One of Eleven, a true story about finding your way

One of Eleven

a true story about finding your way

Jerry D. Forristal

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Jerry D. Forristal

The names and identifying details of some individuals in this book have been changed to protect their privacy.

A portion of the author’s proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to charities that support the lives and dreams of poor children throughout the U.S.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the proprietary work of this author.

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For my mother, Alice

To my daughters, Lauren, Stephanie & Kristen

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In memory of my father, Bernard, and best friend, Jimmy

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Contents

One | Middle of Nowhere

Two | Garage Sale Shirts

Three | The Greatest Summer

Four | Jumping Jimmy

Five | Show Me the Way

Six | Chilly California Sand

Seven | A Kiss for Dad

Eight | Shagfest and Heartbreak

Nine | Lost and Found

Ten | All or Nothing

Eleven | Finding Her, Finding Me

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One | Middle of Nowhere

I’ve met people from all over the world who swear that Kansas is in the middle of nowhere.

It’s true.

Kansas is in the middle of nowhere.

And I grew up in the middle of the middle of nowhere.

A small, rural town of about thirty-five thousand people called Salina, which is located pretty close to the center of Kansas, and surrounded by miles and miles of nowhereness.

Salina, they always say. I know Salina. We stopped there to get gas on our way to…. Fill in the blank. Usually somewhere west like Colorado or California, maybe Vegas.

No one ever stopped at Salina to stay in Salina. They got gas, went to the bathroom, grabbed a pop and some chips, and hopped right back onto I-70 to continue the longest, flattest, most boring drive of their lives.

Yeah, I always say, I know a lot of people who’ve stopped there to get gas. In fact, I actually grew up just a mile or so from that gas station.

I always feel an uncomfortable mix of pride and shame when I say it.

I think, Yeah, that’s my hometown and it’s kind of cool that you’ve been there. And, Um yeah, that’s where I spent the first nineteen years of my life, completely oblivious to the rest of the world, and too timid to ever think about leaving.

Our house, a small, pale green, one-story ranch with a tiny square porch and white metal shutters, was one of eight or so located on a dusty, dirt road off of Old Highway 40, just outside the town's city limits. Out front there was a half-circle gravel drive, and a single willow tree that hung over a shallow ditch that ran the length of the yard. Past the ditch and across the dirt road was nothing but acres and acres of wheat fields, except for a few rusty piles of old farm equipment that were scattered around Mr. Wagner's grain elevators just on the other side of the barb-wire fence.

The only good thing about our little house wasn't even in the house. It was our back yard, a half-acre rectangle that had enough space for a patio with a picnic table, a huge garden behind the unattached garage, a simple wooden fort and basketball court, a small metal swing set, and a cellar with a huge slab of concrete on the top with a clothesline and tether-ball nearby. And even with all of this, we still had a huge open stretch of grass and dirt in the center where we played endless hours of football and other games.

Growing up, my ten brothers and sisters and I spent a lot more time in the back yard than we did in the house. Mom and Dad never had to tell us to go outside. And it didn't matter what the weather was like. We only stayed inside long enough to eat dinner.

As the ninth child, my very first memory was the cold winter morning that Mom told me I had to move out of her room and start sleeping in the bottom bunk bed with my older sister, Janet.

I was about three and a half, and can still remember feeling very unhappy and conflicted.

Honey, Mom said, You’re a big boy now. It will be fun.

I just stood there staring at her in complete disbelief, thinking, No it won’t. I’ve just gotten too big for the second crib. And you just don’t love me as much as you love Brenda and John.

Brenda, my younger sister, was two and a half. And John, the baby of the family, was one and a half.

Honey, Mom chuckled, you’re just going to be across the hall. It’s not a big deal.

But that’s really far away! I protested. What if I have a scary dream?

Janet will be with you. You’re not going to be all by yourself.

But Janet is so big! She’s going to squish me!

Oh, don’t be so silly. If you don’t want to sleep with Janet, you can sleep on top with Joyce.

But Joyce is mean, and she’ll push me off!

Joyce is not going to push you off. And you can sleep on the inside near the wall so there’s no way you can fall off.

But then I’ll be next to the scary clowns!

Honey, they’re just pictures! And they’re not scary. They’re funny. Don’t be so silly.

Sure, I thought, you’ve never seen those things in the dark.

Can’t I just sleep on your floor? I whined.

I knew Mom loved me, but she had made it very clear. It was time for me to get out and that was it.

I immediately started taking my frustration out on Brenda and John.

Every time I caught Brenda alone in the hallway, I pushed her down and took her bottle.

When the big kids were in school and John was sleeping, I’d corner her in the playroom and take her bottle again.

It was always her bottle, never her toys.

We used to be best buddies, sleep pals, but now she was my mortal enemy. Because of her I had to sleep in the stupid bunk bed, and she needed to pay.

But I knew better than to mess with John.

He was Mom’s little baby boy. Number eleven. The last one she was going to have. And she always seemed to have ten eyes in the back of her head when he was around.

If I could take his bottle, I would, but I usually got caught or he’d start wailing so loudly I had no choice but to shove it back into his grubby little mouth.

A few months after that, Joyce turned six and had to start going to first grade which meant she’d be gone all day and I’d get to be in charge.

I was slowly getting used to sleeping in the bottom bunk bed with Janet, and my resentment towards Brenda and John was starting to subside, but I was still on edge around Joyce and was delighted to be free of her most of the day.

Joyce was the undisputed leader of our little gang, the four little ones everyone called us. But, she had a vicious temper and could be incredibly bossy. If you pushed her too far, she’d quickly slam you on your back and dig her knees into your arms, exposing your face to a potentially devastating assault.

She never let loose with the full fury of her punches. But, she always made the point of holding her left fist up really high just to remind you that she could have completely destroyed you.

On the weekends, and after she got home from school, Joyce was in charge. But during school, I ran things.

And, growing up, I don’t remember walking anywhere. We were always running. Without our shoes on. Indoors and outdoors. On the grass and sand and rocks. Down the dirt road, across the fields, through the ditches, on the roofs of our house and garage. It didn’t matter where we were or what we were doing. We were country kids and we were born to run free.

Every Tuesday morning, John and Brenda and I would scramble into the way back of our old, beat up station wagon for the weekly trip to the food warehouse and pastry shop. And as soon as we got to the warehouse, we’d jump out of the car and sprint across the parking lot, racing to get the best spot on the front of the big, flat, wooden trolley that Mom pushed around the warehouse.

No one in the store seemed to care that we weren’t wearing any shoes, or that Mom was chain smoking as we cruised down each aisle picking up stacks of bulk food items. Mom would load our trolley with sacks of flour, and oatmeal, instant potatoes, canned fruits and vegetables, hamburger, whole chickens, cans of tuna, Kool-Aid, and powdered milk. The warehouse was enormous, and when we weren’t riding on the trolley we were running four aisles ahead to find our favorite items.

Mom, can we get some of this cereal? I’d ask.

No.

Can we get some chips?

No.

How about some cookies or ice cream?

No!

Candy?

No! Now stop being silly, we need to leave.

Next we’d drive to the pastry shop. It was the highlight of our entire week. But, it wasn’t really a real pastry shop. It was a tiny second hand store that specialized in day old bread.

We never went to the nice stores for bread and pastries. But we didn’t care. We didn’t even know what day old or second hand meant. Mom bought honey buns and dinky Twinkies and cream-filled chocolate cupcakes. We were in Heaven. The fact that most of them were half-crushed was completely irrelevant to us. They were delicious. And best of all, we were the first to eat them since all the older kids were still in school.

But after three o'clock, everything changed.

The three of us had to jump back into the station wagon for the long, ten minute drive to pick the older kids up from school. It always took forever, and when we finally pulled up into the big parking lot, we had to just sit there and wait. Then our brothers and sisters would slowly start walking towards our station wagon, usually in order of age, from youngest to oldest. First we’d see Joyce, followed by Janet who was in third grade, Steve who was in fourth, and then Gary who was in sixth. The oldest boys, Mike and Tom, were already in high school. Mike was a junior and Tom was a freshman. They usually showed up at home soon after we did, but they never stuck around for very long.

The oldest two in the family, Susie and Patty, had already moved out. Patty got married just days after high school graduation and moved all the way to California with her new husband, Mike. Susie was taking classes at Kansas Wesleyan, the local college in Salina, and living in the dorms. I didn’t see Susie very often, and when I did it was usually when she came out to watch us so Mom and Dad could go for a ride.

We’re going for a ride, Mom would always say. Just going for a ride.

I never understood why she and Dad always went on their rides, leaving us at home with Susie and the big kids. What could they possibly be talking about that whole time? I always thought.

When we got home, our favorite thing to do as the four little ones was to pretend we were the four big ones. Joyce was always Susie, I was Mike, Brenda was Patty, and John was Tom. We usually started the game in the station wagon and, as the oldest, Joyce always got to drive.

Susie would usually kick things off by saying something like, Hey, sorry guys, but I need to drive to class.

Yeah, Mike would say, and when we get back, I still have to fix that stupid engine.

Oh yeah, Patty would say, well me and Mike are going to the drive-in later tonight.

And, I’m going hunting first thing tomorrow morning and getting me a squirrel, Tom would say.

Hey, guys, Susie would laugh, let’s drag up and down Santa Fe Street!

Yeah! Let’s go! Let’s go!

We’d pick any random place in Salina and just keep pretending.

Do you like my new jeans?

Yeah, they’re really cool!

Do you like my new shoes?

Yeah, they’re great!

Uh oh, we better get home before Dad gets mad and whips out his belt!

Oh no, not his belt!

We should hide his belt.

Yeah, but he never takes it off.

Oh yeah.

So where should we go next?

The four of us entertained ourselves for hours pretending to be our older siblings. And when we weren’t them, we were usually the Bay City Rollers. S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night! As Janet watched the forty-five turn, we would stand on the dining room chairs in the middle of the living room, bobbing and weaving, jamming with tennis rackets or brooms, and screaming at the top of our lungs.

Eventually we added some drums using Mom’s Tupperware bowls. And I even started making up some of my own music. But, the other band members thought I was trying to make too many changes and refused to rehearse my material with me.

Before long, as the band slowly disintegrated, it seemed the only thing the four little ones could agree on was that Janet was becoming a major pain in our asses and, like it or not, we’d have to stick together to survive her hormonal wrath. I had special reason to be concerned with Janet’s increased bullying because I had to sleep with her every night. If she went to bed pissed off, I could count on several quick, sharp elbows being slammed into my skeleton frame. She was twice my size and could easily pin me against the wall, so crying out to Mom and Dad was never an option.

But, Janet wasn’t fully to blame for her increasingly aggressive behavior. She had several things going against her. First, she was one of the three middle kids who only got attention from Mom and Dad when they did something horribly wrong. Her age also made her a bit of a misfit. She was too old to be interested in most of the four little one activities. And because she was younger, and a girl, she was typically ignored by Gary and Steve, the other two neglected middle children. They just had absolutely no interest in her. It seemed Steve was only interested in beating the crap out of her when she annoyed him, and Gary was only interested in beating the crap out of Steve for beating the crap out of Janet.

Unfortunately, Janet was also very big for her age. And incredibly awkward and unattractive. By the time she was ten, her nose was already the size of Dad’s. And she had long, stringy, brown hair, and humongous hands and big, round glasses.

Our twelve-year old neighbor, Bill Stoker, was a total asshole and used to pick on Janet relentlessly. So much so that Steve had to start beating the crap out of Bill too. Steve smacked Janet all the time, but if he saw Bill do it, Bill was a dead man.

One time, Bill strung a thick string across the dirt road in front of our house and as Steve sped down the road on our mini-dirt bike, the string caught him right in the neck and knocked him completely off the bike.

At first, Steve wasn’t sure who did it so he naturally suspected Janet. And who could blame him after all the beatings he had given her? So Steve jumped up and started wailing on Janet, only to find out minutes later that Bill was the culprit.

Bill! Steve screamed. You motherfucker! I’m going to kick your fucking ass!

Bill tried to run, but he was too fat and slow and Steve was lightning quick. His only chance was to try to scratch Steve’s eyeballs out, which he nearly did, before Steve threw him down in our ditch out front and proceeded to apply the Joyce maneuver. Arms pinned to the side of his head, Steve’s knees dug into his arms, poor Bill was helpless.

But, unlike Joyce, Steve wasn’t interested in just humiliating him. Bill took the beating of his life that day and never bothered Janet, or any of the rest of us, again.

The summer after my fifth birthday, my whole world was turned upside down. I had to leave home and start going to kindergarten, and I was completely miserable. And scared to death. It wasn’t just any kindergarten. It was Hawthorne. In the north part of Salina. Where all the tough kids went. Everything about it, even the Halloween colors of the dark bricks and orange playground equipment, was scary. Even the name was terrifying. Hawthorne.

I still remember the first long, excruciating walk into the school, gripping Mom’s hand as Brenda and John trailed behind skipping and giggling.

This completely blows, I thought. I know I have to go to school but why does it have to be here? And why does it have to be now? Why today, of all days?

Mom simply said, Goodbye, honey.

I didn't say anything. I didn’t even watch her leave. I just stood there feeling extremely pissed off.

I wanted to start screaming and cussing, using all the really bad words that I always heard Steve and Gary say. But I didn’t.

As soon as I got to the classroom, I knew I hated everything about it. I hated the teacher. I hated all the stupid kids around me. I hated the desks. I even hated the windows, and the floors, and the door. Because I was one of the last kids to arrive, I was given one of the desks towards the back. I imagined it was what they made convicts sit in all day in jail. It was right next to the back corner door that led out to the playground. Playground, I thought. Freedom. That was the only thing good about that desk.

I remember only a few things that happened at Hawthorne. And none of them were good.

On the second day of class, I hopped on a swing and started swinging as high as I could. I thought, Maybe if I get going fast enough, I’ll fly right the hell out of here. If I don’t make it all the way home, at least I can land somewhere really far away with a running start and never come back.

But suddenly, a monster of a kid grabbed my swing and yanked me to a complete stop.

I stopped breathing, became very quiet, alert.

He was a huge black boy. He had arms the size of tree trunks. He was going to kill me. He snarled at me. What the hell do you think you’re doing on my swing, punk?

I looked down, didn’t answer. I just held my breath and prayed that he’d go away.

Hey, I’m talking to you stupid! he screamed. Get the hell off my swing!

I was frozen. I was no longer in the realm of reality.

Wham!

He shoved me so hard that I flew off the swing and landed on my back near the chain-link fence.

When I got up, he was swinging on my swing like nothing happened, just talking to his friends while they all stared at me as if to say, Yeah, dumb shit, now get the hell out of here.

My shirt was torn on the back, just under my right shoulder, but I was alive.

It didn’t even hurt that much, I thought.

I kept my gaze on the ground and slowly and quietly walked back into the classroom.

At home later that afternoon, I was standing next to Mom as she was cleaning the dishes. Dad had just gotten home and, as always, he was behind her rubbing her butt. It was part of their ritual for saying Hello when he got home from work.

Since my head was at the same height as Mom’s butt, I would always watch him patting it and then rubbing it in a circular motion.

He had just heard me telling her the whole story about the mean giant who had catapulted me off the swing at school. He sat down at the dining room table and started sifting through the day’s mail. When I sat down on the other side, he started staring at me with a really stern look on his face.

Look, he said, next time that happens, just get out of the swing and walk away.

I was floored.

I thought, What the hell?

But it was my swing. That kid had no right yanking me to a stop and making me get out. Have you ever even swung in a swing? There are rules you know. Like taking turns.

He clearly didn’t get it.

Then he said, And I don’t want you ever saying anything bad about someone because of the color of their skin, you hear. He’s no different than you are.

I just sat there glaring at him. My blood was beginning to boil. That kid was nothing like me. He was mean. He had arms the size of telephone poles. He ripped one of my favorite shirts. I only had three or four school shirts. And it was only the second day of class!

What the hell is wrong with you? I thought.

The school year actually passed by fairly quickly, but my hatred never waned. I had concluded that the only good thing about school was going home after school.

But one day, to my complete horror, I discovered that even going home after school could be a total nightmare.

That day Susie was supposed to pick me up from school. I think it was the only day she picked me up all year. I remember standing outside on the sidewalk waiting for her.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Finally, as I looked around, I realized that there was no one else there. I was the last one.

Oh crap, I thought, being the last one at Hawthorne was definitely not good. Where the hell is stupid Susie? Is she even coming? OK. Crap. Do I even know how to get home? Yes. It’s easy. Go that way until the light with the vegetable garden on the corner. Turn right and then walk like forever and ever until I see Gardner’s ranch on my left. I’ll have to be sure to stay off the highway so I don’t get run over.

I started walking and the further I walked, the faster I walked. And the faster I walked, the more confident I became. I was going to walk all the way home and then I was going to tell Mom that Susie was a stupid idiot.

After I turned the corner, however, things started getting really scary. I was getting further and further away from the stores and people. Pretty soon I would be walking along the highway where some mean guy might pull over and kidnap me. I imagined he’d be really dirty and reek of beer and cigarettes. He’d have greasy hair and a lot of rough whiskers because he hadn’t taken a bath or shaven in at least two months.

I started to half-walk, half-jog. I thought, Maybe I should skip so it looks like I’m having fun, not scared at all. Stay still, I chastised myself. Don’t panic, you can do this. You’re fast, faster than some old guy who’ll pull over and kidnap you. And what’s he going to do anyway? Just leave his car on the side of the road running when you take off sprinting across the fields.

I was getting stressed out and feeling very conflicted. Was I doing the right thing? Where was Susie?!

Suddenly a car slowed down and I felt a window being rolled down.

Honey, are you OK? Where’s your Mom? Do you need a ride home?

I looked up and it was the face of my guardian angel. I recognized her. She was the mom of a kid I saw at school all the time. Their car was really nice. It looked brand new.

Um, well, I said, my sister was supposed to pick me up today, but I think she forgot.

Well, all right, the lady replied, why don’t you just hop in and we’ll make sure you get home, OK?

Um, OK.

I opened the door and got in the front seat. The kid in the back was leaning over the seat and I could feel him staring at me.

Great, I thought, now this stupid kid is going to tell everyone at school tomorrow. God damn Susie.

Just then, God damn Susie flew by going the other way.

I jumped up on my knees and turned my head to look through the back window.

That’s my sister! I shouted.

Where, honey? Your sister?

Yeah, she just stopped at that light back there!

Oh, OK, I’ll just turn around. Hold on.

A few seconds later, as we pulled up beside Susie, I looked over and felt both relieved and terrified. She’s going to be so pissed when she finds out I walked home. I’m going to be in such huge trouble. But it’s her fault!

Excuse me, Miss, the lady said, I think I have your little brother in my car.

Susie looked over. She stared at the woman and then at me.

Oh Jesus, OK, sorry, Susie replied.

Jerry, get over here!

Thank you, I mumbled as I scrambled out of the passenger-side door and sprinted over to our car to get in before the light turned green.

What were you thinking?!