Earl Scheib and the falling action

DAVID SILVA

The second of two parts.

Within months after hitting puberty, my attitude about life had

deteriorated to the point that it started to affect my grades. I’d

shuffle into class late, take my seat and basically dare my teachers

to teach me.

When I brought home my first report card covered with consonants

instead of the usual vowels, my mother crumpled the paper up in her

hands and hung her head. What was she to do? She couldn’t banish me

to my room, since that was where I wanted to spend all my time

anyway. She knew that beating me with a stick would give her only

temporary satisfaction.

Desperate, Mom decided it was time for a higher intervention. One

of her friends had told her of a young street preacher named Carlos,

who they said had great success in turning troubled young lives

around. Mom called him and explained her situation, and he agreed to

come over one evening and talk with me.

“Now you show this man respect, Davey!” Mom warned when she told

me a street minister was coming by to exorcise my inner demons. “He’s

a man of God! Don’t get smart with him, or God will punish you!”

Carlos paid his visit just after dinner a few nights later. It

struck me when he walked in how much he looked like a Latino version

of Earl Scheib, that guy from the auto-painting commercials who could

paint any car for just $99.95. Carlos sat down on the couch next to

me and explained that he hadn’t come to preach at me, but to me. He

told me his story, how he had once been a gangbanger but had found

his way, and how he wanted to keep other young people from making the

same mistakes he did. Then he asked me if I had any questions so far.

My first question was to ask him why God allowed so much suffering

in the world. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, little brother,”

Carlos said instantly. “God loves us so much he gave us free will

...”

“But why did he give us free will? Why doesn’t he just make us all

happy? What, he didn’t have anything better to do with his time?”

“Davey!” My mother, who had been listening from the kitchen,

shouted. “No, no, it’s OK, Dolores!” Carlos said. “I’ve heard a lot

worse, believe me.”

But I was only getting warmed up. Over the next 30 minutes, I

bombarded Carlos with sarcastic questions about God and religion,

dismissing every one of his heartfelt answers with rolls of my eyes

or snide remarks like, “Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” Finally, the

young minister realized he was wasting his time, said goodbye to my

mother and left.

Mom closed the door behind and turned and looked at me. It was a

strange, disgusted look, as if she were watching my head spin around

on my shoulders.

“Go to your room,” she sighed. “I can’t stand the sight of you

right now.”

Later that night, I got up and went into the kitchen for a glass

of water. I was halfway back to my room when I tripped over my own

feet. I had been doing that a lot since puberty caused me to grow six

inches in three months, but this time I came down hard on my

tailbone. A strange twang -- like the feeling of a rubber band

snapping when you’ve stretched it to far -- sounded up my back from

tailbone to neck. I stood up, cursing under my breath, and shuffled

back to bed.

The next morning, I sat up and bolts of agony shot up from my

lower back through my entire body. When I tried to rise from bed, the

pain was so intense that I fell backward.

“Mom!” I shouted. No answer. “Mom!”

It dawned on me that my mother had gone to work. I tried rising

again, but the pain was too excruciating. Just trying to adjust

myself in bed so the terrible pain would stop had me whimpering like

a baby.

“Help!” I cried weakly. “Heeelp!”

Nine hours later, my mother came home to find me still in bed and

crying for help.

“My guess is he slipped a disk, but we won’t know for sure until

we’ve done some tests,” the doctor told my mother after I’d been

admitted into the hospital. By this time, the pain had gotten so bad

that I couldn’t lift my hands to my face. The doctor said I would be

in the hospital a minimum of three days.

“God’s punishing me for last night, isn’t he, Mom?” I whimpered.

“Yes he is, mijo,” my mother answered, stroking my forehead. “Now

shut up and let the doctor speak.”

The three days pushed into a week. The tests continued to show

that there was nothing wrong with me, so my doctor kept ordering more

tests. As the days passed with me on my back, being poked and prodded

and spoon-fed foul hospital food, I started to think that I would

never get better, that I was doomed to spend the rest of my days like

this. I thought about how good my life had been just a few days

earlier. Just the other day, I was able to run and jump from roofs

and hang out with my friends.

And that was another thing: The hospital I was in was just two

blocks from where most of my friends lived. The alley outside my

window led straight past my friend Mike’s house. And yet none of them

had come to visit me. For a long time I couldn’t imagine why that

was, and then I remembered how rude I had been to them over the past

few months. They had abandoned me.

Every night in that room, I made a different bargain with God.

God, if you would just let me walk again, I promise I’ll stop being

such a rotten kid. God, if you would only let me be able to feed

myself again, I promise I’ll be good. God, if you would only make my

friends come visit me, I promise ...

On the sixth day, I woke up because my nose was itching, and I

reached up and scratched it. A second later, it hit me. I could

scratch my nose! I tried sitting up in bed, and to my amazement was

able to do so.

Almost as fast as the back pain had hit me, it receded. By the

time the nurse came by to bring me lunch, I was standing up and

walking slowly around the room. The nurse told me to get back in bed

-- the doctor wanted to keep me one more night for observation. I

started to complain, horrified at the thought of another day of

hospital food, but then I remembered my promise to God.

“Sure. Great. No problem. Thank you.”

The nurse smiled. “By the way, your little friends came by again

today.”

“My friends? My friends were here?”

“Yeah, we keep catching them trying to sneak in here to see you,”

she said, explaining that it was hospital policy not to allow

visitors under 14.

The nurse left the room. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared

forlornly at the gray-green Jell-O in the center of my lunch tray.

Then I heard a rapping noise at the window. I looked up, and there

were my friends Mike, Buck and Little Greg, waving at me from behind

the glass with huge grins on their faces. I laughed and waved back.

Mike raised his right arm, and in his hand was a bag of Jack in the

Box food.

“Super Tacos!” he shouted through the glass.

Faster than my doctor would have advised, I scrambled across the

room to the window. I just couldn’t believe how good my life had

suddenly become. I had my health back. I had my friends. I had a bag

full of Super Tacos.

I had everything I needed to be happy, and more.

* DAVID SILVA is a Times Community News editor. Reach him at (909)

484-7019, or by e-mail at david.silva@latimes.com.