by Dave Pelzer
Doing my best to scare David, I breathed in, acting as if I were going to screech, but instead said mockingly, “Why, David Howard, what do you have in your filthy little hands?”
“Dude, shut up! My sister’s in the next room!” David warned as he ceremoniously laid out the book on his bed.
“Wow!” I exhaled, “this is too cool! Can I touch it?”
With his arms crossed on his chest David nodded. “Be my guest.”
“Man, I heard about stuff like this before, but I never thought… Wow!” I quickly snatched the book frantically scanning the pages for any photos before uttering the title aloud, “How to Pick up Girls. Too cool. This is James Bond cool. Does it work?”
David cracked a wide smile. “What do you think?”
Looking at his thinly veiled poker face, I knew David wanted me to believe that this magical book would unleash the awe and mystery of the world of girls. Looking at David, I knew he was overplaying his hand. He was no Casanova. “So, does it work?”
“You’ll just have to find out,” he snorted.
“Maybe I’ll try some moves on Paul’s sister, Dori, or maybe even your sister, Sharon,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“Now Dori I can understand, but my sister, Sharon, that’s gross,” David countered, wiping his hand against his mouth. “Hey, maybe you could read the book and, like, try out some stuff on your foster sisters!”
“That’s even grosser!” I fired back while again scanning through the text.
“Hey, Pelz,” David whispered, “have you like, walked in on any of your foster sisters while they’re naked in the shower all lathered with soapy bubbles?”
Closing the book, I looked up at David. “No,” I said in a whisper, but there was this one time…” I lowered my voice even more, while David scooted over closer to me. “Once, when I was walking down the hallway at the Turnboughs’ house, my foster sister, Nancy, had her door cracked open, and I turned ’cause I could hear Elvis blaring from her stereo. And for a second, one everlasting Kodak moment, I saw Nancy fling off her bra. And man, I saw everything.”
“Everything?” David repeated.
“Yep.” I shook my head. “Everything.”
“Awesome.” David nodded while rubbing his hands. “You got to see a real live girl. How did it feel?”
“Kinda weird,” I answered. “I was scared ’cause you know you’re sneakin’ a peek, but you’re kinda excited at the same time.” Switching focus I asked, “So… have you ever seen a girl naked? And I don’t mean your sister, or your mom, or sneaking into an R-rated movie, but a real, real girl?”
Huddled close together, David spoke in a much lower voice. “I don’t know if you know, but my parents own the house next door; not the Ballows’ but the other side. Anyway, these teachers live there, a whole school of them. Get it?! A school of teachers.”
“Come on, man!” I hissed, “get to the good stuff.”
“On weekends they’d all hang out in the backyard. And I built this small stand in the middle of these bushes so I could peek over, and, uh, anyway, I watched them sunbathe topless, for hours. They’d be giggling, rolling over, putting suntan lotion on each others’ backs.”
“Cool,” I nodded, “too cool. Man, next time I wanna be with you and check it out.”
“No can do,” David said, shaking his head. “They all moved out.”
“What a rip-off.”
“So,” David said after a moment of pause, while another rendition of “Muskrat Love” echoed in the small room, “have you ever done it? You know, gone all the way?”
The shy feelings and ickiness I felt about a subject people didn’t like to speak about, or even rarely acknowledge, began to fade, and soon it was like my best friend and I were simply chatting about the weather.
“Well,” I stated, opening up to David all the more, “I almost kissed a girl. And I don’t mean no peck on the cheek thing but a real full-blown kiss.” I told David the story about the time we were moving into Duinsmoore, when I sauntered up the street to meet an incredible-looking girl who had glanced over before winking at me, while I helped Mr. Welsh with the last of the belongings from the U-Haul.
The second I saw the young lady, I sucked in my chest, covered by a soiled, faded tank top, so she would never know how skinny I truly was, while I stood on my toes, hoping to impress that my height meant I was years older and much more mature—a man of experience. Keeping my nervousness under control, I repeated to myself, Bond, James Bond. Giggling at my lame attempts, the girl flashed a wide smile followed by a long wink, then sashayed away. Realizing this was a moment of a lifetime, it only took a mere heartbeat for me to ditch Mr. Welsh and rush over to Paul who had miraculously witnessed the entire episode.
Giving me a sly nod, Paul, one of my new friends, had a simple plan: Go ahead and meet this girl. But as excited as I was, and with a thousand thoughts racing through my head, I didn’t have the guts to do it. Just months before, strolling down a crowded school hallway between classes and lifting my head to make eye contact with the first girl I saw was too much for me. While everyone else seemingly had wild times, partied, and “went all the way” on Friday nights, I, on the other hand, planted myself in front of the TV breathlessly waiting to watch The Donny & Marie Show.
And yet I couldn’t open up to Paul and tell him how I thought about myself. To Paul and David, I was a pencil-thin, four-eyed rebel version of James Dean. Paul didn’t care. Without hesitation he gave me his best long-sleeved shirt to wear that would surely impress the maiden: a red-and-black checkered flannel, which, I discovered to my horror, had the sleeve stop just past my elbow. “I’m gonna look like a geek!”
“She won’t notice!” Paul retorted.
“I thought you just said ‘girls like sharp-dressed guys’?”
“Forget what I just said and go meet her!” Paul ordered. “Go!”
“All right,” I yelled back, “if you quit being an old hen for a moment, I can, ya know, get my thoughts together…” I was scared, not because I was terrified of girls or that I had never had any contact with girls besides my foster sisters, but because of how absolutely inferior I felt about myself. Whenever I glanced at the mirror I detested what stared back at me. I made certain whenever I brushed my teeth or combed my hair that my eyes never gazed too long at the reflective glass. “Okay,” I said after emptying my lungs, “what do I say?”
Shaking his head in disappointment, Paul advised, “Well, whatever you do, don’t say anything stupid.” Paul said with a snap of his fingers, “Just come up with a smooth one-liner like they do in the movies.”
I instantly thought of Cary Grant, the suave, sharp-dressed, well-versed actor. “Judy, Judy, Judy. Tell me, how’s a girl like you get to be a girl like you?” No, I corrected myself, unless she was an avid moviegoer she would definitely think I was way too weird. But, I said to myself, there was always, ol’ 007. I could imagine casually strolling up to her and introducing myself by confidently stating, Pelzer… Dave Pelzer. But since I had more crater-sized pimples than the surface of the moon and wore paint-stained, chipped, thick black-framed glasses and had not one iota of sex appeal, I quickly shelved that idea. All I could do was thank Paul and pray to God that I didn’t make a complete spaz of myself in the next few minutes.
Leaving Paul’s house and walking up the street to the other block, I felt surprisingly calm. Here I was strolling down one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in the world, about to meet an incredible-looking girl who actually seemed interested in me! Taking my time, my eyes became a camera, snapping shots of the endless array of bright flowers that complemented nearly every home. My ears picked up the slightest sound of thousands of leaves rustling from a gentle breeze. Passing a house, I paused to draw in a lungful of jasmine, hoping my clothes would absorb the sweet smell. Whatever burdens from my past or everyday dilemmas that at times seemed to cling to me like barnacles all suddenly fell away. For a moment, I felt ten feet tall. Today was an extraordinar
y day.
I had no idea what I was going to say. I had no thought-provoking, quick-witted one-liners and I didn’t care. If she liked me, great. And if she didn’t, well, I knew it wasn’t the end of the world. On the outside I knew how awkward I was. I only hoped she could see past that and see me for the person I was within. As I approached the house, I threw my shoulders back, raised my chin, smelled my breath, and checked my armpits for any odor. After tapping on the door in a light but confident manner, I stepped back, held my hands behind my back and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. My poise became Jell-O as my mind began to spin into overdrive, contemplating various scenarios—maybe I was at the wrong house, the wrong block. Maybe she saw me and hated what I wore. Maybe she found out I was a total geek. Or, maybe this was another in a long string of sick jokes that I played into yet again. The longer I stayed at the front of the door, the longer I felt everyone in the world was staring at me. I could feel tiny beads of moisture collect on the palms of my hands. It was time to flee.
Without warning the door suddenly burst open. Startled, I jumped backward, landing on my knee, but of course I acted as if I had just dropped something of no importance on the ground and casually found it. Gazing up I swallowed hard, hoping she didn’t hear me gulp.
“Hey,” she cooed as my eyes tracked her body from her toes to her nose. I simply nodded as if I were mute. The girl matched my gesture before stating in a louder voice. “I’m Debbie.”
With my brain locked, my mouth muttered, “Deb… Debbie,” as if I were Tarzan mimicking Jane’s pronunciation. By luck, the moment the word stuttered out, my body began to lock up as my brain screamed, “You idiot! What the hell are you doing? Wake up! Say something, anything!”
Taking a deep breath through my nose, my sudden tension began to subside. Standing up, I tilted my head slightly, stared at the side of her face, squinted my right eye as if from the sun’s glare, and in a slow groveling voice announced, “I was… in the neighborhood and figured I’d stop by and say… hello.”
Debbie’s eyes suddenly blinked as her nostrils flared. I squinted my other eye while giving Debbie a slight nod as if I were disclosing some unknown mystery through the wonder of body language. I didn’t have the vaguest idea of what the hell I was doing, but my confidence suddenly soared. As my stance became more relaxed, I found myself talking to Debbie in a soft, low voice, which forced her to lean closer. I could almost taste the sweet scent from Debbie’s perfume that seemed to rise from the bottom part of her neck. I quickly learned the more Debbie spoke, the less I had to struggle to impress her with witty banter, which saved me all the more from uttering something moronic. Then when Debbie finished with her remarks, I’d give her a slight nod or subtle laugh. Even though I could hear everything Debbie said, my mind ran off in a million different directions. I rattled off a few one-liners as if I were James Bond, Clint Eastwood, and the infamous Sarge all in one. But surprisingly, they were my thoughts and my words. The more the words flowed out, I smiled at myself, thinking how easy it was to make Debbie smile. I never thought talking to a girl would be so effortless.
Then I saw it. The move. It took me a few seconds, but I suddenly realized when I finally quit jabbering away, as if to come up for air, Debbie leaned over, flicked the tip of her tongue through parted lips before gently closing her eyes. Having never had the opportunity to be this close to a mature girl before, I stared directly at her face. The bangs of Debbie’s hair were perfectly curled under. The ends of her thickened eyebrows were a little clumpy and her black eyeliner slightly askew, but the thing that took my breath away was Debbie’s thick luscious lips. After residing with over a dozen foster sisters I had never seen lips like Debbie’s before. And I had to inspect those babies. It was only when I bent closer did I notice how pronounced they were and how they had a different aroma—a far more sweeter smell surrounded them. After taking in a lungful, to my excitement I discovered Debbie was wearing strawberry lip gloss. “Oh yeah!” I said to myself. Here I was inches away from a girl who was wearing strawberry gloss. And by the look of those lips, Debbie must have applied the gloss and let it dry before adding another application and another and another and another. I was so excited that my left leg began to jiggle.
The big moment. A life-altering experience. Who knows where this could lead—holding hands, going steady, marriage? Kids? A home? And by the size of Debbie’s house, her parents must be rich! My mind began to spin with ideas. I could… live in Duinsmoore, with this beautiful girl, in an incredible home with a garage, and I could build things like Dan does, and have Paul and David over when they came home after work… I so can’t believe my luck. All my problems, all my insecurities, all my worries would be solved with this one kiss. Not some peck on the cheek or someone who was “dared,” but the real deal. Someone who wanted me. It was just a scene from one of those romance movies I had seen endless times. The only thing missing was violins in the background. My heart sped so fast that I thought it would burst through my chest. I carefully leaned forward trying to match Debbie’s movements. For a moment I feared I’d miss those strawberry lips and plant one on Debbie’s forehead, or if she suddenly straightened her back she’d think I was some pervert if I ended up kissing her on the upper part of her chest. Fighting off my nervousness, I tried to play it cool by slowly breathing in through my nose. But when I came within inches of meeting Debbie’s lips, I kept my eyes wide open… for I didn’t want to miss any of this.
The closer I came to making contact, I suddenly felt as if I were some astronaut on an Apollo mission to the moon with a commentator providing a progress report. “Four feet… three feet… slight yaw to the right. Approaching two feet. Slow your rate of capture. Twelve inches… Warning, warning, warning, close proximity alert, close proximity alert! Slow down breathing. Engage manual override. Ten inches. Eight. Stabilize forward motion. Wet lips. Prepare for contact. Six inches. Five… four… three… two—”
“Just what in the hell is going on here?” someone suddenly screeched, bringing me back to earth. “Uhoh,” I warned myself, “Houston, we have a problem.” As my upper torso lurched upward, instead of staring at Debbie’s face or the deep crevices of her brightly striped blouse, I was now staring at a thick long fingernail pointing at me as if it were the barrel of Inspector Callahan’s .44 Magnum. “It’s you!” the woman bellowed.
“Me?” I blinked.
“Yes, you!” the woman reinstated.
“Me?” I asked.
“Don’t go there with your cute little condescending tone. Not with me! You’re that little… that little F-child, aren’t you?” she sneered. All I could do was think that the second before The Eagle landed on moonbase Debbie, her mother must have seen what was about to happen and shoved her aside. “Answer me!” she demanded. “You’re him!” she emphasized with another jab of her loaded Cruella De Vil fingernail. With the tingling excitement now gone, I braced myself for another serious scolding. “I know all about you and those, those, those foster people of yours; making all that money from the state to take in the likes of you. Who do you think you are? And how in the world did ‘the association’ ever approve of your kind to reside in our neighborhood? I know all about your kind. I’m informed. I’ll have you know, I watch 60 Minutes.
“You, young man, are nothing more than a filthy little hooligan! Just look at yourself: You reek of street trash. We don’t allow trailer trash in this community! I don’t know what you children do to become… foster children!” The lady stuttered as she suddenly covered her mouth as if the words “foster children” were a one-way ticket to Hades. “Tell me, what was it you did, hmmm?
“Don’t you even think of approaching my daughter or any of my children. My husband… he has a gun and he’s not afraid to pepper your backside with buckshot!” As if collecting herself, Debbie’s mother lowered her voice as she bent forward. “Let me give you a piece of advice: Don’t waste your time. You don’t stand a chance. You don’t have what it takes to make i
t. Believe me, I know. I went to college. I’ve seen it all.” Pausing before giving me a sly crocodile smile, the “Brady Bunch” mother from hell then tossed her hair to one side, closing with, “I’ve been around and I’ve seen it all, so it’s better for you that you’re told now. Don’t even bother. Stick with your own kind. You’ll never be good enough!”
Before I could blink I could feel the force of the front door slam in my face. All I could do was stand by the door, digesting all that had just taken place. With every angry word Debbie’s mom lashed out at me, I could feel myself shrinking to the size of an ant, until I was nonexistent.
*
“Dude, what a bummer!” David broke in. “What’d you do next?”
My mouth tightened as I confessed, “I ran past Paul on my way home, locked myself in my room, and cried.”
“No way!” David howled. “You cried?”
“Yeah, like a baby. I heard shit like that all my life, but even so, I can’t tell you how devastating it still made me feel.”
“Did you ever see Debbie again?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “I saw her at the bus stop a few days later and I tried to say hi and make her laugh, but she acted as if I wasn’t even there. Like I was invisible or something. One moment she likes me enough for a kiss and another I’m a leper. I don’t get it, man. I’ll never understand. I ain’t ever gonna get married. No way. It’s not worth it.”
“That’s right, brother,” David nodded in approval. “No girls, no guns, and no drugs. Girls ain’t nothin’ but trouble! Who needs ’em, anyway?”
“That’s right,” I laughed. “Now, give me that How to Pick up Girls book. I have so got to practice.”
8. A Boy and His Car
I should have known. On a sunny Friday afternoon, on the last day of school of my sophomore year, June 1978, as I turned the corner to retrieve my recently purchased motorcycle, I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that it was stolen. I had a fair idea who did it, but at the moment it didn’t matter. My ancient three-cylinder Kawasaki motorcycle was not some teenage status symbol, as much as it was a mode of transportation that enabled me to work full time at the local plastics factory. To add to my anxiety, I was due for work in less than three hours. Being seventeen and a half years old, I felt I was too old to ride my rusted ten-speed bike back and forth to work, especially when I had spent a fair amount of my savings buying and fixing up my Kawasaki. I was streetwise enough that I should have known better.
