JANUARY 1966, 10th grade, Age 16

SLIPPING INTO DARKNESS
 

I won the shower room fight, but Harold won the war.  Harold had attacked me on a level for which I had no defense.  Once he put the idea that I was a 'Creepy Loser Kid' in my mind, this belief grew like a malignant cancer.  I was a Loser who had absolutely nothing going for me.  The thought that students were laughing at me behind my back left me seething with rage.  I felt so damn impotent.  Looking like I did, there was nothing I could do to change their minds.  Shortly after the brawl, the Rolling Stone's Paint it Black was released.  This angry, bitter song became my anthem for this very dark period of my life.  

I look inside myself and see my heart is black; no colors anymore, I want them to turn black.

After the fight, my thoughts turned to survival.  My initial concern was how to defend myself from Harold's likely counter-attack.  I knew full well that I was not a fighter.  I had gotten lucky simply because Harold was so stupid he let me sucker-punch him.  Now I fully expected him to come looking for revenge.  Certain that Harold would try to jump me to gain the upper hand, I became paranoid enough to begin watching over my shoulder.  I spent days wondering how I could learn to fight and protect myself. 

Two weeks after the fight with Harold, I noticed a garage sale on my bike ride home from school.  When I stopped to look, I noticed an old, beat-up set of weights.  As I inspected the weights, this might be the answer to my fear of being defenseless.  This was a great idea, so I looked at the price tag.  Ten bucks.  Heck, even I could afford that.  I actually had spending money these days.  My job as statistician for the St. John's football team included a nice perk.  Every time I phoned in the results of the SJS football game to the Houston Post and Houston Chronicle, the papers paid me $5 apiece.  I used this money to purchase the weights.  I gave the guy $5 I had in my pocket and said I would pay him the rest later today.  I wasted no time.  Riding my bike back and forth four times to get the full set of weights, I began lifting the same day.  Weightlifting became my afternoon passion.  Not only did it help work off some anger, it helped me feel safer.  Besides, it wasn't like I had much else to do. 

The weight-lifting made a noticeable difference.  With wide shoulders and thick arms, I was the same size and build as the linebackers on our football team.  The combination of a boxer's beaten face, a sullen scowl, and new-found muscles made for a menacing visage.  If I suspected people were avoiding me previously, all doubt was removed.  As my muscles grew, my shell thickened as well.  I was bitter and looking for an excuse to slap someone silly.  I might be the Creepy Loser Kid, but don't tread on me.  Bristling with hostility, the world got the message.  The students gave me a wide berth in the hallways.  Who could blame them? 

As for the fight, no teacher or administrator ever asked to speak to me.  For that reason, I assume Harold had been too ashamed to report me.  No student ever said a word either.  It was like the fight never happened.   Whatever the reason, be it my muscles or bad reputation, there were no more incidents for the remainder of high school.  No one challenged me, no one dared make fun of me. 

You know how I am about coincidences.  Two years earlier I wished for a copy of Texas-Football Style.  Two years earlier I wished for a way to beat Neal at chess.  Now it happened again.  I was deeply worried about how to defend myself and suddenly the answer had appeared.  As Supernatural Events go, the set of weights was not particularly auspicious, but it was definitely timely.  

Suspicious

FEBRUARY 1966, 10th grade, Age 16

PICKING UP THE PIECES

In a way, I suppose my father had done me a back-handed favor.  By slamming the door shut on any further skin treatment, there was no reason to keep hoping my looks would be restored.  Yes, I had a permanently damaged face, but it did not have to be the end of the world.  Let's get on with it.  My first decision was to stop looking at myself in the mirror.  My face was so repulsive it made me sick to see myself.  I learned to shave in the shower just so I would not have to be reminded how terrible I looked. 

I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes... I have to turn my head until my darkness goes.

My second decision was to stop thinking about dating those pretty St. John's girls.  There is something known as 'stigma'.  It was bad enough that everyone knew I was the poorest kid in the school.  It was bad enough to have me pegged as a loner who lacked the most basic conversational skills where girls were concerned.  Now I had these scars to serve as my permanent mark of disgrace.  What girl could possibly erase the memory of those obscene pimples during my Freshman year?  Given my stigma, the idea of asking one of these superior SJS girls for a date was so daunting, I told myself it was hopeless.  Better to put off dating till college when I would be given a clean slate.

My third decision was to concentrate on College.  I had dreamed of being an athlete, but I was condemned by Fate to be a nerd instead.  Oh well.  One has to play the hand dealt them.  There is a concept known as 'delayed gratification'.  With no hope of living a normal life today, I worked for the future.  The higher my grades, the better my chance of getting a scholarship.  Making good grades for college became my dominant goal.

My fourth decision was to get a job after school.  My father had pledged to pay my way to college.  However, after the way he treated me during the acne crisis, I realized he could not be trusted to keep his word.  The sooner I started saving money, the better.  Unfortunately, I only applied for one job and did not hear back.  Oh well.  What did I expect?  This was my Darkest Day.  Nothing was going right.

APRIL 1966, 10th grade, Age 16

STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER
 

It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

Rock Bottom is a terrible place.  I don't recommend it.  To me, the greatest danger is the Point of No Return.  When some people get knocked down, they don't get back up.  Convinced they lack the power to improve their life, they call it quits and barely lift a finger in their remaining years.  I was no stranger to Rock Bottom.  I landed there three times during childhood.  The thing is, I always got back up, but rarely under my own power.  I would dearly love to take credit and brag about my indomitable spirit, but that would be wrong.

The difference between my life and the broken lives of others might be Divine Intervention.  It dawned on me that during my difficult childhood, every time I got knocked down, someone came along to throw me a lifeline.  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 every time I hit a bad spot, someone showed up or something happened to rescue me. 

Unfortunately, following the locker room fight with Harold, my luck ran out.  No one came to my aid in January.  Or February.  Or March.  Full of despair, I lost hope.  Every day the best I could do was go through the motions.  I was a very disturbed boy walking a tightrope without a safety net.  Constantly in danger of falling, there was no one left to catch me and put me back in the right direction.  There was no fight left.  Harold had taken it from me with his Creepy Loser Kid taunt.  Considering I had never been in a hole quite this deep, I could not see any way I was coming back this time.  But then one day in April I caught a break.  Helpless to shake the unending depression of my Paint it Black period, who would have ever guessed that strawberries would prove to be my salvation?  We already know that most of my stories are completely off-the-wall, so why stop now?

First we need some background.  Following the 1959 divorce, my mother moved 11 times in 9 years.  Constantly in debt and frequently out of work, she was forced to pay her utility bills because the companies kept records.  That meant the overdue rent was the only bill she could avoid.  My mother understood my preference to ride my bike to school, so she kept us in the Montrose area, a convenient mile and a half from school.  One of the few constants in my life was Weingarten's, the neighborhood grocery store.

Both my mother and I were well-known to Mr. Ocker, the long-time manager at Weingarten's.  My mother had written hot checks on two occasions.  We were hungry, so Mom gambled my father's child support would arrive before the grocery check cleared.  Sometimes her gamble worked, twice it failed.  Rather than press charges, Mr. Ocker forgave her and patiently allowed her to pay off the debt a little at a time.  As for me, on one of my many feel-sorry-for-myself days during the 8th Grade, I decided to shoplift some candy.  Unfortunately, my blind left eye failed to detect a plain clothes cop staring right at me.  This is an interesting story, so I will offer a brief recap.

The cop took me in the back and locked us inside a wire cage where the cigarettes were stored.  I assume the cage was used to prevent employee theft, but it also did a good job of conveying the feeling of being in jail.  The cop spent 30 minutes scaring the life out of me with threats of turning me into the police, sending me to reform school, getting beat up by young toughs, etc.  I know now it was all an act, but I did not know that then.  I was very intimidated.  The cop decided to look through my book bag for more contraband.  What he found instead was my Latin text book.  Curious to know what kind of school taught Latin, he began to ask questions.  Finally he got me to admit I went to a private school called St. John's.

The cop looked at my Latin book with renewed interest, then exclaimed, "Yeah, I know that place.  It's not far from here."  The cop could barely contain his glee at this discovery.  When I saw the evil grin on his face, I groaned.  I knew what was coming next.  Sure enough, the cop lowered the boom.  "So you go to a rich kid's school and here you are stealing candy bars."

Squirming with shame, I wanted to die.  I remained silent, but it didn't work.  The cop was just getting warmed up.

"So help me understand this.  You've got money coming out of your ears and you're stealing candy bars?  Doesn't your Daddy give you enough money?"

I could not bear to look at him.  Instead I stared out my jail cell.  That made him mad.

"Look at me, Dick!  What the hell is wrong with you?  Do you have any sense of pride?" 

I groaned.  This was worse than torture.  I could have said something about not being quite so rich as he assumed, but what good would it go?  This was not a sympathetic man.  When I did not respond, the cop shook his head in disgust, then continued. 

"Tell me something, Dick, what possible reason do you have to steal candy bars?  You have every privilege life can offer but not one ounce of appreciation.  Take a quick guess how many kids in this city would die to go to a school like yours."

Ouch!  The shame I felt was unbearable.  To be honest, this cop was no longer trying to be mean.  He was actually curious to understand what would make a boy with my advantages do something inexplicable.  The man had asked a very good question.  It was such a good question that I began asking 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? 

Just then Mr. Ocker walked in.  He recognized me and immediately frowned.  The mother bounces checks and the kid gets caught stealing.  Weren't we a pair?  As I stood there shaking like a leaf, Mr. Ocker took mercy on me the same way he did my mother.  First he asked me to sign the form the detective had written up admitting my guilt.  Then Mr. Ocker took a long look at me.

"I am not going to press charges, Dick.  But I do have a favor to ask.  Please don't do this again."

After I gave Mr. Ocker my word, the cop set me free.  This incident was a perfect example of how someone came along to steady me at the exact moment I was about to fall off the rails.  In the process, I was reminded how lucky I was to go to such a great school.

Suspicious

Let's return to our Strawberry story.  Passing the Weingarten's grocery store every day on my way to and from school, it was an obvious place to apply for a job.  I don't know what I was thinking.  After all, this was the same place where I had stolen candy bars in the 8th Grade.  On the other hand, I knew they hired boys my age to sack groceries. 

When I handed my application to Mr. Ocker, he gave me a bemused look.  I could not imagine what horrible thoughts went through his mind, but to his credit he smiled and said thank you.  And that was that.  So much for the big interview. 

Considering Mr. Ocker knew I was a thief, I assumed my chances of getting a job at his store were slim and none.  I applied specifically because Mr. Ocker had treated me with respect at such an awkward moment back in the 8th Grade.  He struck me as a very kind man.  In particular, I could not get it out of my head that Mr. Ocker had added the word 'please' to his request that I not steal from his store again.  Over the past two years, I had thought about that many times. 

That one word, 'Please', was more effective than all the threats the mean-spirited cop had used to intimidate me.  Mr. Ocker had taught me a lesson in decency and I was very drawn to him.  Due to my respect, I wondered if he would give me another chance and hire me.  Two years had passed since the candy bar incident, but I had no doubt Mr. Ocker still remembered.  Mr. Ocker knew I was smart, but he also had first-hand knowledge that I was a problem kid.  Consequently I never really expected him to hire me.  Why would anyone hire a kid who had stolen from his store?

February passed without a word.  March passed without a word.  Most of April passed without a word.  By this time, I no longer gave it any thought.  On a Friday evening at the end of April, my mother and I went grocery shopping.  It was late and the store would be closing soon.  We were standing in the checkout line waiting our turn when I looked up and saw Mr. Ocker heading our way.  After greeting my mother warmly, Mr. Ocker turned to me and asked if I was still interested in working here. 

My eyes lit up. "Sure!"

Mr. Ocker smiled.  "Excellent.  But I need you immediately.  Can you start tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good.  Be here at 8:45 am."

With that, he nodded to my mother and walked away.  I was shocked!  This offer had come straight out of the wild blue yonder.  I remember my mother beaming at me.  I will never understand as long as I live why it was so difficult for my mother to praise me.  She loved me, but struggled hard to demonstrate it.  Dating back to my resentment over Blue Christmas, taxi driver Neal, her countless one-night stands, moving all the time, letting Terry run away, and mishandling my acne problem, a huge barrier had grown between us.  I am sure Mom had her gripes about me too.  I can't in good conscience say I was a loveable child.  Since neither of us knew how to clear the air, we kept our feelings bottled up.  Our Cold War made it tough for Mom to express any warm feelings towards me.  However, tonight she called a truce.  Seeing her hero Mr. Ocker ask me to work for him right before her eyes was a source of real pride for my mother.  I wish we could have had more moments like that.

On Saturday morning I showed up in a great mood.  I could not believe I had a job.  Mr. Ocker had just hired his very first prep school kid although I was hardly the stereotypical preppie.  I figured if I was going to make it to college, I needed this job badly.  However I had no idea what my duties would be.  As requested, I arrived 15 minutes before the store opened.  I was surprised by the long line of customers waiting at the front door.  I knew that Saturday was their biggest day of the week, but the length of this line was extraordinary.  Noticing a sign about a special sale for strawberries today, I guessed that must be it.  Customers could buy four small plastic containers of strawberries for a dollar.  Normally they would pay $3 for the same amount.  Don't ask me to explain the appeal of $1 strawberries.  Although I was clueless, clearly this was a really big deal to the customers.  All I had to do was look at this mob to know.  I knocked on the door and someone let me in.  The moment I reported for work, Mr. Ocker took one look at me and pointed directly to the Produce section.  "Report to Mr. Harvey."  There was a worried edge to his voice that suggested ASAP. 

After I introduced myself to Mr. Harvey, the Produce manager, he said, "Call me Hank.  Glad you showed up.  You are in charge of today's strawberry project." 

The Produce manager took me inside the Cooler, the refrigerated area where the produce is kept fresh.  He pointed to a mountain of cardboard boxes full of strawberries.  I gasped.  This mountain stretched to the ceiling 20 feet high.  Good grief, I would have to climb a very tall ladder just to get to the uppermost box.  My first thought was to wonder how hard would it be to have two half-mountains.  Seeing the frown on my face, Hank looked at me with a worried face.  "You're not afraid of ladders, are you?"

"No, sir.  The amount of the strawberries took me by surprise, but don't worry, I can handle it."

"Good.  Your job is to transfer strawberries from the large cartons into small plastic containers that the customers will buy.  I need those containers filled as fast as you can get them to me.  Get up on that ladder and get to work."

After Hank went back outside, I took another look at the mountain of strawberries and groaned at the enormity of this project.  What have I gotten myself into?  Boredom was always one of my biggest hang-ups and I could not think of a more mindless activity than this.  Nonetheless I wanted this job badly, so I put on the white produce apron to cover my shirt, rolled up my sleeves and climbed the ladder.  I grabbed the top-most carton, brought it down and began transferring countless strawberries from the large box to the small plastic containers.  The next time I climbed the ladder I began humming 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough'.  Probably not the original meaning of the song.  Ten minutes later I took my first set of plastic containers to Hank. 

Noticing the customers had just been let in the front door, I was bewildered when I saw them race past me.  What was this stampede all about??  The Produce section was a madhouse.  Those people grabbed at those little strawberry boxes like this was the Klondike gold rush.  I knew from experience my mother never passed up this sale, but I was still astonished at the rabid popularity of today's event. 

I laughed as one lady argued with Hank that she should be allowed eight green containers instead of four because she had a large family.  How silly was this?  After Hank finished standing his ground on the 'four to a customer' rule, the lady left in a giant huff.  Who would have thought the Produce section had so much drama?  Noticing how few boxes were left, I could see why Hank was guarding his remaining supply until I arrived with the reinforcements.  The relief on Hank's face when he saw me replenish his stock said it all.

In a flash, I understood I owed my new job to those strawberries.  For whatever reason, Mr. Ocker must have been short-handed and knew today's strawberry sale would require major attention.  I had a hunch when he came up to me last night, I may have been his last hope.  Where else was he going to find instant help at 9 pm on a Friday night?  It was just my luck to be standing there.  In other words, when Mr. Ocker saw me wandering through the store last night, I was in the right place at the right time.  Call it my 'Lana Turner moment'.  Lana Turner was the stunning movie actress who got her big break when she was spotted working in a Hollywood soda shop at age 16.  By coincidence I was 16 as well, but I am sure the resemblance ended there. 

Obviously this Strawberry Sale was a big draw for the store.  However, I had no idea it was such a huge undertaking.  I transferred strawberries for nine hours with just a couple short breaks in between.  As expected, I was bored out of my mind.  It was probably just as well I wasn't told in advance I would be doing this for the entire day because I might not have shown up.  Oddly enough, despite my boredom, I took pride in what I was doing.  I made a game out of it.  I was determined to outrace the demand.  Several times Hank came rushing in because they were almost out and he needed instant replacements to stem the frenzy.  I felt like the little Dutch boy with his finger stuck in the dike.  Without me, the Strawberry Sale would have never succeeded.

Despite my importance, I detested this job.  I worked alone with no radio and no one to talk to.  The boredom was overwhelming.  If Kryptonite is Superman's greatest vulnerability, then Boredom is mine.  For one thing, I had too much time to think about my problems, never a good thing.  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 strawberry job!  It was awful!  Worst of all, I thought this was going to be my job every week.  I hadn't bargained for this nonsense.  Angry at being stuck with such a crummy job, I decided to give myself a treat.  I picked the biggest strawberry from each carton and ate it.  By the end of the day, I was so sick of strawberries that ten years would pass before I ate another strawberry.  Let's just say I didn't have the best attitude about this project.  However, I did a good job despite my irritation.  Always the competitive one, I wasn't about to let those customers out-race me.

At 4 pm, Hank said my shift was over.  Then he asked if I would mind working a bit longer.  Noticing his worried look, I said okay.  Fortunately, the demand tapered off in the next two hours.  For the first time I was able to pile up a big lead.  By 6 pm, I had built a large enough reserve for Hank to cut me loose.  As I pulled off my apron, it was completely soaked in sticky red strawberry juice.  I looked like I had been in a war zone and felt like it too.  Hank shook my hand and said thanks a lot.  I gave him a half-smile in return, but I was too tired to put on a Happy Face.  In fact, I felt really grouchy.  Not only was I exhausted, I was fed up with nine hours of mindless activity.  Despite Hank's kind words, I wanted to quit my new job.  Just as I was about to walk out the front door, Mr. Ocker spotted me.  He called out and beckoned for me to come over.

"Young man, Mr. Harvey told me you did a very good job today.  I am sure it wasn't much fun, but you stayed with it.  Good for you.  When you come back next Saturday, I want you to start sacking groceries."

Huh.  How about that?  This had been 'emergency duty' of sorts.  I had not known that.  Mr. Ocker knew full well this was a thankless task, so why didn't he tell me ahead of time?  I imagine he was testing me to see how I handled it.  No doubt Mr. Ocker had told the produce manager to keep a close eye on me.  Based on Mr. Ocker's smile, I guess Hank told him I did a very good job.  As I left the store, I was proud of myself.  Mr. Ocker not only wanted me to come back, he had thanked me. 

I smiled as I rode my bike home.  I had a very curious thought.  I realized my school had taught me the importance of finishing an assignment whether I liked it or not.  Despite my intense boredom, I had continued to do the work without any need for someone to keep me focused.  Maybe Mr. Ocker was fortunate to have hired a prep school kid after all.  I suddenly realized I had my St. John's-instilled discipline to thank for today's performance.  Without St. John's, where would I have developed the work ethic needed to excel? 

As footnote to this story, Mr. Ocker took me under his wing.  The grocery store became my favorite place over the next two and a half years.  I bought a car, put $2,000 in savings, and came out of my shell in the process.  In Hindsight, Mr. Ocker's simple act of kindness would prove to be one of the luckiest breaks of my entire life.  I do not know how I would have made it out of Rock Bottom otherwise.

Serious