This is a part of a longer story and a series of vignettes... I was a 12 year old run-away...the Father of all lights was with me then and lives in me and in some terribly dark times, the angels walked with the little boy fleeing abuse... Transistor Radio by Bruce Owens This was the second time I took off, ran away, fled, beat it, and scrammed. Call it what you will, but it is like jumping out of an airplane, a free-fall into the unknown. The lone stretch of highway is like a deck of cards. You do not know what hand is going to be dealt. I walked forever until nightfall. The two-lane highway went straight into the night. The trees and underbrush turned from dusk colors to black shapes. In between the cars, and the bright headlights there was a total silence, and only my small feet on the edge of the asphalt told me I was still on the highway. When a car raced up from behind, I quickly slipped off to the side of the road. What did I appear to be in the headlights of those strangers that passed by in the night as I walked west? Did any one spot the little boy in a jacket with a cap, that slipped off the highway or was I just some shadow momentarily caught in their periphery as they sped by? I will never know. I was glad the cars were far, and few in between. When they sped up from behind, I feared for my life, and when the cars came at me, the white light blinded me. When it was silent, the night pressed in on me, and another kind of fear took hold, but thank God I had a little plastic transistor radio in my jacket pocket. I put the earplug in, and tuned out the night. I was adrift in sounds, and voices of the radio world. I was safe here with the voice of the all night radio announcer, and the hip-hop station. The radio transformed the real world I was walking through into a spoof. The radio became a refuge, an island with voices, and music. I could imagine how civilians felt that were trapped behind enemy lines, and their only contact with the free world was the radio. There could be no value placed on the radio. Another blinding flash of headlights, then silence of the woods at the edge of the highway, but I was elsewhere, even if my feet drifted along the hard asphalt as my body continued to press westward away from the brutality that was home life in the suburban track house in Toms River, New Jersey. Hitchhiking was taboo, a subject spoken about at school on safe conduct that evoked Jack the Ripper scenes in our not fully developed cortex, and caused our imagination to run wild while doodling on paper with your test scores from math. Along with math, and the sciences, my classmates, and I were briefed on the horrible consequences that would happen by getting into a car with a stranger, who lured an innocent child with candies. It all sounded like a fairy tale, but there was that element of terror, as when watching the man slowly turned into a werewolf, a chill, would set your hair on end. I was exhausted from walking along the highway in the night with trees looming up around me whispering, and that is what drove me to stick out my thumb to try, and hitch a ride. Desperation is coupled with daring, and a small boy hitchhiking a lone stretch of straight highway at night is an invitation to end up as a missing persons report or your name in news ink being splashed with coffee as someone read the morning paper with a nonchalant glance at the obituary column. There my thumb was extended out into the glare of on coming headlights as if it were a small ornament, an extended roadside sign the size of a half ate candy bar. Many cars flew past, and faded into the night. I was loosing hope. How soon we forget the luxury of our automobiles. All that Yankee Doodle stuff fades when you are down to hurting feet, and a transistor radio. By now the little plastic plug in my ear caused a slight throbbing that bounce like the ball over each word in a song. Another car zoomed past…but came to a quick stop. Everything was suspended for a moment, and in that split second every horrid thought about strangers filled my small head: they would find my body parts scattered in the woods or even worst, I would be buried alive, and the remembrance of me would fade into oblivion like the dinosaur. The car slowly backed up. I was looking at a mans face through the passenger window that had been rolled down. I was being offered a lift. Conversely, this guy might be an angel in disguise like they taught in Sunday school. His face was round, and pleasant, but the eyes were werewolf eyes…no just ordinary eyes full of concern. I dont know why I slip into the front seat against all my grammar school training, and gut fear. Very possibly I accepted the lift because this automobile offered haven for our kind, and was not linked to the night, and the looming trees that whispered, and had eyes. Then again, maybe this guy wasnt Jack the Ripper, but truly an angel of sorts. * Philadelphia and the airport was my destination. I think I had plotted my course over a map back at the house. Maps always fascinated me: the names of places, mountains, rivers, but this one-dimensional unfolded scan of the land lack the essence of a three-dimensional holograph full of birds, trees, mid-day traffic, a funeral procession, laughter, hot coffee, nor (as I rode along in the real world) the interior warmth of a car. I was scared. A three-word sentence echoing back at me magnified throughout my whole little person. I felt like I was standing at the door of nightmares, you know: the gigantic black door with a large brass knocker, and doorknob. I dared not knock on the door for fear of what was on the other side. I did not want to speak to this man. Out of the corner of my left eye, periphery was taking snapshots of the drivers face: round, and pleasant. The man appeared to be a businessman in a dark suit. I waited for him to touch me on the leg. Nothing of the sort occurred. I waited for him to pull off onto some dirt road that went into the woods where the dark trees whispered, and had eyes, but the car maintained a steady course. Of course all of this happen in a split second: accepting the ride, opening the gigantic black door, and scrambling into the front seat, pulling my cap down tight on my head, the narrowing of eyes, and an entire book of verse composed of suspicious thoughts never to be quoted aloud…a split second in slow motion. The gentleman offered a sandwich in a small paper bag on the back seat. I ate the baloney sandwich so fast my fingers almost became apart of the meal. The music from the car radio was on low, but was disconcerting, and odd to my untrained ear. He laughed, and said it was jazz. The radio station was in Philadelphia. I was going to a strange city where this odd jazz was what everyone listens too. Now I noticed the man eyeing me out of the corner of his eye. His questionnaire of my person was very brief. Why he did not turn me into the authorities will always remain a mystery. Maybe he was a card carrying commie, or a bank robber on the lamb, or maybe my first inclination was correct in assuming he was an angel sent by God to protect me, and see me safe down the highway cutting across New Jersey into Pennsylvania. If I were an angel sent to protect a runaway little boy, I might tune into a jazz station just to be a hipster for a brief moment while performing the angelic mission of seeing kids safely along the road of destiny. One thing for certain this ride put me way ahead of schedule, and my poor little feet just plopped sideways like miniature donkeys totally pooped out. He dropped me off on the outskirts of the city of brotherly love. My feet could not continue to take me into the fast paced city. I had a river to cross. I would tap into my reserve funds and buy a bus ticket, and cross the south flow of the Delaware River. I was determined to forge the river. I was determined to make my way to the airport, and catch a plane. I wanted to see my mom very badly. No one would deter me from my goal. What struck me about the bus ride were all the black faces staring at me, and how the bus jolted to abrupt stops continuously in the thick traffic as it crossed over the bridge into Pennsylvania. Back in my homogenized white neighborhood there werent any black people. My step-grandmother, old gin breath, hated Blacks, and I will not go into detail as to what she thought should be done about the growing Black menace. I never thought in terms of race. I simply thought black folks were just like any other folks. Maybe what contributed to forming my views was one of those 30s films where Huckleberry Finn, and his faithful friend, Jim, the tall black man, who helped Huck get down the muddy Mississippi on their makeshift raft. Jim, the old black slave, protected Huck from the wiles of the world, and in that dark skin there lurked no evil, but rather a benevolence: a man in trouble was helping a young lad in trouble, and that day crossing the Delaware, I was somewhat in a fix, a vagabond of sort adrift on lifes currents, and the surrounding faces on the bus showed concern. In a way I was fleeing my indentured servitude to gin breath, the old hag that resembled the actress Anne Ramsey (no offense), and a certain comfort fell over me as I jolted along in this bus full of folks that were well aquatinted with the woes of life, and servitude. I placed the earplug of my transistor radio into my ear, and drifted off on the airwaves of that odd music they called, jazz. The rows of faces around me seemed to nod to the music like they also could hear every note. Clutching my little black transistor radio, I nodded off to sleep. * Airport and a Knock at the Door Everyone knows the bustle at an airport. For me it was a fast wind humming around my ears full of voices, and faces taking on all sorts of expressions. Exhaustion had settled in like a transparent double of my entire body. United Airlines blipped in my head. Maybe that was the airlines that flew me from California to New Jersey, and that is why I wanted to go United. My eyes searched the service counters for United Airlines. I also needed departure times to Los Angeles. From the lone highway to this haste was confusing, and I needed a place where I could momentarily regain my mental soundness, and balance my wobbling head. Above the open door it read: Mens Restroom. I spilt the word Restroom into a room where I could rest. I never thought a bathroom stall, and a toilet seat would offer rest, but there I was perched on the white porcelain toilet seat like a bewildered hamster without the whiskers. I could hear other stall doors opening, and closing. Maybe a lot of folks were in need of rest that late afternoon. Finally, after eyeing all the crude graffiti with even cruder drawings of both male and female organs, I left my resting perch on the stall, and drifted out into the restroom. There were a line of sinks and a long mirror. A tall, lanky black, probably in his early forties, was combing his bristly hair with a huge comb, and checking out his bright teeth in the mirror. He thought to give me one curious glance, and that was my only point of recognition. Maybe he was Mills Davis at the airport on his way to do a gig on the West Coast or better yet, he was Billy Hollidays third cousin, connecting with family in Chicago. Ill never know! As the cliché goes, we were Two ships passing in the night. I was alone with this fellow, and putting aside any skin color, I was afraid. I was just a kid alone with this giant grinning in the mirror. He hiked his slacks up and bent down to yank up his pale blue socks. Then he abruptly gave me another full stare and to my surprise, and shock asked softly, as if his voice was a cello, Whats up with you kid? and then added: Are you lost or something? I started to speak but my lower lip was trembling so bad I just up, and split out the restroom door like a rabbit with a dog on its scent. Im sure the fellow went back to his narcissism with the mirror, and never gave me another thought, but he might have been one of those jazzmen, and one night in a smoky club, his big fingers on the bass, remembered me, as he quietly plucked a sad solo soothing as heroin, or moonlight floating down the Mississippi. I was back out in the bustle of humanity with the full impact of being at an airport terminal plugged into my overloaded brain blowing fuse after fuse as I tried to negotiate the schedules of outgoing flights to Los Angeles and home. There it was on the board above the service counter: Los Angeles flight 205, Departure Time 4:20 P.M. Arrival Time: 10:40 P.M... Departs from gate 3. I glanced down at my wrist, yikes, and no watch. It must have slipped off my small wrist. Frantically I searched for a clock, and the time. It must be getting close to 4:20 P.M., and I need the exact time. Hey mister, do you know the time? I asked a complete stranger briskly walking by with a coat draped over his arm, and a small briefcase in his hand: Sure kid. It is four oclock on the dot. There up ahead I saw gate 3, and an attendant taking tickets. Oddly enough the man who Id asked the time was getting in the line I wanted to get in that line, so my natural inclination was to slip in behind him, and some how slip on the plane. I looked like Id just climbed out of a garbage dumpster, but it never crossed my mind that I stood out like a lit-up blimp. I attempted to get up along side the man who had given me the time, and pretend he was my dad or my escort onto the plane. The nearer we got to the woman collecting the tickets that faster my small heartbeat and my small hands went cold. I felt like I was entering no mans land, and there was no turning back. I wanted to be invisible. Would I slip through at the ticket gate? There she was looking down at me with the kindest smile, but her blue eyes were searching my blue eyes, and intuitively I knew the thoughts behind her inquisitive, penetrative look as she asked for my plane ticket. Didnt she know the man in front of me was my protector? He also was cocking his head in my direction to listen in on the brief conversation. I wanted to be Superman, and leap up, and fly off into the blue. I did eat a lot of Wonder Bread fortified with all those vitamins which supposedly gave you super strength. But for some odd reason I couldnt even manage to make my legs to move let alone fly off like a supper fly. I felt like a stunned fish out of water. Other boarding passengers were now staring at me. The ticket lady in her petite company outfit asked again in a polite tone if I possessed a ticket. I knew she knew that I was a runaway kid. I also knew, my cover-up, that I was the son of the man standing in line, had evaporated. I was caught. No one way flight home to mom. I looked back up into those kind blue eyes of the woman, who now had her hand firmly on my small shoulder, and I began to weep uncontrollably. She turned to her co-worker and said: John, I think we have a run away, please call security. Her tone was calm. Its alright young man everything is going to be fine. Next thing I knew (every thing was a blur for a while) I was in a small office with two, sincere, friendly young men dressed in plain brown suits, white shirts, and thin black ties. They already had food on the way, and had began the slow process of gently probing for information: my name, my address, and if I was having trouble at home. I felt safe with these two men who worked for United Airlines as I sat across from them. I spilled the beans, and told them every thing. There was a certain consternation in their faces when I told them about the beatings I got from old gin breath. Their eyes narrowed as I went on with the telling of the terror that was awaiting me at home. They knew I was telling the truth. This was the first time that I had ever told anyone about my home life, and the terror I experienced daily. How do you explain to complete strangers the horror of being sat upon by an obese woman with glaring eyes as she slapped you repeatedly across the face. Then to add cruelty to cruelty, I had asthma, and the trauma of the physical beating cause an attack, and shortness of breath. This is when her puffy hand would seize my face, and cover the screams coming from my mouth. I couldnt breathe. I was a fast sinking ship: no oxygen, a black hell with no fire…wide-eyed suffocation The two men who work for the airlines looked at each other in disbelief. One of then said firmly, but tenderly, The both of us are going to drive you home, and he added, Dont be afraid no one at home is going to harm you again! They were great, buying me a humongous burger on the way into New Jersey, and across State lines. The sun was sinking in the West, but there was plenty of light as the company car flew down the highway. What had taken me light years to walk only took us a few hours to drive. When we pulled up in front of the house in the old neighborhood it was nearing dusk. They told me to stay in the car. I watched from the closed car window as they walked up the steps to the front porch, and knocked on the door. My grandfather and the floating tent came out on the front porch where the two men in their brown company suits stood. It was like watching a silent film. I got a glance from gin breath, but there was no threat in her eyes. She seemed worried. The two men were speaking adamantly to my guardians. It was the body language that revealed this to my mind. No outlandish jesters on their part, but a certain mien of authority penetrated the scene on the front porch as dusk settled into the neighborhood of tract-homes. What ever they said stopped the beatings. I was never touched again. The abuse ended that evening thanks to these two men who knocked on the door. It was soon there after that I was on a flight back to California. Copyright by Bruce Owens 2012 All rights reserved. No part of this written story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronically, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording taping or by any information storage retinal system without the written permission of the author except in the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Posted on: Fri, 25 Oct 2013 08:42:26 +0000
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