But as tough as I was, I wasn’t prepared for Janice Drive. While Lake Street had been a quiet neighborhood filled with well-kept houses, manicured lawns, nice little families, and older couples, Janice Drive, located on the edge of town, had a sprawling, country-like atmosphere. Here the houses were mostly run-down, faded, water-stained stucco bungalows, and the yards were often just brown patches of dead grass, casualties of Bakersfield’s hot summers and icy winters. There were no flowerbeds and very few trees. It was desolate, dry, and dusty due to fact that there were few paved roads. Whenever a car drove down the street it left a trail of dust. And there were so many empty lots around us that we were sitting ducks when it came to the frequent dust storms that tore through the area.
Here the people parked their trucks on their front lawns and bare-chested men with beer bellies, sitting in chairs on their front lawns drinking beer while their bare-footed kids ran wild in the neighborhood, were a common sight. Most of the occupants of the houses were renters, and the few homeowners that were in the area had erected chain-linked fences to protect their yard and keep out trespassers.
There were lots of dogs and chickens, and even some horses and goats. The entire area was surrounded by farms, and many of the people who lived there worked in the nearby fields picking cotton, grapes, or corn. In addition to farm workers, there were some welfare families and even some out-and-out criminals.
Even though my life had been full of loneliness and shame so far, I had at least been lucky enough to live in middle-class neighborhoods alongside people with middle-class lives. Moving to Janice Drive turned out to be a huge step down. I’m sure my mother didn’t realize this when she found the place. It must have looked like a normal neighborhood at first glance. But once we got settled it became apparent that we didn’t belong there.
My mother had always stood out from the middle-class housewives in the neighborhoods we’d lived in. But here she was a spectacle with her high heels, coiffed hair, and makeup. I imagined the neighbors were shocked to see her walking to the bus stop every workday; they must have wondered what in the world this woman was doing in this neighborhood.
The overall feeling about Lake Street was that it was safe. The only trouble that had come to the neighborhood had been the peeping tom and a nine-year-old, sexually abused girl acting out her anger and shame. Janice Drive, on the other hand, was a landmine of potential risks.
Our landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Hill, had given me one of their dog Tiny’s puppies before we moved, and I had named him Cubby. I loved Tiny, so having one of his pups made leaving him behind a little easier.
Cubby was a Samoyed and, like Tiny, he had lots of fur, making it difficult to keep him cool in the hot summers. On Lake Street, Tiny had shade trees to lie under, and an enclosed yard. But on Janice Drive there were no such trees for Cubby, and our yard had no fence, so he was as exposed to danger as I was. Both of us had to be on guard for packs of stray dogs who sometimes appeared out of nowhere, barking menacingly as they roamed the neighborhood in search of food scraps, garbage, or the occasional unprotected kitten or puppy.
And there were other dangers as well. Members of the motorcycle gang the Hells Angels lived in a house down the street from us. It was common to see three or four motorcycles parked in the driveway, and periodically dozens of bikers roared into the neighborhood for a Saturday night or Sunday afternoon party.
One Sunday afternoon shortly after moving to Janice Drive, I heard a loud roar outside. It sounded like several airplanes flying too close to the ground. I walked outside to see a group of motorcycles coming down the street. It looked and sounded like we were being invaded by a swarm of huge black insects. I watched as one after another motorcycle pulled into the Hells Angels’ house and parked on the driveway or on the front lawn.
Some of the bikes had women on the back, others just had a single guy. Most of the men looked dangerous, with black leather jackets or vests covered with spikes, scruffy beards, and tattoos all over their muscle-bound arms. Many of the women had pitch-black hair and they were wearing black leather pants and T-shirts or bathing suit tops with their boobs hanging out. Some looked as dangerous as the men.
After they went inside, I heard the sound of loud “whoops” and the blast of rock and roll music. I imagined the chaos that must be going on inside and it all felt scary and overwhelming.
That night I had a nightmare. A dangerous-looking man roared up to my house on a motorcycle, broke down our door, grabbed me out of my bed, and took me away with him. I woke up screaming. After my nightmare, I was even more frightened every time a group of Hells Angels came roaring down the street.
Another thing that scared me in our new neighborhood was hearing about a menacing family that lived down the block—the Storys. Everyone told me to stay away from them. There were eight Story kids altogether: six boys and two girls. The boys had all been in prison or juvenile hall for God-knows what, and the Story girls
