BOOK PROPOSAL !
APRIL 29, 2011
“Hey Dad, Remember Me?
Written by James Beck
Father to Son
A journey through disfunction, finding connection
At eleven years old, I knew I would never
amount to anything beyond the stupid fucking shit
head with his head up his ass that Dad told me I was.
The cold barrel slid into my mouth. It didn’t
seem real, like I was in a movie. Teeth clenched on
cold steel, my tongue pressed against the curved
metal, I could taste the oil. The pistol’s sight rested
against the roof of my mouth. My lungs drew in the
summer’s air, dusted with gunpowder residue.
No one wants me here. I don’t want to be here.
Just pull the trigger and solve everyone’s problem.
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
Welcome to our story
“Hey Dad, Remember Me?” is the true
story of how a good kid evolved into an
abusive, rage-filled, religious fundamentalist
– the man I call Dad. This book takes a
journey through disconnection and
dysfunction; it is written from the
perspective of an implosive 11-year-old boy.
My father’s perspective will grow with his
age, until both father and son converge and
intertwine. At critical mass, both father and
son begin to grow their perspectives and
begin learning how to be good men, together.
In the end it illustrates, in as close to real
time as possible, how the man I hated most
in my life became my best friend.
I sat, waiting for something to happen. Heart
pounding, chest heaving, I waited.
Great, I’ll probably screw this up and shoot my
cheek off. I’ve got to add another bullet, just to be
sure.
Another round quickly slid into the neighboring
chamber. It was easy; my dad taught me how to use a
gun. The weapon slid between my teeth. I cocked the
hammer and rested my thumb on the trigger. I was
ready.
PAGE 1
 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

A FATHER’S PERSPECTIVE

This is the author’s father: the I agreed to share my past in

Top Photo: Dad and I in Colvi"e,
Washington 2010
Colville, Washington 2008 (33 years old)
“Son, you aren’t going to cuss a lot in
your book, are you? Because I don’t like
cussing.”
“Dad, I have to be honest about how
things were.”
“Awe, shit.”
Real James Beck. For years, my
actions destroyed my son’s
emotional wellbeing and ruined
his childhood. I would die for my
kids, but living with them was a
different story. The biggest
problem was I actually thought I
was doing a good job as a dad. I
had no idea of the damage I was
causing my son or my family. The
pages of this book contain the
most shameful times of my past. I
am not proud of my actions. In
fact, I cringe knowing what the
world will learn about me. The one
redemptive thing in my life is how
my son and I were able to repair
and rebuild our relationship. It
may be the only thing in life that I
am actually proud of.
hopes that some of the lessons I
had to learn might help you. If you
read the first chapter, my only
request is that you read through to
the resolution. Otherwise, please
don’t read it. It is resolution that
makes our story worth reading.
Plus, I’ll look like a complete
asshole if you don’t.
To be honest, the initial
reason I told my son ‘Yes’ when he
asked me permission to write this
book was: I didn’t think he would
actually write it. My son only got
‘C’s in English. Through out
school, he hated writing.
“Hey Dad, can I become an astronaut?”
“Sure, kid. Call me from the moon.”
RING, RING – it’s too late to change my
mind now.

Fathers Day, 12 years ago...

In 1999, my father and I shared our story
for the first time. Luckily, someone recorded
it and gave me a copy. This talk was the
impetus for writing the book.

(Click here to view the Youtube Video)

Our Youtube video can by found under the title:
“Hey Dad, Remember Me?”

The proposal contains 4 sample chapters

Ch. 1 - !Good Boy - (relationship critical mass)
! Son’s perspective
Ch. 2 - ! Candy Money - (the cycle of abuse)
! Father’s perspective
“Hey Dad, Remember Me?” Is written
Ch. 5 - !Blood Wings - (generational dysfunction)
! Father’s perspective
from both father and son perspectives (the
abuser and the abused). It shows how a
Ch. 22 ! Santa’s a cheap Jerk - (nature of change)
! Son’s perspective
man broke a damaging cycle of
generational dysfunction and forged a
healthy relationship with his son.

BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM! PAGE 2
 BOOK PROPOSAL
CHAPTER ONE - GOOD BOY
Key Center, Washington 1986
(11 years old)
The afternoon summer sun
beat down on my shirtless back.
Sweat clung to my skin, some
drops eventually rolling down.
Living a couple miles from the
Puget Sound meant that there was
usually a cool breeze, but not
today. It was hot outside. Nearby
evergreens cast cool shadows
across our mint-green farmhouse.
Five horses along with our cow
watched from behind a barbed-
wire fence; I pushed a lawnmower
back and forth, back and forth,
across our 3-acre wraparound
grassy meadow. Suddenly, the
mower gasped and vibrated,
convulsing in my grip. Standing
motionless, I watched. After a few
seconds the machine ended its
choking dull garble with a hum
and a POP!
Running out of gas is the only work again, lazy-piece-of-shit.”
acceptable excuse for me not
finishing chores: either the lawn
had to be completely mowed or I
needed to be visibly cutting it
upon my dad’s return. To him,
anything other than these two
options validated that I was a lazy-
piece-of-shit. However he didn’t
need any more confirmation; me
being worthless to my father was
accepted as scientific fact. It was
somewhere in between the earth
being round and water being wet.
This lazy-piece-of-shit title was
given to anyone that took longer
breaks than he thought necessary.
Minutes became like hours; Dad
was a poor judge of time. He was a
good watcher, though. He had
eagle eyes when it came to my
work; nothing escaped his notice.
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
! APRIL 29, 2011
Even trips to the bathroom were tears pushed the muck towards
accounted for. the edges. Dad might even give
you an extra minute to work your
eyelids in a circular motion to get
My father and I would be tears flowing again, so you could
working out in the forest, blink normally. Removing a
gathering firewood and at some splinter took anywhere from one
point I would have to ask, “Dad, to three minutes, depending on
can I go up to the house to go to how deep it was and what tools
the bathroom.” Country boys just were available. However, if you
piss on trees, so this means I have were working at pulling out a
to go number-two and have been sliver with your teeth then the
holding for a while. time clock stopped. After all, you
“Make it quick.” were still working.
I’d take off running as fast as I
could without pooping my pants.
Today was different. I was by
Once at the house, I’d do my myself; free of my dad and free of
business and sprint back to the job
everyone else that called this place
site. No matter how fast I was, home. Other than today, I don’t
Dad would always ask the same
remember ever being alone in the
question. house. There were always a half-
“Why did it take you so long?” dozen foster kids around: doing
I pooped, wiped, washed my chores, rummaging, just hanging
hands and sprinted back as fast as out. But this afternoon, Mom and
I could. “I had to wipe.” Dad took all of my siblings, foster
sisters and blood sister, to friends’
“You were trying to get out of
homes. My only biological sister,
Rachel, was staying at a
Dad moved off into the woods,
schoolmate’s house for the whole
grumbling.
week’s vacation. My foster sisters
were each spending as much time
at friends’ homes as parents
Every minute had to be
allowed. For now, they were all
accounted for. If Dad were in the
gone. Neither parent was around
house, wiping efforts would be
to assign me another task and
trumpeted from the porcelain
would be gone for a few hours. All
throne in order to calm him and
reassure that my workload was not chores were finished: the farm
animals were fed, chicken coop
being intentionally neglected.
was clean, garden was weeded,
Taking a sip of iced-tea or soda
was acceptable, but if you were to firewood was brought in, garbage
cans were emptied, and my room
stop for longer than a minute
was spotless. The only thing left
there had better be a damn good
reason. A one-minute break could was mowing the lawn and we were
slide by if you had dirt in your eye. out of gas. Loophole. I had
nothing left to do. Dad would
After spreading your eyelids,
have found more work if he were
pursing his lips, he’d blow. The
here. Since he wasn’t, our house
violated eye-socket would
was stress free, calm after a storm.
instantly dry out as the rush of
PAGE 3
 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

I received $5.00 twice a month neighboring ears because the encouraged. The more time Dad
for allowance. This was enough to anger I felt was of the Devil. It spent at other people the better. It
keep my waistline chubby with was my fault, my sin. With a desire was awesome when other kids got
Snickers candy bar residue, but to do good and filled with shame, in trouble. Their problems meant
not enough to fill up the gas cans. I pushed the rage deep inside and my relief. Situations that typically
Sure, my father expected me to be pretended it wasn’t there. Our cause kids anxiety became
willing to walk 30 minutes to the community must never know welcome distractions in my world.
gas station and carry the filled anger that boiled beneath the If a runaway foster sister returned
cans back to the house, but he did surface because we are Christians. home today, I would be off my
not expect me to pay for it. That We are the people that have all the father’s radar for at least three
was his job. I had already told him right answers. I’m only allowed to days. If that sister had gotten
of the gas shortage, but my give smiles and friendly greetings raped or beaten up by her pimp,
reminder fell on deaf ears. Even because that is the Christian thing then I would be able to enjoy at
though my obligations were to do. least a week of neglectful freedom.
fulfilled, the problem would Panic. My eyes darted around When my foster brother Pat stole
somehow become my fault. the corners of the house and my dad’s truck and went out
If placing the blame on others across the front porch, looking for joyriding, I didn’t get yelled at for
were a sport, my father would someone spotting my recent sin. I almost two weeks. And if someone
easily make the Olympic Team. He was still alone. No one heard me tried to commit suicide, there
was a natural. There was always say the curse word. Heart would be at least three weeks of
something I could have done or pounding, anxiety tore at my peaceful chaos to get lost into.
thought of to avoid any problem. chest, anger swelling within. But no matter what trauma
Now, with a dead lawnmower Don’t swear. I can’t talk like that. occurred, Dad’s gaze would
sitting in front of me, I realize It’s sin. eventually refocus on me. His
that the feeble verbal reminder I screaming voice never quite left
left for him to fill the gas tanks Guilt pressured in on my my ears, like the ringing after a
was clearly inadequate. chest. gunshot. By now I was grateful for
I should have left a note. - I murmured, “Sorry God” that subconscious voice. It helped
“Fuck.” hoping He would forgive. me avoid problems.
My head whipped towards the Sauntering up to our home, I
house. Good Christian boys aren’t There were a couple positive heard his voice in the back of my
supposed to use words like “fuck, outcomes that were a direct result mind.
shit, and cock-sucker” - Jesus in having almost every problem in Bubba, pu" your head out of your
wouldn’t like it. I shot glances the house be my fault. Whenever ass and think. Look down at the damn
around; did anyone hear? A tinge Dad got pissed I assumed that I floor. See a" the shit you dra#ed in?
of guilt coursed through my veins,was responsible. Once you accept Steps halted instantly. I was
followed by fear. Dad was a part that you are the source of covered in grass clippings and
time minister, so he could use everyone’s frustrations you have instantly recognized the potential
words like “Fucking, Goddamn reached the bottom rung. You problem. My feet stamped against
piece of shit, cocksucker.” can’t get any lower. It’s like being the cement walkway; wads of
He and God obviously had the worst kid in dodge ball; mashed up grass fell off once-
worked out some sort of deal. everyone expects you to let down white sneakers. I whipped my pant
However, my mouth wasn’t the team. On the off chance my legs back and forth and more stray
exempt. Curse words needed to be father affirmed that I had nothing grass fell to the ground.
kept on lock down or at least to do with the troubling
Hey Stupid, do you think that is
hushed under breath. Everything I circumstance I would find myself clean? Take your damn socks off!
said needed to be changed for pleasantly surprised, even

BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM! PAGE 4
 BOOK PROPOSAL
I pulled off my socks and
looked around; I was still alone.
Once down to my Tighty-Whities,
I walked across the mustard brown
shag carpet. I looked back to make
sure that no grass fell: there was
none. Mom already vacuumed this
morning. One lump of grass
tracked inside and Dad would
know I did it. No one else had to
walk across the fresh cut grass.
Plus, I did all of the outside chores.
Outside work was a boy’s place
with ‘boy jobs’. At this time, I was
the only boy living in this house
with seven girls.
Our family started taking in
foster kids when I was three-years-
old. My mom wanted a big family,
but after three miscarriages and
other health complications doctors
told her that my older sister and I
were all the children she could
birth. It was not enough. Dad
wasn’t content because there were
kids out on the street that lived the
type of life that he had and needed
his help. They stayed anywhere
from three months to nine years.
Over time, the foster home grew
and we’ve had as many as nine extra
kids. Right now we only have five
foster kids.
Troubled kids from streets of
Tacoma, Washington, gave my
parents direction and purpose. Our
family organized our lives around
them. On any given day, some new
street kid would move in and would
become as much a part of my
family as anyone else. Other days, a
foster sibling would run away for a
day, a week, a month, maybe
forever. The lesson ‘nothing ever
lasts’ had long since settled in.
These unwanted youths were
emotionally destroyed by the
amount of abuse they endured
from blood relatives or previous outta my face!” She wouldn’t let up.
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
! APRIL 29, 2011
foster parents. Each of them had Enraged, Dad grabbed a wine
their own story: scalded with pots bottle by the neck and banged it
of boiling water, hit with crowbars, against the counter. After a couple
scarred with cigarette burns, tied good whacks, she backed down.
up in a closet and beaten… the list The bottle remained intact, but the
goes on. Some of my sisters started broken countertop still served as a
hooking before their teenage years warning.
and had already accumulated There was always a hollowness
extensive rap sheets/street that settled inside my gut while
credibility by the time they showed Mom covered for me. Guilt. She
up on our doorstep. It didn’t take would often buffer situations and
long to learn that random take the brunt of Dad’s anger. More
abandoned kids who had been often than not, it would just make
raped trumped any needs that I matters worse for both of us. It was
could have. like calming a beehive; distance and
For years I tried to be the type time were the only things that
of son my father wanted: nice, worked. My unavoidable screw-ups
obedient, hard working. But I caused her pain, my mere existence
never got it right. It was a puzzle I created problems for everyone.
could not solve. Secretly, I resented Eventually, everyone in the house
the foster kids that moved in and learned to stay away when Dad was
out of our home. They were like mad at me. It really was best.
tumbleweed, rarely appreciating As I strolled through the house
anything and taking the best times relishing the moments of freedom
my family had and then rolling and solitude, I remembered what
away. They were always older, Nick Friello - a Little League buddy
bigger, and taught me to steer clear - told me, “Bubba, every guy has
of them. The best I could hope for porn under his bed. Even your dad
was that my new brother or sister has a stash.”
would only resent me for living
with my natural parents. These kids I was confident that my dad did
served as daily reminders that not have a stash. Everyone in my
other kids deserved more attention family had to follow the Bible and I
because they have tough lives. I knew that Jesus didn’t like porn.
Just few months earlier, after
have it easy.
becoming a Captain at the Fire
Today, our farmhouse was silent Department, he enraged fellow
save the gentle breeze and House firemen by purging the station of
Sparrows chirping in the trees. all images “degrading to women.”
Walking toward the refrigerator, I Having to avert my eyes in
passed a deep indentation in the everyday life was common practice.
malachite countertop. The genesis If there was a PG movie with a
of this particular blemish was easy boob flash, we had to leave the
to remember. theater. TV shows with cussing
Mom told Dad, “You’re being were turned off. Even the lingerie
too hard on Bubba.” section of the Sears catalog was
No matter how many times he thrown in the trash. My mind
yelled, “Back off ” and “Get the hell wondered.
PAGE 5
 BOOK PROPOSAL
Does that asshole have a secret
stack of dirty mags tucked away?
What if there are a couple of
incriminating videos hanging out in his
bedroom? Sex toys? Hmmm, that
would be interesting. Finding that
kind of loot would definitely take the
wind out of his sails. Maybe he
wouldn’t be so fucking high and
mighty and I could put him on the hot
seat... only one way to find out.
Moments later, I entered my
parents’ bedroom. It was off limits
when Mom and Dad weren’t
around. This made the hunt
thrilling. My heart pounded
against my chest. I could feel that
the balance of power was about to
shift. I was vulnerable, but didn’t
have anything to fear. Our long
gravel driveway would betray
oncoming cars; I’d have plenty of
time to cover my tracks. This was
it, time to snoop. It might be years
before another opportunity came
up. If there were naked girls in this
room I would find them, even if it
meant pulling the drawers all the
way out to examine the secret
spaces underneath. I knew those
tricks.
I opened the first drawer: it
held an old neck brace, several
knee and ankle wraps, and an extra at the revolver. A lonely bullet
telephone cord. I pulled the
drawer all the way out: dusty
carpet. Damn it. The second
drawer: spiritual books and do-it-
yourself craftsman manuals. My
quest wasn’t turning out as
planned. The final drawer: a
couple of books, scattered
receipts, and a white plastic
grocery bag - so much for
incriminating evidence. I lifted the Control.
grocery bag and underneath was a
classic Winchester revolver with
an oak handle, sheathed in an
oiled leather holster. It was one of
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
! APRIL 29, 2011
many guns in Dad’s collection,
ready to protect the family.
My back leaned against the
dresser, the corner rested along my
spin. I slid the gun out of its
holster. It was heavy. Loaded. Dad
always kept this gun “ready” just in
case anything happened. He also
had a gun case I could break into,
if I wanted. Until now I had never
touched his guns without him
being present. Handling a revolver
without permission was direct
disobedience. There was no
greater crime. It was exciting; I
gripped the handle, it felt good to
have a little power. I emptied out
all but one bullet and spun the
chamber.
The gun aimed toward a
picture of my father; I pulled the
trigger.
CLICK...
CLICK...
CLICK...
I sat in my underwear, sweaty.
The bullet was in the next
chamber; one squeeze would fire
it. Through the window, the sun’s
rays warmed my back. The
sparrows were still chirping. A
cold sweat came over me; I stared
waited patiently inside a chamber.
My mind raced.
Why does Dad always say I’m a
stupid shit head? I always try, but…
Maybe he is right; maybe I am
worthless.
My hand shook as I held the
heavy weapon. Gripping the
handle tight, it stopped shaking.
People thinks he’s the greatest guy
in the world; boy, are they fooled. They
would hate him if they were his son. I
wish the world knew the asshole that
my dad rea"y is. Better yet, I wish my
father would just die.
I looked down the barrel; the
safety was released.
I’m always wrong, screwing up
everything. No one wants me around.
Everyone would be better off if I were
dead.
The cold barrel slid between
my teeth. It was comfortable. The
sight rested against the roof of my
mouth as lungs drew in breaths
through the barrel, tainted with
gunpowder residue. Teeth
clenched on cold steel, tongue
pressed against the curved metal, I
could taste the oil.
No one wants me here. I don’t
want to be here. Just pu" the tri#er
and everything wi" be over.
I sat quietly, waiting for
something to happen. Heart
pounding, chest heaving, my hand
started to twitch.
Great, I’" probably screw this up
too and shoot my cheek off.
I added another bullet into the
neighboring chamber, just in case.
I was quick; after all, Dad had
taught me how to use a gun. The
weapon slid back between my
teeth. My thumb shook as it
cocked the hammer. I was ready.
All I had to do was pull the
trigger: the solution to the
problem.
Everyone wi" be better off when
I’m dead.
My thumb rested against the
trigger. I was expecting the finger
to become possessed and jolt
forward, but it remained
motionless. Did each passing
moment contain more or less
courage? I couldn’t tell.
PAGE 6
 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

Wi" my ears ring? Wi" I even
hear the gunshot? How long wi" it
take me to die? Am I supposed to aim
through the roof of my mouth or the
base of my spine? This is why they
don’t teach you about suicide. What if I
screw this up too?
I adjusted the handle and
aimed towards the roof of my
mouth. The gun site scraped
against my palate and barrel
pressed against my lower teeth.
Maneuvering the weapon, I found
a comfortable position. The oil
continued coating my tongue.
CRUNCH – tires turned
down our driveway, gravel
crunched in the distance. My
thumb jumped off the trigger and
looked out the window; a baby
blue station wagon cruised down
our long driveway.
Oh, shit! I’m not supposed to be
here.
In seconds, I reloaded the
weapon, slid it back in its holster,
and hid it beneath the white Mabel shifted from side to
plastic grocery bag. Things were side, deciding whether or not to
back in their place. I looked down. stay. “She said I could pick some
Damn it, I’m in my underwear! squash from her garden and I
don’t want to do it while she is
I ran through the house and gone.”
up to my room. It only took a
moment to drag on a new shirt “It’s fine. She told me you
and fresh jeans. Then I took off might come by. Dad planted a
outside to great our visitor couple packages of seeds so we
because that’s what a good boy is have plenty.”
supposed to do. Breath was calm, She was puzzled. “But squash
nerves stilled. The visitor’s car are a hardy plant. They grow
rolled to a stop. Putting on my anywhere. You don’t have to plant
Christian face was a well- nearly that many seeds to grow a
developed skill, practiced Sunday decent crop.”
mornings. On the way to church, It was true. “That’s why we
Dad screamed and the family kept have plenty. Do you want me to
it a secret. bring the wheelbarrow?”
The new arrival was Mabel, “Sure, that would be great.”
one of my mom’s church friends.
Mom said that she might stop by. Mabel walked beside me as I
pushed the wheelbarrow down to
Mabel asked, “Hey Bubba, is the garden. She asked, “So, how
your mother home?” are things going with the family?”
“No, but she should be back in
“Great. Everything is great.”
a couple hours.” And then I smiled.

Los Angeles, California 2010 (35 years old)

My cellphone rang. It was dad. I quickly answered.
“Hey Pops.”
“Thanks a lot Bub, you ruined my day.”
“What do you mean?
“I just finished reading your book... and you ruined my day.”
Pause. “Well... you ruined my childhood so you got off easy.”
Dad gave an awkward chuckle, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Dad, we’re good now and that’s what matters.”
“Easy for you to say... you’re not the asshole in the story.”

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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

CHAPTER - TWO
CANDY MONEY
(MY FATHER’S VOICE)

Grandma and Grandpa Beck
Hungry Horse, Montana, 1948 (3 years old)
“Learn your manners! A spoon isn't a goddamn
shovel! How many times do I have to show you how
to eat your peas? Hold it like this!”
My mom made balancing a mound of peas on a
spoon look easy. Her pinky remained extended and a
folded napkin remained on her lap. For the moment,
she looked almost dainty. Her deliberate pinky
movement was the only refinement in our singlewide
trailer.
I grabbed the silverware exactly like she did. The
spoon slowly dipped into the bowl. Scared. My fingers
adjusted and I raised the mound of peas to my lips.
“SMACK!” A backhand flew without warning.
The highchair toppled and crashed to the floor - I
spilled out onto the linoleum. Within seconds she
jerked me up off the ground and threw me back into
the chair.
Momma yelled, “If you don't do it right this time,
ya little shit, I swear to god I'll kill you.” She shoved
the spoon back in my hand and screamed, “All the
other kids in the neighborhood hold their spoon
right. I guess I’ve just got a stupid shit for a son.”
After momma taught me how to hold a spoon,
she wanted me to stay inside. That way, no one could
see my face. I tried my best to hold the spoon the
right way; but hands were too small. As soon as she
left the room I ran away. Didn’t get very far. When
Dad caught me running down the street, he asked
how I got all the cuts and bruises and mommy said I
fell down; I fell down a lot. He brought me home and
locked me up in the bathroom. A few minutes later,
mom came in and smacked me around for disobeying.

Hope, Idaho, 1951 (6 years old) believe friends: a band

It was a Saturday. We lived in a of Cowboys and
tiny shack out in the country with Indians, Robin Hood
cattle fields that surrounded our and his Merry Men,
fenced yard. The long gravel even a wild black
driveway cut through trees, stallion. All of my
bisected cow pastures and ended imaginary friends
up at our front porch. Behind our wanted me to lead
home was a forest so heavily because they thought
wooded that I was the only kid I was really smart.
brave enough to scout it out. And strong. I was the
only one brave enough
My family never stayed in a to venture into the
town long enough for me to make dark cave and fight the
real friends. So I filled the woods bad guys. I proved my
behind my house with make- would dare ride the dangerous
courage by being the only one who
black stallion.  

BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM! PAGE 8
 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

On this particular day, us kids was going to be the hero and opened. Heavy boots grinded
were told to stay in the house so surprise my dad - I’d show him against gravel a few feet from my
we could ‘be together as a family’. how smart I was. While he washed head.
I sat on the couch with my two his hands, I slipped out the front Dad yelled, “Get in the fuckin’
little sisters, Mary and Gracie. We door, bravely mounted my black car.”
watched Dad drink beer after beer stallion, and galloped as fast as I
while Mom screamed at him. could towards the barbed-wire Motionless. It had to be a
Every once in a while, he would gate. I was sure I would get an mistake. I looked up through tears
chuck an empty beer can at her, extra piece of candy for such a and dirt.
just to make her jump. carefully planned good deed. “Did you hear me?” A scuffed
Mamma yelled, “You worthless A smile stretched from ear to black leather boot sailed towards
bastard. What the hell am I ear; I had gone a quarter-mile. I my face. WHAM - it landed right
supposed to cook, the damn cans?” ran so far I couldn’t even hear between the eyes. I curled up in a
what my dad was yelling. ball. Dad came over kicked
“I’m the one that works for a through any opening I gave him.
livin’. You just sit around here on “You better turn around right WHAM - my head split open. He
yer fat ass. Go fishin’. Catch now, ya’ little pecker-head or I’m kicked and he kicked. WHAM -
somethin’ from the river.” gonna beat the shit outta’ ya.” ribs broke.
“You don’t work for a livin’. I kept running. “CRACK!” A gunshot.
You work for gawdamn beer.” CLICK - The gate unlocked. Dad’s arms rose up into the
“Listen heifer, no one’s gonna I stood against the wire. Dad air; Momma held a 30.30
tell me how to spend my was going to be so proud of me. Winchester in the distance.
paycheck. Especially not you, ya I’m a good boy. Mom will clap and
worthless bitch.” This was my chance.
I will be the hero. Adrenaline pumping, I took off. I
This was our family time. Beck The station wagon revved - ran like the wind, like the Devil
kids learned to sit still when our RRRRHHHUUUNNNN- it was himself was after me. No one
parents were fighting. Pretty soon my papa. I turned toward the could catch me. I will go to my
the punches would come; better house with a grin. safe place, into the woods. My
they beat each other up than beat friends can help me: the cowboys
us kids up. The car barreled down the
driveway, coming closer and closer. and Indians and Friar Tuck and my
Whenever Mom and Dad had Merry Men. There was no way I
a blowout fight they would make It was going really fast. was going to get caught because
up for it by doing something really Something was wrong. my parents didn’t have a wild
nice like a marshmallow roast, a The car closed in, the brakes black stallion to help them.
trip to the local store for candy, or locked and the car skidded, In no time, I slipped into the
taking a ride in the country. I sending gravel and dust flying. I secret cave –a vacated badger den
knew this was going to be one of was frozen with shock. Disbelief. under a tree- just big enough for
those times. On the drives, Dad The station wagon bashed me me to fit. It was dank and dark.
would have me open the barbed against the barbed wire, pinning My face was puffy and warm. It
wire gate that connected our me. The wire fence popped free got harder to open my eyes. The
driveway to the outside world. from cedar posts. Each strained skin on my face was tight. My
After the fight ended, they breath forced metal barbs further body shivered. I could taste blood,
cleaned themselves off: Dad in the into my back. dirt, and tears. Whenever I wiped
bathroom and Mom in the The station wagon backed up. tears away, more dirt would get
kitchen. His knuckles were bloody into my eyes.
I fell to the ground: aching,
and her nose still bled. Today I
crying, and confused. The car door Hours passed.

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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

Every once in a while, I would could I go? Despite a firm resolve He sat down beside me and asked,
hear my parents’ footsteps and to remain underground, my “How are you doin’?”
voices around me. It was cold, but cramping legs and empty stomach “Fine.”
I was safe. Curling into a ball, I won the battle and convinced me
relaxed and talked to myself. that it was time to leave the cave. Dad scooted close to me and
put his hand on my knee. “Yer
I’m going to leave these crazy I called out, "Here I am! Here gonna have to stay inside for a
assholes the first chance I get. And I am!" couple weeks, till you heal up.
when I have kids, I’m going to be A stampede of footsteps – Those damn neighbors get nosy.
good to them. I’ll never treat them within seconds, a weathered hand But you gotta listen to me when I
like this. reached inside the cave and pulled say something. You got that?”
Eventually, I fell asleep. chill me out. Dirt covered my entire I nodded - got it.
of nightfall woke me up. It felt like body.
fifty bees had stung my face; my “If anyone asks, tell ‘em you
Dad hugged me. I cringed and fell down the stairs.”
eyes were firmly swollen shut, zero hugged him back; the barbed-wire
visibility. Everything throbbed or cuts still stung. Mom and Dad I nodded again.
shivered. A cool breeze carried the started kissing my swollen face, as “Good boy.”
distant pleas of my parents, if it were going to actually make it Dad pulled something out of
searching for me. feel better. It hurt. I wanted to yell his pocket, slapped it into my
“Come back, Jimmy. We are ‘stop fucking touching my face’. hand, and said, “This is for after
sorry. We miss you.” But I didn’t; they were finally you get well.”
My swollen face made their being nice.
I strained; my eyes opened.
words difficult to believe. I had no A few hours later, I lay on the Four nickels rested in my palm:
intention of ever coming out from couch and moved an ice chip candy money.
under the tree. But where else around my face like Dad showed.

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CHAPTER 5
BLOOD WINGS
Bellingham, Washington 1958 (13 years
old)
The local coal mines had closed down a
few years ago. Most of the local employers
were going out of business. Even Pacific
American Fisheries, one of the largest
canneries in the world, was going belly up.
There was little work to be found. Times were
tough. Dad got fired from his welding job and
went off drinking.
The next morning, Momma dragged us
kids down to the welfare office. She lied to
the officials by saying that Dad had been gone
for weeks; I shielded my face. The controlling
officer took one look at my family and gave us
food stamps on the spot. I’m still not sure
how mom figured out that Dad was on
another bender, but she was right. After only
being gone one night, she knew. It might have
been instinct, experience, or maybe she just
didn’t want to take a chance and be wrong.
Burnt yellow wallpaper bubbled, peeled at its
edges. Our kitchen was a rush job two decades after
its prime: busted linoleum, broken sink that only
poured cold water, and an uneven floor. It was all the
stuff that Dad needed to fix. Dishes were stacked in
the sink, spilling out on the counter, cemented with
week old food. Sacks of new groceries and cigarettes
sat up next to dirty plates: food stamp items.
Momma only stuck with three priorities: smokes,
food, and rent. Smokes were the only non-negotiable.
We didn’t own a broom or vacuum or other similar
items that no one would use. The rotary telephone
hanging on the wall was our only decoration, and it
had been turned off months ago.
The place we lived in wasn’t bad; it had running
water and electricity. I boiled a pot of water on the
stove and filled the sink. Plates needed to be washed
now that we had groceries. Momma’s face sagged as
she lit up a smoke. She took a long pull off her
Virginia Slim, held, and then blew smoke around the
room. Hard years pressed into deep wrinkles on her
face. It looked like she had a permanent frown.

BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM! PAGE 11
 BOOK PROPOSAL
Dad had been gone for months.
The phone bill never got paid.
Momma thought that he wouldn’t be
able to find us since we didn’t have a
working telephone; she was wrong.
Dad convinced the welfare office to
personally deliver his “come live with
me” messages to our address. The guy
from the state office that showed up
on our doorstep looked more like a
linebacker, which made him
impossible for Momma to ignore. She
screamed at them to get the hell of
her property, but they kept talking.
The state official told Momma
that Dad was making good money
and she changed her tune. The guy
explained that the reason the family
hadn’t heard from Dad for four
months was because he had a great
job in Alaska, as a commercial
fisherman; he was out at sea. Once
the guy showed her a copy of daddy’s
pay stub, her jaw dropped. Things
certainly had changed. Dad had been
sober for three months, and was
making more money in one month
than he made all last year. When the
officer slid over an envelope filled
with plane tickets for the whole
family, she got suspicious. The officer
explained that a local reformed
Baptist Church in Bellingham and
Ketchikan pooled their tithes and
purchased these plane tickets so our
family could be together. Dad was
attending Alcoholics Anonymous and
had found Jesus! Dad had been
regularly attending church; Momma
went into a fit of laughter. She calmed
down when she saw the paperwork
on the waterfront house dad was
going to rent.
Momma held the plane tickets in
her hand and pulled in another drag
off her Virginia Slim. She thought he
was off his rocker. Together they had
always made fun of “religious nut
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
! APRIL 29, 2011
jobs”, lunatics. Now he claimed to be
one of them?
“Whatdaya think Jimmy? You
think your daddy got saved?”
“I don’t know. He sure is making
lots of money.”
This stumped Momma; she
nodded. There was valid proof that
things were different in some
capacity. She stared at me, watching
me scrub the dirty dishes.
Momma eyeballed the plane
tickets and asked me, “You think he
really found God?”
I hoped so. Christians were
people who lived in the same town
for years, had clean clothes and had
visits from Santa Clause. All the
grocery store owners that helped me
out were Christians. The all drove
nice cars and lived in nice homes.
With paychecks like the one dad is
getting now, we would be a
respectable family in no time.
I shrugged my shoulders.
Momma hollered, “Religion ain’t
shit, only the people that are in it.”
“He might be better now.”
Momma yanked the half-
scrubbed plate out of my hand and
tossed it in the sink. She followed it
up with a slap across the head.
“He ain’t no better than me. He
leaves us for drinking and takes all
our money. How good is that?”
I tucked my head away from
Momma and mumbled, “I just was
thinking…”
“Use your shit-brains and learn
this: people don’t change. And you’re
just like him. You’re gonna leave me
too. Got the same fuckin’ grin.”
I went back to scrubbing dishes
and was grinning; I was going to leave softly, “As many as you can carry.”
her the first chance I got. But
Momma was wrong. I would never be
like Dad.
No matter how many times the
pretty flight attendant assured me
that everything was alright, my
fingers dug into the arm rest. Flying
20,000 feet in the air, we could fall to
our death at any moment. Mountains
looked like anthills; nothing was
recognizable. I could only handle
looking out the airplane window for a
few seconds. Houses, cars, and streets
were too small to make out. Every
once in a while, the plane would drop
and my stomach would stick in my
throat. I didn’t know how far
Ketchikan was, which direction we
were flying, or how long it would take
to get there, but landing couldn’t
come soon enough.
Everyone that sat behind me was
eating and drinking as if nothing was
wrong; they obviously didn’t know
that we could die at any moment. My
nerves were on edge, stomach in
knots.
The pretty flight attendant asked,
“Would you like a soda?”
“No, thank you.” She was nice,
but still made me feel poor.
“Well, would you like something
to eat? We have turkey sandwiches.”
I was hungry and thirsty, but the
church people didn’t provide us with
lunch money and I doubted that they
took food stamps.
The flight attendant leaned in
and said, “It is free.”
“Are the sodas free too?” I asked.
“Yes.” She smiled.
“How many can I have?”
She leaned down and whispered
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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

For the rest of the flight I ate encourage my father in the faith. attic floor. It was the middle of
and ate. My flight attendant friend Dad was still sauced and chased the night; the whole house jolted.
kept turkey and ham sandwiches him off with a pistol. Things were Inexplicable, rhythmic thuds
on my tray-table. Right before we back to normal. Life sucked. shook our shack. Lightning
started our decent, she loaded me The promised waterfront flashed and thunder clouds roared.
up on roasted peanuts and a half- mansion turned out to be a rickety Storm winds whistled through the
dozen soda pops. My ears hurt and dump. It was just like every other floorboards; waves crashed hard. It
popped with our descent. My belly place we lived, the worst house at felt like the whole place was falling
was full; it felt good. the end of a dead-end street: a apart. Bracing myself against the
two-bedroom shack, on stilts, that attic floor, I tried to understand
why my room was shaking. Then I
The mountains and trees that hovered over the ocean. When we realized, ‘this house is going to fall
surrounded our new community first drove up, I thought it was a
were breathtaking. Nice homes joke. From the looks of things, one into the water, I’ve gotta get outta
dotted the coastline. All of my good shove would send it crashing here!’
brothers and sisters were farmed into the ocean. The place didn’t WHAM! WHAM! Tears and
out to different families in Dad’s even have real plumbing; the toilet terrified cries from my younger
new church until he got enough led straight into the saltwater. brothers and sisters magnified as I
scratch together to rent our Used toilet paper and other nasty pushed down the folded attic
waterfront mansion. The Christian things floated below, stinking, stairs and leapt two steps at a
family that hosted me were tops; until the next outgoing tide time. Dennis and Gracie trembled
they cooked three warm meals a washed it out to sea. The walls with fear as they clutched onto
day, had super clean sheets, and were insulated, but there were Mary, the strong-willed sister.
even bought me a brand new holes in the floor, where you could Linda, with her pigtails and
winter coat - suckers! A house on see the salt water below. Parts of tattered dress, attempted to rock
the water seemed pretty uppity, the flooring were rotten. We baby Margaurite back to sleep.
though I didn’t think that dad nailed down scraps of plywood Dad hadn’t quite drunk up all the
would spring for something like over the really bad spots. remaining money yet, so he and
that. I was excited that this new The only good part of the Mom were “taking care of
town had a great school and I waterfront house was being able to business” down out at the tavern.
could finally stay in one place and live in the attic. My parents took WHAM! WHAM! – Logs
learn. Reading and writing was one bedroom and my five siblings slammed against the pilings,
tough; I was so far behind in my shared the other. Every day, I shaking the place.
education I didn’t think I’d ever would sneak up the ladder. No one Dennis pleaded, “Jimmy, what
catch up to people my own age. would notice that I was gone. I are we gonna do? The logs under
But, none of that mattered now. had a sleeping bag, candles, and a the house are gonna kill us.”
Things were finally going to be wad of clothes. I was free of
different. everyone. It was great, except that I peeled a large piece of
all the warmth was insulated into plywood off the floor, the one that
main living area, below where I covered the biggest hole and told
Ketchikan, Alaska 1959 slept. It would have been an Dennis to turn off the lights. The
(14 years old) awesome room if it weren’t Alaska. moonlight revealed six enormous
logs – each about 2 feet in
It took less than two weeks for But it was better than living diameter and about 20 feet long –
Dad to trade Jesus back in for downstairs with my family. Being
cold was a small price to pay. that had lodged themselves under
whiskey. He got drunk on the house’s bracings. Each wave hurled
fishing boat and was fired. The the logs against the shack’s
local preacher stopped by – the WHAM! WHAM! – Ripped foundation.
one who raised all that money for from dreamland, I gripped the
our plane tickets – and wanted to

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Within a minute, my clothes The waves tossed me around like

were off and I was down to my an anchorless buoy. Numb hands Alaska just became a state, but
skivvies. You don’t realize how gripped the middle of the log and that didn’t make life in Ketchikan
cold snow is until you have to walk I kicked my legs with all my any more interesting. I only had
barefoot in it. Pink skin, shivering might, trying to guide it away one good friend: my 18-year-old
limbs, and numb toes were pricked from the house. A huge wave buddy Tommy. He was about the
with the winter cold as I stepped dragged me across the barnacles, size of a truck, with sausage
down the access ladder. Our cutting into my back and arms. fingers. Tommy and I hung out all
waterfront dump seemed The vibrations of the log the time, drinking and shooting
luxurious as I slipped into the cold slamming against the bracing the shit. I looked up to him; I
Alaskan ocean. The cold salt water rippled against my skin. guess he was kind of a father
felt like a million icy-cold needles Pushing my head above water, figure. All Tommy talked about
stinging every inch of my skin. the first few seconds of sucking in was getting out of town and seeing
Breath was strained and constant, air were the scariest. I quickly the world. One day after school,
panting in the cold night. Puffs of cleared saltwater from my eyes he pulled up to my Junior High
frozen air hovered around my lips and got my bearings, hoping School to give me a ride home; it
as I waded towards the first log. another log wasn’t aimed in my was cool having a buddy that
Each step was cautiously placed, direction. drove. I did my “greaser strut” out
careful not let the razor-sharp to his beat-up rig.
barnacles cut into my feet. The Working my way towards the
moonlight reflected off the water, backside of the house, I grabbed As we took off, he leaned over
warning me of large waves. the log that blocked several and said, “Today is the day. I’m
Bobbing up and down with the others. Pushing the butt end, I signing up for the National Guard,
stormy ocean current, I pressed on kicked with all my might. The log going to see the world.”
towards the pilings. and I set out for the open ocean; I His words socked me in the
kicked with all my might. gut. I didn’t have anyone else. My
At the lowest point, the water Eventually a passing current
level was right at my nipples; there carried the log away and I swam throat choked up, “But I’ll miss
were other places where I couldn’t back to get the next one. Each log ya.”
reach the bottom. When a large took about twenty minutes to “I’ll miss you, too. But I gotta
wave came, there was no touching push out to sea. After a couple leave.”
the ground. Those large waves hours, all the timber floated out If Tommy left Ketchikan, then
lifted me up towards the bottom into the channel, towards Creek there wouldn’t be any reason for
of the house and then dropped me Street. The logs were headed for me to stay. I asked him, “Why
just as fast. the foundations of other people’s don’t I sign up for the National
Treading water, I navigated homes, but I didn’t care, not my Guard too?”
between tar-plastered pillars problem. “Gotta be eighteen. You’re not
covered with kelp crabs and more I draped a hot washrag across even close. You don’t even have
barnacles. Saltwater crashed my forehead and sank down in the facial hair.”
everywhere as timber slammed tub. Washing saltwater off never Tommy wasn’t trying to be
against the foundation. My sisters felt so good. My brother brought
mean. It was the truth. At 5’3 and
shouted out from the holes in the the kettle to a boil and poured the
120 lbs, I didn’t even look fourteen
floorboards, “Be careful Jimmy. water into my bath, bringing it to years old. My mind was racing; I
Don’t let the logs smash ya!” a nice, hot temperature. All my had to find a way out, leave and
WHAM! – a rogue log hit a siblings sat around, recounting my never look back. No one wanted
bracing just a few inches away ‘log wrestling’ adventure. They me around. I was just another
from my head. It was at this point treated me like a hero; I saved the mouth to feed. One day, my
that I realized my plan to swim day. It was nice. Even the cold brothers and sisters would
around and push the timber out draft from the holes in the understand why I’m about to
from under the house was lame. floorboards didn’t bother me. leave.

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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

I looked up at Tommy, grinned ahead. Every step along the way, I Pussy Lips? My 15-year-old son
and said, “Betcha’ I can find an old waited for someone from my looks older than you.”
chick that’ll sign a piece of paper family to call out my name. The Well your 15-year-old son is
saying I’m eighteen.” only sounds that could be heard older than me and my momma can
I gave a grizzled barfly a sad were ambient forest noises along out-curse you. I knew better than
story about my mom and dad with my sneakers squeaking to speak my mind so I kept still
being killed by communists and against the asphalt as I walked. and fell in line.
that I wanted to get revenge by The next day I arrived at Fort
defending America in the National Ord, California, for Boot Camp. It
Guard. The story was a lot more was a pretty big jump for a boy to The six-month National
intricate than it needed to be, but make in one week: playing war in Guard tour flew by. Before I knew
we rehearsed all the details just inthe cold Alaskan woods with stick- it, I was discharged and back to
case. An hour later, we entered the guns and rocks one week to Ketchikan. Surprisingly, the shack
recruiting office together. shooting rocket launchers and was still standing. My old
machine guns in the warm neighbors said that my family
That old drunk was a better moved to Memphis, probably to
liar than I was. The recruiter California sunshine. Monterey Bay
was just a few miles away and mooch off my Grandma Beck.
didn’t even question my age. Tommy got a real job at the
Within five minutes, I had signed contained the nicest beaches and hardware store. I had no family, no
on the dotted line. Everything was swanky restaurants I’d ever heard friends. Stuck. How’s a 15-year-old
set. Once we were out the door, of. Some of the guys said that a
supposed to survive? I had no way
Tommy slid our savior a few bucks highfalutin golf course was built a to make money, no place to live,
for whiskey. She gave us a few miles outside the base: Shores
Course at Pebble Beach. I never and nowhere to go so I used the
toothless smile, slipped into a rest of my cash to buy a plane
tavern, and disappeared. I never saw it. Golf is stupid.
ticket to Memphis.
saw her again. I loved California. Heck,
anything was better than freezing I showed up to Grandma Beck
For the next two weeks, I with no fanfare. Come or go; it
walked around the house with a your ass off in Alaska. Every day, I
had three hots and a cot (three didn’t matter. Nothing had
big ‘shit eating grin’ on my face. changed, not that I expected it to.
Getting shipped off was my secret, meals and a place to sleep) and Dad was still drunk and Mom was
a the light at the end of the pocket money. Sometimes the
mess hall even cooked steaks for still mean. The next morning I
tunnel. It made time fly by. took my DD214 (papers verifying
Momma asked me a couple times, dinner! I could eat as many as I age and employment with the
“What the hell you so happy wanted. At breakfast, the cooks
dished out eggs, bacon, and taters. National Guard) down to the
about?” Army recruiter and signed up.
I could have all the orange juice
I answered, “Nothing, I’m just and milk I wanted. Some of guys Since I’d already been through
happy.” in my platoon would wiggle the Basic Training, they didn’t ask too
Then one morning, no bacon and complain that it wasn’t many questions and sent me
different than any other, I climbed ‘fresh’ enough. It was ridiculous. straight off to Combat Engineer
down the attic staircase, walked To me, army was heaven. School at Fort Leonard Wood,
out the front door, and never Missouri - about seventy miles
Even boot camp was easy. The northeast of Springfield, smack
looked back. Most of the family Drill Instructors would yell at us,
was still in bed. Momma was in dab in the middle of nowhere.
inches away, and bits of spit would After that I went off to Jump
the kitchen, but didn’t say hit our faces. Guys would cry. I
anything when I walked passed. I School, Fort Campbell, Kentucky
thought it was funny and always – sixty miles northwest of
just kept walking. Grinning. The had to fight back a grin.
rickety shack was behind me and Nashville.
the bus station was several blocks A sergeant screamed at me,
“What the fuck you smiling at,

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 BOOK PROPOSAL
All the Sergeants gave me shit
for looking young, but they gave
everyone shit. There were tons of
recruits that were slow to develop.
I just happened to be one of the
younger looking ones. I guess
everyone assumed I was a late
bloomer and let my young
appearance slide. Only one
Paratrooper didn’t: Ron Jasper. He
was a fair skinned, athletic guy
that had a stupid expression
permanently stamped on his face.
In Jump School, Paratroopers
were gods and us trainees were
called ‘Legs’ because we hadn’t
earned our ‘Wings’ yet. Legs =
Crap. As soon as Ron saw me in
the chow hall, he made it his
personal mission to make my life
miserable. This guy would seek me
out and fuck with me every
chance he got.
I’d pass by and he’d toss food
on the floor and say, “Pick it up,
Leg.” And I had to.
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
! APRIL 29, 2011
One day I sat down in the
chow hall without paying
attention. My plate rested right
across from Ron. As soon as I
noticed him I wanted to run, but
Airborne don’t run from nobody. I
wasn’t going to move. But I would
pretend that I meant to sit there.
“Hey Leg, when you gonna
fuckin’ be a man?”
I ignored Ron and started
eating.
He got in my face and yelled,
“Did you hear me, runt?”
The food on my plate was the
only thing that held my gaze.
Focused. I hoped Ron would get
bored with my lack of response
and walk away. But he already had
his wings and wasn’t going
anywhere either.
“Where you from, Leg?”
! Being from so
many places, I just grabbed the
first town that came to mind.
“Bellingham, Washington.”
Ron brightened up like a
peacock and all the sudden got
real nice. “What!? I’m from
Bellingham, too! What school did
you go to?”
“Whatcom Middle School.”
Aw shit, I’m fucked.
He rolled his eyes. “What high
school, dumb ass?”
My mind reeled for a bit and I
said the only high school I could
think of, “Bellingham High.”
“I went to Bellingham High.”
What were the odds? I didn’t
know what to do. My archenemy
was finally being buddy-buddy and
was going down a road that would
land my ass in serious trouble. I
needed to cultivate this friendship
without getting ejected from the
Army.
PAGE 16
 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

Ron asked, “Hey, do you know stick it into your chest: Blood that had ever happened to me. It
Lisa Headmen?” Wings. showed me adventure and revealed
“I know Katie Headmen.” It WHAM! - The instant that pin another world. I would have stayed
slipped out before I thought. stuck inside my chest I joined the in it if our division hadn’t been
dropped in a bunch of trees,
“That’s her little sister. She was 101st Airborne ranks and was no busting me up. I broke my arm and
in Junior High.” longer a ‘Leg’. Within a split
second, bullies turned into buddies. leg. When I was in the hospital,
The gears in Ron’s mind Even officers gave me respect. they went through my medical
started turning. I could feel him After getting our Wings, the records and figured out my real
put the pieces together. platoon dispersed. Ron followed age. A couple officers chewed me
“My little brother dated her,” I me back to the barracks. Out of out but then dropped it. What
mumbled, which came off well earshot, Ron pulled me aside and could they do? I was a minor, a kid.
enough to be believable. He then said, “Beck, let me ask you a In the end, they gave me an
went through a long list of possible question.” honorable discharge for fraudulent
friends; I nodded my head, I knew the question that was enlistment and sent me packing.
pretended to know, and laughed at coming, but hoped that maybe my The 200-mile bus trip to Memphis
his stories. Most of the people I instincts were wrong. I needed to was depressing. Weeks ago, my
knew through their younger play it off to be safe. “Go ahead commanding officer gave me Blood
siblings. I wolfed down my chow as and ask.” Wings. The bruise still throbbed. I
fast as possible. earned those wings; no one could
“How old are you really?” He ever take them from me.
Ron said, “I don’t ever asked.
remember seeing you around.” The bus rolled through Middle
My stomach tied in knots. I America. I leaned back in my seat,
Bellingham High wasn’t a big could lie to a lot of people, but I
enough school to hide in. I laughed couldn’t lie to a friend. We were rested my head against the window
and said, “I’m pretty small, easy to both Airborne. He wouldn’t turn and chanted a cadence under my
miss.” And took my exit in a breath:
me in. “According to my enlistment
friendly-quick manner. papers I’m twenty.” I made my living as an Airborne
After this conversation, we Ranger
He eyeballed me, “And…”
were fast buddies and Ron made Blood, guts, and a whole lot of
sure that we talked every meal. It “I’m about to turn sixteen.” danger
was nice to have someone from Ron doubled over in laughter. I If I die on a Chinese hi"
back home, but it was damn near was worried. I had told him before
impossible to keep up the lie: he swore secrecy. It was too late;
pretending to know people you the beans were spilt. Ron kept on Take my watch or the commies wi"
never met, lying to a friend. laughing. Finally he said, “You If I die in the Korean mud
Luckily, I always finished eating made it through Jump School and
before anyone else and avoided you’re only fifteen? That is the Bury me with a case of Bud
stirring up too much trouble during coolest thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t Put my wings upon my chest
the three weeks of Jump School. worry man, I got your back.” And te" my mom I did my best

On graduation day our
commanding officer gave us a
choice: We could either get our
wings gently placed on our uniform
like a pussy or he would remove
the metal backing and pound his
fist against the paratrooper pin and
Three months before my 16th
birthday, I became a member of
the 101rst Airborne Paratroopers –
“The Screaming Eagles” - a
member in the 326 Engineers
Battalion and was still in the eighth
grade. The army was the best thing
Of course, the ‘tell my mom’
part should have been left out, but
it worked with the song. I could
not believe the one place I was
going was the only place I didn’t
want to be. I was headed home…
wherever that was.

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 BOOK PROPOSAL
Searcy, Arkansas, 1961
(16-years old)
It was my first day back in
Junior High, another new school.
The principle - a tiny leprechaun
of a man – escorted me through
empty hallways. Everyone was
already in class. He knocked on a
door, interrupting the teacher’s
lecture. She was a nice enough
woman, a few years past her
prime, and welcomed me into the
classroom. I took my seat.
The teacher lifted a short
story off her desk that the class
read: “The Life of an Airborne
Ranger”. The teacher was
obsessed with the military,
especially paratroopers. She
rambled on and on, “Just think of
what it would be like to be a
BECKSERF@GMAIL.COM!
! APRIL 29, 2011
Paratrooper and jump out of a If I ran my mouth I’d be the crazy
plane.” Her monologue was new kid with a ridiculous
followed by a lame explanation of imagination. It didn’t matter that
what the Army was like. The I had discharge papers and Army
descriptions of training exercises photos. Even with solid proof, it
and night-jumps were way off. She would seem like I was trying too
also had no idea how to qualify. hard. I would be a suck-up, kiss-
ass, or showoff – take your pick. If
For a while I thought it was a
set up, but how could these people I told anyone about the last couple
know? It felt like I was inside an years of my life, everyone would
think I was a liar. After all, the
episode of the Twilight Zone. I
wanted to correct the teacher and military doesn’t let seventh graders
say, ‘Airborne training is enlist. It is easy to get people to
believe lies. Getting people to
completely different. You have to
perform five satisfactory jumps: believe the truth is always a
two with combat equipment, and different story. This truth had to
one night jump. Plus, your knees be kept a secret; it was too
and feet stay together; you don’t farfetched. As the teacher gave her
squat land.’ lecture on Airborne Rangers the
class listened in amazement, while
My whole body itched to I tuned them out and doodled on
speak, but I had to remain quiet. the desk.
The second time I enrolled in the army.
(bottom row, on the right)
PAGE 18
 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

CHAPTER 22
SANTA’S A CHEAP JERK

Purdy, Washington 1981 (6-years-old) leaned on mom to keep the holiday gift details
It was 5 a.m., Christmas morning. A light skiff of straightened out since there was so much foster kid
fresh powder covered the ground. Eyes were wide turn over. I was the only one wide-awake and buzzing
open, bursting with adrenaline. Few precious
moments separate me from untold holiday treasures.
I lay motionless in bed, no school - no distractions.
Christmas sleep was welcome unrest. It all came
down to this: pretending slumber until Dad called.
Right then, I heard them. Dad and Santa -the head
of Christmas himself- were talking right above me,
on our rooftop.
“Santa, why don’t you just come through the
front door? It is much easier.”
“Ho, ho, ho. Jim you know I can’t do that. What
would Bubba and Rachel say? Besides, I have to
follow tradition.” Santa said, with a familiar tone.
“But Santa, we have a fire going.”
“Awe, I got tricks to get around that.” with excitement; obviously no one else realized the
HA! Si"y dad, Santa ALWAYS goes down the importance and time sensitive nature of the present
chimney. receiving process. But dad knew. He was already tree-
side rifling through wrapped boxes.
I was pretty surprised that my father was on
good terms with Santa. From what Dad said, he I noticed that Santa ate all of the cookies we set
hated that guy growing up because he always got out the night before. The milk glass was empty. How
stiffed during the holidays. It was all a part of his ‘I did he eat them so fast? I thought he was just on the
should appreciate what I get’ speech. But then again, roof with dad... magic.
Santa’s job is to know everybody. I just hoped that Dad tossed me a package. “Hey Bub, this one’s
during their talk, my latest bout with trouble would yours. It’s from Santa.”
remain a secret. I was still on two-weeks restriction
I caught it.
for losing one of my new shoes. That naughty list was
easy to get on and impossible to get off. Being in Excitement overwhelmed. I had already
trouble consistently decreased the quality of my gifts. examined every present and speculated their
contents. What did Santa bring? A new transformer? A
G.I. Joe figure would be pretty cool. Santa knows I like
Sleigh bells jingled overhead. I felt like I was let them both.
in on a loud secret. A few minutes later, Dad came
The wrapping paper slid off in a second, the lid
running through the house yelling, “Wake up! Wake
popped open; I looked inside. I was speechless. I
up! It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!”
couldn’t believe it. Inside the box was - my shoe.
I jumped out of bed and raced downstairs. No
What? Santa can’t give me my own shoe for Christmas.
more pretending. The day of all days could officially
It’s not even a gi); it is already mine.
commence. There were gifts upon gifts spilling out
from underneath our tinsel laden Christmas tree. Holding it up, I was confused. “Dad, this is my
Mom made last minute adjustments to filled up shoe. The one that I am on restriction for losing.”
stockings, as my foster siblings strolled into the living Mom gave Dad the stink eye. He ignored her.
room, wiping sleep from their eyes. Santa always

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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011
He faltered for a second and “Cli*anger Race car Set! Oh, second class kid. It was like I wasn’t
then said, “Santa must have found wow. Thanks Dad!” valuable. I never minded wearing
your shoe... and brought it back. thrift store clothes, I just didn’t want
Looks like you’re not on restriction to feel like a thrift store person -
anymore, merry Christmas.” For years, whenever I passed used and of little value. I tried to
Santa on a street corner or in the
But this was not the case. I knew shopping mall, I’d throw him a nasty explain it to my dad, but it just hurt
the size and shape of every package his feelings. He never spent more
glare. Adults were curious as to why than six bucks for a shirt for himself,
under the tree that was addressed to I knew all about Saint Nic, but
me. When it arrived and its mapped wasn’t excited to see him or talk to so why would he do it for me. My
location was known like the back of him. I kept my frustrations to parents spent their life savings on
my hand. I had shaken this the foster home, putting the kids
myself, hoping that silence would through private school. There wasn’t
particular present several times. I change things and hopefully the Jolly extra cash to spread around. His
shook it again - ‘CLUMP, CLUMP’ - man would get me something that I
the same familiar sound. philosophy: he earned everything he
liked the next year. But year after had so I should too. I couldn’t
I saw this gift under the tree year he got me more of the same: disagree, but I just wanted to feel
weeks ago, right when I lost it. How broken toys, cans of creamed corn, valued.
can Santa...? “Dad, Santa stole my busted up Top Ramen, and even a
shoe and put it under the tree.” half-eaten hot dog.
One day, the family was walking Peninsula High School,
through the mall and Mom asked me Washington 1991 (15-years-old)
Nobody paid attention.
Everyone else was too caught up in if I wanted a picture with Santa. The Thirty students at their desks,
unwrapping their own gifts. I kept response was automatic, “No. I’d heads buried in a physics exam. Doc
thinking about how I got screwed. rather have a picture with dad.” Malmin paced the isles. Number two
The next gift from Santa was a My father looked at her and pencils furiously scribbled equations
wrapped up can of lima beans; I hate smiled, victorious. and hopeful answers. I was still on
lima beans. question two. The school intercom
broke everyone’s concentration,
I can’t believe we gave that fat After I got a little older, I found “Bubba Beck, please come to the
man cookies. All of my friends get out that the joke gifts “From Santa” registrars office immediately.” The
good presents from Santa. Why do I were two fold: dad wanted there to statement repeated, only cementing
get screwed. How can he put me on be a lot more presents under the in the dread. Everyone in the class
the “Naughty” list if he stole my tree than we could afford and he also turned to me. Only big trouble or
shoe in the first place? At least I’m didn’t want some fat guy in a red suit great tragedy would convince the
not on restriction anymore, even to get credit for something he main office to interrupt class to call
though it wasn’t my fault in the first bought. It was his special way to get my name over the loudspeaker. Doc
place. back at Santa since he never hooked picked up the in-house phone - no
I sat in the middle of my him up as a kid. The problem was, one was allowed to leave class,
presents: a can of lima beans, a few pretty much everything I got for my especially not during a test. Doc
pairs of new socks, underwear, and birthday or Christmas was a gag, Malmin knew all the tricks and
my lost shoe. Dad scooted over. second hand, or off a clearance rack. stayed one step ahead. Tests were
“You know, Santa’s a cheap jerk. Even after I opened the Cli*anger numbered and kept locked down. If
Why don’t you look over there and Car Set I realized that it was a thrift you missed test day, he created an
see what your dad got you?” store purchase, many pieces were alternate exam for you to take when
I followed Dad’s finger to the broken and missing – three of the you returned. He even gave a five-
backside of the tree. An unfamiliar, four cars couldn’t even make it minute bathroom break right before
long slender box peeked out. The around the track. But it was better the test was handed out, just in case.
writing on the side could be read than a can of lima beans. He was old school strict and old
from across the room. Everything I received was cheap school cool. Trying to pull a fast one
and it made me feel cheap, like a on Doc was a pointless endeavor.

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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

Doc walked over to my desk, Other people just stared, It was a tie ballgame and we
leaned in tight, and said, “Bubba, remaining at a safe emotional walked out of the stadium before
don’t worry about finishing the distance; thankful it wasn’t their the game was over... it was the
test. I’ll figure your grade out tragedy. best baseball experience I ever
without the exam. Just go down to “Dad, what’s the emergency?” had.
the registrar’s office.”
“Not until we are outside.”
There was pity in his voice. Lynchburg, Virginia 1996 (20-
Worry filled my soul. Part of me Oh shit, this is bad.
years-old)
felt lucky for dodging a physics- We got to the truck and Dad
test-bullet, yet a larger part was glanced around. The coast was The winter chill hung in the
trembling. Only something clear. A smile stretched across his air. Ice storms created a
catastrophic would convince face. “I haven’t hung out with you crystallized paradise. Each breeze
Malmin that his test was for over a month. I figured it was was a stinging reminder to keep
unimportant. My heart felt like an an emergency that we catch a skin covered. Bundled up, I
anchor. Mariners game. Hop in.” ducked into the university post
office and opened my box. I was
I walked down the empty “I thought I left the fireplace surprised when I pulled out a
corridor. What misfortune do I owe open and burned down the house. parcel slip. Confused, I handed
my gratitude? Rachel should be fine, I How did you get by with that?” the slip of paper to the attendant.
just saw her in the ha"s just a few My heart was pounding. I wasn’t expecting anything so
minutes before. Mom fixed us Dad chuckled. “It’s funny, when she handed me a oversized
breakfast; she should be okay. Oh my... when you refuse to talk, people box my curiosity was piqued. My
I forget to close the fireplace door? I assume the worst. I just told your dorm key punctured the tape,
burned the house down! principle that I had to take you releasing the flaps. The box lid
The registrar’s office held only out immediately. When he pressed opened. I was stunned. Inside lay
a couple people. My father was for information, I told him that it the beautiful, wool gabardine,
filling out paperwork. Leaving was a private family matter that I Italian cut suit - with a small note.
school would be legal. An office would discuss with you first. The
lady grabbed my hand and gave it truth is, last night I watched,
tender squeeze. Dad didn’t look at “Field of Dreams” at the fire Dear Bub,
me. He was expressionless; stone station and just wanted to hang
cold and completely focused, the out with you. What’s the point of
forms completely occupied his being your dad if I can’t abuse my What kind of father
attention. power a bit?”
“Dad, what’s wrong? What’s A couple hours later, we were would I be if I didn’t
going on?” at the ballpark doing what
“I don’t want to talk about it American families are supposed give the best I had to
here. Wait until we’re outside.” to. We spent the whole time
talking about school and life,
Each moment felt like an neither of us paid any attention to my son?
eternity. The office lady grabbed the game. At the bottom of the
the release form. We turned to
leave. I didn’t know which
eighth inning, my father screwed Happy Valentines Day.
up his face and asked, “You don’t...
emotion was most appropriate so like baseball, do you?”
I hung my head, matching my Love,
father’s composure. The corridor “Not really.”
felt like a funeral procession. “Me neither. Let’s get out of
Dad
Everyone seemed to know the here now so we can beat traffic.”
grief I was about to face and gave
nods of condolence as we passed.

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 BOOK PROPOSAL ! APRIL 29, 2011

I made a beeline to my dorm, A few weeks later, I got brands that guys in their early 20’s
to called my dad. The tears made another package for my birthday. would wear?”
it difficult to keep my eyes open. Inside was a brand new Tommy I was stunned.
“Hey pops, thank you so much Hilfiger jacket with a gift receipt He laughed. “At first, she
for the... suit. It... is amazing.” I to Nordstrom. I couldn’t believe
it: my father went into a pointed over to a side table and
couldn’t contain myself. said, ‘We have a sales rack that has
department store and bought me
Dad was taken back, “Why are something fashionalbe. Places like some great deals’.”
you crying like a little girl. Macy’s, Barney’s and Nordstrom “I told her, ‘I’m not buying
“Because... you... you gave me make his skin crawl. Walking by anything on sale. What ever I get,
the best you had.” he’d always say that those stores I’m paying full price. Don’t ask me
“It’s just a second hand suit. were ‘places for suckers’. why, because I don’t understand it.
Figure that you will get more use “Dad, I got the jacket. It’s But point me towards the full
out of it than I ever will.” nice. Did you really buy it at price Tommy Hilfiger stuff,
Nordstrom?” because my son is worth it.”
I tried to explain why it
meant so much to me, but my dad “Of course.” He said this as if There was a long pause on the
didn’t get it. It was never about he purchased everything from phone. “Bub, you are worth it.”
how much money he spent. high end department stores. “I just For the second time in my life,
asked the sales lady about cool I felt ‘worth it’.

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