Age 15, spring 1965, 9th grade

the most crushing blow of all
 

There were no words spoken at home.  My mother knew I blamed her for not taking me to the doctor soon enough to limit the damage.  She understood that any attempt to speak to me would risk an explosion of rage.  A wall grew between us.  It was colder and thicker than an igloo.  As the sounds of silence dominated our home, there was no longer any semblance of a normal mother-son relationship.  I was already far more independent than the average 14-year old and my bitterness made things worse.  Any attempt by my mother to order me to do something or discipline me was a thing of the past.  After a series of nasty arguments, my mother figured out that a new approach was necessary.  If she asked nicely, I would cooperate.  We left it at that.  From now on I came and went as I pleased.

I had been a loner at school for a long time, but now I was close to being a complete hermit.  As the resident leper, I had no desire to say anything in class.  Why call attention to myself?  No girl came near me and boys spoke to me only if necessary.  My only conversation was limited to chess friends at lunch or someone at P.E.   If I was in a bad mood, a frequent condition, I sat by myself at lunch.  An entire day might pass without saying a word.  Every time I saw the varsity boys practicing basketball, I wanted to scream. 

There is an Arabic proverb that suggests Life is divided into two days, your Darkest Day and your Brightest Day.  During your Darkest Day, whatever can go wrong will go wrong.  Tom was the boy who hit me with the basketball.  Later Tom caught up to ask what had gone wrong.  With my guard down, I explained my blind eye was responsible.  I skipped school on Thursday and Friday, so I had no idea the news of my strange basketball accident was the hot lunch topic.  Tom explained to anyone who asked that my accident had been caused by my blind eye.  Until now, no one knew about the blind eye other than two coaches.  When I returned to school, one of my chess friends at lunch said he overheard three boys laughing about pimple-faced 'Dead Eye Dick'.  Unbelievable.  I had been 'Dick Archer' my whole life.  Now even my name was cursed.  I was beside myself with self-loathing.  How could I have been so stupid to tell Tom?  I guess I was so shaken at the time, the consequences had never dawned on me.  Now, thanks to Tom, my blind eye was public knowledge.  Tom was not trying to be malicious, I knew that.  At the same time I was certain no good could come of this.  Sure enough, I was right.  I had longed to escape my invisibility only to discover I was the most talked-about boy in school.  I was Dead Eye Dick, the pimple freak with the cheap clothes, blind eye and crooked teeth.  How did I ever get so lucky?   Fortunately, my 15 minutes of fame were soon over.  For the remaining four years of high school I became invisible again.

Age 15, spring 1965, 9th grade

moonscape
 

Following the October acne attack, I walked the halls feeling like a leper.  My life was in suspended animation until my face cleared.  That would be the day I would come back to life.  Until then, my Freshman year was ruined.  Every day I would swallow my tetracycline pill and pray for this to end.  But there was no end in sight.  November came and went with my face still covered with pimples.  December.  January.  February.  March.  However in April I noticed some improvement.  That is when I received the worst shock of my life.

No one told me.  Not my mother, not my dermatologist, no one.  I was left completely in the dark.  When I found out the truth, I wanted to die on the spot. 

In the spring of my Freshman year, the pimples finally started to fade.  After six months of radiation treatment and tetracycline, the Red Tide began to dry up.  For a young boy, this attack had devastated my confidence and self-esteem.  I could hardly wait to see what I looked like with the acne gone.  Not once did I suspect the cruelest blow was yet to come.  As the pimples slowly vanished, like a receding glacier they left behind a damaged landscape.  I was full of despair to discover my face was permanently pockmarked worse than the cratered Moon surface.  I was beyond sick.  It was one thing to withstand a temporary shame, but these scars were permanent.  I could not bear the thought of looking like this for the rest of my life. 

Fortunately, my doctor offered some hope.  He recommended I undergo a dermabrasion operation to restore my ravaged face to at least some normalcy.  I begged my father to pay for this operation.  Thank goodness he said okay.

Age 15, may-June 1965, summer before 10th grade

Jane
 

I wanted the operation immediately, but Dr. Spiller said it would be best to wait for the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore year.  He said my face would be full of thick scabs that would prevent me from going to school.  The scabs would take at least two weeks before they came off, maybe even three weeks.

About this time my mother announced we would be moving in May because she needed a hysterectomy.  Her job refused to give her time off, so she quit.  Without an income, Mom decided to move in with another family.  We would share the house with Tom, Billie, and their small girl.  With the reduced rent, my father's child support check would be enough to allow us to get by for a while.  For once I did not argue.  Although I hated leaving the apartment on Hawthorne Street, the new house on Emerson was close enough for me to continue riding my bike to school.  In addition, I made a friend in the neighborhood.  Jane was pretty, she was my age and she lived a block away.  Best of all, Jane was a bookworm just like me. 

One day after school I took my dog Terry for a walk.  As we passed by a house, I noticed a girl sitting on a front porch swing.  Noticing she was reading a book, I asked what the name was.  "Great Expectations," she replied.  On a whim, I answered, "Hey, I read that book too."  Which was a lie, but I was dying to talk to her.  My ploy worked.  Jane invited me to come sit with her and talk about the book. 

Fortunately once I joined her on the swing, I was able to change the subject and avoid revealing my fib.  Since my acne had more or less cleared by now, Jane only had to contend with the peaks and valleys of my scars.  Noticing with relief that she was not totally grossed out by my appearance, I was encouraged to begin a conversation. 

"Hi, I'm Rick.  We just moved here.  I live down the street on Emerson."

This was the first time I had ever introduced myself as 'Rick'.  Profoundly irritated by my 'Dead Eye Dick' moniker, this was the moment I decided to shed my old name with every new person I met.  Meeting this pretty girl seemed like the perfect chance to start anew. 

With a smile, she said, "I'm Jane.  I go to Lamar High School.  Where do you go to school?"

"I go to St. John's across the street from Lamar."

Jane was impressed.  She knew St. John's had a reputation for academics and immediately began asking questions.  What did I think about St. John's?  Was it as hard as everyone said it was?  What brought me to this neighborhood?  The longer we talked, the more I realized we had a lot in common.  It turned out Jane was shy.  Jane made good grades.  Jane was an honor student.  Jane studied a lot.  We were both nerds, but there was one difference.  Unlike repulsive me, Jane was a very pretty nerd who probably did not know just how pretty she was.

As we talked, I developed a crush a mile wide.  I can still remember the thought that ran through my mind as we chatted on her swing.  "Just wait till I get that skin operation.  The scars will be gone and I will be attractive again.  Maybe then Jane and I can begin dating."

Age 15, late June 1965, summer before 10th grade

the first skin operation
 

Over the next month I saw Jane once or twice a week when I walked Terry.  Lacking confidence, I did not tell her how much I liked her.  I preferred to get my operation over with before I made my move.  In early June, it was time for my skin operation.  Dermabrasion is a skin-resurfacing procedure.  The doctor uses a rapidly rotating device to sand the outer layers of skin.  As the skin heals, the new skin beneath the scabs grows back smoother.  My operation took place during June prior to the 10th Grade.  The operation was not painful, but it was unpleasant.  The doctor sprayed my skin with extremely cold liquid to numb it, then began to sand all the skin off my face.  Afterwards I developed a thick crust of scabs. 

I looked so ridiculous that I was confined to home.  Two weeks passed and the scabs were still there.  The suspense of not knowing what I would look like when the skin healed was driving me nuts.  The entire time I missed Jane.  She was all I could think about besides the anticipation of regaining my looks.  One day I got stir crazy and decided I had to leave the house.  So I got a grocery bag and cut two holes in it.  Once I put the bag on, I realized how silly it was to cut two holes when I only had one good eye.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  I walked around the neighborhood to relieve the tension.  As I walked past the big house on the corner, I heard the screen door open.  It was Jane, the pretty girl down the street.  Jane knew about the operation.  She had come out to check on me. 

"Rick, is that you?  Love the disguise, Halloween in the summer, clever!  Come talk to me!  Tell me how your operation went."

My crush was overwhelming.  Not only was Jane super-bright, she was so pretty.  However, she was also painfully shy.  I don't know this for sure, but I've heard that every teenage girl has an awkward year where all the parts don't fit right just yet.  Jane was rail-thin and wore glasses, but I am certain she was about to blossom.  Jane was deeply sympathetic to my plight.  Can you believe I trusted her enough to reveal how much the scars bothered me?  She was the only girl I had ever talked to about my problems.  Jane was so warm that I was completely rattled by her presence.  There I stood talking to the girl of my dreams with this giant paper bag over my head.  It was so ridiculous, sometimes I have to laugh at my own stories.  Jane begged me to let her look, but I couldn't bear the shame of letting her see my scabs.  I told Jane I was living on pins and needles hoping this treatment worked.  When she smiled and wished me luck, my poor little heart went pitter patter.  I think Jane liked me almost as much as I liked her.  But then she said something that upset me.

"C'mon, Rick, give me a look.  Otherwise I will have to wait till August."

Talking through my bag, I asked, "Why is that?"

"Every summer my family takes a road trip to California to stay with my grandparents.  I will be gone till August.  Hopefully I will recognize you when we get back."

My heart sank at the news.  Fortunately, with a bag over my head, it wasn't difficult to hide my disappointment.  I nodded and told her to have a good time.  If I had a brain, I should have asked her to write.  Maybe after the scabs healed, my looks would return and I could ask Jane out in August.  This thought kept me going throughout the remaining week prior to the unveiling. 

Eventually the skin healed and the thick outer crust began to loosen.  Bit by bit the crust fell off to reveal tantalizing pink new skin underneath.  I could not bear to wait much longer.  I was so nervous.  I had to know what I looked like!!   The scabs did not fall off at once, but rather a little bit at a time.  I was so tempted to rip them off, but feared this would damage the tender skin.  Finally I couldn't take it any more.  Three weeks was enough time.  Half the scabs were gone and the other half were barely hanging on.  I soaked my face with hot towels to soften the remaining scabs, then carefully removed them one by one.  That is when I screamed bloody murder.

"Oh my God, those damn scars are still there!!!!"

Things were better, yes.  I estimated the improvement at 50%, but that was not nearly good enough for me.  My mother agreed my face was much improved, but that was no consolation.  To me, the scars and pockmarks were still much to easy to spot.  I could barely contain my disappointment.  It was all for naught.  The first operation had come nowhere close to making my face normal again. 

It was time for my follow-up examination.  I wasted no time speaking up.  "Dr. Spiller, what went wrong?  My face is a little better, but the scars are still there!"

"Calm down, young man, the operation went just fine.  There is marked improvement.  I understand your disappointment, but due to the severity of your condition, these results are about what I expected."

"I don't understand.  You promised my face would return to normal!"

"In a best case scenario, yes, that has been known to happen.  However, the rule of thumb is 50% which held true in your case.  What I mean by that is your skin has improved about 50%.  I can see the pockmarks are not quite so deep.  Unfortunately, the damage was so great to begin with, you still have a long way to go.  My suggestion is to try another operation.  Tell your father my recommendation and see what he says."

I was angry at the doctor.  He never said a word about 50% in his original sales pitch.  Now I felt set up because my expectations were so much greater than these tepid results.  The thing to understand is the severity of the scarring.  My doctor admitted this was the worst case of scarring he had ever treated.  Therefore it is no surprise that even with a 50% improvement, I still looked awful.  Miserable over the failure, I immediately begged my father for another operation.  He said maybe, but first he needed to check with his insurance company.  When I called again, Dad said no.  Although the yearly deductible had been reached, he would still have to pay 20% of the doctor's fee.  $200 was just too much to pay.  Sorry, son, forget it.  End of discussion.

I was crushed.  I was doomed to be stuck with this face for the rest of my life.  The thought of it sickened me beyond my ability to cope.  As for Jane, even though my face was somewhat improved, it was not good enough.  From a distance I could see she had returned, but I could not bear to let her see me like this.  I was positive her first reaction would be to frown.  In my mind, the only reason Jane had shown interest was the promise that my looks would be restored following the operation.  Unable to deal with the thought of her disappointment, I stopped walking by her house for the few remaining weeks of summer.  I hoped Jane would make the first move, but my guess is she was too shy to come by and check on me.  Following the summer I returned to St. John's to start the 10th Grade and Jane returned to Lamar.  My heart yearned to go say something, but then I would take another look in the mirror and be overcome with disgust.  What girl could ever care about me looking like this?  I fell into a despair that knew no limit.

The Epic Losing Streak had just claimed its first victim.  There would be many more to follow.

NEGATIVE SELF-IMAGE
 

I have not said much about my parents.  Consider yourself lucky.  This book is long enough as it is.  The length would triple if I added my parents.  However I will make an exception for the acne story.  My father had barely been able to pay for St. John's seven years ago.  However, since then he got his big break.  Dad had worked ten years selling electrical equipment.  However, since his company refused to promote him, Dad found a company willing to take a chance on his skill.  Dad turned out to be a genius at designing electrical systems for massive cranes.  He became the guy who fixed problems that other engineers could not handle.  Having developed a national reputation, Dad made enough money to send my half-brother and half-sister to private schools.  Recalling how much he had belittled the psychiatrist's recommendation to send me to St. John's back in 1959, the irony was not lost on me. 

My father was responsible for my medical bills.  A dermabrasion cost $1,000.  The insurance had a one-time $200 deductible.  After that, there was an 80-20 split for all medical expenditures within the same fiscal year.  The first operation had cost $360.  I was unable to live with the 50% improvement, so I badgered my father to make the second operation my Christmas present.  Since the deductible was good for one year, the second operation only cost $200.  As expected, I received another 50% improvement or slightly more.  At this point I estimate the problem was 80% solved.  Dr. Spiller frowned.  He expected better, so did I.  That is when he surprised me.  Realizing how important this was to me, Dr. Spiller offered a significant discount for a third try.  When I told him my father's deductible expired in the new year, he lowered his price again.  The third operation would cost my father $260.  My father said no.  Enough is enough.

I was beside myself with bitterness.  My father had enough money to send two children to private school, but turned his back on me.  Oh, how I wish I could have changed his mind.  I said I would get a job after school and pay him back, but my father refused to listen.  And so, for the princely sum of $260, my sense of ugliness would persist for the rest of my life. 

As I would learn over the years, most people said they never noticed the scars.  And if they did notice, they said the scars did not bother them.  If I was willing to accept their 'objective' view, I was the only one who cared.  I might add the consensus opinion was that I was an attractive young man.  A little strange, maybe, but easy enough on the eyes to play the game.

Unfortunately, my 'subjective' opinion was less flattering.  I knew if the light caught my face the wrong way, the scars were readily apparent.  The problem was that for the first two years, I was truly ugly.  I cannot emphasize this enough.  The acne and the pre-dermabrasion scars made me hideous.  Even after two skin operations, this view persisted.  My profound sense of ugliness was drilled so deep into my subconscious that I was never able to get rid of it. 

Unfortunately, there are no pictures from this period of my life.  However, I promise you those scars were not a figment of my imagination. 

As consequence to my unshakeable negative self-image, I became deeply preoccupied with my looks.  Throughout the Epic Losing Streak I operated under a strict rule.  Expecting half the women I approached would reject me based on those scars, I became incapable of making the first move.  I assumed my looks were okay for some, but not for others.  If a woman approached me first, that meant she had already seen my face and decided my scars were acceptable.  Once I got the green light, I took it from there.  However, without a woman's prior encouragement, I was unable to approach.  Hang on to that thought.  We will return to it many times. 

JANUARY 1966, 10th grade, Age 16

dead eye dick
 

My second skin operation took place over the Christmas Holiday of my Sophomore year.  When I returned to school, I was still unhappy, but resigned to my father's decision.  While I did not look as repulsive as before the two operations, I still considered myself the ugliest boy in school by a wide margin.  Brooding constantly about my terrible fate, I rarely spoke to anyone except my small group of chess friends at lunch time.  As if things were not bad enough, I acquired a nemesis.

SJS students were required to take a Physical Education class three times a week if they were not on a sports team.  Please forgive my lack of modesty, but I was one of the best athletes in the school.  However, I was not on a sports team due to my blind eye and skin condition.  This required me to go to P.E. instead.  Who else was in P.E.?  The worst athletes in the school, the guys who had no hope of making a team.  This led to a bizarre situation.  Whatever sport we participated in, I dominated.  Basketball was the worst.  Compared to these guys, I was Michael Jordan.  And did I show mercy?  No.  I was not what you would call a good sport.  I was not a trash talker, but I hogged the ball and made sure everyone knew I was a one-man team.  Understandably, this led to resentment. 

A Freshman named Harold began hassling me from the moment we met in P.E.  This had been going on for some time.  By himself, Harold was no match for me physically.  Harold solved that problem by acquiring two cronies.  I had no idea why Harold had chosen to become my sworn enemy, but it was probably because I had shown him up in P.E. one time too many.  Besides, bullies need someone to pick on and I was an easy target due to my abysmal lack of confidence.  It was late in the afternoon and I was headed back to the locker room after Phys Ed.  We had been running track that day and I was the first boy to finish.  When Harold and his two buddies saw me walking alone, they sped up to catch me.  With my back turned, Harold began his taunts.

"Hey, everybody, look who's there ahead of us!  It's Dead-Eye Dick, the Clearasil Kid!  Hey, Dickless, did anyone ever let you know you are one hell of a Creepy Loser Kid?!" 

I froze.  Harold's barb stung like crazy.  A burst of hot anger boiled up inside and I clenched my fists.  Harold thought it was hysterical that I was blind in one eye and that my name was 'Dick'.  Now I was 'Dickless' to boot.  What a delicious taunt that must have been, so creative, so original.  Nevertheless, Harold's taunts were acid to my fragile confidence.  I wanted to murder the jerk in the worst way, but I doubted retaliation had much chance of success.  One reason I held back was to protect my skin.  It had not totally healed since the second operation over Christmas.  Besides, due to the three-to-one disadvantage, slugging it out with Harold seemed out of the question.  I expected other two would pitch in.

Another choice was to start a war of words.  This too was a bad idea.  I was far too ashamed of my grotesque appearance to act cocky and trade insults.  So I said nothing.  I just kept walking with my temper barely under control.  I despised Harold, but even more I hated my sense of utter futility.  I felt so helpless because I couldn't fight back.  But it was worse than that, much worse.  When Harold called me the 'Creepy Loser Kid', I was afraid he was right.  That phrase struck home at the deepest, most vulnerable core of my being.

The taunts continued, but I refused to respond.  I kept walking with my back turned and absorbed the insults with a stiff upper lip like I always did.  What exactly was I supposed to do, turn around and get into a shouting match?  What were my chances of winning that argument?  I looked like a clown.  With my purple mask of shame and three boys taking turns laughing and taunting me, they had the upper hand.  After all, I was Quasimodo and they were three handsome boys with perfect skin.  Looking like they did, where was I going to find flaws in their superiority to use against them?  There was nothing for Dead Eye Dick to do but endure the insults. 

Since we were first to finish running track, the locker room was deserted except for the four of us.  I expected the taunting to stop, but I was wrong.  Unbeknownst to me, Harold began stripping immediately.  So did his buddies.  When I walked into the shower room two minutes later, I noticed three showers were already in use.  I groaned when I realized Harold and his cronies were there waiting for me.  Noting the wicked grins on their faces, I winced.  Oh no, not this again.  Harold had obviously rushed to the shower so he could continue the heckling.  Picture the drama.  This was the Prep School equivalent of High Noon.  This was a truly bizarre scene.  Four completely naked teenage boys, three of whom stood side by side to block the shower room entrance from the boy with the purple face. 

When Harold saw me enter, his face lit up with delight.  Grinning, Harold exclaimed, "There he is, it's Dead Eye Dick in the flesh!"  As a follow-up, Harold pointed to my groin and exclaimed in a loud voice, "Oh my God, it's true!  Look, he really is Dickless!  This is no ordinary Big Dick, this is Dickless Dick!  Hey, Dead Eye Dickless, why don't you get the fuck out of here!  Go use the other shower, we don't want to catch your disease!"

Incensed, I stopped directly in front of Harold.  He was so arrogant he assumed I posed no danger.  The moment he opened his mouth to continue needling me, I snapped.  Two years ago, Taxi Cab Neal had taught me how to sucker punch a guy.  Who would have ever thought Neal of all people would do me a favor?  Right now, Neal's technique came in handy.  I clapped both hands hard over Harold's ears, stunning him.  When Harold reflexively brought his hands up to his ears, I punched his exposed throat as hard as I could with my fist.  I hit him so hard I was lucky I didn't kill him or break his larynx.  Clutching his throat, Harold doubled over in agony.  I lifted my knee at just the right time to catch Harold flush on the chin and snapped his head back.  Reeling from three savage blows, Harold crumpled to the wet tiles gurgling for breath.  I almost kicked him in the face for good measure, but barely managed to stop.  Seeing Harold helpless and writhing in pain, I figured he had enough.  The fight was over.

Enraged by an overwhelming burst of adrenaline, I whirled to face the other two boys.  Sick and tired of putting up with their taunts, I was ready to take them both on.  However, that was not necessary.  The brutality of my attack had shocked them into submission.  Horrified by the viciousness of my attack, the trembling sidekicks were in no mood to rush to Harold's defense.  Boys didn't fight with their fists at St. John's.  Preppies were supposed to fight with clever words and witty put-downs like 'Dead Eye Dick' and Harold's classic 'Creepy Loser Kid'.  But Harold had gone too far.  I had never lost control before, but today my repressed 'Lord of the Flies' savagery got loose.  I was stunned to discover a beast had been lurking within me.  So much for the civilized gentility of prep school.

Staring at their henchman as he writhed on the wet floor, the boys were too stunned to attempt escape.  What a sight I must have been.  I was stark naked, soaking wet from shower spray, and squeezing my fists to indicate readiness to strike again.  Seeing me quiver with rage, if these boys dared move, they feared I was mad enough to kill them.  No doubt my battle-scarred face magnified the fierceness of my gaze.  I was so fearsome I could have ruled the rainforest.  Well aware their defeated ringleader wasn't getting back up, the boys weren't so brave anymore.  They retreated to the back of the shower lest the angry Hulk be tempted to come after them. 

Disgusted, I took a quick rinse.  Meanwhile the two boys ran over to check on Harold.  Sprawled out naked with shower spray beating down upon him, Harold was in bad shape.  Listening to him moan on the wet floor, I could tell he was in a lot of pain.  Tough.  Harold got what he deserved. 

I grabbed a towel on my way out and went to my locker.  Five minutes later, I was surprised to see Harold approach as I dressed.  I was sitting on a bench putting on my shoes at the time.  Harold demanded I meet him after school to settle this.  However, when I stood up, Harold took one look at the fire in my eye and flinched.  Seeing him step back, that's all I needed to know.  I never said a word nor did I need to.  Unable to meet my gaze, Harold turned and walked away.  This was the last time we ever spoke.  Harold avoided me from here on. 

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.  Once I was sure no one was looking, I cried uncontrollably the rest of the way.  Now that my defiance had worn off, a deep sense of despair took its place.  I had won the battle, but lost the war.  Harold had unwittingly done more damage to my self-esteem than he could possibly imagine.  Given how pathetic my life had become, his taunts scored a direct hit.  For the rest of my life, whenever I was depressed, the memory of the Creepy Loser Kid would return to haunt me.

Welcome to High School Hell.