Caution! Adult themes, violence and language. Contains triggers!
Part One
Disorder in the Court
I was a total fuckup. In high school, in my senior year — 1967 — I don’t belive one day passed when I didn’t have to visit the principal’s office. My old man would get a phone call, and he’d be waiting when I got home. Fucker actually had a bullwhip, a family “heirloom” from the wild west, or so he said. He bragged about it and and would show off his skill with it every year at the county fair, all dressed up like fucking Roy Rogers. Nobody knew he used it on me to keep his skills sharp, and I wasn’t never gonna tell. That would have been humiliating.
Oh, yeah, my mother. I forgot. She was already dead. Her body was found outside of town in some ditch. Someone had cut her into Christmas ribbons. I heard from an ambulance driver they took her away in burlap sacks. Only way they knew it was her was a locket with a picture of me on her lap. My father was suspected but in that county at that time, men never got arrested for beating or killing women. Cause all the fuckers on their old tractors or in business suits at the First National or State Farm had a past. They just did.
It was the most fucked-up town you can imagine. I had zero friends because my old man had beaten me into a state of constant fear over being hurt. Of course, other guys sensed this, and regularly beat the shit outta me after school or whenever I went to the old shopping center to cool off or warm up. My old man never did have heat or a air conditioner. Truth was, he was raised worse than he raised me and in World War Two was a POW held by the Japanese right after the first islands were taken. Never fired a shot that whole war, but when I was little, my mom told me he just wasn’t right in the head when he came back. They’d tortured him pretty good, too. Scars from head to toe. The fake cowboy who was crazy and sure as hell cut her up, he was the reason I believed in the devil.
So in the Autumn of 1967, while the school football team was beating nobody but themselves and even the cheerleaders got booed because none of them could remember who to cheer for and were all hideous with pimples making them look like Roman’s Frozen Pizza pies, and still wouldn’t put out, I spent my time driving over to St. Keep and paying off a mean ass hunting knife. It was like a Bowie but longer and bigger, and by October when the team was already 0-6, and the leaves were beautiful gold and red and orange, I had it paid off and took it with.
All afternoon that day I had been letting my anger build. I got to the field after the game and I knew I’d find the Gringley Brothers there with the rest of my bully tormentors. All I had to do was walk up to them as they leaned or sat on the splintery wood bleachers and serve myself up like a slab of bacon. They went for the trap. I stabbed Terry Adams’s side and I felt the blade slice into a rib. He fell down and cried and screamed and everyone else dragged him off to Craig’s beat up 59 Ford.
By the time I got home, the news had spread, the streets empty, little kids usually out playing after homework were inside behind closed drapes. My old man was at the end of the front walk, leaning on the mailbox, a .45 hanging in his free hand at his side. Never forget that moment. It pissed me off. I screamed “So now you’re gonna shoot me? Best be fast, Pops!” and I moved too fast for the bastard to think. I slashed his throat then, on the rebounding swing, sank the blade deep into his left shoulder.
The police were already turning down the street from Elm. They called for backup and an ambulance. I guess both ambulances were gonna be used that day, minutes apart.
Now one of the coppers, I never liked. He had his nightstick out before the car stopped and he clocked me bad. I woke up in a cell with Doc Dawson giving me some kinda shot.
A few days passed while my head thundered and Earl Fegler just smelled worse by the minute, finally pissing me off to the point I swung on the old bastard. He hit me about as hard with his fist as as Mean Officer Keene had with his stick. I damn near passed out but held on and grabbed smelly old drunk Earl. By the balls, I grabbed him, squeezed and twisted as hard as I could. His rolling round on the filthy concrete and throwing up brought an officer in, lazily picking his teeth. Probably had lunch at Aunt Laurie’s Kitchen. The fish had bones, the red meat was tough, the ham was veined with white fat and somehow, even her milkshakes had hard lumpy shit. Toothpicks were free, but the dentist charged mortgage rates for payments. “What’s wrong with Earl?” he asked and I said he probably caught a whiff of his armpits. “Boy, when the judge gets holda you tomorrow, he ain’t gonna take none a your smart mouth. I advise you quit fighting and smart-eleckin. And by the way, old Earl got a good one in ‘fore ya dropped his stinkin ass. You got a hell of a shiner comin. I ain’t gonna give ya no ice, neither. You ain’t shit, boy. But for what it’s worth, I’m on your side. That boy ya stabbed, he had it comin. He’s rotten as all git-out. And you ain’t killed him or yer old man. The throat is a scratch. Should hear him cryin at the hospital. Confessed to killin yer mama, beatin ya till ya bled and everything right down to the first time he beat off; he didn’t care long as we kept you away from him. I get ya, boy. I told yer defense to have you take yer shirt off in court. Goddamn I ain’t never seen shit like what the Doc showed me while you was out. I got kids. They don’t wanna stab me. Know why? I ain’t never lifted a hand to em. Never crossed my mind to. I jest tell em how things’re supposed to work. I hug em and set em on my lap and tell em I love em, always will. I expect em to do great things and get outta this county one day. And I know they will. What kinda man does that shit? Your papa deserved it.”
The monolog over, he said, “You ain’t a bad kid, ya know. You jest had enough. If I’d a known, I’d a locked yer pa up and took you in myself. Good luck tomorrow. Just remember do what that lawyer fella says, call the judge His Honor, you’ll be okay. And no smart-mouth, ya hear me? Dont. Oh. Forgot. Yer pa, ya got him good in that shoulder. Had surgery even. If he were left-handed, well, I guess he ain’t no more. I’d say fine job, ya know, but I swore a oath to uphold the law. Night, kid.”
That was the first time any man had ever made an effort to help me learn about life. Lookin back, I believe he saved my life.
The courtroom was full when I was led in and remained handcuffed. The “lawyer” had not even come to the jail to prepare me. I didn’t like him on sight. Cheap suit, half Windsor knot, garrish ruby-studded tie clip, matching cuff links and the breath of a coffee addict. At the sound of the door in back opening he whispered, “I’ve got a plan. Stick with what I say and you’ll be fine. No prison time at all. Trust me. You going to do that?” I nodded. He said, “Excellent.”
“All rise” came a deep voice. The judge came in and my heart skipped a beat. Fuck, Judge Heiman. I’m screwed.
But it wasn’t like that. The opening by the SA was weak. The opening by ruby-boy was terrific. He went into my past, the recent confession by dear old dad, my history of being bullied, and said I had built up so much anger that I couldn’t hold it back anymore. He told the jury that a trained psychiatrist was prepared to testify to that effect, and that my scars would prove I’d been through hell.
And in two days, it was over. The last hanging judge considered the guilty verdict an affront to decency and said he almost declared a mistrial. On reflection, he’d come up with something better.
I had flunked second grade, so while still in the first semester of my senior year, I was going to turn 18 before Christmas. Judge Heiman knew. He said, “The convicted will stand for sentencing.” I stood. My knees almost gave out.
“Franklin Lee Geldmacher, you have anything you’d like to say before sentence is declared?” I shook my head.
“Mr. Geldmacher, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, esteemed counsel: we have heard shocking testimony from you and from a veteran police officer as to your past, and while the laws of this state make no allowance for leniency based upon such a horrifying history, I want to make one thing clear.
“Your violent behavior must be punished, but I take no joy from sending such a young man to his death. I believe that you are sincere, honest and that you have been broken in body and spirit. I have thought about my decision constantly. I am sure that it will affect myself and most people present years from now.
“Franklin Lee Geldmacher: it is the decision of this court that upon your release from the town jail on the date of your eighteenth birthday that you will go straight into the military service of your choice: the United States Army or the United States Marines. You will not be permitted to serve in any other branch. You will likely be serving in Vietnam, and as that conflict escalates, it will become more unlikely that you will ever return. However, with your instincts and the will to fight against all things that you consider evil, I will check on your progress when I can, and pray for your safe return. May good fortune and the Good Lord favor you. Mr. Geldmacher, I am deeply sorry for what you have been through — and for what you are about to. This court is adjourned.”
There was a hysterical outburst, but I couldn’t make out who it came from. The judge banged his gavel and yelled, “Order! This court stands adjourned and any further disorder will see those responsible immediately imprisoned! Clear the room!”
I looked at the ruby lawyer and said, “Go fuck yourself,” and he filled his soft leather briefcase and beat it while I was being led back to my cell, where I would be alone for the next month. I was allowed to read Life and the LA Times and they scared me at first.
Then, sitting up one frigid late November night, I had a comforting thought: I was born for this. I was meant for it. Every shitty day of my life had led me here.
And, live or die, I’d give it everything I had.
Watch for Part Two!
Memoirs of an American Christian 