Age 14, 8th grade, 1963-1964

Alan lake CHIDSEY
SJS headmaster
 

Throughout my time at St. John's, I teetered on the edge of despair so many times it was ridiculous.  Fortunately, just when things seemed  the worse, one my teachers would come out of nowhere to pick me up.  The man who pulled me out of my 8th Grade tailspin was none other than Mr. Chidsey, our Headmaster.

Mr. Chidsey was a Bible scholar.  He was so knowledgeable that he taught a year-long Bible History class to 8th Grade students.  At the start of the year, I went to this mandatory course assuming I was going to hate the class.  At the time I possessed the barest minimum of Bible knowledge.  Born and raised a Quaker, Bible training was not emphasized.  I liked this off-beat religion a lot.  I especially liked Quaker Sundays because this was my chance to hang out with kids who did not look down on me.  As opposed to Bible study, our group's conversation revolved around controversial social issues such as pacifism, racial equality, abolishing the death penalty and so on. 

Since I knew next to nothing about the Bible at the start of Mr. Chidsey's class, my attitude was apathetic to say the least.  Who cares about the Bible?  However, I quickly changed my mind.  To my surprise, I really loved this class.  I could not believe Bible History was so intense!  Furthermore, I was mesmerized by Mr. Chidsey's extensive knowledge.  The way he told Bible stories was so intriguing, I found myself hanging on every word.  Mr. Chidsey obviously loved his material.  In fact, he had even gone to the trouble of writing our textbook himself.  He did a good job too.  His book was just as interesting as his stories in class.  I practically memorized his Bible History book.  To my surprise, Bible History became my absolute favorite course in the 8th Grade. 

So naturally I had to go out and screw things up by dropping out of Mr. Chidsey's play in October.  As we recall, I balked at taking the bus home late at night.  I didn't think it was fair that everyone but me had a parent willing to drive them home.  When my mother stubbornly refused to help me out, I blew a fuse.  There was no way I was taking a bus ride at 9 pm, so I said I would quit the play if she didn't help.  Mom said go ahead, quit.  And so I did because I could not bear the thought of letting Mom gloat over having the upper hand.  My selfish pride put Mr. Chidsey in a bind.  The play was just a week away and it would be tough to replace me given such short notice.  He tried very hard to persuade me to change my mind, but I was too embarrassed to tell him the truth behind my immature decision.  Poor Mr. Chidsey.  He knew there was more to this story.  However, sensing my foolish pride was too great to share the problem, he let it go. 

I knew what I had done was wrong.  I hated myself for upsetting this man who had been so kind to me.  Mr. Chidsey had gone out of his way to make me feel welcome in his play and look what I had done. 

Filled with regret, from that point on I sat in the far back of the classroom in Bible History just so he would not call on me.  In addition, I was too embarrassed to go anywhere near Mr. Chidsey after my mistake.  However, that did not stop me from loving his class.  St. John's worked on a Quarter system, four quarters to a school year.  I received an 'A' in Bible History in the First and Second Quarter.  One day in January, Mr. Chidsey was handing out the test results at the end of class.  As he handed me my test, he said, "Richard, would you mind waiting a second?"

I immediately flinched.  By coincidence, recently I had been caught stealing candy at the grocery store.  Needless to say, I was still very shaken by the experience.  Not a day passed when I did not consider a different aspect of that traumatic afternoon.  So when Mr. Chidsey asked me to stay, this felt like the confluence of the two worst mistakes I had made in the 8th Grade, stealing and dropping out of the play.  I stood there full of worry while Mr. Chidsey finished handing out papers.  I assumed I was in trouble, but I could not imagine what it was.  After all, I barely spoke to anyone these days.  What could I be in trouble for?  After the last student left, Mr. Chidsey turned to me.  "Young man, I just wanted to tell you how proud I am.  You have made the highest score in class for three consecutive tests."

Wow.  I didn't expect this.  I tried to smile, but smiling did not come easy at this point.  Nor did my voice.  Unable to speak lest I lose control, the best I could do was shrug and look away.  I was so shy around this man.   Should I tell Mr. Chidsey the truth?  He had no idea my excellent grades were the result of my monastic lifestyle.  Virtually friendless beyond my lunch time chess buddies, what else did I have to do after school besides study and walk my dog?  However, Mr. Chidsey expected a response, so finally I spoke up.  Still unable to make eye contact, I said, "Uh, gee, thank you, sir.  Bible History is my favorite class.  I enjoy listening to your stories and your textbook is awesome.  There are nights when I cannot put your book down."   Which was the truth.

I think my answer surprised Mr. Chidsey because he took a long look at me.  I think he was attempting to make sure I was not trying to curry favor.  Once he realized I was completely sincere, a big smile broke out on his face.  I believe he was very touched.  I don't think Mr. Chidsey received this kind of compliment from a student very often.  I am convinced men like Mr. Chidsey, Mr. Salls, Mr. Powell, and Mr. Curran became teachers for the right reasons.  Taking pride in their work, they believed they had been given a special talent.  They chose to do their job right without looking for notice or reward.  That said, I don't think they minded a show of appreciation once in a while, even if it came from an unlikely source such as the kid stuck on the lowest rung of the school.    Realizing how much I had pleased my teacher, I fell to pieces.  Out of nowhere, my guilt was more than I could bear.  Most of the time I was an angry, tough kid, but not this time.  The dam broke and words gushed out.  Behind moist eyes, I said, "Listen, Mr. Chidsey, I have something to confess.  I have been too afraid to apologize to you for the past three months.  I am so ashamed of myself for dropping out of your play.  Not a day goes by in your class when I don't feel regret.  I am sorry, sir.  You were nice to me and then I let you down like that.  Will you forgive me?"

In that moment I was overcome with emotion.  Like I said, this had been a really bad year and recently I had topped it off by getting caught stealing.  All my frustration came to a head and big tears rolled down my face.  Embarrassed, I turned my face and tried to wipe the tears away.  Mr. Chidsey put his hand on my shoulder and told me it was okay. 

"Don't worry, young man, I'm not mad at you.  I just couldn't figure out what went wrong.  You were having so much fun in rehearsal and then out of nowhere you quit.  For the life of me, I could not understand the reason behind your decision.  Do you mind telling me now?"

I looked down and tried to compose myself.  "Oh, please don't ask, sir, it's so stupid, you have no idea."

"Well, try me.  Tell me what happened and let's see."

I hesitated, then finally opened up.  "I was mad at my mother.  We had not been getting along and when I asked her to give me a ride home late at night, she told me I would have to take the bus.  Well aware that every other kid in the play had someone coming to pick them up, I told my mother I had a right to be picked up as well.  She made it seem like I was out of line to inconvenience her.  Looking back, it seems pathetic to get so worked up over that.  I don't know why I took it so seriously, but I refused to take the bus late at night, so we got in a big fight."

"Why do you suppose she said that?  The mothers I know don't expect their children to ride a city bus late at night."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chidsey, I don't want to burden you with my personal life."

Mr. Chidsey smiled.  "No, please, I don't mind.  I want you to share the full story with me."

"My mother had done something she regretted.  She threw her long-time boyfriend out of the house and told him to go back to his wife in Mexico.  After that, she missed him so much that she was angry at the world.  I caught her in a bad mood, so she took it out on me.  Then I got mad and lost my temper.  I said I would quit if she didn't give in, so she said go ahead and quit if it made me happy.  And there you have it.  I boxed myself into a corner with my big mouth.  I have regretted what I did to you ever since."

Mr. Chidsey's eyes grew about as wide as humanly possible.  He took a moment to process my strange tale, then began to nod.  "I appreciate the difficulty of your situation.  Thank you for sharing that.  I know it wasn't easy to speak up, but I respect you for your apology and explanation."

Respect me?  Boy, it had been a long time since anyone said they respected me.  The vision of that plain clothes cop chewing me out weighed heavily on my mind.  As I shuffled my feet and looked down in shame, no doubt Mr. Chidsey realized he was dealing with a very disturbed boy.

"Listen, Richard, you need to get to your next class.  If your teacher says something, tell him you were talking to me.  But I want you to know I appreciate that you have spoken to me today.  I am your friend, so don't hesitate to speak to me again in the future."

After I left, I felt better than I had in a long time.  Thank goodness I got all that guilt off my chest.  That night, I read my Bible History assignment with a sense of enthusiasm that had been missing for some time.  Mr. Chidsey had been very kind to me today.  Now that Mr. Chidsey had forgiven me, I was not afraid to approach him any more.  I was glad he had invited me to speak to him any time I wished.  In particular there was a question I had been dying to ask.  Whenever I studied Mr. Chidsey's book, my favorite stories involved the neverending plight of Israel.  Whatever the name was, Palestine, Judea, Canaan, Zion, I felt sorry for Israel.  Since Israel was always the underdog and I was always the underdog, I identified closely with their struggle.  Good grief, chapter after chapter the Jews were being conquered by someone new.  Since Israel was a land with no natural defenses and a small population, it seemed like every ancient dynasty took turns subjugating the people of this coveted land.  But why was it coveted so greatly?  That is what made no sense to me.

Greeks, Romans, Persians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Philistines, Egyptians.  They all took turns conquering this land.  Exodus, Jewish Diaspora, Pogroms, Holocaust.  Thanks to this class, I could see why the Jews felt so persecuted.  Since it seemed like the whole world was ganged up against them, this explains why I felt such a strong emotional connection.  Always outnumbered, the Jews fought fiercely to defend their country.  I admired that.  However, there was something I could not figure out. 

Why did the whole world want to conquer Israel? 

I looked at the pictures.  This had to be the ugliest, most barren landscape I had ever seen.  The arid deserts of Israel were devoid of life.  The salt-filled Dead Sea was the most accurately named body of water in the world.  These were not battles to gain control of lush valleys and life-giving rivers, but rather centuries of fighting over salt water, unfertile soil, and rocks.

Why would anyone risk shedding blood for a wasteland?  It made no sense.  Who wants to die for sand, desert and undrinkable water?  I could not figure it out, so one day I stayed after class.  After naming the long list of enemies, I said, "Mr. Chidsey, can you tell me why everyone wanted to conquer Israel?  Why would Israel's enemies care so much about gaining this barren land?"

Mr. Chidsey broke out in the widest grin.  He loved my question because it was right up his alley.  With a laugh, he replied, "Young man, you forgot to add the Saracens, Muslims, Turks, Palestinian Arabs and British.  To answer your question, it was Israel's bad luck to exist at the crossroads of ancient civilization.  Israel was sandwiched between Africa, Europe, Middle East and Far East.  If Alexander the Great wanted to attack India, Persia or Egypt, first he had to go through Judea.  In other words, in order for a conquering army to get somewhere, it would eventually cross through Judea and decide to conquer it.  It was Israel's bad luck to be located in the wrong place far too many times."

As I nodded in wonderment, Mr. Chidsey was amused by the strength of my curiosity.  He could see I was hooked on Israel.  My hunch is he was too.  From that point on, every night I poured over Mr. Chidsey's Bible History book with further enthusiasm.  Israel had so many enemies, who could keep them all straight?  Nevertheless I made a real effort to keep the names organized in my mind.  Following our talk, I moved closer to the front just in case I had another question or Mr. Chidsey wanted to call on me.

Towards the end of the 8th Grade, one night my mother received a phone call.  Seeing her frown, it was bad news.  Sure enough, when she hung up the phone, my mother turned with a grim face and said, "That was Uncle Dick.  He has decided to open his own business.  Unfortunately that means he can't afford to keep sending you to St. John's in the 9th Grade.  This looks like the end of the road."

I admired Uncle Dick a lot.  So did my mother.  She had named me for her favorite brother.  Uncle Dick understood what it felt like to be an underdog.  Maybe that is why he had been so kind to me.  Uncle Dick contracted polio when he was in the Navy.  Paralyzed below the waist, it was an incredibly painful ordeal.  For a while he wondered if he would ever walk again.  It took a year to recover, but fortunately Dick was able to walk again, albeit with a pronounced limp.  Climbing stairs was still a major problem.  After his discharge from the Navy, Dick discovered few job opportunities existed for near-cripples.  The great break of his life came when IBM decided to take a chance on him in the Fifties.  Uncle Dick was brilliant at his job.  Now after 15 years with IBM, Dick saw an opportunity to go into business for himself.  Borrowing heavily, he started a new data processing center with banks as his customers.  The business was off to a promising start, but right now money was too tight to continue to pay for my education.  It looked like I would be leaving St. John's. 

For the remaining few weeks of the school year, I was sick with disappointment.  Although I did not appreciate being the social reject, the good far outweighed the bad.  For the past five years, St. John's had been my refuge.  It was the only place where I could hide from my crazy mother and her unending parade of unwanted boyfriends.  Considering how important this school had become, my despair knew no limits.  Fortunately, to my surprise, history repeated itself.  After my mother phoned Mr. Chidsey to give him the bad news, he responded with the offer of a full 4-year scholarship to high school.  This was an amazing gift.  St. John's meant so much to me. 

When Mr. Chidsey offered me a half-scholarship back in the 6th Grade, he had no idea who I was.  I was no more than a name on a piece of paper.  However this time Mr. Chidsey knew me well.  Teachers are not supposed to play favorites, but I had a strong hunch why Mr. Chidsey had been so kind to me with this scholarship.  I think Mr. Chidsey had taken a shine to me thanks to my interest in his favorite subject.  In addition, he saw a woebegone kid who was trying hard to overcome difficult circumstances.  Mr. Chidsey wanted to help.

I firmly believe my Bad Luck of quitting Mr. Chidsey's play is what ultimately led to this astounding Good Luck.   Yet again, another Silver Lining.  Thanks to Mr. Chidsey's amazing act of kindness, St. John's would continue to be the great blessing of my childhood.

Age 10, 5th grade, 1960 World series

the mysterious pebble
 

Previously I mentioned my passion for Greek Mythology.  In the 5th Grade I developed a similar passion for Baseball thanks to the miraculous World Series victory of the Pittsburgh Pirates.  Why the Pittsburgh Pirates?  Although I was born in Philadelphia, my mother made frequent visits to Pittsburgh since that is where her mother Lenore lived.  In fact, we were in my grandmother's home on the day I cut my eye out with a knife at age 5.  Thanks to a lengthy hospital stay, I remember Pittsburgh quite well.  In addition, the Pirates were my father's favorite baseball team.

I was in the 5th Grade during the 1960 World Series.  I was a card-carrying member of the Cool Kids due to my extensive knowledge of baseball facts.  For example, I knew the batting average and number of home runs for every player on both teams.  This is where my reputation as the SJS 'Baseball Almanac' started.  So far this had been a really strange World Series.  The Pirates were serious underdogs to the mighty New York Yankees.  The matchup was hyped as David versus Goliath.  Considering the Pirates would be outscored by an astounding 55-27 margin during this World Series, the comparison was justified.  The Yankees slaughtered the Bucs 38 runs to 3 in their three victories while the Pirates won three close games by one or two runs.  Now it was down to Game 7.  Which would it be, another close game or more likely a major blowout as usual?

Everyone at St. John's expected the Yankees would prevail.  Naturally my over-privileged classmates were drawn to the mythical Yankees.  My classmates always rooted for the best team.  Since they were already accustomed to winning at whatever they did, so why not favor the likely victor?  Curiously, I was the only boy in my circle who was rooting for the Pirates.  Why was that?  Because the Pirates were the decided underdog.  So what does that say about me?  Don't answer that.

Game Seven would turn out to be incredibly exciting.  In fact, it is still considered the greatest World Series game ever played.  Why?  Two reasons.  This remains the only World Series that has ever ended with a sudden walk-off home run.  Plus this game was decided by a Supernatural Event (or at least I think so).  A classmate brought his radio, so during lunch hour we listened to the suspenseful 8th inning.  Things looked bad for the Pirates.  It was the bottom of the 8th and the Pirates were losing 7-4.  However, the Pirates had a man on.  I clung to the faint hope this could lead to a rally.

Age 14, April 1964, towards the end of the 8th grade

football, Texas-style
 

I spent so much time thinking about that pebble, the incredible finish to the 1960 World Series helped turn me into a lifelong sports fan.  I had a circle of friends in the 5th, but here in the 8th Grade I had become Invisible.  Fortunately, my reputation as 'The Almanac' still led to occasional chats about sports with classmates.  Trust me, these conversations were a welcome relief to my growing anonymity. 

1963 was a big year for football here in Texas.  The mighty University of Texas football team had gone undefeated during the regular season.  Now for an encore, they demolished Navy led by star quarterback Roger Staubach 28-6 in the Cotton Bowl.  Following this impressive victory, the Longhorns were crowned the 1963 college football champions.  Given their penchant for backing the best teams, it was no surprise that my classmates were absolutely rabid about the UT championship.  However, unlike the Yankees, this time I was just as excited as they were.  I had watched the Cotton Bowl victory with keen satisfaction and admired the Longhorns like everyone else.

One day there was a big announcement that legendary sports announcer Kern Tips would be making a guest appearance at St. John's.  The excitement among my 8th Grade male classmates was unbelievable.  Kern Tips was a Houston native who had attended Rice University.  His work as a sportswriter for the Houston Chronicle led to an invitation to become radio announcer for Southwest Conference football games. The Southwest Conference was comprised of 7 Texas colleges who loved to bash each other's head in for interstate bragging rights.  Having spent 32 years broadcasting these games, Kern Tips was the utter personification of Texas Football. 

It turned out that Kern Tips was coming to St. John's to promote his new book titled 'Football-Texas Style'.  After his talk, he would shake hands and sell autographed copies in the lobby. 

Every boy in my class was nuts about Southwest Conference football.  Since the Longhorns were the celebrated national football champion, Kern Tips was certain to discuss inside secrets of this celebrated event.  The 8th Grade boys were in a tizzy.  If given a choice between Kern Tips or Santa Claus coming to speak, what does Santa know about the Longhorns' chances for next season?   Every day at lunch for the next week, they talked about attending the lecture and buying a copy of this highly coveted book.    

Since I was a huge fan of Texas college football like everyone else, this book really caught my imagination.  Only one problem... I didn't have a dime and this book was a pricey item.  Mr. Curran saw me in the hallway with a long face and asked what was the matter.  I told him how upset I was that all the other boys would get their special copy of the book but not me.

Mr. Curran didn't see what the problem was.  "So what?  I'm sure one of the boys will loan you his copy.  All you have to do is ask."

"No way, Mr. Curran, I'm not going to ask for charity.  In fact, I'm just going to skip the whole thing."

"Oh, Dick, stop being such a stick in the mud.  You know darn well you want to hear the talk Kern Tips is going to give.  Plus you will enjoy hanging out with the other guys in your class.  It's time to get out of your shell and make some friends."

Mr. Curran was right.  On a chilly Saturday night, I rode my bike to school to hear what Kern Tips had to say.  Out in the lobby was a box with people standing around filling out cards for a drawing.  A lady told me Kern Tips had offered one of his books as a door prize.    Since I had no spending money, I dreamed of winning this book instead.  I quickly filled out my card, then entered the auditorium.

The Spelling Bee incident with Nancy earlier in the year still weighed heavily on my mind.  I grasped that Nancy had been reaching out to me and that I had reacted inappropriately by turning my back.  Unfortunately, when I was rude to Nancy, she had no way of knowing that I had not been angry at her but rather consumed with bitterness at how poorly I was handling my life.  I had been tormented by self-loathing ever since.  My inner voice suggested a simple apology might still repair the damage, but I brushed that thought off.  I was far too bitter in those days to do something that sensible.  My life boiled down to me against the world, me, myself, and I.  No wonder I had few friends.  I was so preoccupied with my own misery, I was hardly the most cheerful boy to be around.

Fortunately, the three-way combination of Attitude Adjustment after being caught stealing, Mr. Chidsey's full scholarship and winning the Kern Tips football book had greatly improved my mood.  If I could find a way to shed my Invisibility Cloak, I might be able to make friends at St. John's after all.  That would be wonderful.  But what could I do to get people to notice me?  My wish was seemingly fulfilled when a very good idea popped up out of nowhere.

The Athens Bar phase took place when I was in the 5th Grade.  St. John's gave us an entire hour for lunch.  Considering we could finish eating in 10 minutes if it was important, lunch gave us plenty of time for friendship, gossip, and fun activities.  One day a friend of mine named Frank brought a chess board to lunch.  There were several quiet boys like Frank and me who hung together.  I guess you could call us the nerds.  To Frank's dismay, none of us knew how to play chess.  So Frank offered to teach anyone who was interested.  I was curious, so I took Frank up on his offer.  Two other guys did as well.  From that point on, lunchtime chess became a regular activity with the four of us.  I won some, lost some, but I always enjoyed playing.  I was tickled pink when I finally beat Frank at his own game for the first time.  Since I was already fighting a serious inferiority complex, lunchtime chess became one of my few bright spots.  That led me to ask Mom to buy me a chess set for my 11th birthday in October.  Dumb idea.  Just who exactly was I going to play with?  So the chess set just sat there.

Shortly after my 11th birthday, Mom brought home a sailor named Kristos.  Cute guy, big shoulders, macho attitude, the perfect one-night stand.  Mom may have been plump and plain, but she never lacked for men.  Mom's attitude was simple.  Her tubes were tied, she couldn't get pregnant, she liked sex, so there you have it.  Sunday morning when I woke up, Kristos was at the kitchen table drinking coffee with Mom.  Kristos spoke little English.  He knew enough to say he was from Yugoslavia, not Greece, but that was about it. 

Kristos noticed the chess board in the living room and beckoned to it.  I did not want to play, but Mom insisted I entertain her new lover.  While my mother cooked breakfast, Kristos advanced his pawns one space at a time until I was completely pinned back.  Kristos was so overwhelmingly superior, he did not even bother to take my pieces.  Instead his moves forced to me to constantly retreat until he smothered me to death like an anaconda.  When Kristos laughed derisively, I failed to see the humor.  Nice work, sailor boy, you just beat an 11 year old kid.  I was furious at being crushed to death by my mother's latest one-night stand.  No doubt there were Oedipal overtones, but let's not go there.  Angry, I stomped to my room. 

The sting of that overwhelming defeat lingered for a long time.  Kristos demonstrated I wasn't nearly as good as I thought I was.  A few weeks later I noticed a chess book for beginners at my school's Book Fair.  It was written for kids my age so I asked Mom for money to buy it as a Christmas present in advance.  Now I began to teach myself the finer points of the game.  The book really helped.  Soon I was able to beat Frank and the other boys in our group on a regular basis.  For the next three years or so I almost never lost.  However, at the end of the 8th grade, a new chess nemesis appeared to torment me.  His name was Neal. 

As if I did not have enough problems, at the beginning of May 1964 Mom brought home a new loser to live with us.  As usual, I was not consulted.  Neal was a taxi driver with a strong resemblance to an unshaven Jack Nicholson.  Neal turned out to be a loud-mouthed, foul-smelling, chain-smoking alcoholic.  Of all the strays my mother found in the dog pound, Neal was tied for worst with the ex-con Tom Cook.  I despised Neal from the moment I met him.  Neal, 40, was a dark-haired man of Jewish descent.  He had the thickest eyebrows I have ever seen.  He was six feet tall and seriously overweight.  Neal hated to shave, so he constantly had that slovenly unshaven look.  Neal was a lout, but he was also bright, I'll grant him that much.  I knew he going to be trouble the moment he noticed my chess set and began to brag loudly about what a great chess player he was. 

"You'll never beat me, Dickie Boy, no one beats me."

Of all the one-night stands and live-ins stretched across nine years, Neal was the one I detested the most.  The rest I learned to ignore, but not Neal.  The others left me alone, but Neal went out of his way to irritate me.  Neal liked to taunt me with his big mouth and lofty opinion of himself.  By putting me down, he felt superior.  Because I had grown up alone, no one had ever picked on me before quite like he did.  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 was a bully who took savage pleasure in humiliating me any way he could.

Neal was Mom's replacement for Miguel, the man my mother had recklessly turned away.  I never met a more repulsive man.  Neal smoked.  Neal drank.  Neal watched TV and belched.  The living room stank from beer 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.  He never shaved nor bathed.  One would think Neal would look in the mirror, but for some reason the guy never wavered from his lofty opinion of himself.  Neal loved the fact that I went to a private school with a strong academic record.  Since Neal considered himself a real deep-thinker, he lived for any chance to demonstrate his intelligence.

"You should listen to me, Dick, I'm an intellectual.  I can teach you things.  Maybe you'll learn something to make you more popular at school."

Oh my God, how I seethed when he said that!  How did he know I was virtually friendless?  Did my mother tell him?  No way.  Mom and I never talked about anything serious.  She didn't have a clue that I was ostracized at school by the Cool Kids.  Angry at Neal for finding my Achilles Heel, I was also darkly impressed.  Give Neal some credit.  Considering we never talked, Neal had somehow guessed I possessed the lowest self-esteem of any boy at my school.  I spent every waking hour trying to figure how to belong to a crowd that ignored me, so I have to hand it to the guy for knowing exactly where to hit under the belt.  Oh, how I hated this man.

Despite my animosity, Neal did teach me something useful.  Oddly enough, one day Neal offered to show me how to fight dirty.  He said the secret was to catch my opponent off guard.  First I should clap my hands over the guy's ears, then slug the guy in the throat.  This trick would come in handy one day.  File this gem away in your memory bank.

Chess became the battleground in our growing test of wills.  The moment Neal moved in he noticed my chess set.  He immediately challenged me to a game.  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 at school.  He was also better than me.  Neal seemed to know every sneaky play in the book.  It was not just that he beat me, it was his decision to rub it in.  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, Dickie Boy!  I beat everyone."

I could not stand losing to Neal.  Choking on his cigarette fumes, how I hated 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 when I lost, each game was pretty close.  I believed Neal wasn't really that much better than me.  I knew I had some ability; I just lacked polish.  My problem was that I could not figure out how to win the End Game.  If I could discover some way to improve, I might win.

Meanwhile my dislike of Neal grew and grew.  If he called me 'Dickie Boy' one more time, I might explode.  I pleaded with Mom to throw the bum out.  "Please, Mom, I'm begging you!" 

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, "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 allowed these strays to stay with us.  Knowing how money was Mom's lifelong problem, I resigned myself to Neal's presence.  But I wasn't happy about it, not by a long shot.

This started in May and now it was June.  Summer arrived and Neal was still here.  And so my worst nightmare had come to pass.  I wanted the freedom to enjoy my summer alone in the apartment before starting high school, but no such luck.  Since Neal worked nights, I was forced to share my home with him during the long summer days while Mom was at work.   

Sure enough, that's exactly how it played out.  Throughout June, Neal played Lord of the House all day long.  I could not bear the sight of him.  Or the smell either.  Just to get away from him, in the early morning Terry and I would head over to nearby Cherryhurst Park. 

For two hours I would practice shooting basketball, my official summer project.  Since I was determined to go out for the Junior Varsity in the Fall, I practiced jump shot after jump shot until the Texas sun made it too hot to continue.  Meanwhile Terry chased the squirrels and birds in every direction.  At least one of us was enjoying his summer. 

I would return home and there would be Neal in the living room.  He would be puff puff puffing away with cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other as he watched his beloved soap operas.  Such an intellectual.  Disgusted, I would head to my bedroom and shut the door.  I felt like a prisoner in my own home.  One day in June, Terry and I returned from the park to find Neal sitting at the kitchen table practicing his chess moves.  Neal saw me and ordered me to sit down and play. 

The insistent tone of his voice got Terry's attention.  He came closer to me and stared bullets at Neal.  I quietly grinned.  Aha!  It was the return of the 'The Look' from the time I had my bicycle accident.  Mind you, Terry did not growl or make a sound.  He just stared at Neal.  Sure enough, when Neal saw the look in Terry's eyes, he did a double-take.  That is how I learned Neal was afraid of Terry.  As well he should be!   From that point on, Terry never left my side when Neal was around.  Thank goodness for my loyal bodyguard. 

Neal must have outweighed me by one hundred pounds.  Intimidated by his size as well as his uncanny ability to annoy me, until now I had held my tongue.  However, emboldened by Terry's subduing effect on Neal, I realized for the first time I could say anything I wanted with impunity.  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!"

The moment Neal raised his voice, Terry took a step forward.  When Neal instantly flinched, it took everything in my power not to laugh.  Instead I decided to press my advantage.  "Gee, Neal, if I didn't know better, maybe you need to take a shower.  Terry has a very sensitive nose, so that's probably what's bothering him."

When Neal's eyes grew wide, I knew I had scored with the shower quip.  Neal had no comeback for that one.  This moment marked a turning point in our tense relationship.  Since I had never met anyone before who deliberately tried to humiliate me, until now I was not quite sure how to fight back.  However, unbeknownst to Neal, I too possessed a wicked tongue.  Just ask Mom.  So far I had kept my smart mouth under wraps around Neal, but seeing him flinch from my dog was just the encouragement I needed.  Thrilled to see my shower retort draw blood, I gave free rein to my sarcasm from here on out.  To my delight, my biting style got under Neal's skin just like he got under my skin.  Considering how slovenly Neal was, I had all kinds of weak spots to target... smoking, drinking, obesity, etc.  Neal's odor problem was my favorite.  Whenever he pissed me off, I had an easy counter-attack.

"Hey, Neal, there's something wrong with the shower nozzle.  Come see if you can fix it.  Oh, never mind.  I forgot you don't even know where the shower is."

If he did not reply, I would pause for a moment, then continue the onslaught.  Later on I would add to the running commentary.  "Guess what, Neal, I got the shower fixed.  Do you want me to show you how to use it?"

Neal would just glare at me and fume.  But what could he do?  Neal knew better than to get physical with me.  Even worse, he did not dare raise his voice.  Terry 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, a confrontation was inevitable.  One day after my morning basketball practice, I came home from the park hot and sweaty.

Neal immediately grabbed his nose and said, "Pee you, you stink, buddy."

"Maybe so, Neal, but at least I know where the shower is located."

Seeing Terry's ears perk up at my special taunting voice, Neal bit his tongue.  He settled for grumbling something under his breath, then pointed to the chess board.  "Take your shower, little preppie boy, but when you're done, it's your move.  I can't remember, have you beaten me yet?  Nah, I don't think so." 

There was no love lost between us.  The tension had grown much worse ever since I had begun to talk back.  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.  Today Neal had just challenged me to our first big chess game 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.   After he beat for a second time, bellows of raucous laughter emanated.  Neal was Lord of the House.  Hear him roar.  Neal had just put the smart-mouthed twerp in his place. 

I seethed inside, but kept my mouth shut.  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.  Unfortunately, Neal wasn't done yet.  When I returned home, Neal offered to let me try again.  Like a fool, I accepted the challenge only to be soundly defeated twice more.  After four victories in one day, Neal was in hog heaven.  For the rest of the day, Neal laughed every time he saw me and bragged about his victory.  He told my mother about his victories when she came home and laughed again.  Neal enjoyed humiliating me because it proved he was smarter than me.  With this guy around, my summer was off to a lousy start.  Cursing my futility, I openly wished I could find some way to improve at chess.  I was dying to put this guy in his place. 

From this point on, Neal used his chess ability to goad me any chance he could.  Any time I started getting 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.  Now that Neal knew how aggravated I was whenever he beat me, he had regained the upper hand. 

This man was ruining my life.  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, an odd coincidence took place that same afternoon.  After Neal left to go drive his taxi, I was grateful to be left alone in the apartment.  Taking a shortcut from my room through my mother's bedroom to the living room, I noticed a box of books lying on the floor over in the corner.  Curious, I put the box on the bed and leafed through.  There were two books by Ayn Rand, Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. There was On the Road by Jack Kerouac and 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 whomever he was 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.  With a sense of excitement, I opened the book.  The book was written by Mikhail Tal, the winner.  It was Tal's explanation of how he became the world chess champion in an upset victory over fellow Russian Mikhail Botvinnik. 

This book contained the moves from every game played written in chess notation, P-B4 (Pawn to Bishop 4), QxR (Queen takes Rook) and so on.  Even better, there were detailed explanations for the reason behind Tal's most important moves.  My eyes grew wide.  Having found a chess book that explained the strategy of a chess grandmaster, I immediately grasped the potential.  By replaying each game in the book, maybe I could improve. 

I carefully put the other books back in proper order and placed the box back where I had found it.  Would Neal find out?  I doubted it.  The 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.   Now I carried my prize to my bedroom.  Having this book appear with such perfect timing felt like a good omen.  With a hunch that this book was the secret weapon I had coveted, a sense of contentment came over me.  This was my golden opportunity to get my revenge on Neal.  I had my basketball project in the morning and now I had my chess project in the afternoon. 

Throughout July I made it my mission to replay every single chess game in the book.  On each page there was a discussion of the reasons behind Tal's most important moves.  Every spare moment I would analyze those notes.  I had no idea if learning the secrets behind Tal's strategy would help me improve my own game, but I had to try something.

Each morning Terry and I would head over to the park so I could practice shooting basketball.  Terry would run around the park chasing squirrels and I would shoot baskets for an hour or so.  When I returned, I would see old whale belly passed out on the couch with two empty beer bottles on the floor and a still-smoking cigarette in the ash tray. 

First I would turn off the TV lest it wake Neal up.  Then after a shower and lunch, I would return to the living room to have another look at Sleeping Beauty for extra motivation.  There he was, Lord and Master of the house, snoring his head off in another drunken stupor.  Disgusted, I would head to my bedroom and begin my chess moves with the door closed and 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 always in my mind.  I studied 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.  You are the king.  I can't beat you, so I give up."

Neal would guffaw, call me a chicken, flap his elbows like chicken wings and make a few more chicken squawks for good measure.  What an asshole.  Then he would go smoke another cigarette and turn on his soap operas.  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.  Wherever I went in the apartment, 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.  Now I carefully returned the chess book to 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.  I tried to look casual.  "Sure, Neal, why not?"

Neal looked at me funny.  After ducking him for a month, why was I suddenly so cooperative?  Shrugging off his suspicion as preposterous nonsense, Neal sat down at the table.  This time I was ready.  I gleefully cleaned Neal's clock.  He never knew what hit him.  Fuming and shocked, 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 me have the upper hand.  It wasn't just that I beat Neal.  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.

At that point, Neal left for work.  No doubt as he ferried passengers around the city in his cab, he spent the night wondering what could explain my sudden improvement.  Not surprisingly, the following day Neal challenged me again.  Again I cleaned his clock.  I 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.

It was the victories on the second day that really spooked Neal.  The first two victories could be chalked up as a fluke, but four in a row was a different story.  Neal was forced to deal with the thought that these victories were no accident.  It wasn't just that I had won four games in a row, it was the ease with which I beat him.  Plus there was an air of confidence about me that made little sense.  Whatever happened to that sniveling kid who ran to screaming to his room every time Neal whispered the word 'Chess' throughout July? 

Seeing Neal lost in thought the next day, I couldn't resist.  "Hey, Neal, how about another game of chess?"

Neal was so upset he could barely muster a lame retort.  "Oh, go to hell!"

With that, I had a sudden inspiration.  Neal had just handed me the perfect way to drive the stake through his heart.

"Oh, no thanks, Neal, I just came from hell.  Haven't you heard?  The Devil has been helping me improve my chess game."

The moment I saw Neal turn pale, I grinned with delight.  Neal was so bewildered he did not know what to think.  He was convinced my sudden improvement could not be attributable to a simple explanation like a bad day on his part.  For the rest of the day Neal walked around the apartment slamming doors and muttering to himself.  Poor Neal.  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.

What an intellectual!  Neal never had a clue what my secret was.  Instead Neal began to stare at me like I was Damien from The Omen.  Seeing how much it bothered him, I refused to explain the circumstances.  I guess he got spooked by my supernatural improvement.  Good.  Served him right.

Just before Neal left for taxi duty that night, I heard Neal and Mom arguing about something.  Neal was still upset.  Within the week, Neal moved out.  I had slain the dragon with a chessboard.  My mother even thanked me once he was gone.  When she said good riddance, I smiled.  Checkmate.

Footnote.  In Hindsight, 1964 was a very unusual year.  In rapid fire succession, I had four experiences that would one day be added to my Supernatural List.  Of the four, the discovery of the chess book was the one that really got my attention.  Losing my temper after another chess defeat, I had left the house screaming at the top of my lungs how frustrated I was.  As I walked Terry through the neighborhood, I distinctly remember saying, "Oh, how I wish I could find a way to beat this guy!" 

When I found Neal's chess book the same afternoon, I had the weirdest feeling that someone had guided me to it.

Age 14, august 1964, just prior to 9th grade

the statistician
 

It was August 1964.  To my undying relief, I had found a way to get rid of Neal.  Now that my summer chess project had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams, I was able to turn full attention to my basketball project.  Unless it rained, every day I made a pilgrimage to worship at the altar of the Cherryhurst Park basketball goal. 

Practicing endlessly for two solid hours each day, like most boys my age I dreamed of girls.  My loneliness was killing me and I was determined to solve the problem through basketball.  My golf friend Steve had shown the way.  He claimed that girls are attracted to excellence.  Let a girl see a boy do what he does best and nature will take its course.  My plan was no longer just to make the junior varsity team.  My new plan was to become the star.  Please forgive my immodesty, but I thought I had a legitimate chance to do just that.  An entire summer of non-stop practice had built my confidence sky high. 

However, my debut would have to wait.  Basketball tryouts would not take place until late October.  In the meantime I found a new way to practice.  Any St. John's student who was not on a sports team was required to take an hour of P.E. three times a week in the afternoon.  Since I was not allowed to play football, I went to P.E. instead.  I was very surprised by what I saw.  There were 20 to 30 boys in P.E. including freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors.  Each boy had one thing in common - they were all terrible athletes.  With one exception, of course.  I had no business being in this group, but my blind eye gave me no choice.  This led to an odd situation.  We played a lot of basketball in P.E.  Since no one could guard me, our P.E. coaches decided to join the game and guard me instead.  I liked this.  Whenever I played well, they would compliment me.  This was the most positive attention I had gotten in ages. 

One day early in the year Coach Skip Lee asked to speak to me afterwards.  "Dick, I have a favor to ask.  The boy who kept statistics for the varsity football team graduated.  That means I don't have anyone to keep track.  Since you are not able to play football, would you consider becoming our statistician?"  

I accepted immediately and I am glad I did.  Not only did I enjoy keeping track of running yardage and passing results, it turned out this job carried a special perk.  Coach Lee asked me to phone in the results of each game to the Houston Post and the Houston Chronicle.  To my surprise, both papers paid $5 per game.  Look at me, $10 per game in spending money for doing a job I would have been happy to do for free.  I also enjoyed the job because Coach Lee appreciated my service as well as reliability.

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

the procedure
 

Here at the start of the 9th Grade, Neal was gone.   It just me, Mom, and Terry.  For the first time in ages, my mother and I were getting along.  I was in a good mood because Mr. Chidsey's gift of a full scholarship meant I could count on staying at my beloved school.  I was also proud of myself for the clever way I had sent Neal packing.  Mom would never admit it, but she was glad he was gone too. 

Mom had a steady job and her man-chasing ways were temporarily in hibernation.  Now that Neal was gone, I had nothing to complain about.  Consequently I was not nearly as obnoxious as usual.  That meant peace had returned to our household.  Without Neal around, I felt safe enough to leave my room at night and visit with my mother.  Imagine that.  Sometimes we even watched TV together.  All was quiet on the home front and I was happy.

There was one small problem, however.  Like many teenagers, I was susceptible to that scourge of childhood known as pimples.  My mother hated pimples with a passion.  My mother could not stand pimples.  She was determined to do something about them.  Starting in August, once or twice a month Mom would begin her pimple-popping ritual.  Sterilize a sewing needle, empty the pus, then cleanse the wound with a clean towel soaked in isopropyl alcohol.  Mom's procedure worked just fine.  The pimple would dry up over the night and the blemish would be gone within 24 hours. 

I objected strenuously because the procedure was so yucky.  I said the problem wasn't that bad, so why not just leave it alone.  My mother disagreed.  Since we were finally getting along, I decided to let her have her way.  Whatever she was doing, it worked, so I cooperated. 

One Sunday night late in October Mom decided it was time for another treatment.  She got out her sewing needle.  After sterilizing it with a match, she started merrily popping away.  After she was done, Mom finished her handiwork by cleansing the open wounds with isopropyl alcohol.  Mom smiled at her excellent job.

"There," she said, "looks great.  Everything will be healed in the morning."

I nodded thanks, then went to bed.  This coming week was important.  Basketball try-outs!  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what my mother had just done would change the course of my life.  Nothing would ever be the same.

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

rick archer meets Franz Kafka
 

When I awoke the next morning, I knew immediately something was wrong.  My face was burning like crazy.  In addition my face felt mysteriously swollen.  The swelling stretched the skin on my face so tight that I was having trouble moving my jaw properly. 

I was scared.  What was wrong with me?  I rushed to the mirror and screamed in horror.  Oh my God, I had the face of a monster!  I do not exaggerate.  I actually looked like something out of The Fly. 

Overnight, my face had ballooned to twice its size.  My face was covered ear to ear with dozens of angry red pustules.  I was so hideous, I screamed bloody murder.  This bizarre experience was reminiscent of a passage in Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. 

"Gregor Samsa awakens one morning in his family's apartment to find himself inexplicably transformed into a gigantic insect."

However, there was one major difference.  Metamorphosis was the work of someone's twisted imagination.  My condition was real. 

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

paralysis
 

I would later learn that my lymph gland nodes had become infected.  While I slept that night, infection from the open sores somehow entered the lymph gland system which in turn spread the infection like wildfire.  Overnight new pimples erupted across my face like volcanic explosions reshaping the earth's surface.   I can barely force myself to write what happened next. 

This was insane.  Normally I had a long slender face.  Now I had a round face.  My face had puffed up into a big round balloon.  Other than my forehead and nose which remained clear, there was not one patch of clear skin left.  Furthermore I was in a lot of pain.  My face constantly throbbed as my body tried to fight off the massive infection.  As I cried buckets upon buckets of tears in terror, I asked my mother what to do. 

She shook her head in sympathy. "I don't know what happened, Dick, but I'm sure this will clear up in a day or two.  I suggest you stay home today and I'm sure this will be better tomorrow."

So on Monday I stayed home.  Meanwhile the infection was left free to continue unimpeded.  Overnight new pimples erupted.  Now I was in even more pain.  Loaded down with aspirin, I was miserable.  "What should we do, Mom?"

"Let's give it one more day and see what happens.  You should stay from school again."

I wasn't so sure about this.  If anything, my condition had gotten worse yesterday.  What made my mother think that rest would solve the problem?  But I trusted her judgment, so on Tuesday I stayed home a second.  And so the problem continued to worsen.

Wednesday was different.  I did not stay home on Wednesday for a special reason.  Today was the start of basketball tryouts, the most important thing in the world to me.  I would have gone to school today even if there was a hurricane outside.  Nothing was going to stop me, not hell nor high water.

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

let the leper pass
 

I had been dreaming of this day for ages.  I had shot lights out over at Cherryhurst Park all summer long just for this moment.  I could not wait to see the shock on the other boy's faces when I showed them what I could do on the basketball court.  I was going to be a star.  I wouldn't miss basketball tryouts today for anything in the world, not even this bizarre acne attack. 

For the past year and a half I had been invisible due to the mistake of giving Fred's driver my correct address in the 7th Grade.  I had made a mess of things in the 8th Grade by quitting the play, the spelling bee, and basketball practice.  Now I was desperate for a second chance.  For the past six months, I had been counting on basketball as my ticket out of invisibility.  I had been practicing every afternoon on my own one to two hours just for this moment.  I was ready to take my stage and hope the world would see me again.  I was sick over the fact that I had to begin my re-entry onto the SJS stage looking like this, but I wouldn't let this problem stop me.  My mother had said the problem would pass, so I didn't dare skip today's tryouts.  I had too much riding on this. 

It wouldn't be easy though.  Looking in the mirror, I was horrified to note my balloon face was approximately the same shape as a basketball.  Paint the ball red, put a nose on it and we could be twins.  The irony was not lost on me.  Call me Mr. Basketball Head.

One thing to keep in mind is that I had no idea just how serious my problem was.  My mother said this would go away soon.   However, even she had the sense to know sending me to school today was a bad idea.  My mother saw me getting dressed and stopped me.  "Richard, you should stay home again. Let's give it another day."

I refused to listen.   So off to school I rode on my bicycle.  Mr. Basketball Head was on a mission.

What was I thinking?  My mother was absolutely right.  My fervor had blinded me to the absurdity of my decision.  I had wanted to shock them, well, I shocked them all right.  But not the way I wanted to.  This turned out to be a terrible mistake.  From the moment I arrived, students and teachers alike gasped as they saw me for the first time.  I will never forget the looks of horror as long as I live.  The shame I felt was overwhelming.  Students actually stepped out of my way in the hall to let me pass.  Whatever it was that I had, they wanted no part of it.  As their eyes grew wide with fear and disgust, I could not help but recall the heart-rending leprosy scenes in Ben Hur. 

"Make way, fool, dost thou block the leper's way?"

With my face bloated out of proportion and my skin covered with layers of pimples on top of pimples, how I had the guts to show my face at school that day I will never know.  That may have been the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.  Maybe the stupidest too.  Damn it, I should have been at the doctor's office, not at school. 

But that wasn't my call, was it?

There was one special moment.  Mr. Curran saw me in the hallway as I walked to my next class.  He pulled me into an empty classroom and asked what had happened.  As I explained the situation, he sat there and nodded.  Finally I could not be brave any longer.  I burst out into giant crocodile tears.  Mr. Curran put his arm around me and let me cry for the longest time.  It took quite a while, but I managed to eventually regain my composure.  Putting one hand on each shoulder to square me to him, Mr. Curran made me look him in the eye.  "Rick, it's okay.  This is a terrible blow, but you will get through it and I will help you.  Have courage.  Now get to class."

Guess what?  I wasn't invisible anymore.  The irony did not escape me.   The experience of walking around school that day with kids staring at me ripped me to shreds with shame.  Those kids looked at me like I had turned into a monster.  Can you blame them?  I was grotesque!  In class I felt them staring.  Every bit of laughter behind my back seemed directed at me.  I cowered and wished desperately I could hide under my desk.

One needs to understand that the students at St. John's were not just smart, they were attractive.  People with wealth and education have a wide choice of marriage partners.  'Good looks' are traditionally an important part of the package.  Therefore it should be no surprise that wealthy parents are blessed with attractive children.  With every student making regular visits to get braces or see a dermatologist as needed, St. John's students were flawless.  Beauty was taken for granted at my school.  Now suddenly a diseased Quasimodo had appeared in their midst.  The effect was revulsion.  Today was the birth of the legend of the Creepy Loser Kid.

I would have fled if not for my grim determination to stay for basketball tryouts.  I steeled my resolve.  I was sure these pimples were bound to leave eventually, probably next week.  I was a quitter last year, I wasn't going to quit again.  I wasn't going to sacrifice all that I had been working for just to salvage my pride over my damaged appearance.   I counted the minutes to the end of the day.  It was finally time for basketball.  Despite my purple mask of shame, I was determined not to throw my ambition away for vanity's sake.  So here I was three days after the acne eruption trying out for the Freshman basketball team.  Basketball was the only hope I had to find my way to acceptance.  I wanted so much to belong at my school.

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

the basketball tryout
 

Over the summer last year's 9th Grade basketball coach had left the school.  Who would replace him?  I had hoped that Coach Lee, a man I really liked, would be my coach.  Back in September, Coach Lee had guarded me several times during our P.E. basketball games.  Not only was he impressed with my shooting ability, he agreed my blind eye might not be be as serious a problem in basketball as it had been in football.  However, to my dismay the replacement coach was Killjoy, a man I thoroughly disliked.  This was the same man I had butted heads with in the 8th Grade.  In fact, Killjoy was one of the main reasons I had quit the team last year.

Coach Killjoy made it clear he did not want me on his team this year either.  Two weeks before tryouts, he pulled me aside.  Apparently someone had told him about the time I had been knocked unconscious playing 8th Grade football.  As a result Killjoy was certain the same thing was going to happen to me while playing basketball.  Everything that came out Killjoy's mouth was negativity and criticism.  Lecturing me about the seriousness of my handicap, he predicted that sooner or later someone would make an unexpected move on my blind side and break my neck in the collision.  Killjoy's negativity had shaken my confidence very badly, but I still wanted to try.  After I pleaded with him, he said if I wanted to try out, he wouldn't stop me.  Killjoy went to office, then returned with a waiver exempting the school from responsibility if I got hurt.  He frowned mightily when I returned for tryouts with the waiver signed by my mother. 

There was more going on between us than just my blind eye.  Killjoy didn't like my attitude.  I had a tendency to argue when told to do something.  Nor was I much of a team player.  Once the ball hit my hands, it stayed there.  I would either shoot immediately or dribble till I found an opening.  I had absolutely no concept of passing the ball to someone with a better shot.  Why should I pass the ball when I could shoot better than anyone else on the team?  Me, myself, and I.  Let's face it, I was selfish and I had problems with authority.  If someone asked nicely, I was a puppy dog eager to please.  But if someone barked an order, I turned defiant.  Coach Killjoy was one those 'my way or the highway' types.  He was not happy to see me try out, that was obvious.  But I had my waiver signed and I was determined to show Killjoy what I could do.  So there you have it.  Today I would find out the extent of my blind eye handicap. 

I got my answer twenty minutes into practice.  One of our first drills was a three-man fast break.  The idea is for three men to move the ball down the court by passing the ball.  Dribbling was not allowed.  After a rebound, Player One passes the ball like a hot potato to Player Two as he runs down the court.  Player Two passes the ball to Player Three on the wing who should be close enough to the basket to lay the ball in without a dribble. 

In this drill, I was Player Three.  Given that I only had one eye, I had to alternate between looking forward where I was going or looking left at the man with the basketball.  Just as I turned my head to look forward, Player Two zinged a pass at me with plenty of steam on it.  Just my luck the ball was headed to my blind side.  Since I had glanced to my right at the worst possible moment, I never saw the ball coming.  Bam!  The ball hit me square on the left side of my face. 

Ordinarily this would not have been a problem.  It is not pleasant to be hit by the ball, but at least the pain goes away quickly enough.  Not this time.  By a coincidence of the highest magnitude, the basketball had struck my swollen face with great force.  The blow was not hard enough to knock me down.  Nor was there much pain at first.  I was just a bit dazed.  However, ten seconds later a time bomb went off in my head. 

Why the delay?  My guess is every pustule on the left side of my face had been compressed by the blow and it took the infected pustules ten seconds to retaliate.  Retaliate they did; the pain was searing.  My face felt like angry fire ants were biting me everywhere.  Overcome by powerful stabs of burning pain, I grew weak and stumbled to my knees.  To my astonishment, the pain continue to increase.  For fear I might pass out, from my knees I went to my stomach.  Now on the floor, I covered my face with both hands to hide my shame and agony from prying eyes.  In the past I had been hit by basketballs, footballs, and soccer balls several times, but I never had pain last so long or hurt so much.  When my face was still throbbing at the one minute mark, I became really scared.  Even then it didn't stop.  When the pain reached the 90 second mark, it seemed like my horribly infected face intended to burn for eternity.  With no end in sight, tears welled up in my eyes, part from the pain, part from this dreadful feeling of futility.  My life was spinning horribly out of control and I was having a hard time keeping control of my feelings.  Please, I begged, don't let these boys see me crying.

Everyone crowded around trying to understand why I was in so much pain.  To them, I had received a glancing blow from a basketball.  No big deal, certainly not worth falling on the floor.  So why was I writhing on the floor and grabbing my face?  They had no idea what was wrong.  What was I supposed to do, tell them I had been knocked senseless by a lethal pimple detonation?  I could not decide what hurt worse, my face or my pride.  Sick over this degrading humiliation, I did my best to hide my face so people could not see the tears.  It took every ounce of self-discipline to avoid grabbing my face with my fingernails and ripping my skin away.  I wanted claw my face to a bloody mess.  Anything to get rid myself of this accursed leprosy.  As I lay there, one thought dominated.   This is truly the last straw. 

Seriously, if someone had handed me a gun, I would have used it on myself.  That's how bad the despair was.  Thankfully after two intense minutes, the pain eased a bit.  I was still woozy, but at least I could stand up.  Full of shame, I stumbled towards the locker room.  A couple boys followed me, including Tom, the boy who had thrown the ball.  You know what?  These guys were nice to me.  If I could just lick this horrifying acne problem, I bet I could make friends with them.  That gave me a fleeting ray of hope.  Just before I entered the locker room, Tom asked me to explain went wrong.  Seeing how guilty he felt for hurting me, I told him about my blind eye.  However I avoided mentioning the role the acne had played.  Tom nodded, said he hoped I felt better, then went back to practice.

I was glad that Tom had left.  Right now I preferred to be alone.  Entering the locker room by myself, I sat down on a bench and buried my disfigured face in a towel.  Mercifully, the pain had subsided to a dull ache I could tolerate.  The agony was over, but now what?  Was there any hope for me?  I went to the nearby mirror and gasped.  My face was so full of pimples I couldn't bear to look at myself.  No wonder everyone at school was shocked by my appearance.  Now I was not even sure I could play basketball thanks to the curse of my blind eye.  Struggling with overwhelming despair, what did the future bode for me?  Right now it looked pretty grim. 

My basketball coach was nowhere to be seen throughout the ordeal.  Not only did Killjoy fail to speak to me when I was down, he failed to visit me in the locker room.  Feeling abandoned, I wondered why Coach Killjoy had ignored me.  I seethed with anger when I realized his absence was likely deliberate.  Killjoy must certainly have guessed my blind eye had caused this problem.  I seethed in the knowledge that he was probably pleased by my accident.  Not only did this prove his point, he never wanted me here to begin with.  I suspected he did not check on me for fear even his slightest encouragement might give me reason to try again.  No doubt he preferred I would quit and solve his problem.  He didn't want a cripple on his team, he didn't want a ball hog nor did he want Leper Boy.  Sitting alone on the locker room bench, I was beaten.  I did not have the courage to go back to basketball practice today, so I left.

As I rode my bike home, I cried my heart out.  Filled with bitterness, I made a silent vow that I would be back soon and show this jerk of a coach what I could do.  Utter Nonsense.  Who am I fooling?  Tomorrow?  Next week?  Wishful thinking.  I had a serious infection that was going untreated and the infection was growing stronger by the moment.  If anything, the basketball accident may have exacerbated the problem.  Now that my accident had removed basketball as a reason to go to school, I remained home on Thursday and again Friday.

The basketball accident had been a very cruel moment.  All those dreams, all that time spent practicing at Cherryhurst Park was down the drain.  No one had even seen me shoot the ball today.  They would never know how good I was.  But what difference did it make?  I was just now beginning to realize I was facing the worst crisis of my young life. 

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

a visit to the dermatologist

It was Thursday afternoon.  The moment Dr. Spiller saw me walk into his office, he gasped.  The dermatologist immediately whirled on my mother.  "When did this happen?" 

When my mother told him last Monday, a look of anger crossed his face. 

"Mrs. Archer, this is Thursday!  Why didn't you come see me sooner?  This is a very, very serious condition!  Your son could easily have gotten a case of septicemia.  Furthermore each day you waited will add three months to the treatment!  This condition might take a year to get under control!" 

When I heard that, my heart began to beat wildly and the despair was overwhelming.  I had hoped this was a temporary condition and I could return to basketball next week.  Feeling scared, I whispered a question.  "Can I play basketball with my face like this?"

Dr. Spiller shook his head in the negative.  "Absolutely not.  You have a very serious condition that requires medical treatment.  Until we get this thing under control, you are going to have to forget about sports."

Now the doctor began to interrogate my mother.  He was surprised to learn how careful she had been.  In his opinion, my mother's treatment was medically sound... sterilized needle, isopropyl alcohol, clean cotton swabs.  I actually agreed with him.  What my mother had done to cause the problem had worked just fine on three previous occasions.  Each time, my face had cleared up in the morning. 

So what went wrong the fourth time?  And why to this extent?  Dr. Spiller was at a loss for answers.  It was an Enigma, something far out of the ordinary, one for the ages.  Okay, I could accept that something went wrong.  But why did it go wrong to such a ghastly extent?   And why so rapidly?  The extent of the infection was unbelievable, especially considering it took place in the blink of an eye.  Dr. Spiller said my condition was a fluke.  What my mother had done should have prevented my condition.  Except that it didn't. 

I asked a question.  "How long will it take to get back to normal?"

Dr. Spiller shrugged.  "Six months, a year.  What you have is very serious.  You should have come in sooner.  Like I said, every day you waited added three more months to your recovery time.  Your acne condition is so severe it will be very difficult to control."

With that, I felt an indescribable sense of rage and helplessness.  I glanced at my mother.  She knew she should have brought me in on Monday morning.  Instead she was over in the corner dying a thousand deaths from guilt.  A lot of good that would do me.  Too late now. 

"Dr. Spiller, you said this was a fluke.  What did you mean by that?"

"I won't go so far as to say what happened to you was impossible.  But it does not make a bit of sense.  Assuming what your mother has told me is accurate, the isopropyl alcohol should have done the trick.  It is a powerful antiseptic that kills viruses and bacteria.  I use it myself as a disinfectant and it works very effectively.  I do not understand what went wrong, but I will give it some thought.  In the meantime, we need to begin treatment."

Dr. Spiller handed my mother a prescription for tetracycline and told us to come back in a week.  We left silently.

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

cosmic blindness

Age 14, November 1964, 9th grade

more bad news
 

Just when you think things can't get worse, they get worse.  A week had passed since the onset of my condition.  It was time to carry on.  When I returned to school on Monday wearing my purple mask of shame, I was in for an unpleasant surprise.  In an eerie replay of what Fred had done to me two years ago in the Boy Scout Debacle, Tom had done something similar. 

Tom was the boy who hit me with the basketball, then caught me as I headed to the locker room to ask what had gone wrong.  With my guard down, I explained my blind eye was responsible.  Although I skipped school on Thursday and Friday, the news of my strange basketball accident on Wednesday was a hot lunch topic.  Tom explained to anyone who asked that my accident had been caused by my blind eye. 

I was beside myself with self-loathing.  How could I have been so stupid to tell him?  I guess I was so shaken at the time, the consequences of telling Tom never dawned on me.  In the past people had asked why my two eyes sometimes did not match, but I always brushed them off.  So far I had refused to tell anyone other than my football coach about the blind eye.  Now, thanks to Tom, my blind eye was public knowledge.  I knew Tom was not trying to be malicious, but I was certain no good could come of this.  Sure enough, I was right.   

As I feared, the irony was overwhelming.  I had longed to escape my invisibility only to discover I was the most talked-about boy in school.  I was Dick Archer, the pimple freak with the blind eye and the crooked teeth.  The next thing I know, one of my lunch friends said he overheard three boys laughing about 'Dead Eye Dick'. 

I honestly believed I would have overcome my blind eye handicap to become a starter on the basketball team.  That dream was over.  I was crushed to see all that work go down the drain.  I had long been the poorest and most socially awkward boy in my class, but at least I had been a fairly attractive boy.  Not any more.  Now I was the ugliest.  Plus I had just acquired an unforgettable nickname.  I had been a loner in the past, but this was so much worse. 

Welcome to High School Hell. 

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

Susan Templeton
 

I felt rejection in all sorts of unusual ways.  As one would expect, I received strange stares from people seeing me for the first time.  Some looks would be that of confusion, others would convey a sense of involuntary revulsion.  One day I rode my bike to Frank's house.  Frank was my chess buddy.  Seeing I needed a friend, he had invited me to come over to play a game.  However, Frank had forgotten to tell his mother I was coming.  Frank's mother heard the knock on the door.  When she opened the door, she inadvertently gasped.  Not only that, she didn't recognize me.  I cringed as she covered her mouth to hide her shock.  After I explained who I was, the poor woman bent over backwards to apologize.  I certainly bore her no ill will, but I could not get her look of horror out of my mind. 

One particular moment of awkwardness took place soon after the attack on a Friday night.  There was enough time left in October for one final football game.  It was played against our arch-rival Kinkaid.  Since I was the football statistician, I was up in the announcer's box doing my job as usual.  After each home football game, the St. John's Mother's Guild sponsored a dance party for students in the Upper School.  These parties were always held in the nearby River Oaks home of an SJS Mother's Guild member. 

As a student at St. John's, I had the right to attend these Friday night dance parties.  Hideous face and all, I wanted to attend these parties because I liked to see how rich people lived.  As expected, the splendor of these modern castles was a sight to behold.  I gasped at the expensive furniture, the beautiful landscaping and the amazing artwork. 

I had another reason to attend.  I went because I liked to watch my classmates dance.  Although I never participated in the dancing due to my sense of ugliness, I enjoyed seeing my classmates dance and try to outdo each other with the latest moves.  I noticed how they laughed and teased each other. 

At the same time, I was consumed with envy.  I would sit there and daydream about the day when my acne curse would be lifted.  Maybe then I could be happy like they were and join them on the dance floor.  However, then I would snap back to reality and wonder when my face would finally clear up.

When I would appear at the entrance to these River Oaks homes, I would invariably receive a polite but frosty reception.  I never knew if it was my lowly social status or my permanent Halloween mask, but the dubious stares I received made me feel uncomfortable.  Try to imagine the looks I would get when I made my appearance at the door.  There I was with my bloated, blotchy face covered with by a red sea of angry pimples with pus-filled whitecaps.  Oh, what a sight I must have been.  I took note of every subtle frown and every dirty look given to me by the matrons as I entered their home.  I came to expect the incredulity.  Reading their minds, they took one look and asked themselves, "Surely this boy cannot possibly be a St. John's student."  

Nevertheless, they would invariably step aside and allow me to enter.  No doubt that is because they had been forewarned about me.  Many of the mothers I met at St. John's were class acts.  However, there were always a few snobs who acted like they were doing me a serious favor letting me in.  Imagine the self-discipline it took from the Brahmins to allow this disgusting child from the lowest rung of the social ladder to enter their palatial home.  Good for them, they had done their good deed for the year. 

However, no one had warned Mrs. Reynolds (not her real name).  That is because my condition was barely a week or so old and my notoriety had not yet spread.  After the football game, I rode my bike to the River Oaks address given me.  As I rode by, I saw a lady standing outside her door greeting people as they arrived.  I assumed that woman was Mrs. Reynolds.  If I could see her, then no doubt she could see me too. 

I suppose she became suspicious after seeing me ride my bike slowly past her house looking for the address of the Reynolds home.  As one might gather, few St. John's students attended social events on a bicycle.  Practically every student in the Upper School got their own car once they earned their driver's license.  Consequently the street was lined with very expensive vehicles.  Tracking my movements carefully, my guess is Mrs. Reynolds thought I was looking to steal things from the fancy parked cars. 

After hiding my bike in a thick clump of bushes, yet another suspicious gesture, I walked up the sidewalk with my head down as usual.  When I reached the steps, I raised my head to the light.  The moment Mrs. Reynolds got a good look at me, she uttered a hand-to-mouth gasp.  I had taken her completely off guard with my distinctive face.  No doubt my hideous appearance made her feel very uncomfortable.  

Give the lady some credit, she recovered quickly.  It only took her an instant to regain her friendly mask.  She greeted me politely.  "Hello, I'm Mrs. Reynolds.  Welcome to the St. John's party.  And who are you?"

I hated this part, but I had no choice.  Thanks to the recent mirth over 'Dead Eye Dick', I had already come to hate using 'Dick'.  So I substituted 'Richard' instead. 

Responding politely, I said, "Good evening, Mrs. Reynolds.  My name is Richard Archer." 

Mrs. Reynolds seemed to notice my polite response.  If nothing else, St. John's had taught me manners.  "Welcome to my home, Richard.  I don't believe we've met before.  And what grade might you be in?"

"I am the 9th Grade at St. John's.  I am new to the Upper School."

"Oh, really?" Mrs. Reynolds said sweetly, "Mr. and Mrs. Templeton are my neighbors.  I believe their daughter Sally is in your class, correct?"  

Since there were only fifty kids in my class, of course I knew the name of every student.  Sally had transferred to Lee High School over the summer, so I wondered what this lady was up to.  That is when I became suspicious.  Maybe she thought I didn't belong there, that I was crashing the party. 

Feeling defiant, I thought of being a smart-ass.  "Oh sure, Mrs. Reynolds, I know Sally well!  Sally and I sit next to each other in Biology class and dissect fetal pigs.  Sally Templeton likes to get high on formaldehyde." 

Fortunately, I thought the better of it and simply replied, "Sally was in my class in the 8th Grade, but she transferred to Lee High School this year." 

The woman's happy face slipped imperceptibly as I called her bluff.  However she recovered quickly.  Mrs. Reynolds replied, "Oh really?  I did not know that, Richard.  Thank you for telling me.  Why don't you come in?  I hope you enjoy the party."

Now that I got the Password right, Mrs. Reynolds moved aside to let me enter.  With her false smile ushering me in, her eyes revealed her continued discomfort.  Behind her Friendly Face, she was disgusted at being forced to allow Quasimodo into her home.  No doubt the maid would be told to follow me around and make sure nothing was missing.  In the morning every place I touched would be drenched in Lysol.  Nevertheless, I had to hand it to Mrs. Reynolds, she was smooth.  That was a clever entry trick she had played on me.

Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds passed the word to watch out for me because there were no more incidents like this over the years.  However the damage was done.  This story helps explain why I felt so unwelcome at the remaining Mother Guild events.  It is a good thing I had so much defiance in me or I never would have made it through that awful first year of my acne condition.  I tried to imagine what these women thought as they greeted the sad boy who dared enter the homes of the rich and powerful.  I had a depressing theory why these wealthy women were so reluctant to let me in.  They could not believe a boy who looked like me could possibly be a St. John's student.  In a way they were right.  Any St. John's mother but mine would have rushed her child straight to the doctor and put a stop to this condition before it could take root.  There I was with my craggy face undergoing the scrutiny of these perplexed society matrons.  They looked at me with such distaste that I felt I should apologize for ruining their evening.  Their hostile stares reinforced the message that I did not belong at St. John's.  Although I was never asked to identify myself again, the frosty reception I received from Mrs. Reynolds was the norm, not the exception.  The memory of those cold faces still makes me sick.  I took note of every subtle frown and every dirty look.  I have a very thin skin when it comes to aloof rich women and events like these are largely responsible.

I had mixed feelings about the dance parties.  Once I got inside, I would look around for a while.  Then I would find the dance floor and go hide in the shadows.  My main reason for attending these parties was to watch my classmates dance and have fun.  It was the same thing as watching 'Hullabaloo', 'Soul Train' or 'Where the Action is' on TV.  I lived my teen years vicariously by watching my classmates perform from a distance.  If I had to do it over again, I wished I had learned how to dance.  I loved the music and had a powerful urge to get out there.  Rolling Stones, Beach Boys, Beatles, Motown.  What great dance music!  However, I never left my seat.

I hated myself the most when I saw how much my classmates enjoyed themselves on the dance floor.  I was so envious.  I had the same feeling as the kid who watches a birthday party through a window.  It killed me to see the boys touch those pretty girls when they danced.  As I watched them dance, their laughter and smiles made it clear I was missing out on something special.  Rooted to my seat, I cursed my ugliness.  I was wasting what should have been exciting years of dating and discovery.  It killed me to know I might never have this chance again.

I thought about trying to join the dancing all the time.  But then I would notice the 'Dead Eye Dick' boys out there showing off.  Due to my enormous fear of looking spastic, I shuddered at the thought of giving them more reasons to make fun of me.  Besides, I didn't know how to dance.  How was I supposed to learn?  I was certain any girl would break out in a fit of laughter at my clumsiness.  Furthermore, even if I could dance a little, where was I going to get the courage to ask some girl to join me on the floor?  I was sheer poison to a girl's social status.  Who dares to be seen in public with me, the poorest, ugliest, most insecure boy in the entire school? 

I felt like an outcast.  Hell, I was an outcast!  Even if some girl was nice enough to say yes, once we got out on the floor, I expected someone would make fun of me and embarrass both of us.  Who knows, maybe someone would pour pig's blood on my head like they did in Carrie.  Why put a girl in that position?  Plagued by fear, I stayed hidden in the darkness and burned at my cowardice.  The humiliation was overwhelming.  There was nothing I could do about my face!!

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 the rage within me.  With a wall between us colder and thicker than an igloo, the sounds of silence dominated our home.  There was no longer any semblance of a normal mother-son relationship.  At this point, I was so independent that any attempt to order me to do something or discipline me was a thing of the past.  After a series of bitter arguments, my mother figured out that if she asked nicely, I would cooperate.  We left it that.  There was another change as well.  I put my foot down and told her in no uncertain terms there would be no more men living with us and no more shacking up.  Go somewhere else if the need strikes.

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

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.

Age 15, spring 1965, 9th grade

moonscape
 

No one told me.  Not my mother, not my dermatologist, no one.  I was left completely in the dark.  And when I found out, I just wanted to die. 

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 like me, 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 a series of peaks and valleys in my skin.  I was full of despair to discover my face was permanently pockmarked worse than a cratered Moon landscape.  I was beyond sick.  It was one thing to withstand a temporary shame, but this scarring was permanent.  I could not bear the thought of looking like this for the rest of my life. 

Fortunately, my doctor offered me 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 to do the operation.  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.  Since we talked so little, I never knew all the details, but for whatever reason Mom said she would not be able to work for a while.  Since they refused to give her time off at work, she quit her job.  Without an income, Mom decided to move in with another family.  We would share the house with Tom, Billie, and their small girl.  My father's child support check would be enough to allow us to get by for a while.  For once I didn't argue.  Although I hated leaving the Hawthorne home, the new house on Emerson was close enough for me to continue riding my bike to school.  In addition, for the first time ever, I made a friend in the neighborhood.  Her name was Jane and she lived down the street.

One day after school as I took Terry for a walk, I noticed a girl my age 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 she was pretty and I was dying to talk to her.  My ploy worked.  Jane invited me to come sit with her.  Since my acne had more or less cleared by now, at this point all Jane had to contend with were the facial scars.  Noticing she was not totally grossed out, I was encouraged enough 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, "Hi, 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 that Jane was a bookworm just like me.  Jane was shy just like me.  Jane made good grades just like me.  Jane was an honor student just like me.  Jane was a nerd just like me, but a very pretty nerd.  As we talked, I developed a crush a mile wide.  I can still remember the one 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."

I only saw Jane once or twice over the next few weeks when I walked Terry.  I kept our talks brief because I wanted to get my operation over with before I made my move.  Lacking confidence, I wanted to look my best before telling Jane how much I liked her.  In early June, it was time for my dermabrasion.  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 some 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 on the porch.  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?  I love the disguise.  It's Halloween in the summer!  Come talk to me!  Tell me how your operation went."

I had a huge crush on Jane.  Not only was Jane super-bright, she was pretty.  However, she was also shy like me.  Jane was rail-thin and wore glasses.  I don't think she had realized yet just how pretty she was.  Jane was deeply sympathetic to my plight.  She was the only girl I had ever talked to about my problems.  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.  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.

"Every summer my family takes a trip to California to stay with my grandparents.  I will 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 hiding my disappointment.  I nodded and told her to have a good time.  Maybe after the scabs healed, my looks would return and I could ask Jane out.  This thought kept me going throughout weeks prior to the unveiling from my mask of scabs. 

Eventually the skin healed and the thick outer crust began to loosen.  Bit by bit the crust fell off, revealing 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 barely hanging on.  I soaked my face with hot towels to soften the remaining scabs, then carefully removed them one by one.

I screamed bloody murder when I saw the results!  Better, yes.  I estimated the improvement at 50%, but that was not nearly good enough for me.  My mother said my face was much improved, but that was no consolation.  To me, those goddamn scars and pockmarks were still there, just not quite a bad.   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, the operation went just fine.  There is marked improvement.  I can understand your disappointment, but due to the severity of your condition, these results 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 standard rule of thumb is 50% which held true in your case.  What I mean by that your skin has improved about 50%.  Unfortunately, you still have a long way to go.  My suggestion is to do 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% on 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.  This was, my doctor admitted, the worst case of scarring he had ever treated.  Therefore it is no surprise that even with a 50% improvement, I still looked like hell.  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.  In my mind, the only reason she had shown interest was the understanding that my looks would be repaired following the operation.  Unable to deal with the thought of her disappointment, I stopped walking by her house.  For the remaining month of summer Jane never knocked on my door although I secretly wanted her to.  My guess is Jane was too shy to come by and check.  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 to her, 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 with no limit.

Age 15, September 1965, 10th grade

my unshakeable conviction of ugliness
 

From my viewpoint, the poor results from my summer operation had made virtually no difference at all.  Disgusted with my appearance, I lacked the courage to go knock on Jane's door as my heart begged me to.  Jane knew where I lived.  If she wanted to see me, I was six doors away down the street.  Her continued absence made it clear that Jane probably could care less.  Not long ago I had seen the movie version of Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame.  The story revolved around deformed Quasimodo, a piteous creature described as 'hideous' and 'spawn of the devil'.  The poor man was born with a severe hunchback, but it was his homely face complete with a giant wart over his eye that caught my attention.  This was how I saw myself through Jane's eyes. 

I was in a very bad mood when I returned to St. John's to start the 10th Grade.  To begin with, the pimples came back.  Can you believe that?  The condition returned because my doctor had taken me off tetracycline.  The renewed problem was nowhere near as bad as before, but it was still unsightly and I had no patience left.  The operation was supposed to have restored my looks, but it had failed.  I was heartsick over the return of my acne curse and I was disgusted with my father.  For $200, he could have given me another chance at hope, but as usual he let me down.  The despair was overwhelming.

I liked English, I liked Math, I liked German, I liked History.  However I disliked 10th Grade Biology.  In Biology class we were given assigned seats two to a table.  My negative attitude grew worse when my attractive new partner took one look at me and moved her chair as far to the side as the table allowed.  Forced to sit with me, the girl never spoke a word all year.  I got the hint.  Who could blame her?  One look at the scars, pockmarks and pimples was enough to make any woman feel sick in her stomach.  I assumed my gruesome appearance was more than this girl could tolerate.  Feeling shunned, I learned what it was like to walk in Quasimodo's shoes. 

Things went rapidly downhill from there.  When I looked around, it didn't help that every one of my classmates had magically acquired cars over the summer.  These students were barely old enough to drive, but they already had their own car.  Mustangs, Thunderbirds, GTOs.  I was sick with envy.  Gee, it must be nice to be rich. 

With the influx of cars came a sense of freedom plus an increased opportunity to date.  Suddenly there was a flurry of romantic chemistry developing among my classmates.  The envy I felt as I watched their excitement was difficult to bear.  I too had hoped to begin dating in my Sophomore year when my face healed.  I had wanted so much to rekindle things with Jane.  However, as I stared in the mirror, that was out of the question.  Despite slight improvement from the summer operation, I still believed I looked repulsive.  The shame I felt when staring at my face was unbearable.  The feeling that I was ugly was unshakeable. Try as I might, I could not escape my negative self-image.   This is how I learned that psychological scars are much harder to heal than facial scars. 

What did other people think about my appearance?  My useless father said I didn't look that bad.  Hmm.  What did I expect him to say?  Mom shrugged and changed the subject.  Not exactly a ringing endorsement.  Mr. Curran commented I looked better.  That brought a smile to my face.  I was surprised I still knew how to smile.  My chess friends said there was improvement.  Nonsense.  Those were white lies to help me save face (pun intended).  Nothing they said could sway me to change my outlook.  Since I could not stand to look at myself in the mirror, I believed everyone saw me the same way I saw myself.  Once a leper, always a leper.  I could not see myself any other way.

I thought of Jane all the time, but that just made it worse.  At least with Jane, she had an open mind when she met me.  Not so with my SJS female classmates.  How do I put this?  Thanks to three straight years of bad luck, I was convinced I had acquired a stigma at St. John's.  I believed that once a female classmate saw me a certain way, it would be next to impossible for her to see me any other way.  The disdain displayed by my Biology tablemate underlined that conclusion.  Based on previous observations, I believed her mind was made up even before she learned she would be stuck sitting with me for the entirety of the 10th Grade.  Since we sat in silence for the entire year, without dialogue, her negative first impression struck me as impossible to overcome.  Sad to say, I believed most of the other girls in my school felt the same way.  This is the reason why I never came close to asking a St. John's girl for a date in high school. 

My mother grew up feeling ugly and I believe that feeling was at the root of her lifetime of self-destructive behavior.  The question for me is whether I could overcome that identical feeling.  As it turned out, I would spend the rest of my life fighting the belief that I was ugly with only limited success.  This is why I am convinced negative attitudes developed in childhood are incredibly difficult to overcome. 

Age 15, September 1965, 10th grade

dead eye dick
 

The 10th Grade was a very lonely time for me.  Thanks to the summer skin operation I did not look as repulsive as last year.  However I was still the ugliest boy in school by a wide margin.  Brooding constantly about my terrible fate, I spoke to virtually no one except to Frank and my small group of friends at lunch time.  As if things were not bad enough, I acquired a nemesis at the start of the school year.  A Freshman named Harold began hassling me from the moment we first met in P.E.  This had been going on several weeks.  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.  A guy named Harold and his two buddies saw me.  They sped up to catch me in order to give me a hard time.  I had no idea why Harold had chosen to become my sworn enemy, but it was probably because bullies need someone to pick on and I was an easy target.  Harold had gotten under my skin repeatedly since the start of the new school year.  Today was no different.

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

I froze.  Harold's barbs stung like crazy.  In a flash 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.  With my face covered by this new outbreak of pimples, this was no time for a fight.  Besides, due to the three-to-one disadvantage, slugging it out with Harold seemed out of the question.

Another choice was to start a war of words, but 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 with cruel pain at the deepest 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 any flaws in their superiority to use against them?  There was nothing for Dickless Dead Eye Dick to do but endure the insults. 

Since we were the 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 the moment he entered for a specific reason.  So did his buddies.  Two minutes later when I walked into the shower room, 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, 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 with grins as they blocked the shower room 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!  Take a look, Dickless really is Dickless!  This is no ordinary Big Dick, this is Dickless Dick!  Hey, Dead Eye Dickless Dick, 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 him.  Harold was so arrogant he assumed I posed no danger.  The moment he opened his mouth to continue needling me, I snapped.  I clapped both hands hard over his 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.  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 enough was 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 the taunts, I was ready to take on both of them.  However, that was not necessary.  The brutality of my attack had shocked them into submission.  Horrified by the viciousness of my attack, the trembling boys were in no mood to rush to Harold's defense.  Boys didn't fight with their fists at St. John's.  We were supposed to fight with clever words and witty put-downs like 'Dead Eye Dick' and Harold's classic 'Creepy Loser Kid'.  But Harold's taunting had gone too far.  So much for the civilized gentility of prep school.  Deep down, there was a beast lurking within us all.  And today my beast had emerged.

Staring at their henchman as he writhed on the wet floor, the boys were too stunned to even try to escape.  What a sight I must have been.  I was stark naked, dripping wet from shower spray, squeezing my fists to indicate I was ready to strike again.  Quivering with rage, if these boys dared to move, they feared I was mad enough to kill them.  For once, even my acne helped.  No doubt my nasty pockmarks and glowing red pustules enhanced the fierceness of my glare.  With a battle-scarred face to reinforce my dominance, I looked so fearsome I could have ruled the rainforest.  Well aware that their defeated ringleader wasn't getting back up, the two boys weren't so brave anymore.  And so they instinctively backed away to the shower wall lest this angry Hulk be tempted to come after them. 

Disgusted, I turned on the nearest shower.  As I took a quick rinse, I watched the two boys run over to check on Harold.  My enemy was still lying there moaning on the wet floor.  Sprawled out naked with shower spray beating down upon him, he was obviously 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 me 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 look 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.  Harold turned and walked away.  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.  Once I was sure no one was looking, I cried uncontrollably the rest of the way home.  Now that my defiance had worn off, a deep sense of despair took its place.

Age 15, September 1965, 10th grade

a set of weights
 

My locker room fight was overshadowed by the Supernatural in two ways.  First there was Neal.  Two years earlier he had taught me how to defeat an opponent by fighting dirty.  Talk about a fortuitous suggestion.  Since this trick is what enabled me to score a stunning victory, I was struck by the possibility that Fate had prompted Neal to prepare me for this coming event.  Did Neal perhaps receive a telepathic suggestion to share his wisdom??  Whatever the explanation for his unrequested tip, the coincidence was tough to overlook. 

Harold talked tough, but he obviously didn't know anything more about fighting than I did.  Or maybe he was overcome by a bout of Cosmic Blindness.  Whatever the explanation, Harold was an idiot to take me for granted.  Harold pointed to my private parts and called me 'Dickless'.  What kind of fool insults another man like that while leaving his hands down?  Harold should have been on guard, but instead he just stood there taunting me.  Trust me, Harold paid a painful price for his ignorance.  He was lucky I didn't kick him in the face when I had the chance.  Or maybe I was the lucky one not to face an assault charge no matter how justified.

The days that followed my fight with Harold were not good for me.  I was depressed over the fight and very worried about a sneak attack.  Knowing Harold was sure to seek revenge, I also knew I was not a fighter.  I had gotten lucky simply because Harold was stupid enough to let me sucker-punch him.  Next time, Harold would know better.  Certain that Harold would try to jump me from behind at lunch or P.E., I began to watch over my shoulder.  As my paranoia grew, I wondered how I could learn to protect myself. 

One week 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.  Hmm.  Interesting coincidence.  As I inspected the weights, this might be the answer to my feelings of being defenseless.  I looked at the price tag.  Ten bucks.  I had no allowance, but my job as statistician for the football team included a nice perk.  Every time I phoned in the results of a SJS football game to the Post and Chronicle, both papers paid me $5 apiece.  This allowed me to purchase the weights.  I gave the $5 I had in my pocket to the guy and told him I would be back shortly with the rest of the money.  I wasted no time.  After four bike trips to get the full set of weights, I began lifting the same afternoon. 

Weightlifting became my passion.  Not only did it help work off frustration, it helped me feel safer.  Besides, it wasn't like I had much else to do.  As I lifted weights, I had a lot of time to think about things.  It was a very odd coincidence to see these weights appear virtually the moment I wished there was some way to protect myself.  Having my wish fulfilled so readily was eerily similar to the time a chess book appeared shortly after making a wish or the time I won a drawing for a football book after making a wish.  One is an incident, two is coincidence, three is a pattern. 

For that matter, twice it looked like my time at St. John's was over and twice I had received an unexpected last-minute reprieve, one from Uncle Dick and the other from Mr. Chidsey.  I was starting to wonder if there was something to this wish upon a star folk legend made famous by the Disney movie Pinocchio. 

Although I am getting ahead of my story to say this, over my lifetime I would have so many wishes come true, I would come to believe this make a wish legend is true.  Nor do I think it requires a shooting star for it to work.  I believe if I make a heartfelt wish for a good purpose, I should do so quietly and sincerely, then cross my fingers.  I like to put my wishes out into the Universe.  That way I can manifest them. 

Age 15, October 1965, 10th grade

creepy loser kid
 

I won the battle, but lost the war.  Harold was gone for gone, but his legacy lived on.  A man once told me that criticism and taunts are like a poison pills.  For hurtful words to be effective, a person has to pick up the pills and swallow them.  That is exactly what I did.  Like a computer infected by a virus, once I let Harold's curse sneak inside my head, he no longer needed to insult me.  Harold's 'Creepy Loser Kid' taunt became an insidious form of self-hypnosis.  I could not get that cruel phrase to go away.  With Harold's taunt poisoning my mind in every weak moment, the message of my inferiority was driven deep into my subconscious to join my self-image as ugly.   

It is painful to admit, but part of me believed I was the Creepy Loser Kid.  Not only was I ugly, I was surly, selfish, insensitive to others.  I thought of no one but myself.  Lost in my problems, lonely man cries for love, but has none.  I wanted to make friends, but I had no idea how to connect.  Believing my classmates did not like me very much and saw me as repulsive, was there anything I could do to change their minds?  I could see no solution.  I was stuck with this face and my rotten personality no matter what.  Nor did I have the heart to try basketball again.  For a moment I was tempted, but then I thought about that awful Coach Killjoy and gave up.  Maybe next year, but right now I was too depressed following the locker room fight. 

With basketball heroics out of the question, there were no image-improvement miracles left in my bag of tricks.  Feeling hopeless, I retreated into a deep shell tormented by angry thoughts that scared me.  Every time I compared my pockmarked 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 taunting me at every turn, my feelings of inferiority became overpowering.  I wasn't a bad kid, just a very lonely one.  And a very unlucky one at that.  As it stood, I was barely hanging on.  If only my father would permit another skin operation.  But I was depressed to call him and press the issue.  Instead I wallowed in misery.

Age 15, October 1965, 10th grade

until my darkness goes
 

To my surprise, I never heard another word about the Locker Room fight.  The school's Administration did not contact me and none of my classmates ever brought the subject up.  Nevertheless, I had to believe that one of Harold's cronies had told someone.  After all, this was quite a story.  More than likely, rumors of the shower fight made the rounds.  If so, I am sure my new reputation as a tough guy spooked people.  The weightlifting made a considerable difference in just a matter of months.  With massive shoulders to match my hostile frown, everyone gave me a wide berth in the hallways.

Who could blame them?  My scarred face, broad shoulders, and brooding countenance gave off the appearance of a walking powder keg.  Here again, it hurts to admit this, but my menacing frown was no act.  I was full of rage.  I was mad at my father, I was mad at Harold, I was mad at my dermatologist, and I was furious about facing a lifetime of this scarred face. Bitter at the world, I was dying for someone to give me an excuse to slap them silly.  Fortunately no one dared say a word.  Whether it was my bogus reputation as a street fighter or my weight training I will never know, but I was such a menacing figure no one ever said a word about my face again.  Or should I say no one ever said anything to me period?  Most of my classmates gave me a wide berth for the remaining three years of school. 

I may have appeared a monster on the outside, but I was collapsing on the inside.  Try as I might, I could not seem to get 'Creepy Loser Kid' out of my mind.  Harold's cruel words followed me wherever I went.  Depression set in and my mood turned dark, very dark.  About the same time, the Rolling Stone's Paint it Black was released.  The anger and bitterness captured my mood so perfectly that it became my theme song during this difficult time. 

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors any more, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes.

I could not get rid of this face.  Everywhere I went, I felt hideous.  The worst part was seeing the St. John's girls flinch and look away. 

I've seen people turn their heads
And quickly look away
It's not easy facing up
When your whole world is black

It was one thing to know people were laughing behind my back about my problems with acne.  However, the cruelest blow came when Harold called me 'Creepy Loser Kid' to my face.  That was akin to driving the stake through Dracula's heart.  In the state of mind I was in, I was especially vulnerable.  Harold had attacked me on a level for which I had no defense.  Once the idea was instilled that I was a monster, this belief grew like a malignant cancer inside.   No matter how hard I tried, I could not rip 'Creepy Loser Kid' out of my mind.  Feeling like the Loser Harold had described, my feelings of inferiority became overpowering.  The worst part was watching the beautiful St. John's girls pass by knowing full well I would never be able to approach them. 

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

With the gift of Hindsight, this darkness would become the single most powerful motivating force for the rest of my life.  Whenever I stared at these smart, ultra-confident young ladies, I felt so inadequate.  How could I ever measure up to these girls who were so clearly superior to me?  When it came to dating, I was a nobody.  No St. John's girl would dream of having a thing to do with me.  They were unapproachable.  They were the Beauties, I was the Beast.  I could not stand to look at myself in the mirror.  The shame I felt when staring at my face was unbearable.  The psychological scars ran even deeper than my facial scars.  I believed I was hideous and as I said earlier, once that feeling took hold, it became unshakeable. 

Oddly enough, not one female classmate ever said the slightest mean thing to me.  That's a good thing because it would not have taken much to put me down for good.  The girls were cordial to me in class and kept their distance outside of class.  Beyond ordinary classroom interaction, did these girls even know I existed?  In four years, I have no memory of a single conversation with an SJS girl that could be considered significant.  After all, I was invisible.  How was any girl going to talk to a boy she could not see?  Considering my bottom-rung social status at this school, dating would have been an uphill struggle to begin with, but with a face like this, it was beyond hopeless.  What girl in her right mind would dare be seen walking next to the Creepy Loser Kid?  The shame that vision evoked was unbearable.  I was locked in endless depression as my hopes for a girlfriend evaporated.  Finally I threw in the towel.  My mind snapped shut to any possibility of ever approaching these aspiring debutantes.  I declared the fair ladies of SJS off-limits for the entirety of high school. 

Once all hope of dating was gone, a terrible thick shell began to grow around me.  Feeling hideous, my pain caused my world to turn the deepest shade of black.  Bulging muscles could not compensate for lost self-esteem.  My body was strong, but my confidence was weak.  Every day my inner demons returned to haunt me. 

It might be two girls who giggled just after passing me in the hall.  What were they laughing at?  Was it me?  Paint it black.

I might be staring at a pretty girl only to see her frown when she noticed my gaze.  Paint it black.

My classmates drove Mustangs, Corvettes and GTOs.  I rode a bicycle to school.
Paint it black.

Katina Ballantyne had a sensational mother.  Look who I'm stuck with.  It's Mom, the Pimple Popper too stupid to take me to the doctor.  Paint it black.

Without a father, how will I ever be able to pay for college?  These rich kids have nothing to worry about.  Paint it black.

I had been given one talent... Basketball.  It was my only hope.  Now that I had filled out, I would start for the varsity.  What a shame I had a blind eye.   Paint it black.

Scars.  Blind eye.  Inferior.  Poor.  Loser.  Invisible.  Unwelcome.  Hideous.  Creepy.

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

Age 15, October 1965, 10th grade

salvation
 

Harold had hurt me so badly with his Creepy Loser Kid remark that I grew full of hatred and wanted to lash out.  Yeah, everyone ignored me, but oh well, I wasn't so fragile that I couldn't handle that.  But at the same time I wanted the respect of my classmates in the worst way.   To my undying frustration, I did not know what to do about it.  I had no idea how to start a conversation.  I had no idea how to make myself interesting.  And I certainly had no way to make my face look presentable like everyone else.  So I became a hermit.  It does not take a psychology degree to recognize a seriously disturbed young man.  Readers might wonder if I was Columbine Crazy.  I can certainly see the parallels.  Angry, alienation, grudge, bitter.  Fortunately, that wasn't me.  I wasn't a bad kid, just a lonely one.  My teachers were kind to me and that made a world of difference.  All I really wanted to do was show the people at my school that I wasn't really a creepy loser kid. 

However, this kind of pent-up anger is dangerous.  I was a ticking time bomb with a very short fuse.  I had come within an inch of kicking Harold in the face as he laid helpless on the floor.  I could have hurt him badly and gotten into a lot of trouble.  The danger was that someone would deliberately provoke me again and cause another eruption.  If that happened, I could face an assault charge or worse have my scholarship revoked.  I had no idea just how much self-control I had left.  Would I be able to handle more taunting?  Or would I fall off the deep end and lose control like I had in the shower room?  I was consumed with worry that my demons would escape despite my vigilance and ruin my life.  In Hindsight I don't know how I could have escaped this trap of bitterness on my own merits.   Therefore I was very fortunate when Fate stepped in at this critical moment with some much-needed shock therapy.

Ever since the acne attack a year ago, I had been fixated on George Broyles, the most popular boy in the school.  George was a Senior, two years ahead of me.  I envied George more than any other boy because he was everything I wanted to be.  He was tall, handsome, and athletic.  He was also funny.  George made people laugh.  While I hid in the shadows, George basked in the sunlight.  His easy-going charm made him irresistible.  Wherever George went, I noticed a flock of pretty girls who followed alongside in the hallways.  The girls laughed and smiled at his every word.  What a gift to have that carefree, sunny disposition while I was surrounded by darkness.

Considering how lonely I was, I would have given anything to have that kind of charm and popularity.  I wanted to trade places with George in the worst possible way. 

During football season, I was stationed high in the booth where I kept statistics on every football game.  During a game against Kinkaid, our main rival, I had a bird's eye view of a terrible accident.  St. John's was locked in a tie and George was playing left end on defense.  Three Kinkaid players were headed full speed directly at George on an end sweep.  The quarterback had the ball with two blockers in front of him. 

George was the only man who could prevent a long gain, but it was three against one.  As the two blockers lowered their bodies to take out George, he saw a small opening between them.  Making an instant decision, George recklessly threw his body into the narrow gap and stretched his hand out in a desperate attempt to grab the ball carrier's ankle.  As George jackknifed between the two blockers, one boy hit George high, the other hit George in his back.  The impact broke his spine.  Seeing George lie motionless on the ground, a gasp went through the crowd.  Everyone knew this was very serious.

Irony of irony, George's father was the team physician.  I cannot imagine the pain of watching a son be broken in half.  What a tragedy!  I am certain George's father instantly feared his son would never walk again.  In addition, George's sister Jane was a cheerleader on the sidelines.  The accident had taken place right in front of her.  Several girls immediately surrounded the panic-stricken Jane to comfort her.  Imagine the horror of seeing a son and a brother suffer such a terrible fate right before their eyes.  Before they could even reach him to know for sure, both father and daughter suspected George would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

I would never forget that moment.  The memory is vivid because it broke my heart.  Tears flooded my eyes the moment I saw the accident.  As I watched George lie motionless on the field, take a guess how much I wanted to trade places after that.  Here I was, the poor little leper boy, pockmarked face, angry at the world, feeling boo-hoo sorry for myself all the time.  Meanwhile, the most handsome boy in the school would never walk again.  Yes, I had been dealt a lousy hand of cards, but for the first time, I realized it could have been worse, much worse.  At least I wasn't paralyzed.

Ain't easy facing up when your whole world is black, but the shock of seeing my idol suffer such a horrible fate created a seismic shift in my attitude.  Yes, I was trapped in a deep hole right now, but at least I had the rest of my life to dig myself out.   No matter how bad it gets, as long as there is a second chance, there is hope.  I still had a chance, but not George.  He would never walk again.  Telling myself that something good had to come of this tragedy, I decided the time had come to get a grip.  I needed to stop feeling sorry myself all the time.  And with that, some of my darkness cleared.

I spent the next week thinking long and hard about George.  I could not help but think about Fate.  Sure, we all know accidents happen, but this one had "Message" written all over it.  It seemed so weird that the one boy in school I watched like a hawk had been destroyed before my eyes.  Was someone trying to make a point?  If so, it worked.  Unable to get that accident out of my mind, I thought of my own predicament.  Why did my face explode like that?  Even my dermatologist was at a loss to understand.  Dr. Spiller said it was the freakiest thing he had ever seen, the worst case of his career.  I could not get that out of my mind.  My face had been disfigured by something strange, something way out of the ordinary.  Now George as well had been struck down by a freak accident.  I shook my head in wonder.  If I did not know better, George and I had both been struck down by Fate.  If so, then why?  

Once before I had been so lost in my problems that it took getting chewed out by a grocery store cop to reset my bad attitude.  However, I guess the message had not stuck.  Now the same message appeared again.  I had this incredible education, I had a healthy body, and I had food on my plate every night.  What the hell was wrong with me to feel so sorry for myself all the time?  Yes, I had been dealt a lousy hand of cards, but it could have been worse.  I may be scarred, but I wasn't paralyzed.  At least I had hope!

But first I had to do something about my face.  I refused to go through life looking like this at a time when Dr. Spiller insisted he could fix the problem.  Strangely enough, the realization that I still had hope emboldened me to renew my plea for a second skin operation.  Fearful that my father would say no again if I called, I decided to make him say no to my face.  The next day, I did something I had never done before.  I believed it would be harder for Dad to turn me down face-to-face, so I got on my bike and rode over to his office after school.  I stormed into my father's office and insisted he do something.  I had never visited him unannounced before and Dad was not pleased.  He chewed me out for barging in without warning and pointed out how I had interrupted his precious work.  Well, tough, I was fed up with looking like a leper.  I lost my temper just like I had with Harold and hollered at him. 

"Dad, look at my face!"  I pointed to the scars on both sides.  "Look at me!  Take a good hard look.  I walk around every single day with people laughing at me.  I can't stand it anymore.  My mother said you already paid the deductible for 1965.  That means a second operation will not cost you that much if we do it over the Christmas break.  I need this operation!"

I caught a real break.  I thought Dad had an office of his own, but I was wrong.  He shared a big room with a dozen or so other people.  Every person in the room heard me lose my temper and all eyes were drawn to us.  It reminded me of the time those ambulance workers were shamed by a jeering crowd into letting my dog ride with me in their ambulance.  Now the same thing happened.  My father was about to tell me to get lost, but then he saw all his co-workers focused on his decision.  Realizing he was trapped, my father did an instant about face.  Glibly switching gears like the master salesman he was, Dad put on the best show of concern I had ever seen.  Smiling broadly, he touched me on the shoulder and pointed to a chair.

"Dick, I did not realize how upset you were over this issue.  Come here, son, sit down, let's talk this over."

Dad looked around to see if his show of concern achieved the desired effect.  To his satisfaction, everyone smiled and nodded, then went back to work content that Jim Archer was the Best Dad in the World.  Then he turned back to me.  "Now tell me why you are so upset."

I had to hand to him, he was still looking for a way to say no.  My father was really stubborn.  But so was I.  It took some doing, but Dad finally relented after I told him about how Harold had taunted me, how the Biology girl turned her back to me and how those mothers gave me a hard time before letting me into their homes at the dance parties.  Then I reminded him how my blind eye kept me from playing sports and making friends.  It took a while, but my father finally relented. 

"Okay, Dick, I see your point.  Let's give you another operation and call it your Christmas present."

Age 16, January 1966, second half of 10th grade

the second skin operation
 

In November 1965, Miguel Rodriguez, my mother's old flame, returned after an absence of two years.  I was glad to see him because I knew how much my mother cared for Miguel.  However, I could not abide by her decision to leave the Montrose area and move to the Stella Link section of town.  I had no idea what my mother was thinking.  I preferred to stay on Emerson Street just in case I ever worked up the courage to renew my friendship with Jane.  But even if we had to move so Mom could be alone with Miguel, why not stay in the Montrose area?  Her move to Stella Link meant I could no longer ride my bike to school.  Now I was force me to ride the bus to school.

Is it even remotely possible for my mother to consider my needs instead of hers once in a while?  Apparently not.  As usual, my mother paid no attention to my protest.  For some reason, she thought the new location was good for Miguel.  Who knows, maybe it was closer to where he worked.  At any rate, the move was short-lived.  The reunion between Miguel and my mother failed to recapture the warmth they once shared.  For reasons my mother never shared with me, Miguel was gone by January the following year.  He stuck around in time to see the scabs on my face from the second dermabrasion performed over the Christmas break, then disappeared. 

The second operation again saw a 50% improvement.  However, that was not good enough for me.  The results did not come close to making me happy because the job was still 25% unfinished.  Extremely unhappy to see the second try come up short, I complained bitterly to Dr. Spiller shortly before school was ready to resume in January. 

Dr. Spiller replied, "Don't worry, Richard, one more operation will finish the job." 

I groaned.  Not this again.  "Does that mean my face would be 12% away from being normal again?"

"No, it will be even better than that.  The scars will barely be noticeable.  I am not sure I understand why, but once we get the problem reduced to a certain point, the results improve dramatically.  Call it fine-tuning."

That was a good sales pitch, so I was immediately on board.  Only one problem.  "Dr. Spiller, my father will never okay another operation.  He was dead set against this second one, so I will never get him to budge on a third operation."

"I was afraid you would say that.  Listen, I'll tell you what, tell your father I will do the operation for half-price.  I imagine that will help you persuade him.  You have been very brave with this ordeal of yours.  Tell him your doctor said we can lick this problem once and for all.  In fact, give him my phone number.  I am sure I can persuade him to help."

I was determined to get this third operation.  However, I wasn't very optimistic.  Dad had forbidden me to ever show up at his office again unannounced, so I was forced to go back to using the phone.  I called my father at work and pleaded for the third operation. 

"I'm sorry, Dick, but the insurance deductible from 1965 has run out.  1966 is a new year and I would have to pay a new deductible.  In my opinion, two operations are close enough." 

"But, Dad, you haven't even seen the results of the second operation.  How do you decide what is right without taking a look first?  The doctor offered to speak to you.  Would you like me to give you his number?"

"No."

"In that case, let me get on my bike and come see you."

"No.  I already told you once not to come to the office again.  No more operations.  You need to learn to live with it."

I could not bear to accept my father's decision, but I didn't think I could change his mind.  I had a sinking feeling this time NO meant NO.  However this was my last chance to get my face right again.  I would do anything to put this Creepy Loser Kid feeling to rest.  For this reason I somehow mustered the courage to argue further.

"Dad, listen to me.  This is important.  The doctor is offering a half-price discount on his $1,000 fee plus a guarantee.  I have done the math.  Half-price is $500.  Subtract your $200 deductible, $300 left.  20% of the remaining $300 is $60.  My third operation will only cost you $260.  I have a new idea.  When you informed me you would no longer pay my St. John's tuition following the 6th Grade, you promised you would put the money saved into a college savings account instead.  Did you do that?"

When Dad said nothing, I had a strong hunch he had done nothing of the sort.  However, after a long pause, my father answered, "Yes, of course I did."

I sighed with relief.  "Good.  Then do me the biggest favor of my life and take $260 out of that account.  Please give me one more operation.  The doctor says this will make a huge difference.  Please do this for me.  I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking like this."

When my father said nothing, my heart sank.  I could not understand why he was so stubborn.  I knew my father had acne when he was my age.  In fact, he had shown me his own pockmarks on several occasions.  They were not as bad as my condition, but I could see he had suffered as well.  So why was Dad so unsympathetic? 

Finally my father answered me.  "No, I'm sorry, son, I don't agree with you.  A third operation is a bad idea.  I won't waste your college money like that.  You will need that money for college.  Besides, I imagine your face is fine.  Pretty soon you will never even notice the scars anymore.  Listen, I have to go.  I have a deadline."

Click.  My father hung up on me and the phone went dead.  And with that, I was locked into my scarred face for the rest of my life.  Overwhelmed by a combination of rage and helplessness.  Deprived of my last hope to return to normal, I fell into deep depression.

Age 16, January 1966, second half of 10th grade

picking up the pieces
 

I never forgave my father.  $260 would have restored me face to normal.  My father's career was going so well that he had his other two children in private school, but he couldn't spare $260 to get me out of the worst jam of my life.  After he hung up the phone I let my bitterness get the better of me.  I had all my hopes pinned on that third operation, but he slammed the door shut.  I returned to school in January feeling deeply dejected.  Adding insult to injury, I had yet another acne outbreak.  To save money, Mom suspended my preventative tetracycline treatment.  The outbreak wasn't serious, but after everything I had been through, I was at my wit's end.  I just couldn't take it any more.  The Acne Crisis was now in its 16th month and I still wasn't done.  It felt like this acne problem had turned into a Lifetime Curse.  Overcome with renewed self-pity, I could not seem to come to grips with my misfortune. 

I took a deep breath.  The second operation had been at least partially successful.  Before jumping off the bridge, maybe I should ask what Mr. Curran thought.  So when school resumed after the holidays, I screwed up my courage and went to speak to Mr. Curran.  As always, he was very kind to me. 

"Dick, every time you talk about your acne attack and your despair, I look at your face and study it.  To me, you are a good-looking young man.  I don't see the scars unless I make an effort.  I really wish you could trust me on that."

I rolled my eyes in frustration.  "You're not the first person to say that.  The guys I play chess with said something similar.  All I can say is that I recoil in horror every time I look in the mirror.   These scars are not in my imagination, Mr. Curran, I can see them with my own eyes.  They repulse me.  What you see is not what I see."

"Yes, of course the scars are there, but what I am trying to explain is that I don't see them when we talk and I bet no one notices them either.  Or if they do, they don't care.  You on the other hand are hyper-sensitive."

"Intellectually I know what you are talking about.  I'm not sure I truly understand it myself, but I must be hypnotized in the worst possible way.  Like I just said, the face you see and the face I see are not the same face.  Yes, I have reached the point where I realize the casual observer could care less.  I get that.  But if I see a beautiful woman, I am dying inside because I know she has her pick of men who are far more handsome than me.  I believe she will take one look at my scars and ask herself where I get the nerve to waste her time looking like I do."

Mr. Curran nodded thoughtfully.  "Okay.  I can accept that.  Listen, Dick, I have an appointment.  But let's keep talking.  At some point we should come back to this subject."

I had been back at school for about two weeks.  Mired in the deepest depression, one morning I went to pick up my books from my locker.  I heard a girl crying and looked over.  I saw Jane over in the corner of the locker area talking to her girlfriend Katina.  Seeing Jane cry, I guessed what was wrong.  Between sobs, when I heard Jane say how upset George was over his tragedy, her words cut me to shreds.  Knowing that George was dealing with self-pity just like me, I was riddled with shame.  How many times do I have to be reminded that I am not the only person on earth with problems?   Holy smokes, my problems did not even begin to compare.  George Broyles, the boy who once had it all, would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.  It doesn't get much worse than that.   

Instantly I began to think about George, Fate, and my own problems all over again.  No matter how bad I thought my problems were, there is always someone else who has it worse.  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 unlike George, at least I could walk and play basketball.  So let's get on with it. 

My first decision was to stop looking at myself in the mirror.  My face was so repulsive I could not stand my appearance.  I learned to shave in the shower so I wouldn't have to look.  My second decision was to stop thinking about dating those pretty St. John's girls.  All that ever did was make me feel even lonelier, so I got it out of my mind permanently.

My third decision was to concentrate on College.  Recalling my Bible History stories about Exodus, college was elevated in my mind to something akin to reaching the Promised Land.  There was no more living for the present, only for tomorrow.  Making good grades to get into college became the dominant goal in my life. 

The acne was a curse, no doubt about it.  But by the time I reached college, hopefully my complexion would clear and the scars would not be quite so noticeable.  That is when I would try again.  However, for the time being it was clear I would never date in high school thanks to my jagged face.  From now on, college was the only thing that mattered.  Fortunately I was a smart kid.  As much as I complain about my parents, I do have them to thank for that.  However, I wasn't super-smart, certainly no genius like my father.  I met a lot of students at St. John's who were definitely smarter than me.  Knowing this, I was determined to outwork everyone.  What other choice did I have?

There is a concept known as 'delayed gratification'.  That was me in a nutshell.  With no hope of living a normal life today, I lived and worked for the future.  I dare say if I had restored my looks and played sports, my grades would not have been nearly as good.  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, correct?

My desperation made me approach homework like it was my only ticket out of town.  Strangely enough, the day would come when I took the same approach to dance lessons, but let's not get ahead of our story.  I was fortunate to have the self-discipline necessary to maximize what talent I did have.  There were times when I did not want to study, but I could always force myself to do it anyway.  That is how much college meant to me. 

With Grades as my single-minded goal, I became preoccupied with class standing.  In a class of fifty students, Mark Mendel was considered the genius.  Mark was the son of Dr. Mendel, the psychiatrist who persuaded my mother to send me to St. John's against my father's will.  After Mark, there was a group of eight elite students in a dogfight for second place.

I was not part of this group.  I was in the third tier when the acne hit, probably somewhere around eleventh place.  Since I had virtually no life, I studied hard.  Through constant study, over the next two and a half years, I slowly moved up the ranks.  Like an athlete with average talent who is determined to improve, I entered the top echelon strictly through hard work.  

However, I had a new worry.  Where was the money for college going to come from?  I assumed I could get a college scholarship.  After all, I had gotten a scholarship to St. John's, so why not college?  But what about Books?  Clothes?  Room and Board?  Car?

My mother was dirt poor and my father's dismissal of the third operation had shown he was reluctant to invest any more money in me than he had to.  If I intended to go to college, I would have to pay for some of it on my own.  My fourth decision was to look for an after-school job.  However, I did not try very hard.  The only place I applied was Weingarten's, the same store where I had been caught stealing candy two years earlier in the 8th Grade. 

Age 16, April 1966, second half of 10th grade

strawberry mountain
 

After Miguel and my mother split up, Mom decided to listen to me for a change.  I preferred to ride my bike to school, so we moved back to the Montrose area on Bonnie Brae street.  Passing the Weingarten's grocery store every day on my 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, the manager, he gave me a bemused look.  I could not imagine what was going 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 I had not forgotten how Mr. Ocker had treated me with respect at such an awkward moment.  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 for him, I wondered if he would give me another chance and hire me.  It was now February in my Sophomore year.  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 I was a problem kid.  Consequently I never really expected him to hire me.  Why should he?  Why would anyone hire a kid who had stolen from his store?

February passed without a word.  March passed without a word.  When most of April passed without a word, I no longer gave it any thought.  On a Friday evening in late 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 awaiting 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.  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 still 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 strawberry special sale that day, 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.  I was clueless, but 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.  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.  My first thought was to wonder how hard would it be to have two half-mountains.  That kind of clever insight was what you get when you hire a prep school kid, right?  Good grief, I would have to climb a very tall ladder just to get to the uppermost box. 

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 kind of 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.  So 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.  Then I climbed the ladder again humming 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough'.  Probably not the original theme 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??  Immediately the Produce section turned into a madhouse.  Those people were grabbing at those little green 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 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 with my small containers 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 ten hours with just a couple short breaks in between.  As expected, I was bored out of my mind.  It was probably just as well that 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.  It was just me and Strawberry Mountain hidden away in the chilly cooler feeding the world. 

I was supposed to have a half hour for lunch, but Hank told me there was no time.  The demand was beyond phenomenal that day.  Instead Hank asked if I wanted a sandwich.  I nodded.  Five minutes later he was back with a tuna sandwich and a coke.  With a smile, he put one hand on my shoulder and said, "It's on the house, kid."  That hand on the shoulder meant something.  This guy was really counting on me.  Considering my intense need of praise, I smiled and thanked him.  I ate the sandwich quickly, then five minutes later I was back on that ladder.  It was that kind of day.

Despite my importance to the success of the Strawberry Sale, 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 beat 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 the 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 had 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.  For the first time in my life, I realized that 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? 

Now I felt guilty for all the strawberries I had eaten.  Maybe it was better not to tell Mr. Ocker about that.  Then I laughed.  Mr. Ocker could probably care less; I had gotten him out of a big jam.  I really liked this man.  I had two sides to my personality, Porcupine and Puppy Dog.  Harsh criticism or a blunt command would turn me into the Porcupine.  I would bristle, get defensive and start to argue.  That was the main reason the grouchy SJS basketball coach disliked me so much.  Here in my Sophomore year Coach Killjoy had refused to invite me to join his team even though Coach Lee promised me he had told the man how good I was.  Coach Killjoy got the Porcupine while Mr. Ocker got the Puppy Dog.  Still feeling guilty over stealing candy a few years back, I vowed not to let Mr. Ocker down.  I had no important this moment was.  This simple act of kindness would prove to be one of the luckiest breaks of my life.

Age 16, 10th grade, may 1966

my new identity
 

My Weingarten's job saved my life.  Although I still valued my St. John's education, this wretched acne experience had forced me to pay a heavy price to remain at the school.  Without Weingarten's, I don't know how I would have pulled out of the worst depression of my life.  To begin with, the job restored my pride.  I turned out to be a good hire at the store.  I was reliable and conscientious.   Right from the start, the customers appreciated my good manners.  "Yes, ma'am, yes, sir."  That was me all right.  They loved how polite I was and some people even complimented me.  The thing to understand is that I was a beaten dog.  I had no self-esteem and I was ashamed to face the customers.  Literally.  I was afraid they would see my scars and recoil in disgust.  But that's not what they did.  No one said a word about my face.  Everyone was nice to me... the customers, the other people I worked with, and Mr. Ocker, my manager.  Slowly but surely I began to relax a little.  In the days to follow, I came to realize I had a polish that differentiated me from the other boys who worked there.  I discovered my respectful approach, my good manners, and my ability to express myself set me a cut above the rest.  For the first time, I started to see that my elite education had given me a huge advantage.  I developed a new appreciation for St. John's.

The discipline drilled into me by St. John's - keep your commitments, be reliable, never call in sick, show respect, do the work without being told - served me well.  If I ever had any doubts about the value of my superior education, they were gone.  I think Mr. Ocker noticed the difference as well.  I was dependable, I was willing to work hard without being told, and I was unfailingly polite to every customer.  Mr. Ocker took a shine to me.  One month after I started, Mr. Ocker asked if I wanted a full-time job that summer. 

I was shocked, but had the presence to respond to accept before he could change his mind.  I was so excited I began to gush. "Yes, sir, I would like that very much.  Thank you, sir!  I am really grateful!" 

I could not believe it.  Mr. Ocker had just handed me a full-time summer job!  For the entire summer, I worked 40 hours a week.  This wasn't just a promotion, it was probably the highest compliment I had ever received.  I was incredulous.  To begin with, I had no business getting this job.  Mr. Ocker knew I had stolen from him, so why did he forgive me?  Why did he trust me so much?   My gratitude knew no limits.  Mr. Ocker had been my mother's hero and now he was my hero too.  I had been pretty low when I started this job, but every day I grew a little more confident.  Given a fresh start outside of St. John's, this job felt like a gift from heaven because it helped me climb out of the hole created by the acne crisis.  In addition, I developed a complete new identity at Weingarten's. 

At the start, I was ridiculously shy.  As an only child with few friends, I had never learned how to make small talk with people I didn't know.  Although I spoke freely in the classroom, outside of class I kept to myself.  Other than my lunch hour friends who were equally shy, I never said a word to anyone.  Since I did not have the slightest clue how to initiate a conversation around strangers, I was at a complete loss when I started this job.  I barely said a word at Weingarten's for the first two weeks.  A significant moment at my job changed that.  I had no clue how to sack groceries.  Even more embarrassing, I was not even aware of my incompetence.  I suppose everyone took it for granted that sacking groceries was so easy, no one bothered to train me.  In addition, since I was too ignorant to realize my shortcomings, I did not ask for help.  Consequently I made every mistake in the book.  I tossed things in the bag as fast as I could regardless of the mess I made.  Sometimes I threw the bread and eggs at the bottom and put the heavy cans on top.  Isn't it weird how a supposedly smart kid can lack a shred of common sense?   I made things worse by stuffing those flimsy paper bags to the brim.  Not surprisingly, my over-packed bags occasionally ripped when the customers picked them up.  Then I would have to redo the job. 

One day a boy my age befriended me.  Kostas went to school at Lamar, the same school as Steve the golf player and Jane my long lost love.  Kostas saw one of my bags rip in half and laughed out loud.  I stared evil darts at him, but Kostas did not take offense.

"Here, let me help you."

Kostas walked over and placed one bag inside another.  "This is called double-bagging.  Much stronger.  Would you like some more tips?"

I did not say anything, but nodded.  Secretly I was very relieved.  Kostas knew what he was doing, so I watched him carefully.  

"First of all, don't rush.  The customer has just paid good money for these groceries, so be careful.  I know it sounds silly, but the customer watches carefully how you treat each item.  Put the heavy cans on the bottom and fragile items like bread and eggs on top.  Stack everything neatly.  Don't make the bag too heavy or it will rip."

Ah, now I get it!  Big difference!

After looking over his shoulder, Kostas continued.  "Another secret," Kostas whispered, "is to 'double bag' the groceries.  That is when you put one bag inside the other for extra strength."

"I get that, but why are you whispering?"

Kostas laughed.  "The grocery store frowns on this because it wastes profits.  I guess a penny per bag adds up.  But unless the manager is looking right at you, do it anyway."

Then with another conspiratorial glance to make sure no one was listening, Kostas shared another tip.  "This is a great move because the customers really like it!  Double-bagging makes them feel special because the other sackers automatically follow the rule.  But not me.  However, whatever you do, don't get caught.  Be sure you know who might be watching."

I nodded in gratitude.  Kostas had just shared the secrets of the ages with me. 

After I thanked him, Kostas said no problem.  Then he looked at me suspiciously.  "Where's your name tag?"

"They haven't given me one yet."

"Well, then what's your name?"

Unsure what to say, I stared at Kostas for a moment.  What should I tell him?  Fed up with being called 'Dead Eye Dick', 'Dickless Dick' and 'Dickie Boy', this was a chance to break away

"Uh, um, hmm.  Rick.  My name is Rick."

"You don't know your own name?"

I rolled my eyes.  "It's a long story, Kostas."

"What's your last name?"

"Archer."

Kostas smiled and shook my hand.  "Glad to meet you, Rick Archer."