CHAPTER 6 Exodus-sudoxE

North Texas State College was my college of choice. It was big, beautiful and incomprehensible. The listing of available classes made no sense to me whatever. I had no academic plan and no counseling. The registration line convinced me that I was not ready for college. It was almost a quarter mile long and completely motionless. It would be weeks before I reached the head of that line. I could easily starve to death in that line. Worse, I was sure that I would have give up my place and go to the bathroom when I got to the head of the line. I wasn't ready for this. I could feel a rush of panic beginning to well up inside me. I turned away from my first opportunity for an advanced education, an opportunity to become a factory employee, to become a meaningful part of society, a financially protected worker ant with hospitalization insurance - I gave up all this glorious opportunity for the totally predictable, and went home. I was surprised that my family understood. There were no arguments, just questions. I made a few inquiries by phone and discovered that I could without tuition, return to Technical High for post-graduate work. Some of the courses were good for college credit at North Texas State College and other schools. I needed a semester of make up work to qualify for an examination as an A&P aircraft mechanic. I decided to go for it. I also enrolled for courses in Speech, English, Typing and Journalism. This voluntary fourth year of High School was the most enjoyable of them all. I had already graduated. I had nothing to loose.

Early morning English classes became an experiment in sociology. A.L. McElroy was a superb instructor with an appreciation for people. He pretended to be a tyrant in order to keep discipline, and we saw right through him. We became fans of "Mr. Mac" and would parade militarily up and down the hall to and from his class. These parades became the talk of the school and were eventually called to a halt when one of the kids brought in some Nazi arm band souvenirs from World War II. Mac loved my writing style and gave me an "A" for one six weeks period because of my choice of words in a single essay. The next six weeks I got an "F" for insubordination.

Marian Mobley was the Journalism instructor and in charge of the school newspaper, published once each six weeks. I was assigned in March as the editor of the April, 1961 issue of the Technical High School Bulldog. It was the height of Fidel Castro's revolution in Cuba. April Fool's day was calculated, instigated mayhem. This issue of the school newspaper featured Vice Principal A.B. O'Conner pictured holding a Havana Cigar, head wrapped in a turban and gesturing wildly under a headline that read; "Revolution at Tech - Veep Takes Over". There were bizarre stories of executions and a picture of an ROTC student stuffing a girl's decapitated head down a sink with a rifle butt. There was more horror. Much more. Stories of revolutionary takeovers permeated the school from the print shop to the gymnasium. Teachers had been asked to "sound off" in their interview for the stories and some of them did - with claws bared.

G.B. Trimble, the original Tech Bulldog and Principal of the school, burst through the door of the Journalism class on fire. He had a death grip on a copy of the April Fool's issue, attempting to strangle it with one hand. Marian Mobley stood her ground, saved her job - and my ass at the same time. She pointed out the disclaimer box on page two and finally got it across to G.B. that the whole thing was a joke. I was awed. I had never seen such a heated exchange between adults before. There were threats that I would never receive a diploma from that school and that there might be other ramifications. I smugly refrained from mentioning that my diploma - dated 1960, was resting comfortably on my closet shelf.

In the spring of 1961, I began to plan realistically for college at North Texas State College. The only thing I knew for sure was that it would take money. My parents would pay the tuition, room and board. I would somehow supply essentially all of my own spending money. I took a summertime job as a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman. It resulted in some of the most bizarre experiences of my youth. We went door-to-door conducting a "Nationwide Advertising Survey" and promise a full set of Collier's Encyclopedias for a mere $369.95 in printing costs, if we were allowed to come back later and do publicity on the happy family enriching their minds with the books. It worked well. I made a sale the first day out. My cut was $100.00, the boss got $100.00 and the company got the rest. It was four long weeks and much travel to many Texas towns before I made another sale.

Despair is a funny thing. It makes you take chances. I resolved to try something different in Marshall, Texas and it worked. I approached a young couple at their home and gave them the entire pitch pretending as if I were a handicapped, partially paralyzed paraplegic. I talked only with one side of my face. I used only one side of my body as though I were half-paralyzed. I faked the entire presentation that way. Lo and behold, they signed. I found myself gasping and even drooling a bit to keep from cracking up. That closed it. I hobbled away with the check and did not break into a normal walk until I was at least a full block away. I should have felt ashamed. Somehow I couldn't. I was crazy with success, forgetting that those whom the Gods would destroy, they first make insane.

I was totally alone on a dark semi-rural street in Marshall, Texas. I was beginning to chuckle hysterically, congratulating myself on having pulled such a magnificent con. I was strolling easily, enjoying my sin when I heard a rustling sound in the alley just about a half block ahead. To my horror, it was a pack of about eight large dogs who were running silently. There was no mistaking their dog-pack instinct or intent. It was night. There was no moon and very little light from the nearest street light. They were not focused yet, but they were running wild for a kill and they were headed straight for me. I tried to imagine what I would look like ripped to shreds on a dark curbless semi-rural side street in Marshall, Texas. I imagined what my mother's reaction would be when she got the news. I really don't understand what clicked inside me then but I hoisted my briefcase before me as a weapon, crouched down to dog height and snarled the most vicious sound I have ever heard myself make. It was terror, anger and sheer primal malice all rolled into one. The dogs moved away as if they were a school of fish. In one fluid motion, they ran by me as though I were a fence post. I stood shaking for a time and resolved never again to pretend to be a crippled person.

At age nineteen, I was beginning to learn things about myself that I had not even considered possible. Limitations began to disappear along with certain measures of common sense. My summer as an encyclopedia salesman became packed with these experiences.

My first beer was a warm Lone Star and cost me $16.50. It was about 2:00 A.M. and our encyclopedia sales crew was just pulling into Colorado City, Texas as I bravely downed the last few sour gulps. Beer cans in those days were made of fairly heavy steel. They had to be opened with a "Church Key", which left a triangular hole in the top... two holes if you are thirsty. Such a can makes a wondrous clanking sound when it is thrown. In cavalier fashion, I lofted the empty can over the roof of the car toward the other side of the street. The clanking of that beer can was the only thing to be heard in that sleepy little Texas town, besides the engine of the police car starting up. The can had landed directly in front of the only on-duty cop in town. I did not do well in Colorado City and had to borrow the $16.50 to pay the fine.