“Don't
you want to stay and help with the painting?” his mother
replied.
“No,
I don't know how to do that stuff, it's just boring. I want
to go shopping with you.”
“But
honey, they could use your help. They'll show you what to
do.” The concern seeped from her tone.
“It's
too hard, I don't know how to do construction. I want to go
with you.”
“It's
just painting, you can learn, it's a snap.”
“No,
no, I can't. I don't like it. I need clothes and stuff for
school. We don't have a mall with high fashion stores in our crummy
town. Why
can't I ever have anything nice?” “It's just not fair.” he added, tears
filling
his lower eye lids.
“Okay,
okay, you can come. Just don't make a big deal. Go wait in
the car.” his mother relented, doing her best to hide her dismay at the
same
time amused that her son thought Down Town Fresno was the mecca for
high
fashion.
“I'm
going shopping. Be back in a couple of hours to fix dinner
for you good workers.” Peter's mother said picking up her purse and
keys.
“Okay,
we’ll be here, bring some soda and beer, too. Who all's
going?” “Just you girls?” the father questioned.
“Peter's
coming with us.” The concerned look on her face was
mirrored on his as well, looks that had been exchanged many times.
“No
problem, if he doesn't want to, he'd be more trouble than he's
worth, anyway.” he added, doing the best he could to hide his
disappointment.
There
wasn't much to recommend being a parent he thought to
himself while giving his wife a goodbye peck on the cheek. Fatherhood
had worn
him down to a nub and that nub had nearly disappeared. The older boys
were
okay, they functioned in the world, had their successes, their
failures. Their
lives were theirs now to win or lose. He was simply a cheering section,
no
longer a player. But Peter was different, his neediness was endless and
the
rewards were few, nonexistent, even. To have expectations of Peter was
the
definition of insanity. He would pick things up and shake them and then
let
them go pronouncing himself an expert. Like this latest obsession with
fashion
and dressing in stylish clothes. He'd see what others were wearing,
what looked
good, matching colors and hound his mother until she bought him the
outfits.
Then make endless pronouncements about fabric, color, do's, don’t and
incessantly ask, “How does this look?” in one breathe and criticize how
others
dressed in the next. And sports, that was worst of all. Once he learned
the
basic rules but wouldn't practice enough to play, he was ready for
coaching,
team management, the owners’ box. No matter the sport, he gave a
running play
by play narrative, asking for snacks and food from whomever went to the
kitchen
because God forbid, if he left the TV the play would go to shit. Stop!
Why was
he tormenting himself with concerns for Peter? Time to get finished
with the
painting and have a beer.
Peter
wished he'd gone to the car when asked, what he had heard
from the front hall didn't tell him anything, just more mysterious
behavior on
his parents part, like so many comments he overheard all his life that
didn't
help or hurt or make much sense. Why would he want to work with his dad
and
brothers, the mall was way more fun, right? These were his thoughts as
he
waited for his mother to talk with the school counselor, convincing
himself
they would get whatever they were talking about wrong, they always did,
just
more stuff he would have to explain.
He
wondered why he always remembers the bad thing, why not the
good things? I like doing things I'm good at and school isn't one of
them.
Hanging with my friends is fun. Sports are okay but you have to do
stuff in a
certain way or they yell at you. Throwing rocks is more fun than
baseball. Dirt
clods are also fun. I have a good arm, even dad says so. He says “You
have a
good arm, you could be a pitcher or play in the outfield.” Baseball
would be
fun if you could just play without getting into trouble for sitting
down when
nothing is happening. Its coaches that take away the fun. Shoot, here
comes
that memory again. I'm in a dirt clod fight and the other team is
across the
park. I get off a perfect throw and my team cheers until the clod hits
Jimmy in
the side of his head and he starts to cry and runs home. Then it's not
fun
anymore and even my side is yelling at me, “What did you do that for?”
which
isn't fair. First they like me then they don't. Jimmy's not dead or
anything,
he didn't even bleed and now I'm not allowed to throw anything ever
again. It
was just a dirt clod, what's the big deal? What would I have to do so I
wouldn't ever have to go to school again I wonder? When is mom going to
be
finished? I wonder what I did wrong this time? Maybe I won’t have to be
in
school anymore, that would be so cool. I look out the window, it's
starting to
rain and I will have to be inside the rest of the afternoon, just one
more bad
luck wasted day, boring and I bet there won’t be any watching TV,
either. It's
the first thing they take away when I do something wrong. Wish I could
figure
out what I did this time so I could get my story straight. If I had
flipped
peas in the cafeteria I could have my excuse ready, but I didn't and I
have no
idea what I did wrong. I'd sneak out right now, I could do that, I did
it
before, but it just made things worse. I start picking at the scabs on
my elbow
where I fell off my bike. One spot start to bleed and makes a stain
when I rub
it with my shirt. More trouble.
The
high school years were less than dazzling, neither a
catastrophe nor a triumph, just the typical teen experience with one
particularly hard knock at the end. In his senior year he failed to
successfully complete the required health education class meant to
prepare the
students for adult life, sex, basic anatomy, the birds and bees. Peter
made an
enemy of an otherwise sympathetic young teacher with several showoff
remarks
during the orientation lecture. Once he got a laugh, he couldn't
control his
action and wisecracked himself through the semester failing to complete
assignments or remain quiet after repeated warnings. Once he realized
he failed
and was going to be denied graduation with his class, he reverted to
the behavior
that had worked in the past, he threw a hissy fit, claimed the teacher
had it
in for him, cried, screamed, demanded a hearing with the principle and
the
school counselor. It was left to his embarrassed mother to accompany
him to the
meeting, his father refused to participate. The teacher came prepared
with
documentation and no amount of pleading would change her mind. Peter
would have
to take the class over again the next fall semester and receive his
diploma
unceremoniously at the half year. Once reality set in Peter was
relieved. Sure
he would miss his friends, mostly the girls he had cheered with, talked
fashion
and style with and the guys on the track team where he excelled at the
javelin
and the shot-put. He had no interest in college and felt unequipped for
adult
life, having no interest in work, the idea of which scared him more
than
anything. He'd have the summer and a semester with the one class to
take it
easy, not bad.
All
summer long Peter was bedeviled by memories of Career Day and
the cool Army Recruiter that had so impressed him and his friend
Arnold. The
guy had so many ribbons on his chest, looked so ace and fit and even
had a
couple of scars on his face from combat. Arnold signed up right then
and there
with the stipulation that he would have to wait for several months to
make sure
he got his diploma which was mandatory and could pass the drug, medical
and
criminal record tests. Arnold came from a single parent home with a
troubled
family life and was afraid his background would disqualify him. When he
looked
devastated the recruiter asked what was wrong. “You look scared, do you
have an
arrest record?”
“I
had to go to the police station before.”
“Why,
what was that all about?” the recruiter asked.
“It
was because of my mom's boyfriend. He doesn't like me and we
got into a fight because of the way he makes my mom cry and they took
me to the
emergency room and the police station and made a report.” Arnold
answered
convinced that would constitute a record.
“Well,
did they arrest you?” the recruiter questioned thinking how
sad this story sounded and how many time he had heard similar tales.
“No,
they just made me tell what happened and asked if I wanted to
be placed in foster care.
'Sounds
like you were the victim here. Did they arrest your mom's boyfriend?”
Yes,
but he got out right away and moved out. My mom said she was
scared and was glad he was gone.”
“I
don't think you have a problem” the recruiter offered, wanting
to be cautious in case Arnold was not telling the entire truth and
added, “If
that's all it is, you should be good to go.”
The
two of them became close friends through their shared dream of
military service and talked endlessly throughout the summer. It was the
first
time Peter had really regretted the way he had acted in Health Edu
class and
lamented that he couldn't go at the same time as Arnold, promising to
join up
in January once he got his diploma. This regret for the way he acted
was a
pivotal juncture in Peter’s life and proved to be the harbinger of
profound
changes to come.
Boot
Camp was a bitch fest. If you didn't bitch the Drill Sergeant
would get suspicious and send you to the shrink. But secretly, many of
the
boys, especially Peter, loved it. Sure the physical part was hard but
the
effort left them with a feeling of satisfaction and shared
accomplishment. For
the first time in his life Peter was the best at something. He could
shine
shoes like a pro, a skill he has acquired as a fashion maven. The other
recruits were in awe and asked for his advice, another first for him.
He liked
the food, you could eat all the meat, potatoes, bread, vegetables and
salad you
wanted and were encouraged to have seconds, even of dessert. Overweight
kids
got trim, skinny kids got buff. They all slept like logs and felt
better than they
had their entire life. There was no weaseling your way out of difficult
tasks
so you just did what you were told. Peter didn't realize it but that
was what
appealed to him, no thinking was required and there was no time to be
bored
either. From waking to sleeping, you were told exactly what to do and
when to
do it, for Peter it was paradise.
Upon
graduation they were given leave and told to go home. Peter
was conflicted, he wanted to show off to his friends and family, the
new Peter
was taller and fitter with close cropped hair and a youthful glow, but
he also
wanted to just stay in camp and bask in the regimentation. He did go
home,
spend an uneventful leave and was glad to be returning to service. It's
at this
point that our story reaches the proverbial fork in the road. The story
of
Peter has two possible outcomes for the reader to choose from, your
choice.