Chapter 2-The Mouse That Became the Cat from innocence to evil

Los Angeles 1961

     Turning into the dealership's driveway, George jumped off his bike pushing it rather than placing it against the wall. His anger with Sam Locke continued to gnaw away at his young mind. When he was nervous or agitated, George habitually glided his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists. However, today there was something else inside of him, a corrosive malevolence.

     Approaching the building, he noticed his father speaking to David Locke, Sam's dad and the owner of Lock Ford. About to walk inside the showroom George heard an annoyance in David Locke's voice, and stepped off to the side out of view and listened. “

     "Blurth I’m not taking this contract. It’s not a good deal, either get more money or forget it.”

     “Mr. Locke, we sold the same models last weekend for less money, this is a reasonable contract.”

     “Are you telling me my business Blurth?”

     "No Mr. Locke, I’m...”

     “You're what Blurth? Is that what you’re doing now, you believe you can manage this place? You guys are all the same.”

     “That’s not what I’m claiming Mr. Locke, it’s just that...”

     “I’m not interested in excuses, I don’t want the deal,” Locke said slapping the papers out of Mark's hand.

     The owner marched away leaving George's dad paralyzed in the center of the showroom staring down at the scattered papers.

     Emotionally gutted, the thirteen-year-old boy stood by the doorway. It felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach and all of the air inside his body was escaping. He desperately wanted to make sense out of the spectacle between his father and Locke. Yet, instead of screaming, a growing rage began to set his body on fire. It became clear to him the Locke's were terrible people, but something else troubled George. A more revolting picture resonated deeper inside his head.

     Down on his hands and knees, Mark Blurth began collecting the papers off the showroom floor while the other salesmen stood to the side snickering. It was obvious to George that he and his father were also terrible people, weak and easily bullied. Upset with the quarrel between David and Mark, the young couple who had signed the contract stepped around George's father and slipped out of the showroom.

     The afternoon began to chill and dampness engulfed the air as a line of dark clouds appeared in the sky. Rain was approaching but George ignored the cold. Inside his body, another disturbance was mounting. Attempts at pressing back tears failed as they streamed down his cheeks unchecked.

     Manny, one of the dealership's mechanics wearing blue coveralls stepped out from the service area and observed the young boy leaning against the wall.

     "Hey kid, are you okay?"

     Without responding, George turned and ran to his bike. Mark while gathering the scattered papers glanced up and saw his son climb onto his three-speed and a pain tore through his flesh and bones squeezing his heart. He had hoped George had not seen the disgraceful incident but knew his boy witnessed everything. He watched his son pedal away and fiercely twisted the stack of papers in his hands. Mark wanted to cry out to his son and say he was sorry.

     George was confused. Never had his brain experienced so many conflicting thoughts and feelings. Anger, retaliation, pain, hurt, sadness all came crashing down around him like opposing armies converging on a battlefield. He wanted to disappear and simultaneously lash out at the world.

     He pedaled as fast as he could on the busy chaotic streets darting carelessly around onrushing traffic paying no attention to the blaring horns or screaming drivers. When he turned the corner on the street where he lived George saw Angelina Capelli, an acquaintance, but deliberately avoided her. She was a fifteen-year-old girl, with flaming red hair and the hourglass figure of a woman. She called out to him, but he didn't react. She called out again, this time George stopped.

     "What's wrong George, why didn't you stop?"

     "I didn't hear you."

     "You biked right past me you heard me. Have you been crying?"

     "No."

     "Then what's wrong?"

     "Nothing, I don't want to talk about it."

     "Why?"

     "Because I don't that's why."

     "Maybe I can help.”

     "What could you do?"

     "You never know, people talk to me."

     At first, he was hesitant, but after more coaxing began talking to Angelina. She had a way about her. He told her about the conflict at school with Sam Locke but never discussed his father and David Locke. That pain he kept to himself.

     "I wish I could kill that guy.

     He paced with his fists hidden in his pockets and talked about killing the older boy without realizing the consequences.

     "I want to pay Sam back."

     George slammed his hand against the wall, startling Angelina. Quietly she listened to his ramblings. She was good at it. Numerous times Angelina stood and listened to men young and old and their long-winded mumblings. Too often, they wanted more than just conversation.

     “George, have you ever had a girlfriend?”

     “What--, of course not.”

     “Have you ever kissed a girl?”

     “No.”

     “I’m thirsty. I’m going inside to get something to drink, come with me. I’ve got Coca-Cola; would you like one?”

     Ignoring Angelina his mind was elsewhere.

     "Well George, do you want a Coke?"

     “Yeah, I guess so.”

     Taking his hand, Angelina led George into the apartment where she lived with her mother. It was larger than most places in the area, including where George and his father lived. He followed her into the kitchen and stood by the sink, which was overflowing with soiled dishes from several previous meals. Glancing at the kitchen table, there was a half-open box of Cheerios lying on its side along with a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of Weber's bread. Angelina disregarded the mess and kicked the refrigerator door closed. She turned towards her friend holding two bottles of Coke and began toying with the younger boy.

     “Would you like one of these?”

     George not paying attention to Angelina's playfulness kept perusing the room.

     "George, would you like one of these?"

     “Oh, yes.”

     As he reached for the bottle Angelina pulled away.

     "Hey."

     “First George kiss me.”

     “What, stop fooling around let me have a Coke.”

     He lurched forward and gripped hold of one bottle, but the young temptress held it tight and pulled George closer placing her tender lips on his. He tried pulling away but Angelina wrapped her arm around his waist holding him close. When she let go George jumped backward.

     "Why did you do that, don't!"

     “Oh that wasn’t so bad was it George? Now you’ve kissed a girl.”

     “I suppose so, but still.”

     “George kiss me and you can have the Coke. Come here and kiss me. You know you liked it.”

     “I don’t want to, stop.”

     Nervously he made two fists.

     “George I’m not going to be the only girl you'll ever kiss so come here now.”

     Reluctantly George obeyed and moved closer.

     “Okay, now kiss me.”

     With eyes wide open George awkwardly pressed his lips together as Angelina placed her mouth against his. She put the Coke bottles down and resumed kissing the inexperienced boy, pressing her body hard against his until he was pinned up against the wall. Suddenly, Angelina reached down and began unbuttoning George’s jeans.

     "Stop that," he said. He pulled her hand but she slapped it away.

     “Don’t worry George you will love this, all the boys do.”

     He tried pushing Angelina away again, but she was stronger and had him pinned.

     “Stop, don’t touch me.”

     “Stop it, Georgy, you’ll like what I do, I promise.”

    Angelina's mouth muffled his sounds of anguish as she stuck her hand inside George’s jeans. In a surge of strength, he pushed Angelina away and ran out of the kitchen through the living room, and out the front door. Behind him, George heard Angelina laughing. When he jumped off the front stairs he fell and rolled down to the sidewalk.

    As he stood, a sharp pain shot through his right leg. He had sprained his ankle, but the anger and humiliation were stronger than the throbbing leg. George hobbled to his bike and swung his injured leg over the seat, then peddled slowly down the street.

Angelina stood by the open window and shouted, “You’ll be back Georgy once you find out what you missed. Until then, it’s our secret."

     Limping painfully up the stairs to his apartment, he unlocked the front door and saw Mark sitting at their temporary dining table intoxicated, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

     “George, where have you been?”

     “Leave me alone.”

     “Come here I want to talk.”

     “I don’t want to talk to you. He pushed you around and you let him. We're weak, I hate you, and I hate them.”

     “Don’t say that. You don’t understand George."

     "I do understand. I hate you."

     "Stop it; you doonnn, don't hate me. It’s hard to explain. I--I’m sorry you saw what happened,” said Mark, fragile and drunk.

     “You love that bottle. Shut-up, I hate you.”

     George hobbled down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. The last shards of daylight died on the windowsill and conceded to nightfall as he cried into his pillow. Today was the worst day of George's young life. Tightness engulfed his chest as the memory of the school incident echoed.

     Struggling for solace, he wrapped his arms around his midsection. Tormented and suffering, he paid no attention as his fingers crawled up his body like tarantulas wrapping themselves around his neck. Slowly they began crushing his windpipe. He gasped but oxygen was a phantom. George screamed but there was no sound and just before he blacked out his fingers relaxed.

    Anger replaced anxiety. The faces of Sam and David Locke popped like strobe lights in his head. Hatred snaked through his body causing him to squeeze his two fists until his fingernails broke the skin in his palms.

     His head began to throb and with each beat, his ankle and head pounded mercilessly. Rocking from side to side George tried to make the razor sharp pain go away. The abusive incidents in the school hallway and automobile showroom replayed repeatedly in his mind. He thought covering his face would free him but each scene increased with emotion. His humiliation festered.

     Inescapable images of George and his father on their hands and knees with people standing over them laughing, pointing, and prodding. Mysteriously George stopped moving and the visions began dissolving. Like a new chapter in a book, the thoughts in his head changed.

     He opened his eyes and stared at the unlit ceiling. His mind zeroed in on a black spot near the light fixture and as he focused, his facial expression began to change. Revenge had taken up residence in his head.

     "I hate them; I hate them," he mumbled the words repeatedly.

     In the mind of a thirteen-year-old, revenge was a fight in the schoolyard beating up the bully. George's mind was not that of a thirteen-year-old, and he was not interested in a schoolyard fight.

     Reaching over he turned on the small lamp next to his bed. His eyes wandered around the bedroom and stopped at the box full of chess pieces on top of the folded board. At first, he gave it no thought then realized to satisfy his revenge required a strategy. The game of chess was to think several moves in advance of your adversary.

     "Anticipate your enemy's moves before they know their moves."

     Still lying down George fell into a hypnotic trance as his eyes closed. He dreamt he was standing over two people kicking them and hitting them with a long stick. Tied down and powerless they both screamed in agony but neither escaped the beating. Unmoved by their pleas for mercy George was punishing Sam and David Locke.