Life at 14
The 1972-73 school year, 9th grade, was perhaps the most difficult one of my young years. Though I don't recall starving during this time, it was definitely the year that expectations began to be laid at my feet by my mom and grandmother to make up for the gaps left by my dad's repeated absences and lack of income. As my 14th birthday approached, our yearly ritual of having used up a landlord's good will commenced, and we were booted. The next house, in an extremely old and poor area of the north side, was perhaps the nadir of my adventures in relocation. Ugly, small, riddled with holes which steroid-abusing rats took advantage of to pay us nightly visits – yes, this was the cherry on top of the whipped cream of the very nasty sundae that was our housing reality. It was broiling hot in the summer, bone-chillingly cold in winter, with a perpetual smell of disintegration. To add to this scenario of perfection, it was on an over sized lot that grew like an African jungle and it fell unsurprisingly upon me to mow all of it. One day that June right after we had moved in I attempted to tackle an area that was at least two feet high. I hit what seemed to be a huge rock hidden down in the grass, but a second later the torn up remains of a turtle that landed at my feet informed me otherwise. I promptly retched, left the mower where it was, covered in turtle blood and goo, and it would stay there for 2 weeks until I recovered from the trauma. By now, the foliage was at eye level so I made a few token attempts at the edges before giving up and allowing that part of the yard to be what it wanted. The neighbors never complained, which I took as a sign that they had seen this scenario go down too many times with the revolving door of renters occupying such a crappy property.
That summer was one of the hottest I remember in Arkansas. I believe the temps stayed over 100 for several days. Without air conditioning, the temps in the house were unbearable. We got through by bringing the mattresses into the living room, training three fans on us on high, and sleeping nearly nude. Still, we would sweat for hours until the heat finally exhausted in the early morning hours. These memories are why I have never taken climate control for granted and see it as one of the pleasures that modern life has granted us.
Much of the school year was a blur, but I do remember the New Year's holiday clearly. It was the "Toby Show" on steroids. He was hooked up with a guy who had a large amount of salvaged items, specifically clothing. Dad developed the idea that he could load up the car with jackets on consignment from him and go to Dallas, then setup near the Cotton Bowl which would be played that day and ostensibly there would be high demand for them. He never stopped to think that since it was quite cold - highs in the low 30's - no one in their right mind would be in the market for a jacket since they would certainly already have one on. We drove through the night in some beaten-up jalopy he had at the time, back seats and trunk loaded with over 100 jackets. What I didn't know was that there were huge rust holes in the passenger floorboard so that when he got to highway speed blasts of frigid air began to freeze my lower limbs. Even with the heat on full blast I shivered like I was in a deep freeze the entire outbound trip. Once we arrived in Dallas, we found that there was no place to set up that wasn't already taken with parking or other people selling wares. He circled the complex several times, then resignedly turned the car back to Fort Smith, where we returned five hours later with less money than we started with. Did I mention that planning was never one of his strong suits?
Fourteen was the year my hormones went into overdrive. My fantasies about many of my female classmates became rich with imagery, a combination of romantic ideation and outright lust. But with zero self-confidence, and cursed with the bright red hair that had made me a constant target of teasing and bullying, none of these fantasies were to be fulfilled. My main crush was a girl who was seated next to me during algebra class, Sandra Howell. She was a cheerleader, with dark hair and a skin tone that made her look Irish. She was so out of my league that basic conversation seemed impossible, and her string of jock or older boyfriends further intimidated me into silence. When I finally exchanged words with her, it was predictably for my life a traumatic encounter.
Sometime in the spring months, my dad and a few of his fellow con-men had started up a company that did special promotions for the grand openings of businesses. Their entire shtick seemed to consist of dressing up in vaudevillian costumes - my dad as a mustachioed carnival barker, one friend painted as a circus clown, and another wearing a full gorilla suit. I of course was tapped for logistical support, loading and unloading the props and standing by squeamishly as they ad-libbed extremely unfunny interactions with customers of the car dealership/mini-golf franchise/car wash they were at on a typical weekend day.
Problems arose at one event at the Phoenix Mall one Saturday when Bill, the ape-suit guy, went on a bender and did not show up. Apparently his act was the straw which stirred the drink, as my dad and the clown seemed lost without having this foil to play off of. "Bobby, put the suit on," Dad finally demanded as a solution. I protested and refused to budge, but eventually his voice berating me in front of others seemed a less-embarrassing alternative, so I put the costume on. For the next hour, I did my best emulation of an ape on the loose in a suburban mall, chased by a tag team of Groucho Marx and Pennywise. What I hadn't expected was the intense heat from being inside the suit with no ventilation. I demanded a break, and took the head off. Sweet relief lasted just a few seconds as I heard a querulous female voice from behind me. "Bob?" I turned, and who else would it be but Sandra and her high-school boyfriend exiting the movie theater.
Humiliation is not nearly strong enough of a word to describe what I felt in that instant. I mumbled some nonsensical syllables, spun around and fled to the back room area from where the enterprise was being staged. Tears were running down my face when Dad came into the room demanding to know why I was crying. "Because I fucking hate this!" I yelled. He slapped my face, but the sting of that was nothing compared to once again having my self-esteem nuked. My luck with the opposite sex was destined to one day get better, but for the rest of my teen years I would remain a frustrated spectator.
I managed to string together four consecutive quarters of classroom work this school year and stayed on the honor roll the entire time. As a reward, near the end of the term, I was chosen to along with several others to be teacher for a day, an annual event where I prepared my own lesson plan and delivered it to the class, in my case English. I have little memory of the mechanics of it, but the lunch period still stands out in my mind. There was an old fashioned drive-in across the street from the campus where we could go after school to get cherry cokes and the like, but during the school day it was off-limits, punishable by suspension. I took advantage of my temporary status to nonchalantly cross Grand Avenue, go inside the dining area, and have a delicious cheeseburger and fries meal. I was the only one of our group who took advantage of the opportunity, and this foreshadowed much of my future independent/rebellious streak wherein if a rule existed, often I would break it or at least stretch it to the limits.
When 9th grade was over, I returned to the park and hateful old park manager to tend the landscape once again. Since I worked every day, I stayed out of the drama at the house mostly, but managed to get into a drama at the park which would have a long sequel of events that would play out over the next few years. My co-worker and I were in the deep drainage ditch on the northwest side of Tilles, using hand-clippers to cut weeds growing out of the cracks of the rock walls. My vision was directed toward a building across the street bordering the park, at that time a drug store. There was a car parked alongside the building, and the driver's face caught my attention, because it was shaped to me like the scrunched-up visage of a weasel. The man turned his head toward my direction, and I suppose because of seeing someone there unexpectedly, shot me a dirty look. Just as I was about to lose interest, a man garbed in a bright orange jumpsuit, carrying a leather satchel ran out of the alley space behind the drug store and jumped in the car. The driver hit the accelerator, peeled rubber and took off.
Three minutes later, we had finished the weeding and were taking a break sitting on the rock wall bordering Grand Avenue. Another car screeched to a halt in front of us, and a man jumped out and flashed a badge. He urgently asked if we had seen anything strange, that the bank a block away had been robbed. Due to the serendipity of my placement in the ditch and the strange shape of the getaway driver's face as well as the brightly-colored fashion choice of the robber, I was able in less than 60 seconds to give face, body, and attire descriptions of the men and of the car, as well as being able to point them in the westerly direction the crooks turned after speeding past the park. The information I gave the detectives allowed them to locate the car and arrest the men who had holed up in a hotel across the state line in Oklahoma. Reporters from the local newspaper interviewed the two of us, and a second detective had us write the blow-by-blow account of our involvement. I remember going home and trying to explain the happenings of that day to the family, and receiving no reaction, which made the next day even sweeter as my name and contribution to the arrest were prominently featured in the headline story of the newspaper.
After my summer job ended, we were once again in a financial bind since Dad to my memory hadn't worked for almost two years. Where the pittance that he brought in came from I have no knowledge and am glad to keep it that way, since I assume it involved something illegal. I saw an ad in the paper for a dishwasher at a truck stop on the south side of town, coerced Maw-Maw into driving me there and was given the job, only because I lied adding 2 years to my age to be the minimum of 16. My brief five months there, full-time until school began in September, and then every Friday/Saturday night after, was an education in the adult world I could never have learned in school. A nightly procession of prostitutes, uncouth truck drivers and outlaws were my professors. I soaked up the ambience, listening in on conversations while I was bussing tables, and though the work was extremely hard it remains a vivid positive memory for me. A prime lesson that stuck out for me was discovering the necessity of condoms if I were ever to be in such a situation (chances for 14 year old Bob = zero) from a drunk hooker that would often pay me attention whilst she was otherwise unoccupied out in the parking lot. It was amusing and a nice timekill. I had never been exposed to old-school country music before, but that omission was quickly corrected as the jukebox brimmed with it. I saw little of the money from my checks as it had to go for rent and food, but I often allowed myself the treat of nabbing a banana split from the ice cream truck that patrolled our neighborhood at night. The Falcon broke down in December, and I regretfully had to quit. No more "Satin Sheets" and "Behind Closed Doors" echoing in my sleep.
That summer was one of the hottest I remember in Arkansas. I believe the temps stayed over 100 for several days. Without air conditioning, the temps in the house were unbearable. We got through by bringing the mattresses into the living room, training three fans on us on high, and sleeping nearly nude. Still, we would sweat for hours until the heat finally exhausted in the early morning hours. These memories are why I have never taken climate control for granted and see it as one of the pleasures that modern life has granted us.
Much of the school year was a blur, but I do remember the New Year's holiday clearly. It was the "Toby Show" on steroids. He was hooked up with a guy who had a large amount of salvaged items, specifically clothing. Dad developed the idea that he could load up the car with jackets on consignment from him and go to Dallas, then setup near the Cotton Bowl which would be played that day and ostensibly there would be high demand for them. He never stopped to think that since it was quite cold - highs in the low 30's - no one in their right mind would be in the market for a jacket since they would certainly already have one on. We drove through the night in some beaten-up jalopy he had at the time, back seats and trunk loaded with over 100 jackets. What I didn't know was that there were huge rust holes in the passenger floorboard so that when he got to highway speed blasts of frigid air began to freeze my lower limbs. Even with the heat on full blast I shivered like I was in a deep freeze the entire outbound trip. Once we arrived in Dallas, we found that there was no place to set up that wasn't already taken with parking or other people selling wares. He circled the complex several times, then resignedly turned the car back to Fort Smith, where we returned five hours later with less money than we started with. Did I mention that planning was never one of his strong suits?
Fourteen was the year my hormones went into overdrive. My fantasies about many of my female classmates became rich with imagery, a combination of romantic ideation and outright lust. But with zero self-confidence, and cursed with the bright red hair that had made me a constant target of teasing and bullying, none of these fantasies were to be fulfilled. My main crush was a girl who was seated next to me during algebra class, Sandra Howell. She was a cheerleader, with dark hair and a skin tone that made her look Irish. She was so out of my league that basic conversation seemed impossible, and her string of jock or older boyfriends further intimidated me into silence. When I finally exchanged words with her, it was predictably for my life a traumatic encounter.
Sometime in the spring months, my dad and a few of his fellow con-men had started up a company that did special promotions for the grand openings of businesses. Their entire shtick seemed to consist of dressing up in vaudevillian costumes - my dad as a mustachioed carnival barker, one friend painted as a circus clown, and another wearing a full gorilla suit. I of course was tapped for logistical support, loading and unloading the props and standing by squeamishly as they ad-libbed extremely unfunny interactions with customers of the car dealership/mini-golf franchise/car wash they were at on a typical weekend day.
Problems arose at one event at the Phoenix Mall one Saturday when Bill, the ape-suit guy, went on a bender and did not show up. Apparently his act was the straw which stirred the drink, as my dad and the clown seemed lost without having this foil to play off of. "Bobby, put the suit on," Dad finally demanded as a solution. I protested and refused to budge, but eventually his voice berating me in front of others seemed a less-embarrassing alternative, so I put the costume on. For the next hour, I did my best emulation of an ape on the loose in a suburban mall, chased by a tag team of Groucho Marx and Pennywise. What I hadn't expected was the intense heat from being inside the suit with no ventilation. I demanded a break, and took the head off. Sweet relief lasted just a few seconds as I heard a querulous female voice from behind me. "Bob?" I turned, and who else would it be but Sandra and her high-school boyfriend exiting the movie theater.
Humiliation is not nearly strong enough of a word to describe what I felt in that instant. I mumbled some nonsensical syllables, spun around and fled to the back room area from where the enterprise was being staged. Tears were running down my face when Dad came into the room demanding to know why I was crying. "Because I fucking hate this!" I yelled. He slapped my face, but the sting of that was nothing compared to once again having my self-esteem nuked. My luck with the opposite sex was destined to one day get better, but for the rest of my teen years I would remain a frustrated spectator.
I managed to string together four consecutive quarters of classroom work this school year and stayed on the honor roll the entire time. As a reward, near the end of the term, I was chosen to along with several others to be teacher for a day, an annual event where I prepared my own lesson plan and delivered it to the class, in my case English. I have little memory of the mechanics of it, but the lunch period still stands out in my mind. There was an old fashioned drive-in across the street from the campus where we could go after school to get cherry cokes and the like, but during the school day it was off-limits, punishable by suspension. I took advantage of my temporary status to nonchalantly cross Grand Avenue, go inside the dining area, and have a delicious cheeseburger and fries meal. I was the only one of our group who took advantage of the opportunity, and this foreshadowed much of my future independent/rebellious streak wherein if a rule existed, often I would break it or at least stretch it to the limits.
When 9th grade was over, I returned to the park and hateful old park manager to tend the landscape once again. Since I worked every day, I stayed out of the drama at the house mostly, but managed to get into a drama at the park which would have a long sequel of events that would play out over the next few years. My co-worker and I were in the deep drainage ditch on the northwest side of Tilles, using hand-clippers to cut weeds growing out of the cracks of the rock walls. My vision was directed toward a building across the street bordering the park, at that time a drug store. There was a car parked alongside the building, and the driver's face caught my attention, because it was shaped to me like the scrunched-up visage of a weasel. The man turned his head toward my direction, and I suppose because of seeing someone there unexpectedly, shot me a dirty look. Just as I was about to lose interest, a man garbed in a bright orange jumpsuit, carrying a leather satchel ran out of the alley space behind the drug store and jumped in the car. The driver hit the accelerator, peeled rubber and took off.
Three minutes later, we had finished the weeding and were taking a break sitting on the rock wall bordering Grand Avenue. Another car screeched to a halt in front of us, and a man jumped out and flashed a badge. He urgently asked if we had seen anything strange, that the bank a block away had been robbed. Due to the serendipity of my placement in the ditch and the strange shape of the getaway driver's face as well as the brightly-colored fashion choice of the robber, I was able in less than 60 seconds to give face, body, and attire descriptions of the men and of the car, as well as being able to point them in the westerly direction the crooks turned after speeding past the park. The information I gave the detectives allowed them to locate the car and arrest the men who had holed up in a hotel across the state line in Oklahoma. Reporters from the local newspaper interviewed the two of us, and a second detective had us write the blow-by-blow account of our involvement. I remember going home and trying to explain the happenings of that day to the family, and receiving no reaction, which made the next day even sweeter as my name and contribution to the arrest were prominently featured in the headline story of the newspaper.
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| I returned 27 years later to the scene of the crime at Tilles Park |
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