The Privilege of Youth: A Teenager's Story Read online

  Due to my frantic lifestyle and my own home being hours away from his, I never had the chance to see Dan as much as I wanted to. Our last encounter almost never happened. After leaving my two-bedroom condominium at three in the morning in order to make the drive down to the San Francisco Bay Area to have my unique sports car serviced by the dealer—who claimed they needed the vehicle all day—I was surprised when the maintenance was completed hours earlier. When I phoned Dan, he seemed reluctant to see me. Baiting him, I told Dan I had something to show him. The last time I said something like that to him I was eighteen and showed up in the neighborhood in a brand-new Corvette that the car dealership I had worked for loaned me for becoming salesman of the month.

  The first thing I noticed about Dan when I saw him was how tired and thinner he looked since our last visit. But his smile for me never waned. In his home, where we had spent so many hours together when I was a teenager, I excitedly ran down the “what I’ve been up to” checklist that ranged from my son’s progress in school, my upcoming marriage to Marsha, and my career as an author and presenter that, after being mismanaged and surviving off of Cup-a-Soups and French bread for years, had recently taken off. I was shocked when Mr. Brazell casually informed me that he had had a bout with cancer. I felt like a complete idiot rambling on about Dave this, Dave that. Dave, Dave, Dave. For years, because of my low self-esteem, I had the tendency to try and overimpress without really meaning to. Especially when it came to Dan.

  As I was spilling over with apologies, Dan and his wife, Beth, just smiled. Making it no big deal, Dan assured me he had a clean bill of health. More than anyone else in my life, Dan knew how much I hated that disease. It was Dan that I fled to when my biological father had died in my arms from cancer. Then, years later, one of my foster fathers, a man of great courage, became stricken by the same illness. The word itself summoned such dread for me.

  Strolling outside with his arm around my shoulder, Dan again assured me that he was in the best of health. In fact he and his wife were about to leave for another semiannual checkup.

  “So, this is it?!” Dan exclaimed, as we approached my black sports car. “Who would have thought… the terror of Duinsmoore…”

  For Dan and me it wasn’t about the fancy car or the overrated success of a few books I had written. Stopping in front of the Lotus Esprit sports car, we both took in the moment and nodded our heads. I bent down to Dan’s ear and whispered, “You.” Dan turned back up to me and smiled. “You knew,” I stated. “You always treated me like a real person and kicked me in the behind when I needed it. You really cared about me and I can’t tell you how much that still means to me. This block was the neighborhood I loved and you were the father I never had but always prayed for.”

  “Well,” Dan said, brushing it off, “you overcame a lot. You did it yourself. And, if we, the neighborhood did anything, well, we just put you on course. You had to carry the load. You drove us crazy… You had this entire block in an uproar…”

  “Privilege of youth, Dan. Privilege of youth,” I grinned.

  “And now you’re the one helping kids,” Dan said with a smile.

  “Duty, honor, and country,” I joked. “Truth, justice, and the American way!”

  Strolling around the car, the smile I had known within Dan’s eyes for years still shined through. The man who had engineered and rebuilt so many cars by hand, rubbed the sides of the Lotus as if it were a piece of art. As Dan slid into the tiny driver’s seat and turned over the engine, he seemed like a teenager. While he tapped the accelerator, I sensed how much Dan wanted to take the car out for a quick spin. Fantasizing, I imagined Dan behind the steering wheel with me beside him, tearing down the road at hypersonic speed without a care in the world.

  Dan gave me another nod. “Take it…” I mouthed to him. “Go ahead, take it for a spin.” For a second, Dan’s left hand gripped the steering wheel and the other on the stick shift. An eternity passed within a few beats of time. But I knew I was making Dan late for his doctor’s appointment. With Beth standing beside Dan as he crawled out, I knew it was time to leave.

  We stood next to each other, slightly nodding our heads before embracing. I always hated saying good-bye to him. “I know I say this all the time, but I love you. I love you, Dad… Dan…” I slipped.

  “You’re a good son, David.” Dan hugged back.

  Sliding into the car, and while adjusting my sunglasses, I proclaimed, “Next time, we take her out for a spin.”

  Dan nodded in approval. Then, playing the never ending role as the concerned father, he inquired, “Ever get any tickets?”

  Taking in the scene, I let out a laugh. I was seventeen again, wide-eyed, and spilling over with adventure. Raising my eyebrows, I confessed, “Not me, Sir. I’m a good boy!”

  Minutes later at the end of the block, I eased the black, needle-nose Lotus beside Dan and Beth’s car before we both drove off in opposite directions. I had thought of making a grand departure of racing through the gears, but reminded myself I was a grown adult, in my mid-thirties, and therefore too old, and far too mature, for such a childlike spurt of recklessness. So, I waved good-bye and casually headed northbound on Bay Road. When their car disappeared behind my rearview mirror, a sudden impulse took over. I slammed the car to a stop and, as I had years before on the same street, my mind ran through a simple but thorough checklist: (1) Check for police, (2) Ensure there are no children or any other pedestrians in the street, (3) Make certain there is adequate clearance in front of the driver at all times, and (4) Reverify checklist and think about what you’re about to get yourself into. Two-point-four seconds later, I took a deep breath, leaned back into the seat, floored the accelerator, popped the clutch, and sped through the gears.

  With a streak of burnt rubber and grayish-black smoke in my wake, I quietly announced, “Adios, Dan. See ya next time.”

  And now, in the middle of the night, thousands of miles away, in the midst of a freezing room, I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn’t cry. And for a moment my trembling hand seemed to subside. With my fingers on my forehead and with my eyes closed, all I could do was listen to the howling wind and realize how much Dan Brazell and that small neighborhood changed the course of my life.

  2. A Lost Boy

  Years before I met Dan Brazell or those who lived on Duinsmoore Way, I endured a miserable childhood. As long as I could remember, since I was a small boy, I always felt unworthy. An unwanted outsider. For the life of me, I could not do anything that was remotely acceptable for my mother. I always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. And as much as I tried to amaze or fought hard to impress that I was not simpleminded or tried to prove my worthiness, my existence only became more dark and sinister. With every day, all I wanted, all I craved, was to simply belong.

  One morning at school, out of the blue, my teachers reported my condition to the authorities. It took twelve years, but I was finally liberated. I was placed into foster care. Finally, I belonged. I was somebody. I was no longer an animal existing in a darkened basement/garage, but a real person. For no apparent reason I had surmised that the words “foster child” were a unique distinction of honor. Not some everyday kid from “Normal Town” USA, but a Foster Kid. A kid that had endured some misfortune and now caught a lucky break.

  It took a while, but I caught on that being a foster kid was not as I dreamt it to be. Nearly a year later, barely in my teens, I had lived in four separate foster homes. Besides coming to terms with my past, it seemed I never truly had a chance to adjust to my everyday environment, then once I got a foothold, I was suddenly ousted to another surrounding.

  After spending part of my summer with one family, I felt convinced I now had a chance of settling down. I couldn’t wait for my first day of junior high. When the big day arrived, I proudly showed up at my new school in fresh corduroy pants, brown Hush Puppies shoes, and my new black-framed glasses. I was proud that I was carrying a lunch box to school. Standing in the hallway, I marveled at the shi
ny blue school lockers, and how enormous the upper grade students were—until I discovered that they were in the same grade as I, and I was probably the smallest kid in the entire school.

  During my first period, homeroom class, the entire class sat on tall wooden stools. I was proud that I sat among the tallest boys, who seemed to know everyone. With a quick series of wide smiles from the group, I felt I was accepted as one of their own. When the group mocked the teacher whenever he spoke, I, too, snickered at their jokes. As the boys teased our teacher, ever so slowly, without anyone catching on, rather than sitting hunched over in my usual reclusive pose, I began to sit up perfectly straight. With my shoulders arched back, I stared at the boys from my table, who suddenly bowed their heads, whispering something that I thought was about our teacher’s receding hairline.

  One of them commented on how much one girl from across the table had grown during the summer. Glancing over, she didn’t seem that tall to me. At the time, I had always thought that girls were exactly the same as boys; with the exception that they had squeakier voices, longer hair, and some wore makeup and had bumps on their chest.

  The more the boys leaned over and leered at the girl, the more I envied to be part of their inner circle. When they broke out in laughter, I, too, howled even though I had no idea what anyone had said. Then, in an instant, the group stopped, raised their heads in unison, and scowled at me. One of the boys turned to me and said, “Hey, Tiny Tim, where’d you get your threads, the Salvation Army?”

  Growing up and throughout my time in foster care, I’d stutter whenever I became nervous or embarrassed, so I now fought to keep my responses short. “Nope,” I proudly announced, “Kmart.”

  “Man,” one of the boys blurted, “what a spaz!”

  Feeling a quick retort was required, I extended my right arm and countered, “Nope, not me. Look, I ain’t got no twitches.”

  The table became quiet until another kid, who seemed sincere, asked, “You’re new here, aren’t you, kid?”

  I shook my head yes.

  “So, you don’t know anybody, do ya?”

  Thinking for a moment I answered, “Nope… ’cept just you guys.”

  “Lucky for you,” the trustworthy one stated. “Anyway… you see that girl over there?”

  Wanting to prove I wasn’t slow, I swiveled my head, adjusted my glasses, then squinted my eyes to sharpen my look. “Which one?”

  From behind my back a small chorus of laughter erupted. I thought for sure the group of boys were impressed with my lightninglike response. After a few seconds of no guidance, I thrust my finger at the likely candidate. “That one?” I whispered.

  “Nope,” the kid with the attitude snickered.

  “That one?” I pointed at another girl.

  “No, not her,” one of the boys howled.

  Growing frustrated I jabbed my finger at another girl only to receive the same response. In the back of my mind I began to sense that I was probably being set up for some catastrophe, but, I told myself, this was junior high and big kids wouldn’t do anything like that. Besides, I continued, I knew I was in too deep to retreat back to my inner shell, for the majority of the class was beginning to stare in my direction. I thought about lowering my hand and hiding it underneath the table. Before I could, one of the boys grabbed it and hissed, “Over there. That girl!”

  Regaining my “wanna be just like one of the guys” composure, I extended the length of my arm and thrust my finger blurting, “That one?”

  The entire group smiled as they nodded their heads in agreement. I kept my head down as I listened to one of my new friends say, “She thinks you’re cute.”

  “Nah,” I gushed. I never had a girl like me before. “Not me.”

  “Really, man,” a different voice stated. “I can tell. She keeps lookin’ at your shoes.”

  With my mind spinning a million miles a minute, before I could utter a reply, another kid, the one who had teased me about my attire, chimed, “Definitely the shoes! Chicks dig shoes. And I oughta know!” The other boys again gestured in agreement.

  A different boy said, “Listen to him, little man, he’s been to first base.”

  “Second base!” the boy corrected.

  “No way!?” another boy exclaimed.

  “Way!” the first boy stated, shaking his head as the other boy’s eyes grew wide.

  Everything seemed to fly over my head. All I could do was turn and gaze at the young lady with my mouth hung open. She had shoulder-length blond hair that shined at the ends, blindingly white teeth, and she wore a shiny floral dress. After her eyes scanned me, her cheeks blushed. Covering her mouth, the girl giggled something to her girlfriends at her table.

  Turning my attention back to the boys, who seemed bunched together, I raised my shoulders. “I don’t get it,” I confessed.

  “Man,” one of them announced, “she wants you.”

  “For what?” I fired back, beginning to feel apprehensive.

  “You know… she wants to do it with you,” one answered while slowly nodding his head until other boys motioned as well.

  Without thinking, without understanding, I became caught up in the moment and gestured as well. “So, what do I do?” I asked.

  The athletic, “first base” boy jumped in. “What you do is, if you really want to impress a fox like that is, you compliment them. You call ’em a horror.”

  “A horror?” I questioned.

  “Yep,” the boys all nodded. “Chicks dig it.”

  “Hmm,” I said, letting on to the cool guys that I was thinking of how I was going to make my move. Even though I was new to the world of girls, I had sat in the back of the movie theater, watching the latest James Bond film Live and Let Die dozens upon dozens of time, so I felt I could come up with a smooth line just like my action hero.

  Without any prodding from the group, with little hesitation or scant idea of what I was going to say, I leaned over to the girl’s table, adjusted my glasses before placing my elbow on my knee, then in a sudden nervous, raspy voice, I looked into the girl’s eyes, swallowed hard, and announced, “Hi… You are the prettiest-looking horror I’ve ever seen.”

  The entire table of ladies gasped while they covered their mouths. Their eyes grew wide from what I thought was my first-rate salutation. Ol’ 007 would have been proud. But a split second later the room became as quiet as a church. Paralyzing seconds passed. I smiled at the girl, who jerked her head away from me. It was then that I knew something was wrong. Turning back to the group of boys, I heard, “Man, I can’t believe you did that.” The others, as usual, nodded in agreement.

  My throat began to tighten as my frustration grew. I could not figure out what I had said that was so wrong. I had thought the word horror meant that the girl was so pretty she was scary. Just like she’s so hot. Or the expression dig it, or when other kids would say a girl was foxy. I didn’t always get it, but I believed they were words that the cool kids said as part of their language.

  With my mind spinning again, I could not come to a simple black-and-white solution. As my throat began to ease from its tightness, I stuttered in a tone louder than desired, “I don’t… I don’t get it! All I did was… was call… ’er a horror!”

  I then had the undivided attention of every single being. Even the teacher spun around, studied his pupils, and announced, “Good. I’m glad to see you all finally paying attention.”

  Feeling everyone’s gaze on me, I closed my eyes, hunched my shoulders, and clenched my jittery hands under the table.

  “Oh, dude,” one of the boys stated, “you are so toasted.”

  With my chin buried in my chest, I asked, “Toast?”

  When I felt enough seconds had ticked away, I looked up at the boys at the table. In perfect unison, they all murmured, “Kong. Kong. Kong.”

  All I could do was force a smile. “Kong?”

  In less than a minute, the entire class rapped their hands on their tables, chanting in a low voice, “Kong! Kong! Kong!
”

  This was not good.

  For the remainder of the class, I kept my head down and nearly rubbed the skin off my hands. An eternity later when the bell finally rang, I made sure I was the last kid to leave. This was my mistake.

  As I approached the door, my senses became keen. I caught a whiff of freshly cut grass. The sun pierced through the morning fog and made everything shine bright. For a second I thought I heard the chirping of a bird. For a few moments I had filed away what a jerk I had made out of myself. When I got home today, I told myself, I would definitely question my foster mother about the slang meaning for the word horror.

  A half step later an eclipse blocked all light, sound, and my path. I slowly raised my chin until my muscles in my neck ached. In front of me a tree trunk of a boy displayed a hand bigger than my chest. Amazed at his size, all I could do was blink in wonder. Mesmerized, as he leaned toward me, I half stepped forward, helping him to grab the lapel from my shirt. As he breathed like a rabid dog, the corners of my mouth began to dry.

  “What’d you say in class?” the boy bellowed.

  I had sense enough to understand the tree-trunk boy was the infamous “Kong.” The idea of James Bond–like karate chops wouldn’t prevail since I neither had the skill nor a stepladder to pummel my opponent. Maybe, I fantasized, I could reason with him. I thought of raising a finger, saying, “I’m glad you asked. How considerate of you. It’s simply a small misunderstanding, my good man.”

  Yet, with my mouth now completely dry, all I could do was swallow as I turned my head away, saying in the lowest voice possible, “Horror?”