, someone came along to offer me a Ladder.  Well, that was then, but this is now.  Following the locker room fight with Harold, I was trapped in the biggest hole of my life.  Convinced there is no way I was coming back this time, I was ready to hang it up.

About this time, the Rolling Stones came out with their new hit, Paint it Black. 

I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door, I must have it painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black.

Cheerful, yes?  Now I had a theme song to alternate with 'Creepy Loser Kid'.  I was so low I cannot imagine how I would have ever pulled myself up using my own power.  How do you fight when there is no fight left?  Fortunately, out of nowhere, a Magic Ladder appeared.  It was April 1966, I was 16, and I was finishing up my Sophomore year.  The acne was finally gone, leaving in its wake a face riddled with scars.  I hated the world, I hated myself, I spoke to no one unless forced to.  I was lonely, bitter, friendless, but most of all I was defeated.  Welcome to High School Hell. 

It was 9 pm on a Friday night, closing time at the grocery store.  Yeah, 'that' grocery store.  Standing in the checkout line with my mother, we were among the last customers.  The assistant manager had just started locking the doors.  Depressed out my mind, my life was going nowhere but straight down.  Paint it Black.  Just then, Mr. Ocker walked by.  He glanced at me, frowned a bit, nodded hello at my mother, then kept walking.  To my surprise, Mr. Ocker turned around.  He came over to me and offered me a job.  I was incredulous.  This sort of thing only happens in dreams.  But I wasn't dreaming.  As it turned out, I was magically in the right place at the right time. 

At the time I had no idea what insanity had possessed Mr. Ocker to do this, but later down the road I figured it out.  A couple times a year, Weingarten's had a special Strawberry Sale.  Four small plastic cartons for a dollar.  Such a deal!  Ordinarily the same amount sold for three bucks.  For the life of me, I never understood the power of this two dollar bargain.  However I had seen the fanaticism in my mother's eyes enough times to know this event was special.  The April Strawberry Sale was known to cause a mob scene fighting for possession of a limited supply of the precious berries.  Tomorrow is the Big Day and there is so little time left only one person on earth could possibly save the store from a riot. 

Earlier in the evening a teenage boy who worked there had gone home sick.  Mr. Ocker had been counting on that boy to handle tomorrow's Strawberry Project.  As it stood at 9 pm on Friday night, there was not one plastic carton of strawberries ready for sale in the morning.  And why was that?  To keep the strawberries fresh, they are delivered one day ahead of time in giant boxes.  Piled on top of each other, the boxes stretched to the ceiling in the freezing cooler where fruit and vegetables are stored.  Someone had to climb as high as 20 feet up the ladder, bring down the top box, then transfer strawberries from the big box to the small plastic cartons used for the sale.  Mr. Ocker was in a bind.  This was a massive all-day project, it was 9 pm and Mr. Ocker had no one lined up.  Realizing it might be too late to find a replacement for this thankless task, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.  So Mr. Ocker stopped in his tracks, turned around and stared at us.  Aren't we a pair?  The mother writes hot checks and the kid steals candy from his store.  So what?  Mr. Ocker was so desperate that even a known thief was acceptable. 

"Young man, can you help me out with a job tomorrow morning?"

I could not believe this was happening.  "How is this possible?  Has he forgotten I stole candy from his store two years ago?"

Despite my shock, I needed this job.  It was becoming increasingly obvious that paying for college was going to be a problem, so I accepted without hesitation.  At 8 am the next day, there I was.  I was a forlorn, whipped kid.  I was poor, I was ugly, I was lonely, I had a rotten mother, I had a rotten father, and I did not have a friend in the world except for Terry.  Down on my luck, one would assume I would be grateful for this job.  Wrong.  I *DESPISED* this job!  It was awful!  If Kryptonite is Superman's greatest vulnerability, then Boredom is mine.  I can't stand being bored, probably because catchy phrases like Creepy Loser Kid and Paint it Black used the entire ten hours to keep me company that day.  For the longest ten hours of my life, I stood in the cooler monotonously transferring strawberries into plastic containers.  I was alone, I was bored out of my mind, the job didn't pay much and I expected I would be forced to do this same miserable task every Saturday to eternity.  I cursed this pathetic job and I cursed Greek Mythology.  The legend of Sisyphus, the liar who was forced by the Gods to push a rock up a hill forever, weighed heavily on my mind.  Ah, it was starting to make sense.  No doubt this was Divine Retribution for stealing that candy.  If only I had known my Fate!! 

Hour after hour after hour.  If I never saw another strawberry, that would suit me just fine.  So when the produce manager finally said I could go, I sprinted to the front of the store.  I had already made up my mind I would NEVER return the following week.  NEVER NEVER NEVER!  However, just as I reached the front door to leave, Mr. Ocker called to me.  Reluctantly, I stopped. 

Mr. Ocker put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and smiled. 

"Rick, the produce manager told me you did a terrific job today.  I am really grateful that you were willing to step in at the last minute.  The strawberries were just a temporary assignment.  Next week I want you to begin working as a grocery sacker.  Will I see you next Saturday?"

Stunned by the compliment, I nodded yes.  His praise to a lonely, fatherless boy was powerful balm to my wounded soul.  In that moment, I felt a huge sense of gratitude to my school.  Although my childhood was difficult, I did receive one incredible lucky break... my magnificent education.  If there was one thing nine years at St. John's had taught me, it was the self-discipline to finish a job even when I did not want to.  I had learned to persevere without being told.  And so, despite my hostile attitude, I handled those strawberries ten hours straight without protest or need for supervision.  I succeeded because St. John's had imparted the discipline to complete every assignment whether I liked it or not.  And so Mr. Ocker asked me to return the following Saturday. 

One hour into my new position, a lady asked me to take her groceries to her car.  Surprised, I said sure.  After placing three bags in her trunk, she handed me a quarter.  I stared at her blankly.  "What is this for, ma'am?"  

She smiled and said that was my tip.  Then she added some very kind words.  "I like how polite you are.  Not all young men speak to me the way you do."

This woman's kind words meant the world to me.  As I wheeled the grocery cart back to the store, I realized I had my school to thank for my good manners as well as my self-discipline.  A strong work ethic and good manners can take you a long way in this world.  In a manner similar to the plain clothes cop... nicer words of course... this lady had just reinforced the value of the fine education I received at St. John's. 

I realized those quarters would add up.  At the rate of 25 cents per trip, I had just acquired a powerful incentive to leave my prickly shell.  If I could learn how to talk in a friendly way to the customers, maybe I could pay for college.  I still regretted losing out on basketball and dating.  However, girls and hoops weren't going to pay for college, were they?  You don't always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need.

All told, I would hit Rock Bottom five times in my life.  The first time was age 9 when my parents got their divorce.  That was when St. John's came into my life to rescue me.  I was too young at the time to understand, but my acceptance was a small miracle.  There was a line of children a mile long trying to get into this school, all of whom came from the cream of Houston society.  St. John's was the most prestigious school in the city.  It was so exclusive you could not even buy your way in.  Rumor has it that a certain future President of the United States was one of the applicants who got turned down for a coveted spot.  Considering he and I were the same age, maybe this was one of the rare moments when the Pauper got the only spot instead of the Prince.  Where would I have been without St. John's?

Now it seemed like history was repeating itself.  Hopelessly stuck at Rock Bottom for the second time in my life, what were the odds a lifeline would appear out of thin air to save the Creepy Loser Kid?  Out of the blue, I had just been handed another small miracle.  Why me?  I suppose if Mr. Ocker was desperate enough, even an dubious character like me was suitable.  My guess is Mr. Ocker had a dozen applications sitting in his desk that night.  But what good were those applications at 9 pm on a Friday night?  To me, being handed this job bore the Hallmark of Supernatural intervention.  

At age 16, my current relationship with God was non-existent.  I was far too self-centered to look outside myself.  But I knew in my heart that something special had taken place.  Hopelessly trapped in a Bottomless Pit of despair, I found myself speaking to people again all because Mr. Ocker... or perhaps God... had handed me a Ladder.  Working at this grocery store for three years, the job gave me college money, it helped me come out of my shell, it helped me buy a car, and it lifted me out of the worst depression of my life.  Lo and behold, these customers did not seem to care that my face resembled Freddy Krueger.  Even better, they were invariably nice to me.  Maybe my damaged face was not a permanent death sentence after all.  If so, I had reason to Hope again. 

This story helps explain how I managed to survive High School Hell somewhat intact.  However, Mr. Ocker was not the only hero.  I gave my school equal credit.  Unbeknownst to me, as I toiled away in that freezing cooler on Strawberry Day, Mr. Ocker was paying attention.  Mr. Ocker was so impressed by my determination, he asked me to come back.  And so for the second time in my life I crawled out of a hole I had thought inescapable. 

When I speak of a Simple Act of Kindness, Mr. Ocker's decision is the sort of thing I refer to.  We all know what can happen to troubled teenagers who lack supervision.  Drugs, theft, vandalism, Columbine.  The uncanny thing is that every single time I screwed up, someone like Mr. Ocker, that plain clothes cop or the nice lady who complimented my manners would come along to deliver a needed message.  Even Neal whose unsolicited advice helped me take down a bully.  Despite mediocre parents, disfigurement and extreme isolation, I had the funniest feeling I led a charmed life.  Someone up there was looking out for me.  I suppose it was my Karma to be knocked down hard.  However, it was also my good fortune to be handed an unexpected lifeline every time things got too rough.   By giving me a purpose to face people again, this grocery store job was the single most important reason why I escaped the road to Columbine insanity. 

RICK ARCHER'S LIST OF SUSPECTED SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
 

Serious

Suspicious

Serious

Suspicious

Suspicious

Are Five Supernatural Events enough to reveal the Invisible Hand of God?

QUAKER MEETING

001