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Sample #2: Andy's Book

Third Time's a Charm

This is the story of my life...and how I survived Tampa, Florida. Oh sure, most people probably think of Tampa as some kind of paradise. If you're a Northerner freezing your ass off in Detroit, or Boston, or Minneapolis, or...God forbid...New York, the very idea of Tampa is like Mecca to a Muslim...definitely the place to be. On the other hand, it's often said that familiarity breeds contempt...if that's true, I'm WAY too familiar with Tampa.

OK...since this is the story of my life, what better place to start than the year of my birth? It was 1966, the year the "Summer of Love" took America by storm. All across this great country, kids were "tuning in, dropping out and turning on," taking drugs, listening to wild music, having sex...I guess my parents were, too...well, maybe just the sex part.

Anyway, I was born the third child of Jim and Francis G. Being the youngest of three boys, I was a surprise from the start. After having two male children, my Irish Catholic parents figured it was a given that I would be a girl. My parents were so confident they had already picked out a girl's name. Much to their surprise, I arrived...a ruddy, screeching little Irish boy. Good thing they weren't stuck on "Irene."

Round One

The first thing I can remember happened when I was about 2 years old. I was standing in our kitchen with the refrigerator on my right and my blanket in my left hand. My older brother Thomas came running by me, snatched the blanket out of my hand, and ran into the family room. Naturally, I started screaming like a banshee. Before I knew it, my oldest brother Danny blasted through the door, and ran into the family room. I heard a couple of loud thuds, like somebody thumping a pumpkin. Turns out it was Danny punching the crap out of Tommy. Seconds later, when Danny returned my blanket, I knew that he would always be my hero.

Ouch!

Years later, when I was about five, I was with hanging out with a kid named Tracy. We were at his house with no adults around. He asked me to go into the garage, because he wanted to show me how he played with gasoline, styrofoam cups and army men. We took all that stuff and walked over to the woods across the street. Then we lit a few sticks on fire and poured some gas into a cup. The next thing I knew, my legs were on fire! I didn't even realize that Tracy had splashed gasoline on them. I looked down and all I could see was orange flames! All of a sudden I was tackled from behind, and rolled in the dirt.

When the flames were finally out, I could see and smell burnt flesh dripping from my legs. I got on my bike and started pedaling home. I managed to get a block or two, until the pain became completely unbearable.

I dropped the bike, crawled over to a friend's house and knocked on the door. When his mother answered, she almost croaked. She had this look of horror on her face as she checked out my barbequed legs. For some reason, instead of taking me to the hospital, she put me in her car and took me home. My dad answered the door, and HE almost croaked when he got a look at me.

The poor guy must have been completely freaked out! He brought me into the bathroom, showered off all the dirt on my legs, rapped me in a clean sheet and took me to the hospital. When the emergency room nurses got a load of me, THEY almost croaked. No waiting for this kid, oh no. They took me right in.

Next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed a day or so later with some type of cage over my legs. The cage was covered by towels, so I had to look under them to see my legs...they were literally cooked..fused into a sitting position, and I couldn't straighten them out. Thankfully, I fainted from the pain.

When I woke up, I started to get some visitors, my family mostly. My father came with a chess set. In my house, all kids had to be able to swim and play chess by the age of four. So we would get into a game, and then a few minutes later a nurse would come in and chase everyone out. The first time, it really pissed me off. But then I realized why she did it...she was there to apply this really nasty maroon ointment. I swear, it must have been liquid fire. There is no way to describe the pain this hellacious concoction caused when she put it on my toasted legs, except to say that actually being on fire was nothing compared to this agony.

Days later I went to therapy where I met a guy in his early 20s who put me in a big tub, turned on the jets, and played a game with me called, "find the dead flesh." It was easy to like this guy. He was very kind, and made an extremely unpleasant experience fun for me. All medical people should be like him. It's been almost forty years, and I still remember him.

Anyone who has ever been in a hospital will tell you how slowly time passes. But for a kid in the hospital, it's much worse...especially if you can see blue sky and sunshine outside your window. Days dragged by. Then one day my mom was talking to a doctor who remarked about the chess set ready for action next to my bed. At first, the doctor thought it was a joke because I was so young. But mom assured him that if he didn't think I could really play, he ought to challenge me to a game. The doctor looked a little sheepish when he admitted he had already played me...and nearly beaten me, too! That was the first time I heard my mother laugh in that hospital.

Not My Son!

When I finally got out of the hospital, the doctors told my parents I would never be able to walk again. My dad wasn't going for that! I guess he thought, "No kid of mine is going to be some kind of pathetic cripple." Lucky me...the fun was just beginning.

One day my father sent my mom off somewhere, so we were alone together. That was the first day of my "Improvised Irish Walking Therapy." He made me crawl around the house. I had to touch all four corners, and if I ever stopped...regardless of how much it hurt...he would give my ass a hearty swat with a newspaper.

After a while, he got tired of me crawling, so he tried to make me stand. That simply didn't work, because the skin on my legs was cooked into place. I screamed so loud he gave up...for a while. Then one day he sent mom to the store. I started to cry, because I knew what was coming. Dad didn't go for crying, either...so he picks me up and says, "Put your legs down." Now I'm really screaming in agony...but this time he didn't give up. I could see in his eyes that he was making a decision.

Dad put his feet over mine and lifted me straight up. My knee caps slammed into his shins. Suddenly, I was standing up strait! What a feeling...I was standing for the first time in weeks! A couple seconds later, I felt something very warm dripping down the back of both my calves...it was blood. Apparently, the skin on my legs was so tight it ripped apart when Dad pulled me up. But I was standing, so I didn't care.

Weeks later I was walking around like nothing had ever happened...except for the scars, of course. My mom and dad were getting me ready for a doctor's visit..the very same guy who said I would never walk again. We were joking around about it and dad says, "Andy, when you see him, walk right up and kick him square in the shins. Mom says, "Jim don't tell him that...he'll actually do it!" Dad said, "OK...then I'll do it!"

While we were at the hospital, mom told me she had brought a box of candy for the therapist who was so kind to me...but he had left for a tour of duty in Vietnam. I never saw him again.

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