It was such an alien experience having a family who enjoyed being together. We sat around the dinner table many a winter night after the girls cooked dinner, telling stories and jokes, and sometimes even playing board games. One of the ironies of the times that I lived with my mother, stepfather, brother, and sister was that I was given board games as gifts pretty much every Christmas, but as a family of five, we very seldom played any of them. My mother and stepfather didn’t want to play The Six Million Dollar Man board game, for example, and my brother and sister were too young to understand how to play. They were six and seven years younger than I was, respectively. When I was eleven, they were five and four. So the game sat stacked on the top shelf of my closet, unplayed, with all the other board games I had received. But now, my step-sisters were five years and four years older than I was, and they humored me by playing games at the table, no matter how bad the games were. And some of them were terrible.
Six Million Dollar Man board game. It is terrible.
It was fascinating for me to learn from them. I had just turned 12 and they were already in high school. Their vocabularies were much more, um, colorful than mine. I learned lots of new words while sitting at the table. It felt wonderful to be included, joyous to be part of a family who seemed to care about each other; until one night, that all changed. We were playing Po-Ke-No, a game I had received when I was in third grade. It was a combination of poker and bingo. I thought it was a lot of fun, and we were having our usual banter at the table, when Barb, the younger of the two step-sisters mentioned that I had a half-sister.
I was puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘half-sister’? Wendy is my sister,” I said. “She was born before my mom and dad were divorced.” Barb insisted that Wendy wasn’t my dad’s child, but rather belonged to my stepfather. Suddenly, my whole sense of family was turned on its ear. I started to get angry. “No, she’s not! Stop lying!” I got up from the table and slammed my hand down on it. There was no way my sister belonged to the man who beat me every day. My dad heard the commotion and came in to ask what was wrong. I was in tears. “Barb says that Wendy is only my half-sister!”
My dad looked like he had seen a ghost. He ushered me into the living room space, just ten feet away from the table, but I caught the look he shot back at Barb, and it wasn’t a good one. He sat me down in front of the fireplace and sat across from me on a footstool. He explained that it was true, that Wendy was Steve’s child. I questioned how that could be, and he had to do a little explaining because at that time, I didn’t know where babies came from, at all. When he explained that mom and Steve had been together before he and my mom were divorced, and it was why we went to live with Steve afterward, it suddenly made sense why Wendy never came with Jeff and me to visit him. Mom had always said it was because she was too young, but Jeff was only a year older than she was, so that never made sense. I asked him if I could ask more questions about it, and he said yes.
I asked my dad why, then, had he paid child support for her for so many years. In the times that I saw my dad in the previous five years, complaining about child support was one of his common themes of conversation. Nothing makes you feel valued like hearing that your dad resents paying $50 a month for each of his children. He told me that since she was born before the divorce was final, she was listed as his child on her birth certificate. They had done a paternity test, but my dad and Steve had the same blood type, so there was no way to determine that she wasn’t actually my dad’s child, and that my mom wanted to “stick it to him,” so she claimed that Wendy was my dad’s child in the divorce proceedings.
Suddenly, pieces of this puzzle were falling into place. I remembered my grandpa calling my mother “Jezebel” when I was six, and my grandmother shushing him in terror after noticing that I was in the room at the time. But I also remembered that we would go to visit Steve and his wife and kids, and that while mom and Steve slept in one room, my dad and Steve’s wife slept in another. Again, I didn’t know where babies came from when that whole Jerry Springer show was happening, but now I knew that Mom wasn’t the only one cheating.
Dad told me that later on, they had made a deal with him that Steve would adopt Wendy so that my dad could stop paying child support for her, but only if they got to take Jeff as a deduction on their taxes. My dad agreed to it, but he was not happy about it, being extorted into doing what was right in the first place. I didn’t even know that Wendy’s last name had changed because she hadn’t started school yet. It never appeared on any documents I ever saw. After about an hour of this, I was still upset, but calm enough to apologize to Barb for calling her a liar and slamming the table. She said she was sorry for telling me, but she also said she didn’t know that it was a secret. I said that I understood, but suddenly, the idea of the close-knit family was tainted. I didn’t believe her.
When I was nine years old, I joined the Cub Scouts, and one of the things the Cub Scouts was known for back at that time was teaching young boys to be responsible with pocket knives. I have carried a pocket knife ever since. I got my first one when I was nine and I carried it through elementary school, junior high, and high school. In high school, I even carried a hunting knife in a sheath on my belt. Can you even imagine? And yes, it was allowed, as long as the blade didn’t exceed three inches.
When I first became a full-time teacher, I lived in Michigan City, Indiana. There was an knife/cutlery store at the outlet mall in Michigan City. When I visited as a 20-something adult, I decided it was time to upgrade my pocket knife. And I found The Mechanic. This Swiss Army knife had everything I needed. It had the usual blades and bottle and can openers, but it also had a Phillips head screwdriver and a pair of pliers. Now, most of you are probably thinking that no one really needs a $30 pocket knife. You’d be wrong.
The Mechanic, by Victorinox
I used the Mechanic for over 25 years. As a teacher, there were hundreds of times that I used the pliers alone to pull a locker open when a student had jammed the door shut over their coat. I used the Phillips head screwdriver all the time when screws came loose. Go ahead, you’re thinking it. I always had a screw loose. I sharpened innumerable pencils when the classroom pencil sharpener failed in its only job, evoking gasps from students almost every time: “Mr. McClain, you have a KNIFE?” I always laughed and said, “You do know I have to pass a background check every five years to work here, right?”
I used the knife to open cans of Trader Joe’s version of Spaghettios when I was sitting at conventions, unwilling to pay $12 for a sandwich that should have cost four. When my banner stand lost an endcap, I had the tool to put it back on. If that knife ended up costing me a penny per use, I’d be shocked.
I took this knife everywhere I went, even on planes, pre-9/11. I would never have thought of going anywhere without it. But there are some places where you just can’t take it with you besides airports now. No knives are allowed in courtrooms, for example. The county/city building in Mishawaka has a metal detector. And unfortunately, one year, I find out the hard way that you could no longer take pocket knives into Ford Field, where the Detroit Lions play. A few years ago, we were making our annual sojourn to see the Lions play, and we had parked two miles away and walked. And when we got to the gates, there were metal detectors and a strict policy posted. I did not have the endurance or time to walk another four miles to take my knife to the car and return, so I did the unthinkable; I threw my knife away.
I thought I could replace it easily. It had to be a popular model with all the use I’d gotten out of it over the years, right? Oh, I was so wrong. The Mechanic had been discontinued in 2017. There were no more to be found. Every time I found a knife shop to visit, I always inquired, hoping someone would still have one in stock, but no one did. I thought to just look online, and sure, I could get another one–for a hundred dollars!
Finally, I caught a break this month and found one on Ebay. I only paid $50 for it, including shipping. If that seems exorbitant, it’s really not. My $30 knife in 1992 would cost $63.22 now, with inflation. I actually got the replacement for less than I paid for the original. Is it a brand-new knife? No, but it opens cleanly and the blades are sharp. And even though it’s not the original one that I bought in the 1990s, I hope it’s something my daughter will carry when I’m gone and remember me. Because she never knew a time when I didn’t have one. And the way she is with machines, she’ll probably get more use out of it than even I did.
As February rolled in, I settled into a routine. Going to school, visiting my grandparents, going to church, buying comic books. It was comforting to be safe and have that regularity, but I didn’t know that feeling was about to be threatened.
My teacher, Mr. Hunter, was big on reading, so he made sure we all got library cards for Tustin’s small public library. He literally walked us across the street to get our cards and our first books. The first book I checked out was The Making of Star Trek, by Stephen Whitfield. I read the book from cover to cover the first day I had it. I was a huge Star Trek fan from the time I was a little boy, and it was still in syndication. I watched it after school on the black-and-white TV in the living room.
The book was so interesting and I learned so much from it that I read it again over the weekend. It described in great detail what everyone involved with a television production does, from writers to directors to producers, even best boys and gaffers. It had preliminary designs for the Enterprise, detailed views of the props, biographies of the actors, everything to keep a 12-year-old fan’s attention, especially in the age before the Internet. I didn’t take the book to school on Monday, and that turned out to be a costly mistake. My dog, Ladybug, apparently didn’t enjoy the book taking attention away from her, so she chewed off about 1/4 of the cover while I was away.
I had taken responsibility for Ladybug, remember, so I knew I was on the hook for the price of the book, $1.50! I was in a panic. I had to return the book at the end of the week, but I didn’t have $1.50 to pay for it. What was I going to do? I’d already bought a comic book on Sunday (Justice League of America #142) with my church money, so I was dead broke. I didn’t want to tell my dad or my stepmother what had happened, so I was determined to figure things out on my own. I started by trying to sell some of my old toys that I still had and didn’t need anymore to try to raise $1.50, but I couldn’t find anyone who wanted my old stuff.
Justice League of America #142
In Justice League of America #142, the Atom was having a crisis of confidence. The Mighty Mite didn’t think he fit in with a powerful lineup that included Superman, Wonder Woman, and he was ready to retire. He, Aquaman, and the stretchy Elongated Man were forced to fight to protect an alien called Willow, and even then, the Atom felt overwhelmed by the situation. I could relate.
I started looking for kids who weren’t in my class to buy my toys. I was getting desperate. I finally thought I’d found someone, a neighbor kid from down the road that I’d just met. I let him take the toys home before he brought me the money, and I was so relieved. But he returned them the next day because his dad had said no to the deal. I was crestfallen. I was spending nights lying awake, wondering what I was going to do. On the following Monday, I learned something about borrowing books from the library; you could renew a book if you weren’t done with it! I renewed the book for another week, while saving my church money in hopes of eventually paying for the book.
This temporary solution helped me sleep a little, but I was still nervous. After I ran out of renewals, I started paying the fines on a weekly basis. I got my next fifty cents of church money, but I had to pay 10 cents for the late fine for the library, so I was back down to 90 cents. The following week, I got another fifty cents, and paid another 10 cents. I had $1.30 saved up, so I knew it would only be one more week before I could pay for the book. My dad noticed that I wasn’t buying any “funny books,” as he called them. I just looked down at my shoes and said that there weren’t any that I wanted that week. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what I’d done, and I didn’t want to be a burden to him or Peggy. I was still afraid of being sent back to live with my mom. I knew how my dad favored the women in his life.
After another week of fitful sleep, I finally had $1.80 saved up and I took my money to the library along with the damaged book to pay my debt to society. When I shamefully explained the situation, I thought the librarian was going to fall over laughing. She not only forgave and returned my fine money, but she gave me the book as well. They said that I was the first person to check that book out in over five years, and it was headed for the discard pile anyway. She thanked me for being such an honest young man, and sent me on my way. And I was rich! I had two whole dollars, and a book that I would read many, many more times over the years.
The Atom also found his strength, as Willow chooses him to defeat a powerful new enemy, the Construct. The Atom also realizes that he has a place in the Justice League. And I had my place at home. I wasn’t a burden after all.
I couldn’t wait to spend more time with my dad after I moved in with him. It seemed like no sooner had I moved in then we had to jump into a new routine, with going to church on Sunday, starting school, visiting my grandparents midweek, and bringing in wood on Saturdays. Honestly, I barely knew my dad at that point. When we’d have the rare chance for visitation, Dad would usually have some kind of female companion, whether it was his second wife, a new girlfriend, or his third wife, Peggy. We didn’t exactly get his full attention. But now that I lived with him, I wanted that to change.
In Mr. Hunter’s class at school, we were shown, courtesy of some timely Scholastic reading materials, some of the behind-the-scenes secrets of King Kong, which had just come out in December. I asked my dad if we could go to see it, and he agreed. He had to work a half day on the last Saturday of the month, but we’d go to the movies after. The theater in Cadillac was just down the street two blocks from Suburban Furniture, where he was a floor salesman. Also on Mitchell Street was a newsstand, one of my favorite places in the whole world, where my grandma had often taken me to buy books and comics.
I spent the entire morning at the newsstand, armed with fifty cents from the previous week’s church behavior money. There hadn’t been a new Justice League of America to buy, so I had saved it. I took my time and read as many comic books as I could, with no one around to yell at me that it wasn’t no library, which was nice. And sure enough, I finally decided on something worthy of my limited money; it was Six Million Dollar Man #4, from Charlton Comics! I had never seen #1-3, of course, but I wasn’t about to leave a comic book featuring Steve Austin behind!
Six Million Dollar Man #4
I hadn’t been able to read comics or watch many cartoons with superheroes when I was with my mom, but the Six Million Dollar Man was somehow an exception. My grandma on my mom’s side, had even bought me the coveted Six Million Dollar Man action figure for my 11th birthday, one of the greatest gifts ever. I met my dad back at Suburban Furniture, packed my comic book away in his van, and we went to the movie.
The one-sheet poster had been up for weeks, and it was tantalizing enough. Kong was straddling the twin towers of the World Trade Center, which had been completed not even four years previously. And unlike the 1933 classic, he wasn’t just going up against biplanes. There were helicopter gunships and a jet!
King Kong One-Sheet, 1976
The quality of the movie was unimportant to me at the time. What was important was that I was with my dad and I had him all to myself. We split a big bucket of popcorn and had our own drinks, something pretty much unheard of in my previous moviegoing experiences. It was like a dream come true. When I walked out of the theater, my spirits were as high as they’d ever been. Then my dad took me to Burger Chef for a late lunch, and I got one of the collectible glasses from the movie. Boy, those were the days; buy a Coke for $0.59 and keep the glass! And I miss Burger Chef to this day. House of Hunan has stood on that site for decades now.
King Kong Glass from Burger Chef
As we sat there eating our delicious Super Shefs, my dad couldn’t help himself but describe in detail what was wrong with the movie; how the bullets from the helicopters shouldn’t have been able to pierce Kong’s skin, how they couldn’t have gotten him on the ship; how Kong wasn’t big enough to wade across the river. I listened respectfully. I didn’t have the knowledge then to agree or disagree. One thing was certain: I wasn’t as jaded as he was–yet. I was just happy to be there with him, and the whole day just added another layer of security to my life.
I drank out of nothing but that King Kong glass for the rest of the time I lived there with him in Tustin.
While we were at home for a few days during the cold snap of January 1977, my dad suggested I work on my country report, the first long-term project I ever had to do. Oh, it was a laundry list of things I could choose from to put together about Saudi Arabia, a country that I could not have possibly cared less about. I could prepare food from there, draw their flag, talk about the major religions, clothing, culture…blah.
I was pretty cocky about my academic performance back then. I’d never had to try hard to do anything to do with schoolwork. The only grade below an A- I’d ever gotten was in penmanship. Yes, my young readers, we used to be graded on that. With that in mind, I ignored the country report for as long as I possibly could. I had better things to do with my time. That is to say, anything would be a better thing to do with my time. I’m sure you can see where this is going.
I waited until the last minute and I had thrown enough stuff together to get it done, at least. Or so I thought. I saved drawing the flag for last, because I was good at drawing. Have you ever actually looked at the flag of Saudi Arabia? Neither had I. I looked it up in an old set of encyclopedias, and cursed its designer to hell.
So, I spent a couple of HOURS drawing this nightmare, outlining the Arabic inscription, which translated, means, “There is no deity but God; Muhammad is the Messenger of God.” Ask me how I know that. It’s because I had to do a country report on Saudi Arabia. I was up well past my bedtime getting it done and coloring in a massive green field around my outlines by the light of the fireplace. And I swore that I would never procrastinate on a large task again. Oh, if I’d only lived up to that promise.
I ended up with a B on that project, which was the majority of my grade for social studies, so I finished with a B+ in the class for the quarter. And that is when I learned that some grades are stupid things to worry about. And to this day, I still don’t like Saudi Arabia. But not because of their stupid flag.
