Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
Part One: My Lunchbox
In the summer of 1968, my parents moved from our house to the Sun Bowl apartments in another part of El Paso. The disorientation was staggering for a six-year-old, like being plucked from Ur of the Chaldees and dropped into the Canaan lands.
I could tell that my mom and dad were serious about something. The air crackled with tension. They talked while they were walking, and they kept putting things in boxes. Even my toys had to go in boxes. Then we were in this new place that smelled funny, and I wasn't sure where I was allowed to play.
The gang of children that prowled around the apartment complex had their own set of rules. One of them growled and chased me away from the jungle gym with a homemade spear. I never did figure out the details of their turf, but clearly some parts of the playground were off-limits to newcomers.
We were in a strange land, and I did not know the ways of this place.
That fall I started first grade in a brand new school. New teachers, new kids, new playground, new rules. I was a freckle-faced boy wearing Sears Tuffskins and black Converse high-tops, and I was making my way in a new world.
The school was close, so I walked there by myself every morning. After my mother inspected me, licking her thumb and pressing it on my cowlick, I walked out of the apartments, bending left along the road that led to the taco stand. Then I would go to the big street where I had to push a button and wait for the signal to cross.
I wasn’t afraid of the cars or of crossing the busy street because it never entered my mind that anyone would hurt a kid. I was a little boy who had only known goodness. My mother and father loved me. I went to school and played with my brother and our cat. On Sundays we went to church, and the song we sang taught us that Jesus loved all the little children of the world.
School was nice, as I recall. I learned to read and write, which I thought was “neat-o." I remember the day I learned to read the word, "something." I wrote it over and over, marveling at how long a word it was. New math was all the rage, so we spent a lot of time in class talking about sets, which I never did understand. I couldn’t draw the brackets like the teacher; I drew 3s instead.
I always looked forward to lunch. I had a brand new “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea” lunchbox that I was quite proud of, and I enjoyed opening it to see what my mom had packed for me. There was usually a sandwich of some kind, peanut butter and jelly, bologna, American cheese with Miracle Whip, or Underwood Deviled Ham, which I loved.
Every day was the same. We walked to the cafeteria in a line. I bought a carton of milk for a nickel, found a seat at a table, and unpacked my lunch. Then I would close my lunchbox and gaze at it while I ate. The front panel had a picture of a futuristic submarine battling a giant octopus somewhere deep in the ocean. On the back there was an image of the crew working feverishly at an important looking control panel.
I would stare at the front for a while, then flip it and stare at the back. Then I would stare at the front again. Most days I didn’t talk to anyone. I was happy to eat quietly and look at my lunchbox. It seemed so exotic to me and so beyond my limited experience.
You see, I was just coming into an awareness of the world around me. I was small, but I was standing on my own two feet and starting to ask questions and to dream. I wanted to see everything and everything I saw seemed good to me.
And then one day I looked up from my deviled ham sandwich and discovered that the world was much darker and more frightening than I ever imagined.
On that day I looked across a few tables and saw the burned boy. And he saw me. When our eyes met, I ate of the fruit of the tree and began my own voyage to the bottom of the sea.
rlp
Coming Next: "That Burned Boy"
7:51:20 AM 
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