us of that. In fact, he would threaten to withhold these gifts from us if we didnít perform up to his expectations.

For a time, we lived in Howie Beatermanís house. This was a generous thing for him to open up his home to us, but at the same time he used it as an opportunity to exercise his power over us. It was a way that he could strengthen his hold.

Howie had always been a straight shooter, but his lack of compassion and hunger for power tainted any good qualities that he possessed. The fact was that I never had been particularly enamored with him- not like my mother seemed to be.

My attitude was that of a typical teenager and I didnít fall into line, or do enough bowing and scraping to please Howie Beaterman. I had trouble living up to Howieís lofty and often nit-picking ideals. Howie met my insufficiencies with Totalitarian anger- and without an ounce of caring, or an offer for a second chance.

He met my misadventures with anger and condemnation. One afternoon in late summer I went to the park with a holstered paint pellet pistol that fires latex pellets filled with paint. Three men approached me. I didnít know what they wanted, or who they were, so I ignored them.

"Excuse me, son!" demanded one of them in sarcasm edged tones.

I didnít like his attitude, so I just turned my back and started to walk away. Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder and I turned around to find three snub-nosed thirty-eight revolvers pointed at my head.

"I want you to slowly unbuckle your belt, and take your gun off."

"Who the hell are you?" I asked.

"Weíre police officers. Now lower your gun belt to the ground."

Evidently Iíd been ambushed by an undercover contingent of cops who thought that I was carrying a real gun.

"Itís just a paint pellet gun," I said.

"Put the gun down," they insisted.

Of course, I complied. Having three guns aimed at you is very compelling. Eventually they hauled me off to the station to harass me. Although, I was never charged with anything, My Mom was called and I was warned to never carry a paint pistol into the park again.

Howie Beaterman used this event in his efforts to convince my parents that I was utterly evil. He subtly bent them to his thinking. I was a thorn in his side that he would not tolerate. So he carefully began sowing the seeds of my demise.

He had no tolerance for questioning of his authority, and soon ceased speaking to me at all. This wasnít enough for him. Howie convinced my parents that something was seriously wrong with me, and suggested that they treat that problem by, also, not