FRESH YARN presents: My Son the Burglar, Revisited... by Greg Chandler

FRESH YARN presents:

My Son the Burglar, Revisited
By Greg Chandler

I went to preschool in Arcadia, a Los Angeles suburb, or "bedroom community" as it was known in the seventies. Life was peachy and uncomplicated until my nineteen-year-old Aunt Kristen, Mom's little sister, took off with a band of girlfriends for a year-long backpacking journey across Europe. We were close, and she often took me all the way to Balboa just for a chocolate-dipped frozen banana. Europe meant nothing to my young mind. It was probably like Pomona, or maybe La Cañada. My world was small. That was until the postcards started to arrive. Lisbon. Roma. Heidelberg. Hydra. No cartoon or pop-up book had ever inspired me as much as knowing that magical places really existed, that you could go to them. The cards were lovingly entered into a rattan-covered scrapbook my mother bought for me at Aaron Brothers. My aunt must have been snorting espresso the entire trip because cards arrived every two or three days. Her handwriting was bubbly to the extreme and hard to read, though I eventually memorized what was written on the cards with some help from Mom. Reading them over and over before bed made for epic dreams. The one with a picture of Lake Zurich on it was my favorite.

Guten Tag,
You would love the lake here. We took a ferry across. I could see the Alps. Me & Shelly got stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel. She threw up over the side & it landed on a Swiss man. When we got off the man chased us. We hid in a girls bathroom. Five of us are sleeping in one room with a triple bunk & double bunk. No one wants the third bunk. A pigeon came in the window. Camela wrapped it in a towel & got rid of it. Rats with wings. I went to a concert in the park of singers from Swaziland, Africa. I got lost. Took a cab to the hostel. My friends called the police. I went to a museum where you walk inside an exact replica of the human body.
Love,
Kristen

I gave up swings and freeze tag for a ten-pound Rand McNally, studied and planned my own trips, and in the process became an expert on European geography. Like many Americans before me -- Mark Twain, Henry James, and Gertrude Stein to name but a few -- I became obsessed with that faraway continent, the difference being that I'd only just learned the alphabet. I don't know if it was the pictures of ancient ruins calling out to one of my past lives, or the group shot of the Norwegian men's Olympic swim team kindling something vague and still unknown in me. All I know is that I had to get to Europe before kindergarten or I'd just die. By the time my aunt returned home -- with a Joan Jett haircut and bangles jangling from her wrists to her elbows -- I had two scrapbooks packed with 141 postcards.

I was cute, so my parents tell me, when I entertained their dinner guests, usually drab members of some local Republican club, with travel tips for the French Riviera. I thought everyone was trying to get to Europe and would appreciate my insider knowledge. One night I hid in the kitchen and listened to the adults after one of my presentations. I felt sick to my stomach when I heard a woman ask Mom, her tone rather disgusted, "Do kids tease him?" My poor mother hadn't a clue what this pucker-faced busybody was trying to intimate.

"You need to get him into football fast."

"But he's only four."

"There's a peewee league now. Look into it."

They did, and soon I was in the unfortunate position of spending my weekends as a running back. But only for a few years. At the age of seven I was free to give up football for soccer. I had high hopes for this European game, but quickly realized all team sports disagreed with my personality.

Five or six years later, there was a picture of C. Thomas Howell from The Outsiders on my bedroom door. Maps not just of Europe but of all the continents and several countries were pinned to the wall. Out-of-date Fodor's guides bought at garage sales lined the bookshelves. Mom had caught the decorating bug, and after redoing our house twice she confidently opened her own business. My brother was six and a star hitter in T-ball. Aunt Kristen decided she didn't like traveling after all, and that Europe was "dirty." She went to nursing school, married a radiologist, and filled her closet with Laura Ashley dresses. By this point I'd given up on my parents taking me "overseas" anytime soon. Mom was interested but Dad was decidedly against it. Maybe after he retired the two of them would go. It looked like I'd have to do it on my own like my aunt. In the meantime I did the next best thing: I planned detailed trips right down to my airline seat (1A on Air France) and the restaurants I'd eat at, such as Casa Botín in Madrid, the oldest restaurant in Europe. I'd rent a barge on the Canal du Nivernais, check out Pippi's Villa Villekulla in Vimmerby, Sweden, or the Cosmic Club in Rimini, Italy, the hippest disco in the world.

I wonder why I felt so discontented in the San Gabriel Valley? Was it a result of playing soccer and baseball back-to-back (I did manage to escape football) since that shrew at the dinner party had enlightened Mom? Sometimes it was fun, like the team pizza parties at Shakey's, but mostly I played to please my family. Was I simply reacting to my hum-drum environment? I was definitely fanciful, which resulted in a few enemies at school. Namely Jason O. who liked to follow me home throwing pebbles at my back. There were no bullies in Europe, of that I was certain.

I was very close to my maternal grandparents who always encouraged my curious nature. Around this time, when I was about ten, they went on vacation to Hawaii. I hadn't given the fiftieth state a moment's thought. But when they returned with pictures of tropical grottos, Tiki villages, and pikaki-scented tales of nights spent dancing to Don Ho's live rendition of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree," Hawaii became, for a while, my new number one travel obsession. Imagining my grandparents there as I'd done with my aunt in Europe, having a ball, basking in magic, was very powerful for me. My parents were relieved that the Bulgarian Tourist Board in Sophia stopped sending me suspicious looking manila envelopes covered with stamps of Lenin and packed with unattractive holiday brochures. Hawaii was part of America. My grandparents went there, the neighbors went there, Elvis went there. It was healthy, normal, and close.

At that time, Tuesdays were the highlight of the week. My grandmother would pick me up from school and off we'd go to Cost Plus or to pick up a repaired vacuum. Back at the house, I'd work on elaborate travel itineraries at the kitchen table while my grandmother cooked dinner and asked pertinent questions. I loved being there. I always felt like an adult.

One such Tuesday, a couple weeks before the end of fifth grade and the beginning of summer break, my grandfather Jack and I sat on the edge of their pool with our legs dangling in. In hot weather we always took a swim before dinner. He had his acoustic guitar. I had the ukulele they brought me from the Islands. The three of us ate Waldorf salad and brisket of beef outside under the citronella tiki torches. After dinner, with their short-tempered Lhasa Apso, Kashi, on a short leash, my grandfather and I walked to Thrifty Drugs for an ice cream cone. Two scoops of Cinnamon Swirl for me, two scoops of Mint Chip for him. We walked back listening to the crickets and sprinklers. I don't know what came over me. "Pop," I said, "I thought of a way to get to Hawaii." He asked how, and I told him flat out: "I'll take the money from my mom's purse."

"You think that's a good idea?" he asked.

My favorite song came to mind, and I sang it: "Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day. That's the island greeting that we send to you from the land where palm trees sway."

At nine o'clock my grandfather drove me home. At two I woke up, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hallway. I wasn't afraid, I was possessed. I have no idea what I planned to do once I had the money. Ride my bike to LAX? I'd never stolen anything before.

I entered my parents' bedroom. I heard breathing. It was very dark but I could just make out Mom's purse on the highboy. I reached up and grabbed the heavy leather bag. Right at that moment dad shot up in bed. I dropped the purse and ran back to my room, got under the covers and waited for a confrontation. Having left my door open I saw dad slinking down the hallway in his boxers with a pistol out in front of him. He checked on my younger brother, glanced into my room, and searched the house. Within ten minutes I heard men's voices and walkie-talkies, the unmistakable sound of cops. Now I was really terrified. At this point Mom entered my room. She sat on my bed in the dark, hugged me, and tried to explain, without scaring me too much, that we had a burglar. I started to cry and between sobs told her that I was the burglar. She informed Dad. The cops left. My parents turned on my hula girl lamp. I spilled the beans, every detail. They were more concerned than mad. Was I "mental"? A jewel thief in training? The incident wasn't mentioned again. Self-conscious, I toned down my interest in Hawaii and all things travel-related. I spent the summer attending soccer day camp and reading Arthur Conan Doyle.

Not long after entering the sixth grade I came home from school one day, and saw on the kitchen table an open letter from Reader's Digest addressed to my dad. It was a rejection letter for an essay he'd submitted called "My Son the Burglar." I felt lightheaded and queasy, confused and a bit frightened. The room started to lose color and my eyes sank back into my head. At least the story wouldn't be read by millions of people, I thought. I never mentioned to my parents that I'd seen the letter.

The following summer we finally took a trip. Even though it was only to Northern California, I couldn't have been more excited. I checked out dozens of books from the library and got free maps from the Auto Club. We stayed in Mammoth for a few days visiting friends of my parents with kids my age. One afternoon a group of about twenty adults and kids piled into a couple RVs and headed into the backcountry for a picnic. It was the most beautiful place I'd ever been. A genuine alpine pasture with a bubbling brook, miles of wildflowers, and a million-dollar view. I was having a wonderful time building dams and catching pollywogs with the other kids, watching the adults drink chardonnay and sing-along to the music of John Denver. The picnic lunch was served on various plaid and paisley blankets spread over soft grass. It was at this picnic that I had my first sundried tomato, on a cracker smeared with cream cheese I believe.

Dad had more than a few glasses of wine, and decided to entertain the large gathering of people with a detailed account of the "My Son the Burglar" story. He started with my obsession for all things Hawaiian. How I'd been writing to Doris Duke hoping for an invitation to Shangri La, her palace outside Honolulu. How I'd memorized the phone numbers of every five-star resort. All eyes were on me. I turned bright red, of course, and soon felt as if I were melting like the Wicked Witch of the West. I couldn't take it anymore. I threw my cold chicken leg into the brook and stormed off to the RV. I locked myself inside and cried. I couldn't wait to tell my grandparents how rotten I'd been treated. Soon my mother and little brother knocked on the door. I wouldn't let them in. Eventually I calmed down but I couldn't face the others. The next day we were back on the road, just the four of us.

The incident was never mentioned again.

During high school I worked fifteen hours a week shelving books at the public library. I had a knack for saving money back then. After graduation I finally went to Europe. Two fun-loving, rebellious friends, both of them girls, and I flew into Madrid. Jetlagged, stoned on hash, we ate our first dinner at Casa Botín. Over our third pitcher of sangria I wrote to Aunt Kristen on a Botín postcard.

Dear Kristen,
I'm here! EUROPA! Thanks to you. If it wasn't for your postcards when I was little I wouldn't be here. I'd be on my butt watching old movies all summer. So far everything's amazing. It's so old & cool & medieval. Love the narrow carless alleyways. We were grossed out at first by the whole BABY pig they brought us, but actually it was yum. Remember when you got locked in a dept. store overnight? Was it El Corte Inglés? If YES it's across from our hotel.
Love, Greg

One day not long after I returned from Europe, I was sitting on my Mom's bed rambling on about what I should do with my life as I watched her paint little flowers on a lampshade. There was a lull in the conversation as I tried to formulate excuses for not having applied to college, when she blurted out the following: "Honey, did you know, well, you don't know, but you were an adorable little adopted baby."

It should go without saying that I was beyond shocked. My parents had decided it was best to keep this news from me until I was eighteen so I wouldn't feel like a weirdo growing up. Their plan backfired -- of course I felt like a weirdo growing up. But my anger at them was short-lived. They meant well. If anything, it freed me. I finally knew why I was so different from my family.

I don't embarrass easily anymore, except around my parents. I fear our bond is more tenuous now and my inability to broach the past with them, including my entry into this world, only contributes to that feeling. We've perfected surface talk. Yet I sense a crack forming, and know that if I don't open up, that if I don't start talking, our relationship will eventually evaporate. In the years since that first trip abroad and the revelation that followed, I've done a lot of globetrotting, a lot of wandering. I became a writer, fell in love. I never thought it could happen, but my desire to travel has started to wane. I seek a new kind of adventure now, one that involves forging an open dialogue with my adoptive parents and finding my birth parents. Paris is wonderful, the Alps are transcendent, but I can't imagine anything more electrifying than meeting, for the first time, the people who created me; the weirdos who spawned me.