The Lost Boy (21 page)

I shook my head and smiled inside. “Yes!” I shouted. “I could live here!”

In no time at all I made friends with Paul Brazell and Dave Howard, two neighborhood teenagers who seemed fascinated by my dark, rusty-red minibike and my Daisy BB gun. Their eyes seemed hungry for adventure. I was more than happy to feed them. I discovered Paul had a minibike, too, and soon the three of us held drag races in the middle of the lifeless street. Paul always won, for three reasons: his minibike had more horsepower than mine, he weighed less than I did, and he had brakes – allowing him to slow down long after I did.

Out of the hundreds of races, I won only one. That day my throttle became stuck. I wasn’t worried since I had a cutoff switch – which I immediately discovered would not shut off the engine. Since I didn’t have any brakes, I tried to slow down by dragging my feet. As I did, my shoes slipped and the bottom of my shirt became caught in the rear sprocket. For a moment I had one hand on the throttle while the rest of my body flailed, before being dragged down the middle of the street. I was too scared to let go. I finally released my grip, and a split second later my minibike jumped the sidewalk, flying up and over a bush.

Just in front of me, Dave hit the ground, rolling with laughter. Seconds later Paul pulled up. His eyes were as big as silver dollars. “Man, that was too cool! Can you do that again?” As I struggled to stand up, I could see some of the adults from the neighborhood staring in our direction. They seemed more concerned over the damage to the bush than my medical condition. Trying to forget the unfriendly looks, I blocked out the pain and gave Paul my widest smile. From that moment on I was dubbed “The Stuntmaster of Duinsmoore.”

That evening the three of us plotted our next adventure. Paul’s parents had a 16mm camera, so Paul decided to make a James Bond-style movie, casting me as the lead actor. The climax of the film was to have Dr Strange, played by Dave, drag Bond up and down the street while Paul filmed from all angles. I told Paul I wasn’t so sure about the stunt, while Dave panted like a dog, claiming he wouldn’t mind watching my knees turn into hamburger. Dave doubled as my stunt coordinator, which entailed keeping the street clear of all traffic under the age of 10 and having a set of Band-Aids at the ready whenever my gag was completed. I was thankful the next day when Paul’s camera ran out of film – before my death-defying climax.

One day Paul helped me prepare to meet a girl from around the block. I had never talked to a girl before, but Paul loaned me his best shirt and coached me on what to say. At that time in my life I was barely looking at myself in the mirror, let alone having the confidence to talk to a girl. After combing my hair, hearing more coaching and having no more excuses, I let Paul kick me out of his house, and I strolled down Duinsmoore. As I turned the corner, I felt like a normal person. I lived in a perfect neighborhood, my foster parents let me do as I wished, I didn’t have to work and most important, my life was centered around the best friends in the entire world.

Minutes later I rapped on the front door and waited. My hands shook, and I felt lightheaded, as sweat seemed to escape from every pore of my body. I was actually excited to be a little frightened. This was a good scare. I began to rub my hands when the door opened. I thought my mouth would fall to the floor. I felt tingly all over as I stared into the face of the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Without the girl knowing, I regained my composure as she began to talk. The more she spoke, the better I felt about myself. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make the girl laugh. I was enjoying myself -right up until the moment when the girl’s mother pushed her aside.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I looked up at a woman who looked more like the lady from
The Brady Bunch
than someone’s mother. The woman quickly jabbed a finger in front of my face. “You’re that little … that little
F-child,
aren’t you?” she sneered, with a tight smirk on her face.

I was too stunned to speak.

“Have you no respect for elders? Answer me, boy!”

“Ma’am?” I said, shaking my head.

“Listen to me, ” the woman raved, “I know all about you and … those motorcycles, making all that reverberating noise and the willful destruction of private property. How did
the association
ever approve of …
your kind
of people residing in
our
neighborhood. I know all about
your kind.
You’re a filthy little hooligan! Just look at your attire – you reek of street trash. I don’t know what you children do to become …
fostered children, “
she said, covering her mouth as if she had just spoken a swear word, “but I’m sure
you
did something hideous, didn’t you?” The woman’s face turned so red that I thought she was going to explode. “Don’t you dare approach
my household
or converse with
my children,
ever!”

I stood mesmerized by the woman’s perfectly manicured red fingernail in my face.

“And just a piece of advice, ” the woman went on. “Don’t waste your time trying.
You
don’t have what it takes to make it.
I
know! Believe me,
I’m
actually doing you a favor!” She smiled as she tossed her hair to the other side of her face. “You’ll see!
I’m
a very open-minded person who knows a thing or two. So the sooner you learn that you’re only an
F-child,
the better off you’ll be! So stick with your own kind!”

Before I could respond, the front door slammed shut with such a fury that I felt a rush of air hit my face. I stood by the door dumbstruck. I didn’t know what to do. I felt as if I were an inch tall. I gazed at the sleeves of Paul’s red-and-black flannel shirt. They were a little short, but I thought the shirt looked nice. I ran my hand through my oily hair.
I guess I could use a bath,
I muttered to myself. I knew that on the outside I was a walking geek, but on the inside I felt better about myself than ever before. I tried so hard to do things that normal kids took for granted. I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to be like a normal kid.

Minutes later, with my head hung low, I passed Paul, who danced around me as he pestered me with questions about meeting the girl. I waved off my best friend and hid in my room for the rest of the day.

The next afternoon, while I was tinkering with my minibike, a tall man walked up to me with a beer can in one hand and a baby stroller in the other. “So, you’re the neighborhood threat?” he said with a sly grin. I kept my head down as I felt my body temperature begin to rise. Before I could mouth off, the man breezed on by.

About half an hour later, the man reappeared in the opposite direction. I waited for another put-down, but this time I was ready to fire off an insult. He gave me a wide smile before saying, “Good on you, boy! Get some!”

I shook my head, thinking my ears were clogged.
Good on me? Get some? Get some what?
I asked myself.

I stood up, wiped a spot of black oil onto my dirty white tank top and watched the man as he bobbed past me to the driveway next door. He gave me another nod before disappearing into the garage. I was so stunned that I sat down on the grass and thought about what the crazy man meant. As demented as he seemed, he did have a way with words.

The next afternoon, at the same time, the man reappeared in the same outfit: a pair of white shorts that showed off his ash-white, bony knees, an undersized T-shirt that read “Fudpuckers – We’ve Been Flying Since the World’s Been Square, ” a baseball cap with silver-winged feathers pinned in the middle and a cigarette that seemed to dangle from his bottom lip. Again, with a beer in one hand and a baby stroller in the other, he stopped in front of me and winked. “Airborne material you’re not, but don’t worry, Slim; every dog has his day.” And he pushed on.

I repeated his message over and over again as I tried to find a meaning to the phrase “every dog has his day.” Just like clockwork, the man returned 30 minutes later. I jumped up and waited for his eloquent words of wisdom. “Know this, ” the man said with a bow, “there’s always profit in mass confusion.”

“Hey, mister …” I said before I could think.

The man’s head spun around like a top. “You inquired?”

My mouth hung open. I didn’t know how to respond. I could feel myself choke up. He bowed his head. “If you can wash your hands and change your attire, you may join me at my humble abode.”

In a flash, I raced through the Walshes’ house, scrubbed my arms and hands, dirtying their bathroom sink, and changed my shirt before bursting through the man’s front door. Before I could yell my presence, a giant hand slapped me in the center of my chest. I lost my breath and thought my chest would cave in. The man looked down and smiled, “Let’s try that again, shall we?” he said, as he led me out the front door and closed it in my face.

I frowned to myself. “How rude!” I said out loud. For a moment I thought I was being put down the way
The Brady Bunch
lady had done. I was about to leave when I heard a muffled voice from behind the door state, “Knock on the door.”

I rolled my eyes as my knuckles rapped on the front door. A moment later, the door flung open, and the man bowed at the waist as he waved his arm, permitting me to enter. He smiled as he introduced himself. “Michael Marsh: keeper of the faith, soldier of fortune and the Doc Savage of Duinsmoore Drive.”

And so began my first of many visits to “Marsh Manor.” Days later I met Mr Marsh’s wife, Sandra, who was quiet and shy compared with her peculiar husband. I was instantly taken with their two boys, William and Eric. Watching their toddler, Eric, dribble as he crawled around the house reminded me of my brother Kevin when he was that age.

The Marshes treated me like a real person. While the Walshes argued more than ever, the Marshes’ home became my safe haven. Whenever I was not promoting chaos with Paul and Dave, I spent hundreds of hours sitting in a corner of Michael’s famed “Hall of Knowledge, ” reading books about movies, race cars and airplanes. Ever since I was a prisoner in Mother’s house, I developed a fascination for aircraft. The many times I would sit on top of my hands in the bottom of the cold garage, I’d escape by fantasizing I was Superman. I always wanted to fly.

Although I was never allowed to take any of Mr Marsh’s books to the Walshes’ home, I’d sometimes sneak off with a book and stay up all night, reading about the real-life adventures of World War II fighter pilots or the development of specialized aircraft like the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird. Michael’s library opened up whole new world to me. For the first time in my life, I began to wonder what it would be like to fly aboard a real airplane. Maybe, I thought, one of these days …

Paul’s father, Dan Brazell, was the Mr Goodwrench of the neighborhood, and he had the same effect on me as Mr Marsh. At first Mr Brazell was wary of me, but eventually he grew to tolerate my standing over his shoulder, quizzing his every movement. Sometimes Paul, Dave and I would peek into Mr Brazell’s garage and stare in awe at whatever projects he was building from scratch. Whenever he left the garage for a few minutes, Paul would strut in, while Dave and I followed in Paul’s footsteps for fear of disturbing a piece of metal or a placed tool. However, as soon as the door opened, the three of us would scurry out of the garage before Dan caught us. We knew that the garage was a special domain where Dan, Michael and a host of other men from the neighborhood gathered for their daily meetings.

Sometimes during the daily gatherings, a few of the men from the neighborhood frowned at me, as they complained about the fear of “plummeting real estate values in the local area.” Mr Marsh always came to my rescue. “Back off, boys, ” Michael once warned. “I have plans for my young ward. I predict that Mr Pelzer here will become the next Chuck Yeager or Charles Manson. As you can see, I’m still working on the details.”

I smiled at the compliment. “Yeah, ” I nodded in defiance, “Charles Manson!” I did feel a little foolish that I did not recall Charles Manson as an Ace fighter pilot.

My times at Duinsmoore were the best in my teenage life. At night, after reading one of Mr Marsh’s “borrowed books, ” I’d fall asleep to the scent of flowers from a soft outside breeze. Every day after school carried a new adventure, waiting for
my
two friends and me to discover.

My stay at the Walshes was not so good. Raging arguments were a daily occurrence, and at times both of them would storm out of the house, leaving me to watch their children. Sometimes I’d try to time the fights, so that before John and Linda began to hit each other, I could grab the youngest child and order the other two children to follow me outside until things calmed down.

As much as I loved Duinsmoore, I knew I couldn’t keep living like I did. I felt that
I had to do something.
Finally, after an explosive argument I called Mrs O’Ryan, my probation officer, and begged her to move me, even if it meant returning to The Hill. Mrs O’Ryan seemed pleased with my decision and thought she could convince the Turnboughs to take me back.

Leaving Duinsmoore was one of the hardest decisions I had to make. In a matter of months, in the tiniest fraction of my life, Duinsmoore had given me so much.

I made it a point not to say good-bye. Paul, Dave and I seemed choked up, but we hid our feelings behind our age. At the last moment Dave gave me a hug. Mr Brazell saluted me while holding a wrench, while Mr Marsh presented me with a book on airplanes – the same book I had sneaked out of his house dozens of times. “This way you won’t have to break in my house … you hooligan.” He also gave me an autographed Delta Airline postcard. On it he scrawled his address and phone number. “Stay in touch, Slim, ” Michael said, as I felt myself beginning to get emotional. “Day or night, Sandra and I are here for you. Hang tough, Airborne! Get some!”

Before climbing into Harold Turnbough’s ancient, blue-and-white Chevy pickup, I cleared my throat, then announced in my Michael Marsh-like voice, “Shed no tears. Have no fear … for … I shall return!” As Mr Turnbough and I motored away from Duinsmoore Drive, I saw
The Brady Bunch
woman, who stood on her immaculate front porch with her arms tightly across her chest. She gave me a sneering smile. I smiled back before shouting, “Love you, too!”