Read Online A Man Named Dave by Dave Pelzer - Free Book Online

specific planes that, to me, had changed the course of history. I soon became a walking encyclopedia, and I wished that someday I, too, could make a difference in my new world of flight.
    No matter what time of day or night, whenever I thought my mind would explode from the constant studying, I’d take long walks around the base. I would go to my postal box with my eyes widened. I would utter a quick prayer before speed-dialing the combination. At times I would become so frantic that I would spin past my number, and have to clasp the fingers of my right hand together to keep them from shaking. But even before I flipped open the box, I knew the outcome. It got to the point that I’d shrug my shoulders as if I didn’t care. Just as I had years ago in Mother’s house, in order to protect myself I’d turn off my emotions and remain tough inside. So I’d simply take a few laps around the air base and return three or four more times, hoping that someone from the post office had made a mistake, found my misplaced letter on the floor, and stuffed it in that precious box. For the most part I’d become numb, for I’d know that tomorrow was another day.
    One day during my lunch break, I decided not to check my box. I dared myself to stroll past without giving it a thought. The disappointment had become too much. I got only as far as five feet before I spun around and hurried back. Seconds later my fingers trembled as I pulled out a crumpled, soiled letter. With my mouth gaping open, I focused on the childish scribbling. My heart raced as I tore open the envelope. I impatiently scanned the length of the paper but lost my grip, then stood paralyzed as I watched it flutter to the floor. The distinctive penmanship belonged to Father.
    From behind, a friend woke me from my trance when he bent down and picked up my letter. “What’s wrong?”
    I took forever to form the words. “My … ah, my dad … he’s not doing too well.”
    My friend shook his head. “Hey, man, don’t sweat it. Parents they get old, but hey, his old lady can take care of him. Come on … shit happens.”
    No! I wanted to scream. You don’t understand… But before I could justify my fears, my friend became lost in the crowd of other airmen retrieving their mail and letting out whoops of joy as they clutched their prizes over their heads. I lowered my head and disappeared in the opposite direction. I wished I had never received that letter.
    I wandered outside, found a bench, and sat down. It took me more than half a dozen tries to comprehend the contents of the letter. The more I digested, the more my heart sank. Father had written that times were very tough for him. He could no longer find part-time work either washing dishes or filling in as a short-order cook. Feeling ashamed, Father gave up on asking friends to stay at their home for a few nights at a time. With no one to turn to and no money, society’s old hero was now alone with no place to live. I wanted to mail Father some money to ease some of his pain.
    Rereading both the envelope and the letter, I frantically hunted for the return address, but there was none. Father’s handwriting had always been barely legible, but this letter was almost impossible to read. Nearly every sentence was incomplete or rambled on without any conclusion. Words were either misspelled, jumbled, or ran off the page altogether. I concentrated so hard on Father’s writing that my head began to throb with pain. Suddenly it struck me: he probably had been drunk when he scrawled out the letter. That had to be the only conclusion. That would explain the condition of the soiled envelope, his penmanship, and, more important, the reason he forgot a return address.
    In the blink of an eye I became furious. I was so ashamed of the life Father was living. How, I wondered, could he be so foolish to keep drinking? He had to realize his binges – his entire lifestyle – would be the death of him. Why? I yelled at myself. Why couldn’t Father just quit once