You Can Run but You Can't Hide (3 page)

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me. There were five older kids who acted more like men than boys.

There was no mistaking the sound of their leather boots clicking

on the sidewalk. The gang leader was named Beau Rodriguez. He

was the toughest kid at school. That’s a pretty big statement, be-

cause Rishel Junior High was filled with punks and badasses, each

trying to prove he was the toughest.

One day, on my way to school, I found myself surrounded by

Beau and his gang. I was walking through a deserted parking lot

when the guys snuck up from behind. They were all carrying rubber

hoses. I imagined I was in for a real beating, because it was five

against one.

Flash had been teaching me how to fight. He and I practiced

boxing a couple of days a week. I was pretty good. I would have

taken on any of these guys one at a time and probably beat him. I

knew I didn’t have a prayer of surviving against all five. The only

solution I could think of was God.

I pulled my Bible from the inside pocket of my coat, held it up,

and said, “You are sinners. The Lord doesn’t want you to do this. The

Bible says to be kind to your fellow man!”

Beau and the boys started laughing their asses off. I thought

I was off the hook until Beau took his hose and used it like a whip

to send my Bible flying across the parking lot. These boys weren’t

messing around. I crouched down, clutched my fingers together be-

hind my neck, and waited for the brutal beating to end. When they

stopped, I pulled my bloody, torn body across the parking lot to-

ward my Bible for whatever protection it might still offer.

My mother was a deeply religious woman who always told me

the Lord would protect me. My attempt to move signaled Beau and

his gang to start the whooping all over again, only this time they hit

me harder.

My will was stronger than theirs. I kept crawling, scratching my

nails against the pavement. One of the boys noticed that my Bible

was just outside my reach. He ran over, grabbed it, and ripped my

precious book in half, tossing one part across the parking lot and

the other at my feet.

I thought about God as I lay on the dirty asphalt that morning.

Beau and his boys were through with me, but I wasn’t done with

them. I lost my will to love and forgive that day. I was mad as hell.

Where was God? Why didn’t He protect me?

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

I had taken plenty of beatings from Flash. I was used to taking

his punches. Somehow this felt different. It made me angry and

vengeful.

I wanted to run after those boys and clobber each one. I wanted

to get up and hurt those bastards, but my body couldn’t move. I

watched them walk away, taking pleasure and pride in the damage

they had done. My wounds were deep, far beyond the cuts and

bruises I suffered at their hands. My heart hardened that day. I re-

member it well, because it took many years to learn to open it back

up. I cried for hours. I was hurt in every way.

By midafternoon, I finally realized I could cry no more. I didn’t

want to shed another tear for Beau Rodriguez, for hatred, for my

heritage, or my wounded pride. I could barely make it to my feet,

let alone take the long walk to school. I tried to hold back my tears,

but they kept coming, like a spout that couldn’t be turned off.

When I got to school, I went straight to the vice principal’s office.

I sat there, recounting the details of what happened in the parking

lot. My nose was bleeding, my clothes were ripped, and I had deep

cuts and bruises from head to toe. He listened silently. He didn’t re-

spond to anything I was saying.

He looked at me as if I were an alien who had just landed from

another planet. He didn’t believe a single word of my story. In fact,

he was completely dismissive. My already growing anger was now a

volcano on the verge of eruption. I may not have been a model stu-

dent; I surely know I wasn’t an angel. But his denial of my beating

was as abusive as the event itself. My world was instantly turned up-

side down. For the first time in my life, an adult was accusing me of

being a liar. The vice principal excused me and sent me off to class.

A few weeks later, I found myself in the principal’s office again.

This time, a teacher noticed bruises on my body during gym class

and reported it. These bruises were from Flash’s beatings. I barely

noticed them anymore. When he asked me what happened, I had no

reason to be honest. What difference would it have made? He

wouldn’t believe me anyway. But he guessed the truth and asked my

father to come in. When Flash got to his office, I thought, at the

very least, the vice principal would tell him to stop beating me. For

a moment, I was relieved that someone finally saw what was hap-

pening to me at home.

Unfortunately, when he pulled up my shirt in front of my dad, he

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turned to Flash and said, “I suggest you don’t leave marks next time,

Mr. Chapman.”

Flash thought I ratted him out, but I didn’t. The next time he beat

me, he hit me extra hard to make sure I knew he was still in control.

The school authority’s refusal to protect me left a pretty sour

taste in my mouth. I wasn’t all that interested in school. I hated the

kids and the system. So I dropped out of Rishel Junior High. The

day I quit, I walked into the vice principal’s office and slammed my

fist on his desk, shattering the glass that covered the top.

“Fuck you. You never stuck up for me when you knew I was get-

ting beaten at home. You never believed a word I said. I quit!” I

turned, walked out, and never went back.

C h a p t e r T h r e e

BECOMING THE DOG

Once I dropped
out of school, I had to find creative ways to

fill my time. The first day I ditched, I went back to that empty park-

ing lot where Beau beat me. There was an old abandoned car up on

blocks, missing its doors and windows.

I walked up to the car, where I met a boy who looked to be

about the same age as me. I asked him what he was up to, and he

told me the Vatos were constantly kicking his ass. I knew just how

he felt. The kid introduced himself as Paul David Thompson. I

gave a nod, letting him know I was cool if he was. He was a little

guy, just like me.

I noticed he was holding a small plastic bag with the neck

twisted at the top. “What do you have in that bag?” I asked. Paul

put it up to his mouth, took a deep breath, and held it in for what

felt like an eternity before he let out a huge exhale. He sat motion-

less, staring into space for a minute or two before asking me if I

wanted to give it a try. I was game. I did it just like he did. A feeling

of complete and total relaxation consumed my body. After a few

more huffs, I forgot about all of the pain and anger I felt for being

abused by Flash, the vice principal, and Beau.

“What was that?” I asked. I wanted to know everything I could

because I never wanted that feeling to go away. He told me it was

Testors airplane glue. He knew where to get some more. I stayed

high from that day on.

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I didn’t have enough money to buy the glue, so Paul and I stole

it. I was born with an innate knowledge of picking locks. It was a

great skill to have at that age, especially when I needed to get high.

All of the goodness my mother had instilled in me was slowly

fading away with every sniff. I was spiraling out of control into a

world I had little understanding of. I was using dirty language

around the house, which was especially upsetting to my parents, be-

cause they never cursed. The worst words I ever heard my father say

were “dang” and “darn.”

I was becoming unrecognizable to my family. Until I met Paul, I

was a Bible-loving choirboy. After years of enjoyment, I stopped go-

ing with my mother to Sister Jensen’s Mission and to her church on

Sunday. It broke my mother’s heart to see me turn my back on the

Lord.

Flash was well aware of my newfound habit. The more I sniffed,

the harder he hit. The more he beat me, the higher I got. It became

an unbreakable cycle.

My parents tried everything to get me back on course. Flash

even attempted to get me interested in martial arts. He thought

karate might be a good way for me to work out my growing anger.

The classes did teach me to control my emotions and helped me

channel my rage into something more productive than getting high.

I got pretty good at karate, earning belt after belt. I loved to fight in

front of an audience. The sound of their cheering inspired me to

push myself harder every time. Flash came to my matches now and

then. He always encouraged me to show no pity. He told me that

each opponent has a weakness. First I had to identify it and then

mercilessly go after it. He said you never want to let up until your

foe goes down. I knew that strategy far too well from years of hav-

ing Flash beat on me.

Karate helped me develop into a muscular young man. By the

time I was thirteen years old, I was probably as strong as most of the

sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. Because of my age, a lot of guys

thought they could kick my ass. Every time someone tried, I took

them out. I began building a reputation around town as the kid you

didn’t want to mess with.

In spite of my parents’ best efforts to get me back to school, I was

dead set on becoming a hood. I just didn’t care anymore. The only

thing I was interested in was crime. I went from stealing airplane glue

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

to breaking into houses. Paul and I wanted to take the excitement

level up a couple notches, so we’d go in looking for jewelry, televi-

sions, silverware, and anything else we could get our hands on to

hock.

About this time, Flash was finding it harder and harder to dish

out his constant beatings. I wasn’t a little child he could catch off

guard anymore. I was too quick for him. I knew when he was about

to throw a punch or try to grab me. Still, I wasn’t quite to the point

where I could completely throw down with him. As I got bigger, he

eventually had to use all of his body weight to pin me to the floor

or up against the wall.

And then one day, I realized I had another gift besides fighting. I

could talk my way out of anything. I sharpened those skills every

time Flash threatened to hit me.

“Let me just say something first.” I always looked him right in

the eye to keep his attention on what I was saying. I used my hands

a lot and bobbed my head like a fighter in the ring, trying to avoid a

physical confrontation.

“I don’t want to hear it, Duane Lee!” Flash wasn’t really inter-

ested in talking.

“Wait a minute. What good is hitting me gonna do, Daddy?

Calm down and let’s talk this out.”

A lot of times he actually covered his eyes with his large hands,

because he didn’t like the way I was looking at him. He still came

after me, though, even with his eyes covered. When I realized he

couldn’t see a thing, I led him right into a wall or the sofa. And if

this tactic failed, I tried to talk Flash down by bringing up the Lord.

He’d tell me to stop talking, but usually this would at the very least

slow him down.

Dealing with Flash during those years taught me that talking

things out is a lot better than fighting. You just have to be willing to

put your own feelings aside and see things through someone else’s

eyes, even if they’re covered.

By my fifteenth birthday, my parents had had enough. They

could no longer control me, and they didn’t like the influence I was

having on my brother and sisters. So they sent me to live with Aunt

Iris, who lived clear across town. She became my legal guardian. I

loved living with her, because she never breathed down my neck and

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rarely checked up on me. I could go out whenever I wanted and

didn’t have to obey too many strict rules.

It was the late sixties. Hippies were popping up all over the

place. I especially liked hippie chicks, who were always eager to get

it on. I spent endless days and nights partying with them in the

park. None of the hippies had jobs, so I wasn’t really sure where

they got their money. It seemed like most of them panhandled or

sold drugs.

I wanted to help them make money legitimately, so I convinced

some local businesses to hire them part-time. I made my money by

charging ten bucks for every job I arranged. I was the hippie head-

hunter. Eventually, I placed eighty-six of them with part-time em-

ployment, which meant I made 860 green American dollars. The

local paper picked up the story and published a really nice article

about how my entrepreneurial skills were helping the community.