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

  By the edge in Paul’s voice, David and I suddenly dropped our “Three Stooges” act. Whatever commotion we caused, David Howard and I knew it was Paul who took the most heat for our escapades. Because of the notoriety of Paul’s family, either through the neighborhood, church, or good deeds offered by Mr. Brazell, the moment anyone saw anything, within the speed of light and as if through telepathic means, it was beamed over to Paul’s mother, Beth. Even when Paul, David, and I were in the process of one of our stunts, Mrs. Brazell somehow knew everything and Paul was instantly busted. Sometimes we became so terrified of Mrs. Brazell that the three of us would huddle close together, scheming in whispered tones behind my backyard shed, to form a protective barrier to Beth’s penetrating radar.

  While David Howard was rarely reprimanded by his parents, I was basically left alone. Finally, being in foster care had its advantages. Because John and Linda slaved away at dead-end jobs they both despised, by the end of the day when they’d drag themselves home, John and Linda still had to contend with their three small children. By helping out with the housework I could then make myself scarce, and I somehow became immune to any firm sense of discipline.

  Of the three of us, I was like a hyperactive puppy—constantly in motion, looking to get my wet nose into everything all at once. After Paul again snapped at me, I calmed down enough for the three of us to define our new guidelines. As the afternoon faded into dinnertime, Paul, David, and I came up with a quasi set of ROEs, which to us made perfect sense: Rule Number One: No Girls. While alluring and mysterious as they were, none of us had a “pickup mobile,” money, cool clothes, social skills, or looks. We also figured that girls would sooner or later not only land us in trouble, but more important they would take away from our time together. The fact that no girl with any sense would have anything to do with us, mattered very little. Of course, in front of one another, we acted as if girls were no big deal. Yet alone with Paul, or especially with David, we’d all drool whenever one of the older, mature girls from the end of the street would sashay by in a short green plaid skirt. My accomplice and I would hide out, covering our giggling mouths in the hopes that a sudden gust of wind would blow by—just like it did to Marilyn Monroe.

  The second parameter: No Guns. No real weapons of any kind at any time. Although the Duinsmoore neighborhood and nearby mansions seemed like something out of Beverly Hills, across the freeway it was like a Middle East war zone with stories of rampant gangs, shootings, and occasional drive-bys. Simply put, this rule was made to avoid serious trouble. But when David brought up the fact that I had a pellet gun, Paul’s recent acquisition of a BB gun, and David’s tiny BB gun rifle that he had had for years, we convinced ourselves that technically our arsenal was merely “toy guns” and that we could continue to use them for the sole purpose of target practice.

  As deliberately silly and tame as the first two “Rules of Engagement” were, the third rule—the final declaration—Paul, David, and I took as absolute gospel. It was unbreakable: No Drugs. No using, dealing, or associating with anyone who did. Period. During our time together we all commented on what we saw firsthand in parts of the city, schools, or with those we knew and how narcotics took its toll. As immature as we acted, as reckless as we appeared to be in front of others, there was no doubt for any of us on the seriousness of this core belief.

  “It will mess you up,” Paul stated.

  “I can’t live that way,” I said, shaking my head.

  “That’s some sick shit and it will kill ya, plain and simple, man,” David said, looking straight into our eyes.

  “So,” Paul warned, “this is it. The ROEs. Once we agree, there’s no turning back. Any questions?”

  In an instant David and I shot each other a wide grin. Both of us could have acted like Moe and Curly of “The Three Stooges” and taken the debate in a zillion different directions, but for once David and I remained quiet and smiled.

  “You know this means we’re brothers,” David said as he shook his head.

  “This is the real deal,” Paul reassured. “We look out for one another. Friends, forever.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Part of me wanted to cry. “One for all and all for one!”

  Paul, David, and I stacked our hands one on top of the other. “Deal,” one said.

  “Deal,” the other agreed.

  “Deal,” I quickly echoed before taking a moment to turn to them and pledge, “Brothers!”

  “Now we should prick our fingers, draw blood, and shake hands!” David blurted.

  “No way, this ain’t no Tom Sawyer novel. Besides, I don’t know where your finger’s been,” Paul teased as David crinkled his face and lifted his finger to his nose.

  We stood staring at one another as the moment slipped away, until Paul’s eyes lit up. “Here!” Paul shouted as he leaned over to his father’s workbench and grabbed an open-end wrench. “No girls, no guns, and no drugs. We take care of each other for now and forever. If one falls, the others will pick ’em up.” With his fingers spread on top of the shiny wrench laying on the workbench, Paul smiled. “Brothers.”

  “Brothers,” David thundered, with his fingers wrapped around Paul’s.

  “Brothers,” I shouted.

  I had been aching for so long to belong, to truly be part of something, and for once to not be on the outside looking in. With the word brothers echoing in my ears, my mind began to relive parts of my former life. As a small child at home, my oldest brother, Ron, always seemed to keep close watch over me, while Stan, my youngest brother at the time, was my best friend at elementary school, until I was singled out by my volatile, alcoholic mother who then decreed that my brothers were not allowed to have anything to do with me, that for some reason, I was the cause for whatever problems existed within the family. Over a short time I had become de facto, not a member of the family, to the point that I had become invisible to Ron, Stan, and even my drunken father. My mother had forbidden any of them to even utter my name.

  So, with a few exchanged words and a set of flesh and bone stacked on top of one another, a bond became forged. Like a preschooler on Christmas morning, I stood in wide-eyed wonderment, not only at Paul and David but the setting of our oath. Now loitering just inside the door of Mr. Brazell’s garage, the three of us huddled by Paul’s father’s newly built customized tool bench that held every wrench, group of hammers, pliers, and an endless array of screwdrivers that were perfectly outlined with a black marker against the wall under a set of handcrafted cabinets. Behind every cabinet door were supplies for every occasion: various sandpaper, stacked in accordance to its grade; glues like Bondo to fill in and smooth out metal dents; and every conceivable file known to man. Attached below the cabinets was a collection of small jars that held an assortment of screws, tacks, nuts, bolts, washers, and anything else that Mr. Brazell thought necessary. I stared in amazement at what must have been the extensive planning, patience, and the deliberate function of every item of Mr. Brazell’s private world, and it seemed to radiate a sense of calmness.

  Before my tingling fingers could explore, Paul warned me off with a wave of his hand, while plucking with his other hand an open-end wrench. Even though for weeks I had constantly praised his father’s garage, Paul seemed to only shrug his shoulders as if it were no big deal. While I would always nod my head slightly, brushing off yet another miscommunication on my behalf, in my heart I knew Mr. Brazell’s garage had an extraordinary and haunting significance for me.

  Before entering foster care, as a form of humiliation—when not performing an endless list of chores for my mother—during my “off time” I was commanded to either sit on top of my hands or stand ramrod straight at the base of a set of wooden stairs in a dark basement/garage. To further cheapen my existence, many times the garage became my bedroom, and my bed an army surplus World War II green cot that I’d unfold at night. I quickly learned to set up the canvas cot by the front bumper of the family station wagon and the furnace to capture any possible he
at. When I sat or stood at the bottom of the stairs, I’d always strain my eyes left to capture the outline of my father’s narrow, endless workbench, which held a scattered array of hand and power tools. A combative marriage would eventually drive him away, leaving his once-proud domain to become invaded by abandoned spider webs and heaps of grayish-black dust. My only fond memory of the bench and its heyday was a solitary moment out of the blue, when as a preschooler clinging to my father’s side, he unexpectedly plucked me up and plopped me down on top of his sacred territory with a firm warning of not to touch a thing. Sure to obey, I tilted my head up, staring at a giant of a man, with shiny ribbed-combed black hair, who could perform any feats of wonder and did so with the aid of magical-like devices from his workbench. At the time, Father was my very own Superman and the workbench area was his fortress of solitude. To be in the fortress with my superhero was beyond any expression a mere child could offer.

  Now, years later, with a new lease on life, for me to be standing within the fringes of Mr. Brazell’s workplace, where clear bright light shined in every crevice, where hundreds upon hundreds of instruments seemed to glisten like polished silver, made my former life seem like some sketchy, one-time kindergartenlike nightmare. I now beamed with a quiet sense of pride that I didn’t have before. Upon entering foster care, I was so perfectly ignorant; at my first foster home I could not distinguish the difference between a nut, a bolt, the function of a washer, let alone the difference between a flat head and a Phillips screwdriver. Since then I acquired a simple set of no-name token tools that I used to maintain my bicycle and minibike, and since moving to Duinsmoore and studying Mr. Brazell, I took great pride to always wipe off my instruments with a soft rag that had a dab of gasoline to remove any grime. Before carefully storing them in my battered red tin carrying case, I’d lift up my tools against the flickering lightbulb in Mr. Welsh’s garage, inspecting for any scratch, smudge, or oil that somehow might belittle them.

  Whenever I would have to wait on Paul, I’d stand on the driveway just beyond Mr. Brazell’s view, admiring his deliberate moves, then search for that single moment—that satisfying look on his tired face whenever Paul’s father completed a task as he wiped the sweat off his wrinkled forehead before strolling over to the back of the garage to wash his hands. After a few weeks of spying, one afternoon, without thinking, while Mr. Brazell was in the back scrubbing his hands, I snatched a broom and began meticulously sweeping the floor. I wanted to, I had to, show Mr. Brazell that I was the best floor sweeper of all time. To be in his world… Mr. Brazell’s acceptance was that important to me. At the very least, my sweeping brought me into a lair that I came to regard as a church—a tranquil place that I came to worship, just as I had with my own father when I was a little boy.

  Mr. Brazell’s garage also held another meaning. Paul had dubbed it “the command post” of the block. Over the years this garage became the place where the neighborhood men would converge and hold court after 3:00 P.M., while Paul’s father would carry on with whatever project was at hand. No matter where Mr. Brazell was in his task, without breaking stride or without the need to make eye contact—as if he had his own unique radar—whenever a new shadow appeared to enter through the garage door, he never failed to offer a long “hellooow…” as his distinctive salutation.

  The group seemed like a ensemble of characters from a television sitcom. There was Mr. Jolly, a robust, upbeat gentleman who worked selling sports equipment to the local schools and always let out a hacking cough whenever he fought to complete a sentence, while beads of sweat hung off his forehead. On a rare occasion David’s father, Parker, joined the congregation as well as his next-door neighbor Mr. Ballow who, as a sign of affection, always seemed to haul off and smack his young son, Jake, on the side of his head. There was Amy’s father, Mr. Neyland, who always eyed me with obvious suspicion. When I first came face-to-face with him, I had the perfect apology all planned out in my head, but in his presence and with the entire group suddenly hushed, my exasperated mumble made no sense to anyone, including myself. My next occasion to make my impression on Mr. Neyland and the other men was when I learned that Amy’s father worked at the San Francisco airport. Having a passion for planes since I was small child, but without permission to break in and enter the conversation, I took a deep breath, locked onto Mr. Neyland’s eyes, and blurted the most articulate statement my high-speed, air-filled mind could process: “Wow… planes! I like… how they, how they can fly!” From the back of the garage, Mr. Brazell suddenly lost his grip on a wrench and it clattered onto the cement floor, while someone behind me muttered, “And this is why tigers eat their young. Life in the food chain, gentlemen. I hear genius skips a generation. His father must have been Einstein.”

  The jab came from none other than my next-door neighbor, the self-proclaimed Guardian of Justice, Keeper of the Faith, Vietnam Veteran Extraordinaire, the Doc Savage of Duinsmoore: Michael A. Marsh, who sounded like the late movie star legend W. C. Fields and had the swagger and bravado of the high-strung “Gonzo” adventurous journalist Hunter S. Thompson of Rolling Stone magazine fame. No matter what diversion Paul, David, and I had planned for the afternoon, as soon as we saw “The Sarge” stroll over from his house to Mr. Brazell’s garage with all the exertion of having just climbed Mount Everest, we’d cease activity and fight for any spot just beyond the fringes of the famed garage to eavesdrop. As compelling as the garage was, whenever Mr. Marsh appeared it suddenly jumped with excitement.

  After hearing endless stories from Paul and David about the neighborhood legend and former special forces Vietnam War commando, I finally met Mr. Marsh one afternoon while trying to fix yet another massive oil leak from my minibike. Upon hearing the clattering sounds of a baby stroller, I looked up, wiping my grease-covered hand on my forehead, to see a tall man wearing a wide grin that was somehow holding onto a lit cigarette that dangled from his lower lip, a shrunken T-shirt with a plane circling a blue outlined cube that read Fud-pucker Airlines: We’ve been flying since the world’s been square, and a pair of faded shorts that exposed a pair of ash-white legs. With no apparent effort and without breaking stride, my neighbor was somehow able to push the stroller with one hand while taking gulps of beer with the other. “So you’re the neighborhood threat? James Dean or Marlon Brando material you’re not. But not to worry. Keep your chin up and your nose clean and we’ll get along just fine.” Before I could even think of a response from what I believed was another long list of endless put-downs, the man smiled before stating, “Good on you, boy! Get some!” he advised before moving on. All I could do was shake my head, thinking I must be going deaf and becoming immensely stupid, both at the same time, for I couldn’t make out the meaning of what the Fudpucker man had just said. As Mr. Marsh disappeared down the street, I shook away any thoughts of being simpleminded, when I realized why should I care what some guy pushing a baby stroller thought of me.

  The next afternoon while attempting to isolate yet another gaping leak from my mobile lawn mower engine, the Fudpucker man reappeared—at the same time, in the exact same outfit, with the same grin, with another lit cigarette glued to his lip, while clutching the stroller with one hand and protecting his precious Coors beer with the other. After another volley of one-liners, this time about “every dog having their day,” he strolled on only to return thirty minutes later, to stop, gaze down, and state, “Perhaps introductions are in order. The name’s Marsh. Michael Marsh.” My ears suddenly perked up as Mr. Marsh somehow had the same rhythm and tone as my action hero, James Bond, whenever he introduced himself in the movies. Now Mr. Marsh suddenly captured my attention.

  In a matter of days—and after Mr. Marsh’s insistence that my hands and other body parts be sterilized and that I be on my best behavior—I was allowed to practically have free rein at “Marsh Manor,” where I met his charming, subdued wife, Sandy, and their two children, William and Eric. While I adored both boys, it was Eric who, still a toddler, reminded me of my youngest brothe
r, Kevin. I cherished Kevin to the point that I would risk extreme punishment if Mother ever caught me watching him crawling around in his blue jumper, let alone be with him in the same room. I’d stare in amazement at how Kevin made gurgling sounds while playing on the floor. But God help me if I ever socialized with my mother’s children, since I was not a member of her family; only a prisoner. But now, at the Marsh’s, I could, without fear of retribution, be on my hands and knees playing with Eric for hours upon endless hours.

  Whenever the mood struck Mr. Marsh, who insisted that I address him as Mike, he’d drag out his tattered lawn chair, park it in front of his garage, then after raising a finger above his head as if taking a wind and a sun check, he’d peel off his shirt to bask in the late afternoon sun. After a few beers Mike would rattle off an endless array of episodes filled with high adventure about mountain climbing, war battles, or common everyday situations that only “The Sarge” could somehow make spellbinding. As the full cans of beers on his left side of his chair transformed into empty cans stacked into a pyramid on the right, Mike never skipped a beat. He’d continue to spin tales while reaching for a device that Mr. Brazell had made out of a heavy pipe attached to a worn gear and that Marsh would randomly seize and, without the aid of vision and as if squashing a bug, would snap down, flattening the aluminum beer can with a deafening thud. “Money in the bank, boy,” Mike was known to inform. “The more I partake of the beverage of the gods, the more I am blessed through the powers of recycling. Mark my words, my young wards: Recycling… it’s the future of America.”