When I was sixteen, I told my mother I was going to get my GED and follow the Grateful Dead.

She wasn't happy.

Her solution was to challenge me, essentially, to a summer away from home—to see if I was really ready to handle skipping town and growing up. She offered to rent an apartment for me, for two months, and if I still wanted to leave in August, she would emancipate me and let me go.

The problem arose, understandably, when no one wanted to rent an apartment to a sixteen-year old girl, even with her mother's approval and consent. I mean, I'm pretty sure the whole thing was totally illegal. The place we finally found was in Whittier, my best-loved stomping ground. It was a converted garage behind a small, but well-kept home. The home belonged to Jesse Martinez.

Jesse was retired. What he did, I don't know. I do know that he was a veteran of Vietnam and Korea. I also knew that he lived alone, but had his granddaughter, a girl of perhaps eight, stay with him on weekends in a spare room. She had down syndrome. Those were the only two things he told me about himself. The interior of his home reflected them. The walls were hung with American and POW/MIA flags, and memorabilia of his time serving our country. The medals and ribbons that I didn't understand or value were protected in expensive frames and shadow boxes. And in every room, just below the ceiling, was a shelf that bordered the walls. Those shelves were overflowing with stuffed animals. Elephants, bears, kittens, all peered down and kept watch over Jesse's trophies. The thing about the stuffed animals that disturbed me (aside from the fact that they are just plain creepy), was that they were on a shelf far too high for the girl to ever possibly get to.

The other thing I knew about Jesse, he didn't tell me. He didn't have to. The man was completely insane. He was Mexican, but wore a silver swastika charm and a crucifix on a necklace that he never took off. I don't know, maybe he took it off to go to bed, and put it on a little satin pillow he kept at his nightstand. But I never saw him without it.

I moved a few of my belongings and all of my clothing to the place with some help from a friend. And there I was. In the room, with a fridge full of food my mom had gone with me to the grocery store to get. Not having learned to cook, or eat from a kitchen instead of the drive thru, I was pretty clueless as to what kind of supplies I'd need. I had ham and cheese, bread, milk, and…Vienetta. I don't know why, that seemed like something everyone should have. While I was unpacking, I lit some incense. Moments later, Jesse came rapping at my chamber door.

"What's that, something burning?"
"Yeah, it's just incense, Jesse."

He grunted, and walked away. I realized that there were windows on three of the four walls. This was nice, because it was absolutely stifling. But it didn't afford me much in the way of seclusion. The only other drawback to the room, besides not having privacy, was that there was no bathroom. I had to go inside Jesse's house to use the toilet or take a shower.

For obvious reasons, this scared the crap out of me. I found out I had an amazing ability control my bladder for hours on end, until Jesse left the house. The first time I showered there, I could only think of images from Psycho, over and over again. I was sure there were microphones and hidden cameras. I dressed quickly, and resolved to shower anyplace else but there. I drove to friend’s houses, or to the gym. And the driving, it was a problem.