A Man Named Dave (6 page)

I took a long, deep breath. As I inhaled, I felt clean. I could feel my entire body relax. I suddenly felt as if I could curl up in a big, soft bed and sleep forever. For the first time in nearly half a year I found myself at peace. In front of me the Turn-boughs sat hand in hand. I gently placed my hands around theirs. “As far as I’m concerned,
Mom,”
I said as I gazed into Alice’s eyes,
“and Dad,”
I said, looking at Harold, “I’ve enlisted in the United States Air Force. I leave next week. Any questions?”

The Boeing 727’s sudden downward lurch shook me from my trance. I blinked, struggling to focus on the San Antonio skyline outside the airplane window. The more I stared through the Plexiglas, the more the faces and serenity of my parents faded away. I was on the threshold of my new life. I took a deep breath, then smiled.
And so it begins!

Air force basic training was no cakewalk, but after stumbling through the first two weeks, I began to get into the groove and felt comfortable with the expectations of my drill sergeants, which in an odd sense reminded me of living with Mother. I had sense enough to keep a low profile and never make eye contact with the instructors whenever they lashed out at my squadron. I performed my duties as quickly and precisely as possible, and, most important, I made certain to keep my stuttering mouth clamped shut. Whenever I had a free moment, I’d crank out epic letters of my
mis
adventures to my foster parents, my “aviation mentor” Michael Marsh from my days in foster care, and my father. Every day in the late afternoon our squadron received mail call, and every day my heart pounded with excitement. But the only letters I received regularly were crumpled ones addressed to my father with RETURN TO SENDER stamped on the envelope. After a few weeks I gave up trying to reach Father through the mail, so I tried to keep close to him through my prayers.

After saying my evening prayers I would roll over, feeling relieved that I had truly escaped Mother’s tangled web of hate and deceit. I knew she could no longer manipulate or harm me in any way. For the first time in my life, I was my own person. I had finally locked Mother away in the deep recesses of my mind. I felt so elated, my lifelong quest no longer seemed that important. I was free.

At night, though, I discovered, as I had in foster care, that The Mother still lived in my dreams. As always, she would stand before me like a marble statue at the end of a long hallway. I stood in front of her – in full view and helpless – but somehow thinking her sculpture could do me no harm. And then her eyes blink open. She smiles before gazing down at her bony hand and pulling out a gleaming silver carving knife. I know I should do something, anything, but my fear paralyzes any defenses. In slow motion The Mother steps toward me. Her glazed eyes pierce my soul. A split second before her foot touches the floor, I turn and flee down the hallway at full speed. As my heart races, I know I am miles ahead of The Mother, but I can somehow feel her presence inches behind me. I run forever, but there is no escape. I frantically hunt for a way out of the maze-like corridors, but I stumble and fall into a void. Above me The Mother stands poised, revealing her yellow teeth and putrid, steamy breath. As I look into her eyes for mercy, her expression seems to laugh before she raises her arm and lunges at me. I close my eyes as the shiny-silvered knife flings from The Mother’s hand and flies through the air. I empty my lungs, screeching,
“Why…?”

“
Hey, Pelz, wake up, man!” my air force “bunk buddy”, Randy, whispered low enough so no one else could hear. “You havin’ one of those dreams again.”

I wiped the sticky sweat from my forehead as I scanned the outline of the sleeping bay of my fellow airmen. I thanked God that I didn’t wake up my squad, let alone the entire training base. I checked my chest, making certain that The Mother had not crossed over and stabbed me. I thanked Randy for his concern, then spent the remainder of the night sitting on the edge of my cot.

The next morning after inspection, my drill instructor summoned me into his office. As I stood at attention in front of his desk, I became so terrified that my body began to weave. I kept my eyes glued straight ahead and held my breath, praying the instructor had no idea of my latest anxiety attack. “At ease, airman,” the master sergeant commanded. “Says here,” he stated as he casually read, “in last night’s report… you had one of your episodes … again. Third time this week.
What’s your problem?
You homesick for Momma?”

As my mind raced for an answer, I somehow had enough sense to evade the truth. Instead I bellowed, “Negative, sir! I’m not homesick, not for a moment, sir!” I glanced down at the sergeant, who wasn’t fazed by my off-the-cuff response. My lips trembled as I tried to make up for lost ground. “Won’t happen again, sir! Ever!” I promised in a quavering voice.

“Make certain it doesn’t,
airman.
Damn sure! Understand this,” the master sergeant said as he shot up from his chair and stood inches in front of my nose, “the United States Air Force has no room
whatsoever
for whiny little momma’s boys. Our sole objective, our sole purpose, is to protect the freedom of this nation’s democracy.
Is that clear?
If you can’t handle the magnitude of that responsibility, then get out! If you continue on your present course, I will have no alternative but to have you undergo psychiatric evaluation for possible medical discharge.
Do I make myself clear …
Airman
Pelzer?
”

I swallowed hard. “Crystal clear, sir!” But even as the words came out of my mouth, I could feel my “master plan” evaporating. In my mind, I could see my dream – my log cabin, with Father and me sitting on the porch or fishing together on the Russian River – fading away. After being dismissed by my drill instructor, I gave a crisp salute and marched out of his office. Immediately I fled to the latrine and threw up. On my hands and knees I cursed myself for allowing Mother to continue controlling me. I became filled with shame.

After wiping away the vomit, I became furious – not at Mother but with myself. Everything I had accomplished –from studying books on big adventure in the darkness of Mother’s garage to working endless hours as a teenager at fast-food restaurants – was to somehow better myself and to prepare myself to live a better life, a
real life.
If I was kicked out of the air force, it was
my
fault, not anyone else’s. Therefore, as the sergeant had stressed in his underlying message:
I had to do something to change my present course.

That morning I schemed to come up with a way to somehow save me from another
episode
and a possible lifetime of disgrace. To be booted out of the armed forces for having immature, childish dreams was not an option. Since I’d been having the nightmares in the early hours of the morning and my bunk buddy, Randy, was a slight sleeper, I bribed him to wake me at the first sign of trouble. But after a couple of nights, I felt I was stretching Randy’s Southern generosity to its limit. So I decided to volunteer for the guard-duty shift that began at two a.m. until reveille at six a.m. My idea was an immediate success, but days later my lack of sleep made it impossible for me to concentrate on my academics. Whenever I’d study my manuals in class, the words became blurred and ran together. I’d slump forward at my desk only to be awakened by a furious drill sergeant. During parade practice I’d misstep nearly every move and was soon abandoned to practice precision movements alone in the blistering Texas sun, so not to further embarrass my squadron. I was ridiculed by my air force instructors for my lack of concentration and never ending clumsiness.

But I refused to cave in. I didn’t mind being condemned; if anything, my weakness in certain areas kept my mind off my inner struggles. As long as I kept myself out of the shrink’s office, I would have gladly practiced my marching routine barefoot on the searing tarmac.

Because of my awkwardness and the spreading rumors of my nightmares, I found myself isolated from my squadron, which had begun to break into cliques. The only friends I had were the ones assigned with me for latrine duty. During the latter part of training, our class was awarded afternoon weekend passes. I refused mine and stayed behind to catch up on my studies, practice my marching movements in the long, empty hallways, starch-iron my uniforms to a razor’s edge, and polish my boots with a wet cotton ball until they had a mirror finish. Hours later, groups of my squadron returned, bragging about their adventure of sneaking beers and showing off their dress-blue uniforms to the local girls. I simply counted the days until I could begin my training as a fireman. More important I mentally counted the money I had saved by remaining at the barracks. The more dollars I began to hoard, the more my pride grew with the fact that I was finally getting a foothold on buying my home on the Russian River.

During the last week of basic training, as I reported to the career counselor’s office for my fireman position, I knew by the distant look on the sergeant’s face that my goal was not meant to be. Without looking at me, the counselor rummaged through a stack of forms and mumbled, “Airman … there was a slight holdup in your specialty request, and, well, by the time it was rectified, well … don’t ask me why, but these things happen … so …” As the sergeant’s words trailed off, I could feel a sense of doom hanging over me.

For a moment I thought my paperwork problems were due to my constant screw-ups and the ever-looming “psych eval”. I shook my head clear, praying that the sergeant was somehow toying with me and that this was a trick the career counselors played on young, gullible airmen. “Sir, I don’t understand. What is it you’re saying, sir?”

The sergeant cleared his throat and stated that all firefighter positions had been filled.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I can wait.”

“Negative!” the counselor shot back. “There are no available positions.
You,”
he said, jabbing a finger in front of my plastic black-rimmed glasses,
“are not,
I repeat,
are not,
going to be a fireman!”

Breaking all rules of protocol, I blurted, “But… that’s what I signed up for. That’s why I joined. I –”

“I am sorry,” the sergeant broke in. “I truly am. But mission necessities come first –”

“But, sir!” I interrupted, “it took me forever to get in … to fill out all that paperwork, passing the interviews…. This can’t happen. I mean, my whole life, all I wanted… . My father!” I shrieked. “He was a –”

“At ease! Stand down, airman,” the sergeant snapped. “The air force couldn’t care less what
you
want! Listen,” he spoke in a softer tone, “I realize your position. I’ve got half a dozen other troops outside this office with the same problem. You knew when you enlisted that mission necessity has priority. So, for now, the air force dictates that it needs 622105.”

“622105?” I asked as I leaned closer to his desk.

The sergeant nipped through a manual, matching the coded numbers with the job description. I knew by his reaction that I was in for another shock. “Uh, food service specialist.”

“Sir?” I asked, shaking my head.

“A cook, Airman Pelzer. You’ll be a cook. Come on,” the sergeant said in a cheerful voice, “it’s a slack job. You go in for a few hours, then you go home – nine to five. Bankers’ hours. It’s a cakewalk. Hey, at most bases you’re in charge of the civilians; they’re the ones who cook, they do all the work. You’ll just supervise!”

“So … in my off time I can go to college or get a part-time job?” I inquired. I had instantly accepted my fate and somehow was trying to formulate a plan to turn my negative setback into a positive outcome.

“Listen,” the counselor said, “you’ll have so much time on your hands, you’ll be bored stiff – that is, unless you get assigned to a field unit. Then you’ll work your tail off in some godforsaken boondocks. But hey, I’ve yet to see that happen. Don’t sweat it. In three years, if you keep your nose clean, you can cross-train and then become a fireman.”

“But if I stay in, I wanna fly. That’s why I gotta go to college,” I said.

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Not to worry. Just sign this paper that I briefed you in this little snafu. And don’t worry, you keep pluggin’ away. Things have a way of turning up. Aim high!”

Without hesitation I snatched a pen and scribbled my name, rank, and date. I found it strange that after my months of intense longing, my life’s course was again heading in a direction in which I had no control. I felt completely helpless. My childhood ambitions were instantly erased with a stroke of a pen. Afterward, I stared at the cheap, black ballpoint that had U.S. GOVERNMENT stamped on it and flung it on top of a stack of papers. I was so numb that I strolled out of the office without being dismissed, let alone saluting my superior.

Weeks after graduating basic training and being transferred to my specialty training base, the shock of serving in the air force as a mere cook began to fade away. I was so ashamed that I didn’t tell my foster parents. I wrestled with the fact that I had, in a sense, failed my father. I knew being a firefighter meant the world to him, and he had seemed so proud when I phoned him days before I enlisted. I had wanted so badly to impress him, to surprise him that David Pelzer – the unwanted one, the child called “It” – would someday be entrusted with saving the lives of others, like my once-upon-a-time hero … my dad.

The more I had boasted to Father on the phone that day about my worldly plans of obtaining a degree in fire science after my initial qualification training, the more happy he seemed. His violent coughing attacks, caused by a lifetime of smoking, eased for a few moments, and his voice seemed less tense and more warm. I nearly broke down and cried after he let out a strained laugh, saying how proud he was of me. “You’re going to make good, Tiger. You’ll be fine.” I clutched the phone with both hands and pressed it against my ear at the mention of the word “Tiger.” As a young boy, before my world had turned black, the highest compliment Father could pay his adoring children was the word Tiger. After I hung up the phone, I stood mesmerized. After all these years Father had still remembered a single precious word. I felt from the bottom of my soul how desperately I craved to someday make both Mother and Father proud. But more so, I had hoped that by becoming a fireman, I would somehow ease the loneliness and pain I felt that Father had lived with every day – because of a son, a wife, and a family
he could not, would not save.