First Meeting

Marcus was a magic person. I don't mean he did tricks. He was really magic. Nobody believes in magic any more. That's why I waited three years before I wrote this stuff down. I was afraid if it got out that I believed in magic they would make me take those drugs that do funny things to your head. Psychiatrists do that if they think you are crazy. But I know better how to keep out of their way now. Anyhow, it's just as good I did wait. I'm 14 now. I didn't write so good when I was only 11.

My real life began the day I ran away with Marcus. That's what I want to tell about.

But if this is going to make sense, I guess I've got to do a social history. When I was growing up I attracted social workers like doo-doo attracts flies and every last one of them wanted a "social history." I thought about making copies of my social history so I could just give it to whatever new social worker came buzzing around, and be done with it. I never did, of course. But here is a quick one I just now did.

When I was four my dad got killed in a car accident. So I guess that was a trauma. A trauma is what they call any really pissy thing that happens in your life. Mom told me that I was closer to him than to her. I think I sort of remember him. Once I was sitting in this guy's lap, playing with the hairs on the back of his fingers. That must have been him.

Anyhow my mom started drinking a lot and got real fat and when I was eight the Department of Human services said she wasn't a fit mother and put me in a home. I didn't like living in the home. But then, living with Mom wasn't all that great either.

The Home was a big mansion on a hill about a half a block from a lake. It was run by the Lutherans. It had a longer name like "The Lutheran Children's Home of Maine," but we always just called it "The Home." I didn't like it much. It's not like they tortured us or anything. It was just so boring there.

So the long and the short of it is this: Mom and I didn't get along. The Home and I got along even worse. I never got along with social workers. Also school and I didn't get along. And church -- well, lets not even talk about church. Fortunately I only had to go there once a week. I didn't even get along with my friends. I mean why go into a lot of detail. I didn't get along with life.

Enough social history. I'll start where my real life began: September 3, 1967.

All us kids from the home were out on a field trip. I think it was to some museum in Boston. There was 26 of us -- boys and girls from six to sixteen. I was eleven. Going on twelve.

We pulled over into this rest stop so everybody could get off and take a leak and stretch a little bit. I had been planning to run away for some time. The only thing holding me back was that I felt I needed someplace to run to, or at least someone to run with, and like I said, there wasn't anybody I got along with.

So I was wandering around in the area where people walked their dogs and there was some picnic tables. I saw this funny looking guy sitting at a table all by himself. He wasn't real old or real young -- maybe in his thirties. He was skinny. Not too tall. Not too short. Sort of average. It's hard to say what made him look funny. I don't mean he made you want to laugh. There was just something different about him. He had long hair in a pony tail and wore blue jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of whales on it. I guessed he was hippie. We didn't see too many of them up in the part of Maine I was from. But none of that is what made his look funny. He was eating a plum. I remember that. And he sat bolt upright and just stared at everything around him. It was his eyes that made him look different than other people. The way he stared at everything. When he stared at some bird -- the most ordinary bird that he had just thrown some crumbs to -- it was like he had never seen a bird before.

I was looking at him from the side and just saying to myself, yes, its his eyes that make him look funny when suddenly he turned them on me. I think maybe he felt that I was looking at him. Anyhow he just stared at me the same way I had seem him staring at the bird -- like he had never seen a boy before. I was caught in the act. What act I was caught in wasn't real clear. After all, all I had done was to look at him. I thought, maybe he knows I think he is funny looking and that's why I am staring at him. I froze. I didn't know what to do. For a lot of seconds neither of us said or did anything. It was like a time-bomb was ticking away and I didn't know which way to run. Then he smiled, and said, "hi."

It was just ordinary, no bomb or anything. So I said hi back.

"You're on a field trip," he said.

I nodded and wondered how he knew. Then I thought about the school bus and all the kids running around and it was obvious. So I just said, "yeah." I came over closer to his table.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Some museum in Boston."

"Cool," he said. "Which one."

I shrugged. "Can't remember the name of it," I said.

"Have you been thinking about running away?" he asked.

Now that one was not so easy to explain. I felt the hair on the back of my arm rise a bit. "Maybe," I said. I didn't want to say how did you know that because I figured that might give him an advantage over me -- like I thought he was a magician or something and I was just an ordinary kid.

"You want a plum?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. I came on up to the table and sat down across from him, and took the plum he offered me.

We sat there eating our plums and not saying anything and with him staring at me like he had never seen a boy eating a plum before.

Finally I said, "Where are you going?"

"West," he said.

"West?"

He nodded.

"West where?"

"As far west as I can," he said.

That wasn't a very exact answer, but my hope was to get as far away from where I was as I could. As far west as possible sounded like it might be just what I was looking for. "Can I go with you?" I asked.

"Why not?" he said.

I wiped some plum juice off my mouth with my sleeve and spit out the pit. "Really?" I said. I thought maybe he was just talking. I didn't know him yet.

"Sure he said."

I glanced over my shoulder to the bus and saw that the kids were beginning to return to it. Soon they would call for everybody and then do a count. They would discover that I was missing and come looking for me. I thought about how I might avoid them.

"Just sit like you are now, with your back to them," he said. At the time it didn't seem strange to me. I guess I didn't even notice that I had not said anything to him about my worry. I turned by back to the bus. "Now," he said, "close your eyes and picture yourself on the bus."

I didn't have a better plan, so I did what he said. The last of the kids, minus me, got on the bus and the door shut. Then there was a long wait. I figured they were counting and began to panic.

"Keep picturing yourself there on the bus," he said. I did so as best I could.

Then the bus door opened and my heart sank. They had found out that I was gone, and would come looking now. The bus driver climbed down. He had a paper sack in his hand which he took to the trash bin closest to the bus. Then he got back on and closed the door again. A few seconds later the bus drove off.

I began to feel how weird this was getting.