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    17: Drugs - Sex - Crime - Jail - Survival
    17: Drugs - Sex - Crime - Jail - Survival
    17: Drugs - Sex - Crime - Jail - Survival
    Ebook74 pages1 hour

    17: Drugs - Sex - Crime - Jail - Survival

    By David Ferree

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    About this ebook

    This is a true story as told to the author by the person who lived it, who has the same first name as the author. It is about events during a two year period of the storyteller’s life when he was 16 and 17 years old. Every word of this story is true including names where they can be remembered. For people who could be still alive and might not like to be known by some of the contents of the story, only first names are used. For those that are either dead or that the storyteller just doesn’t give a damn about, full names are used wherever possible. By reading this book you will get first-hand accounts of craziness, adventure, horrible violence, drug use and crime.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateOct 22, 2014
    ISBN9781483541761
    17: Drugs - Sex - Crime - Jail - Survival

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      Book preview

      17 - David Ferree

      Copyright 2014 – David Ferree

      ISBN: 9781483541761

      This is a true story as told to the author by the person who lived it, who has the same first name as the author. It is about events during a two year period of the storyteller’s life when he was 16 and 17 years old. Every word of this story is true including names where they can be remembered. For people who could be still alive and might not like to be known by some of the contents of the story, only first names are used. For those that are either dead or that the storyteller just doesn’t give a damn about, full names are used wherever possible.

      Flash Forward

      My name is David. It’s 1972, I’m 17 years old, two months away from my 18th birthday and I’m ready to die if that’s what it comes to. I’m not in a war, I don’t have cancer, and I’m not involved in any high risk sports. I’m in jail, which is pretty much exactly where I should be for the things I’ve been doing, but maybe more importantly to stop me from doing them anymore. I’ve been here for about a week so far and not one moment has been anything other than a living hell. I believe that I could be killed at any moment, either for fighting back or for giving in, and I can’t take the stress of worrying about getting beat nearly to death or actually dying any longer so I’ve resigned myself to accept any possibility under any circumstances. So that’s where the real meat of this story starts, but first a little background by flashing back two years.

      Innocent

      I had always been a smaller kid than most of the people my own age. At age 14 and 15 I was about 5 feet tall, weighed about 90 pounds, had bright blue eyes and was growing my brown hair out over my ears while still keeping it parted on the side, making it hang in my face except for when I flipped it out of the way. Other than my size I was a more or less normal teenager, growing up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, going to school, interested in girls but not having the first clue what to do about it. I’d had a pretty sheltered life, having been kept from seeing the darker side of things by my well-meaning parents. I had been brought up in church more than anywhere else and that was where my main circle of friends and social life was centered. Up until I was about 14 I had gone to church every Sunday morning and evening, every Wednesday night, and every night during revivals; usually two or three per year. I went to church camp, bible school, was on a bible quiz team, in choir, and pretty much everything else you could imagine having to do with being from a strict religious family. I remember the first doubts about all of that creeping in when I was 12 or 13, with the usual thoughts of hey, that doesn’t really make any sense kind of thing that most people go through at some point. It was after that when I started allowing myself to think in terms other than that I was surely going to hell if I screwed up so bad that there would be no redemption, such as thinking out loud any of my doubting thoughts. One thing I always had drilled into me was that denying God would be an irreversible sin; one from which there could be no return, ever. But at about 14 I did anyway. I still don’t know for sure how that’s going to turn out.

      I was an absolutely horrible student. I was somewhat of an outcast due to my size, my only real life being outside of school, and my bewildered feeling that everyone else was in on some kind of secret joke where they actually didn’t believe the things they said because the things they said were so freaking stupid. I spent most of my day staring out the classroom windows, or drawing things in my text books or in my notebook. More often than not, when the teacher asked me a question in class about whatever it was he or she was talking about, I would say I didn’t hear that part, sorry. They always looked so disappointed in me but I didn’t care. I just didn’t care about school at all. I did so poorly with my grades that I ended up repeating the 8th grade, which added a lot to my feeling of being an outcast. And yet there were moments that gave me a little bit of smug satisfaction, like when there would be a test and I’d get 100% on it without having studied or having listened to a single thing the teacher said. It was in 8th grade in fact that the science teacher, Mr. Lytle, called me out into the hall after scoring a test to ask me where I got the answers because I aced it and most everyone else had flunked. I told him it was just common sense stuff, that I just figured it out. He never trusted me after that and it pissed me off, but also gave me a feeling of being some kind of superior reject. Then there was the time the Assistant Principal called me into her office after a school-wide aptitude test to tell me she had a bone to pick with me, and she really looked angry. This was during my second round of the 8th grade. She told me that I had scored the highest ever in the school’s history on the aptitude test and wanted to know what the problem was, what was wrong with me. All I could do was to shrug and say I didn’t know, which was really pretty much the truth.

      Sometime late in the 9th grade or early summer just after, I was beginning to open up a bit in the way of being a social person. It was a really a fairly fast transition from feeling like outcast dork boy to actually having glimpses of the possibility of being some cool and maybe even popular guy, triggered by one single occurrence. That occurrence was when I saw two girls looking at me, then whispering to each other and giggling. This was after a church function in a small town that we had gone to for a revival, or to hear one of my Uncles or my Grandfather preach, or because my Mom was singing in her trio; could have been any of those. My reaction to the girls giggling at me was as it had always been, which was to think that they were making fun of me for

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