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. Since I worked again at the park that summer of 1972, I felt obliged to contribute extra money for bills and food. In June, we once again made a late-night getaway from one house in rent arrears to another whose landlord/property management company presumably fell prey to dad's gift for bullshitting, since I have no memory of any job he held during that time. The house on North M street bordered what was even then a sketchy area on the north side of Fort Smith, and the dilapidated looks of the outside of the structure were not false advertising. We were to soon discover that the house was infested with rats! I had my first face-to-face with one during a hot summer night when I woke up thinking I was dreaming, since a squirrel seemed to be at eye level examining me. It was not a dream, and was not a squirrel - only a rat that was as big as one. A purge campaign of setting poison bait traps ensued, and eventually it was successful, except for the awful smell that one left lingering for weeks after expiring inside of a wall.
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. 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 in my view 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 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 others, 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.
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 that particular weekend day.
Problems arose at one event at the Phoenix Mall one Saturday when Bill, the ape-suit guy, 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.
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