Pain and Retribution at 13
Warts. Warts on each side of each finger and each thumb. Some had more than one. Doctors never did figure out what precipitated all the warts, since I had no warts elsewhere on my body; but an Air Force doctor at Wiesbaden AFB hospital in Wiesbaden, West Germany told my mother they could be “burned” off and would probably not return. When I asked if it would be painful, he hesitated, then said, “Yes, but not during the procedure. It will be painful for about an hour or so after the procedure.” The procedure was scheduled and, on the appointed day and time, my mother and I returned. The procedure itself did not hurt at all. Why? He shot painkiller in each of my fingers and thumb of my right hand with a syringe. Painful? You bet your ass. Well, he burned off all the warts on my right hand with an electric needle. It took quite a while. He gave me two aspirin when he finished and said any pain would be over by bedtime.
He lied. For three and half days, my right hand was in excruciating pain, throbbing with every heart beat. I still had to go to school, so I would sit there wringing my hands, trying to squeeze the pain away. It was most difficult to write. There were no opioids in those days and aspirin, even several aspirin, wouldn't touch it. Why was I having to go through this? Why did he say it wouldn’t hurt much or for long? Made me mad.
My mother scheduled the other hand. When I complained bitterly about the electric needle and the resulting pain, he offered a hollow apology and decided he would freeze those on my left hand with liquid oxygen. He assured me the procedure would be a little more painful than the first, but that my hand would not hurt for very long when completed. This procedure also took quite a while. When I left, he gave me two aspirin and said any pain would be over by supper time. I was skeptical and he knew I was skeptical.
Yes. He lied again. For four days, my left hand was in excruciating pain, throbbing with every heart beat. It was worse than the right hand. Again, I was wringing my hands, trying to alleviate the pain, the ache. During my pain, I swore vengeance. Some way, some day, I would get that doctor. He lived across the street and down a block in the same housing area. He could not escape me.
Opportunity knocked hard one day when the good doctor came over and broke up our baseball game so his 4 kids could run around and kick a ball. Hell, there were 16 of us. We were there first. The field was almost 4 acres and they could have gone to one of the corner areas. They didn’t even know what a baseball field was, but he wanted them to kick their balls around the bases. Jerk. When I respectfully complained, he reached out and slapped me. Serious mistake. His fate was sealed in more ways than one.
Even in those days, an officer did not go around smacking other people’s kids. That wasn’t done. When I told my mother and father about the slap, she went ballistic and he scowled. He said he would be having “words” with the good doctor. That was not enough for me. I wanted more. He had lied about the pain – twice. He had kicked us off the field for no good reason and slapped me in the chops in front of everyone. No, it was not going to be easy for the good doctor.
The night before Halloween, nothing was stirring at midnight on the streets of the housing area. It was a week night and people were in bed. Many of the folks had to be at work by 6:00 am. It’s the Air Force, you know. Dressed in our darkest clothing, five of us that had been kicked off the baseball field gathered in my stairwell. We checked our equipment: Brillo pads, hand brooms and dust pans. Each of us carried many Brillo pads. It was going to be a big job.
The last security patrol came by at 1:00 am. We were on it. Each of us performing like a well-oiled machine. We had to be as quiet as possible. No joking around or laughing. It was hard work, but worth it. Twice we had to hide when unscheduled patrols came through, but no sweat. They didn’t see us. We finished cleaning up the mess - and what a mess - around 4:30. We all went to our homes where, then, we had to sneak in not to get caught. We all managed.
The next morning we all gathered at the school bus stop a little early. You see, it was only about half a block from the site of our previous night’s labors….the good doctor’s abode. We waited patiently for the good doctor to come out and see our handy work. Finally, here he came, striding to his reasonably new 1958 Buick Roadmaster Coupe. Just a few feet away, he stopped abruptly. We could hear him exclaim loudly, “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! What the Hell happened?! Jesus Christ!”
What had happened indeed? We had systematically removed all the paint from his car and, although it was not a perfect job, there were only remote signs of its original blue and white colors. We had stripped it to the bare metal. Almost every bit of the primer was gone. Then we had swept up the paint dust and disposed of it in a dumpster a block or so away. The job site was very clean.
As people do when they encounter things they don’t understand, he looked around. He saw us sitting there, watching. We did not laugh or say anything. We just watched. The Air Police came to investigate the situation, but were not there for long. We watched one of them laugh about it. The doctor did not appreciate that either. He kept looking our way.
I think he knew.
There were no accusations, no repercussions. Nothing was said about it in my home until the next day. My father had heard through the grapevine what had happened. He thought it was a riot. He laughed hard, saying, “I’d have loved to have seen the look on that bastard’s face! You ought to see that car!” Apparently, it did not occur to him at all that I might be involved in what happened. Too bad. I think he would have been proud.
My mother did not see the humor in the situation at all; but she did remember the pain the doctor had inflicted on me after lying about what to expect and she remembered that slap in the chops I had taken in front of all my friends.
I think she knew.
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