The Unauthorized Autobiography of Richard Burns

By Walt Long

at the age of twenty-five he was pulled down from the wall trying to escape from the Gudalajara State Penitentiary...and that wasn't even the lowest point of his life. It was never easy for Richard Burns, from a troubled adolescence through years of incredible and dangerous adventures. The one constant in his life was the apparent truism that life is forgiving, and always offers another chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walt Long
• Release date: Sep 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458093936

Walt Long

Having survived countless vexations, adventures, self-induced hardships, and brushes with a harsh destiny, Walt Long currently resides in Colorado with his family in relative bliss. All of the astounding incidents portrayed in his two novels are based upon fact...first-hand, indelible experiences.

Book preview

My initial reaction was that no one will believe this; that someone could have survived this tumultuous life and is today living a happy, well-adjusted life in the suburbs with a wife, family, dog, and all the other amenities…but it really happened.

Richard Burns

* * * * *

This is a definite must read for all nonbelievers who think second chances are not possible. Five beautiful gold stars.

Fran Lewis: reviewer

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….written as it is objectively viewed and presented by a slightly chagrined author who has obviously settled into a calmer and much more citizen-like life. This book begs for a sequel! It's an entertaining read which leaves the reader wanting to know how it all comes out in the end.

Romeo, New Mexico

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The Unauthorized Autobiography of Richard Burns runs the gamut of emotion, without giving you time to catch a breath.

Tasia Ramage, Roswell independent

* * * * *

The

Unauthorized

Autobiography

of Richard Burns

By

Walt Long

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Copyright 2009 by Walt Long

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

My story begins in 1956. It was a time in America when our innocence and our communal ties began to melt under a global influence, and divisiveness reared its ugly head. We had survived the war to end all wars and then another, and were facing a nightmarish threat – euphemistically called the Cold War - that caused our children sleepless nights and forced our fathers to dig bomb shelters in manicured back yards. We opened our eyes for the first time to racial intolerance, inequality of the sexes, and profound religious differences. We learned through television and Technicolor movies that another world – many worlds – existed outside our own, and we grew restless and envious. The innocence of the fifties dissolved into the self-indulgent and destructive cynicism of the sixties.

We began to question our national conscience as we learned more about the outside world, and our young people rebelled against a suddenly questionable and unbending authority. The electronic revolution had begun, and amidst mind-boggling advances in transportation, medicine, computer technology and recreation, college campuses became battlefields as demands of staggering magnitude were heaped upon the shoulders of unprepared and restive young people.

* * * * *

The passage of time is an illusion…in reality, we spend our lives careening through space, and we age in the process. Where we are at any given time greatly determines our successes and our failures, but I have learned through a history of failures that we do have limited control over that singularly expedient component. Only in retrospect do our decisions bear any relevance.

Despite the great chest thumping and moral righteousness emanating from the successful achievers, the whole of life is little more than a crapshoot. From the time we are weaned from our mothers’ breasts and applauded for walking upright, we become no more than woeful automatons, hopefully programmed for success with sufficient information; or left sadly untrained and confused as a vigorous pup, anxious to please and yet easily motivated to destroy.

Now I have aged and reside in a different place – physically and philosophically – from where I have a clear perspective and understanding of a world that bewildered and punished me for the better part of a half-century. The uncertainty, the self-loathing and self-doubt that drove me along a tortuous path of destruction and waste are still manifest in my psyche and thought processes, but I have learned after years of failure and punishment that only through moderation and acclimation can I achieve some measure of peace. That simple trait…moderation, the ability to control our most basic instincts…seems to be the root of all human satisfaction.

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

All in All, a Good Start

* * * * *

They say that hindsight is 20/20…the implication being, I suppose, that if we were privy to the results of our actions beforehand, we would always make the right choice. Then everything would turn out perfectly. By avoiding all the errors in judgment, miscalculations, and overt stupidity, there would be only winners…no losers.

Without that preternatural ability to look into the future, however, we’re left to our own devices - and success or failure often hinges on the flip of a coin. It would seem, then, that our chances for achieving prosperity and happiness hover somewhere around fifty percent…and of course, we know that’s not true. Life is far more complicated than that.

Had I been born twenty or thirty years later, I’m pretty certain I would have been diagnosed with some sort of Attention Deficit Disorder. I would have been treated, medicated, or otherwise controlled, so that most of the adventures related herein would not have occurred. I certainly displayed all of the symptoms of that type of disorder from an early age. Despite showing a better than average aptitude for all of my studies, I was annoyingly restless and disruptive in class. I recall one morning during my pre-teen years that my teacher – a relatively unshakable woman in her mid-thirties – shrieked at me during class, Richard, for God’s sake…can’t you sit still for one minute?

The compulsion to defy all authority figures was manifest early, along with my out-of-control behavior overall. Being prone to lose interest easily, coupled with a pronounced difficulty in composing and organizing thoughts, I soon began skipping school altogether. When I did attend class, it was with apparent resentment – I was given to daydreaming, forgetfulness, and open rebellion.

* * * * *

Life was hard enough for struggling immigrants without the added burden of carrying a Jewish surname. I was born in the Bronx, New York City, just as the Great War in Europe ignited like an apocalyptic grease fire. Life was difficult for everyone. That was when my father, who worked as a pipefitter, took us all to New Mexico in hopes of finding a better life and better than average wages at a large scale government project located in Los Alamos, which offered great promise to skilled laborers. It was known – euphemistically - as The Manhattan Project, but will forever be remembered as the birthplace of the atomic bomb.

It’s good steady work, My father offered by way of explanation. He was always a man of few words.

It’s three thousand miles away, in New Mexico, for God’s sake! What do we know from New Mexico? My mother, who was never short of words, argued. It was actually closer to two thousand miles, but like she was fond of saying, So, who’s counting?

It’s in the mountains, it’ll be healthy.

She laughed and threw a towel she was folding onto the pile. That was as violent as anyone ever got in our house. Sure, very healthy, She said derisively, It’s wilderness there…we can catch our dinner every night, or maybe eat berries and tree roots. Maybe we’ll get eaten by a bear, maybe a lion. What do we know about the mountains? We don’t know anything.

My sister, my brother, and I exchanged wide-eyed looks of sheer terror. That exchange wasn’t lost on my father, who smiled comfortingly. There won’t be any bears, no lions…it’s a government base, and it’ll be clean and nice.

My mother shrugged, indicating her opposition wasn’t that great. We should go, She said. "If there’s steady work there, it will be better than this furschlugginer city. Who knows, maybe it’s where we’re supposed to be."

There was, of course, great intrigue and mystery attached to that historical phenomenon, particularly for a small child - what with the cryptic security and rampant rumors surrounding it. From the day it was first mentioned in our cold-water, walk-up flat in the Bronx, it was talked about in hushed tones, as if we were involved in a great conspiracy. All that was really known was that employment for willing workers of all kinds was available on some remote New Mexico hilltop, and we left New York without fanfare and with no little trepidation in early summer of 1943, just before my fifth birthday.

* * * * *

The brief stay in Portales, New Mexico, was remarkable only for its total contrast to the frightening and tense reality of the world we were preparing to enter. My father rented a tiny one-bedroom shack in the middle of a vast peanut farm while he made periodic drives to Los Alamos to complete his application for employment. I’m sure we stayed there for less than a year, but it seemed like an eternity. It was hot, dirty, and windy…day and night.

I have vivid (if somewhat embellished) recollections of the huge piles of sand that blew in through the loose-fitting windows every night, and of the late summer days harvesting peanuts. My brother and I would lie on our stomachs in a small trailer pulled by an aging tractor, with our arms dangling out the back, extracting clumps of peanuts, roots and all, from the sandy earth. Then, to enhance the degradation, we had to throw them back over our heads into the trailer, until it was filled and we were buried under heavy mounds of plants and dirt.

It was also there, in Portales, that I became Irish. My father thought it prudent (Not without some justification, I should add), that we change our family name from Bermenstein to Burns. After petitioning the court there and having our name changed legally, I was baptized Catholic and led to believe that I was predominantly Irish. It wasn’t until years later when I joined the Navy and located a copy of my birth certificate that I learned the truth.

The ultimate irony, however wasn’t that I was Jewish…I had figured that out. It wasn’t even that my last name was Bermenstein after being called Burns for seventeen years. It was that my birth certificate provided no first name…I was officially introduced into the world as Boy Bermenstein. When I asked my mother about that oversight, she explained off-handedly that they had been unable to think of a name for me until I was at least a week old. Fordham Hospital provided what information they had to the records office, and as a result, Richard Burns only exists in this world because I say he does.

* * * * *

The year and-a-half or so living among the tree-lined hills of Los Alamos in northern New Mexico was idyllic compared to the barren flat-lands of Portales and the mephitic slums of New York, except for the intrigue and terrifying tales emanating from within the mysterious base. Although the civilian workers were well removed from the military installation, we were nonetheless enshrouded in mystery.

I recall overhearing stories told late at night by my father about radiation checks (I had no idea what radiation could be, and envisioned it as some form of deadly gas), and how they were all forced to strip naked before entering work to change into work suits. I remember listening wide-eyed one evening, when they thought I was asleep, as he told my mother about a co-worker who was forced to have his billfold burned in the incinerator because the man insisted on keeping it with him all day. It apparently contained some cash and he was disinclined to leave it with his clothing at the beginning of the workday. The notion of having good money destroyed in that fashion was probably more appalling to me than the prospect of radiation…such was the harshness of life in that time.

I attended my first year of school in the civilian housing community which would be known as White Rock, located across the road from the Los Alamos Military Base. For an impressionable youngster, life was wonderful compared to the cramped, hard-edged streets of New York, and infinitely more enjoyable than the peanut farm. The houses were all thrown together hurriedly - carbon-copy, wood framed bungalows, with two or three steps leading up to a tiny porch – a far cry from the tenements of the big city. I recall thinking what a luxury it was to be living on the ground floor with our own, personal porch.

The hills around Los Alamos and White Rock were kid-friendly – sloping grades dotted with towering ponderosa pines, shorter, scraggly piñon pines, and junipers. The few roads that bisected the community had been graded but not paved, the main highway coming in from Santa Fe graveled and quite adequate.

As civilians, we were not allowed inside the military installation except on Sundays, and then just inside the main entrance where the theater and PX were located. That was, of course, the highlight of the week…shopping in the marketplace-like PX, and then watching a movie that afternoon. I’ll always remember the theater…a big whitewashed wooden building that more resembled a barn, but provided countless enjoyable Sunday afternoons.

When the war ended – or more precisely, when the Manhattan Project suddenly closed up shop like a gypsy tea room – we left White Rock and moved to Albuquerque, by way of Santa Fe. The capitol city was still little more than a dusty old frontier village with deep historic roots and a wonderful multi-cultural heritage. We stayed for several weeks, I believe, in a ramshackle motel where the railroad passed a scant fifty feet behind our room – another lasting memory from my otherwise nebulous childhood. I was never happier than standing within spitting distance of the roaring train, having the engineer wave and sound the bold steam engine whistle.

* * * * *

When we settled in Albuquerque my father went to work for a plumbing company and my mother stayed home, dutifully preparing meals for him and the three kids and maintaining equilibrium in our modest home. We were nothing if not the All-American family. We lived in various rentals, from a seedy motel to a rather nice adobe house in the north valley. For two years I attended St. Mary’s School – a dour, inveterate campus in the heart of downtown. The school – and a magnificent cathedral constructed nearly a century before - occupied an entire city block, and represented the spiritual and cultural identity of the city. Some of the nuns seemed as though they had been there since its inception.

My parents were strict and reserved…they were not openly affectionate, but neither were they hateful nor abusive. If they were inhibited and prudish, it was probably more symptomatic of the time than it was indicative of their personalities. It’s difficult, really, to pinpoint any flaws in their parenting techniques that might have caused me to become emotionally unstable or to wander so far astray, but as early as grade school I began showing signs of rebellion and a general lack of respect for authority.

It was actually due to several incidents at St. Mary’s that caused them to finally remove me from that strongly authoritative environment and place me in a public school for the first time, at the age of twelve. The nightmares induced by overbearing religious zealots gave way to an almost bucolic innocence, and although my behavior failed to improve, I was decidedly happier. I began playing sports and cultivated friendships that I embrace to this day. The dichotomy, however, of a happy, well-behaved child at home and a rebellious and unruly student continued to fester.

I ran away from home several times before my teen years, generally returning willingly, even gratefully, like a dog with his tail between his legs. I was decidedly rebellious, but it was no secret that I wasn’t very good at it. Looking back, I realize that so many of my acts of defiance were committed knowing – perhaps even hoping – that I would get caught. It’s impossible, really, to pinpoint the cause of my emotional and psychological instability, aside from the overriding, gnawing sense of detachment that seemed to always accompany me. I seemed to never fit-in…I always felt a little different from everyone else. I neither understood nor wished to be understood.

Although my reputation as a troublemaker and ne’er-do-well grew and flourished, I was always well liked and accepted by my peers, and generally, by my teachers. By the time I entered high school, my sister had been sent away to give birth to an illegitimate and unwanted child - an event not accepted socially or discussed openly in 1955. That child (the only nephew I ever had) eventually became a true problem with an overt tendency toward crime and violence, ultimately being convicted of automobile theft by his fourteenth birthday. By comparison, I was an upright and dutiful student throughout my school years, given only to occasional pranks and juvenile misadventures. I was a sensitive, caring and considerate young man plagued only by the recurring tendency to screw up.

This duality was the cause of many injustices, I felt, and scars that I bear to this day. As a junior-year first semester project, we were given the task of writing a 3,000 word thesis on the subject of our choice. Because of the rampant hostility toward Russia due to the cold war, I chose the Kremlin as my subject. I titled it The Stage Behind the Iron Curtain, and researched it thoroughly for several weeks. I was justifiably proud of the finished product, but when it received a C+, I was crestfallen. When I questioned my teacher about the grade, I was told that she felt certain I had copied it from somewhere. The lack of originality, she said, made it impossible for her to give it a higher grade. To my everlasting chagrin and resentment, I didn’t pursue it further.

I was given opportunity upon opportunity to mend my ways and to begin again…by family, friends, faculty, and throughout all my future relationships - but something greater than the simple need to do right always drove me to act…or react…in some socially unacceptable manner. It often seemed that disappointing people brought me pleasure, even while it caused me great pain. Whether I was maladjusted by my upbringing or driven by some unknown demon or chemical imbalance, it was only a question of time before my wanton delinquency would catch up with me.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWO

A Taste of Humility

* * * * *

With barely six weeks remaining before graduation from high school, I was a poster child for underachievement - surviving, but really making no effort to succeed. My mind was generally locked onto matters far removed from academia. I had earned varsity letters in football and track in both my sophomore and junior years, but had decided not to participate in any sports during my final year. That decision, I’m sure, was at least in part the result of my austere upbringing…I was never comfortable with myself, certainly not in a locker room environment. Being surrounded by egoistic, self-assured, and socially polished athletes only fostered my feelings of inadequacy.

Ironically, I suppose, my life was best defined through sports…moreover, through one particular incident that occurred a year earlier at track practice. Running wind sprints with Bob Crandall (who would later play professional football), I picked up a javelin and casually threw it (with perfect, studied form, I should add) further than the handful of athletes watching who actually participated in that event. Crandall stopped and said, grinning, You know, Burns, you’re really good at everything, but you’re not worth a shit at anything. That off-handed comment has stayed with me to this day.

The decision to quit sports placed me immediately on the shit list, and drew considerably more attention to my other failings. I wasn’t overly concerned, however, because I had by then discovered marijuana and beer…and girls. My grades were adequate – I typically maintained a B or C average - but I accomplished that by never actually reading a book or studying for a test. There is little doubt that I could have done much better. Although I clearly suffered from feelings of inferiority, I always believed in some perverse way that I was smarter than my classmates…sometimes even than my teachers. I simply wasn’t interested in school and had trouble concentrating on my classes. I admit that I grew tired of having all my teachers tell me that I was capable of doing so much better if I only applied myself, ad nauseum.

I was skipping a lot of classes by that time and surrounding myself with friends who were for the most part social misfits - although popular, in a twisted and somewhat inverted school hierarchy. These rebellious and boisterous agitators were slowly replacing the respected student athletes I had grown up with and been very close to since the early years of grade school. I recall a sense of duality even at that young age, as though I was, in fact, living two lives. I had an undeniable longing deep within me to do well…to please my parents, my teachers, and everyone who had faith and believed in me. But another side of me was pushing for immediate attention and gratification gained by upsetting the status quo and bucking the establishment. I wanted to please everyone, and in a sense, that’s exactly what I was doing.

It’s worth noting that I was acutely aware – and even more so in retrospect – that I longed for approval by my parents, particularly my father. Although I participated in competitive sports and other activities (I even won a school spelling bee in the fifth grade) I don’t recall ever – with one exception - seeing either of my parents in attendance, or hearing words of praise afterward. The one isolated incident stands out amazingly strong in my memory - probably in junior high school - when a small article appeared in the local paper under a headline crediting me with delivering a game-winning, bases loaded triple to win a game. I remember watching my father as he read the paper and growing anxious when he got to the sports page. When he spotted the article in question he read it calmly; then without any apparent emotion, or more than a cursory glance toward me, said I see you got your name in the paper. I was crestfallen.

All of the coaches were understandably upset with me for being a quitter when I refused to participate in any sports, although a couple of them talked to me and even tried to convince me to reconsider. The school principal, Dr. N. G. No Good Tatum, however, was not at all forgiving or sympathetic. He took my lack of interest in school activities as a personal affront and seemed to go out of his way to make my life miserable, including tracking my whereabouts and issuing detention time for any slight infraction. I became a regular in that room, spending slightly less time there than in the bowling alley.

* * * * *

It all came to a head one Friday morning in April at a school assembly in the gymnasium. Along with my regular band of rebels I entered the gym and found a seat about five rows up in the bleachers, where we began behaving in what I believed was typical teen behavior…harassing the girls, yelling, and being generally obnoxious. Within minutes I was receiving elbow jabs and pleas to quiet down and I looked to the gym floor and saw Dr.