The Masked Kid Goes West

By Dan Neiser

Graduating from high school, the Masked Kid narrowly escaps a mob of angry classmates blaming him for making their annuals late. He becomes a budding young college scientist with good intentions but terrorizes his fellow students with experiments gone wrong. He goes on to become a Secret Agent in his own mind, horrifying dates with a car that cuts out intermittently on dark highways. Later, fantasizing that he is the Caped Crusader, he applies 'Roommate Revenge' to defend his Boy Wonder roommate against a heartless ex girlfriend. Nobody is safe, the Masked Kid is on the loose again, and will soon be heading West.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984578624

Dan Neiser

Dan Neiser is the author of 'Who Was That Masked Kid', and 'Return of the Masked Kid'. He lives in Southern California with his wife.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Masked Man and his faithful Indian companion halted on a ridge above and reined up. Down in the ravine, they could see the kid getting dressed. They watched as he put on a tie and a pair of cheap black patent leather shoes.

Over this, he donned a black gown and fitted a flat, square hat to his head. On the right, an odd-looking something dangled. The Masked Man squinted in the harsh late morning light as the furnace sun rose above the desert.

Hmmmm, the Indian said, what that thing dangling from his hat? It look like a piece of rope somebody untangled.

A tassel, Tonto. People who graduate from college wear them for the ceremony.

They watched, and the kid turned his back and walked away, becoming smaller in the distance until he winked out of sight.

He gone, kemo sabe.

Yes, Tonto, and the world has changed.

It no longer knows or needs us, kemo sabe.

I’m afraid so, Tonto.

Will we see him again?

Perhaps, Tonto. Perhaps he will remember us when he is older. When he wants a simpler life.

Tonto nodded, and together they wheeled their horses and galloped away in a cloud of dust.

And the Masked Man was silent, his trademark call to his great white horse perhaps stilled forever.

CHAPTER 1

Under the Magnifying Glass

Part 1: My Dad, the Stoic

"Sex ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.

If you get married to somebody, make sure they like to do the same things you like. That’s a lot more important than the other.

It was left to my imagination as to exactly what the other was.

Keep in mind that my dad was a stoic who rarely talked, and his attitudes toward sex were conveyed to me for the most part without words. To be fair, I think it was the posture of his generation: sex just didn’t rank at the top of the list of highly regarded human activity, to say the least. In fact, for him, it seemed to be more of a necessary evil than anything else, superseded by just about every other form of human activity.

His advice about marriage, when he gave it, consisted of Find somebody that likes to do the same things you do. Someday, the physical side of it won’t be all that important.

That piece of wisdom came from two things: one, he had not found such a person in my mother; and, two, he was forty years older than I was and pushing sixty. The physical side for him was dying out.

But there was more to it than that. He gave every evidence that a real man didn’t need a woman. The need for sex was a weakness.

And he didn’t tolerate weakness.

Part 2: The Righteous and the Vulgar

For Dad’s generation, the Great Generation, sex seemed to be more of a necessary evil than anything else. People had sex to have children if they wanted them and slept apart in separate bedrooms if they didn’t. That was the only form of birth control they possessed prior to the last decades of the twentieth century.

Moreover, sex wasn’t talked about, and people who did talk about it, particularly in vulgar terms, were the shunned lower class who inhabited dark places and back alleys where the more temperate and genteel would never find themselves.

Divorce was unheard of and extremely scandalous. The very notion that a married person would be attracted to somebody else was abhorrent and not discussed. If you found yourself married to somebody that was either incompatible or did not fulfill your expectations or proclivities, then you were stuck … Divorcing them was a ticket to becoming a social pariah.

Politicians, pastors, business owners, and anybody else in a leadership position committed social suicide by getting a divorce. It was an invitation to complete personal disaster.

Hollywood, however, led the way as Eddie Fisher divorced Elizabeth Taylor, and Ronald Reagan divorced Jane Wyman. My mother was scandalized at these outrageous indiscretions, expressing the righteous condemnation due to people with such lack of moral character.

And then there was my conversion.

Part 3: The Righteous

I don’t need some preacher telling me how to live my life, Dad would say when the subject of church came up, which Mom and I were careful to avoid. I can live a good life all by myself without help.

Now, there was no arguing with this, if you didn’t want plaster falling from the ceiling.

But I’d thrown a large monkey wrench into the situation by becoming a Christian. I’d had an encounter with God that I couldn’t deny, and it had changed my whole view of life.

Now that I’d discovered new life in Christ, the Hallelujah Pentecostal Church was determined to see to it that I received what they termed the Baptism of the Holy Spirit, which, they said, was absolutely necessary to gaining a special insight into the Divine and becoming a full citizen of the Kingdom of God.

But I wasn’t there yet. My struggles to speak in tongues after two years of fervent effort were beginning to elicit pity from my fellow believers. I had sought the Baptism of the Holy Spirit but couldn’t quite get it.

Now, the monkey wrench thrown into the ointment of my family life (to mix as many metaphors as possible) was this. I had one major fault: a bad temper that manifested itself in going into a rage when I couldn’t accomplish something… no, not when I was prevented from doing it by an outside agency but when I was unable to perform it because of my own limitations.

Like throwing a ball and not hitting myself in the head with it (which I once did). Like being unable to grasp a problem in mathematics or physics and proving that I was the genius I was supposed to be. (I had two badly damaged textbooks that were evidence of my short coming).

Et cetera, et cetera.

My physical shortcomings may have been due to the double vision that the doctor had tried to correct years ago by making me wear a black eye mask with the right eye blocked out, turning me into the Masked Kid.

Or it could have had something to do with my dad laughing at my temper when I was three or four. (Ha ha, he sure gets mad. Look at how mad he gets.)

In any event, my dad knew what my faults were, and he would quickly point them out every time I went out the door wearing a suit and carrying a Bible.

I’ve got more self-control than he does, I heard him say to Mom one day at breakfast.

It had now become a competition: who was more righteous than who? And I was now under a magnifying glass, my every move observed and criticized.

Now I really couldn’t make a mistake.

CHAPTER 2

Epiphany in the Parking Lot

Part 1: The Sins of the Flesh

This, along with the writings of St. Paul, which by now I was heavily into, shouted to me that a Spiritual Christian, filled with HOLY SPIRIT AS EVIDENCED BY SPEAKING IN TONGUES (hear the caps), and WHO LIVED A SPIRIT FILLED LIFE (hear the caps again), did not have sex. Add to that, he did not need sex unless he was weak—the stoic philosophy of my father.

Sex was a part of an animal existence that the presumably Holy Ghost-filled people of the Hallelujah Pentecostal Church shunned, along with their superior raised-in-the-church kids who lived exemplary lives free from wine, women, and profane songs as well as other types of profanity.

To become like Jesus, you gave no provision to the flesh.

Good luck.

The church women wore no makeup.

The Hallelujah Church had been born in the Azusa Street Revival in the early twentieth century, when the cultural consensus was that makeup was a sign of moral dissipation, worn primarily by prostitutes. The compensation for this restriction was permission to wear skintight dresses that barely allowed them to walk. (The HPC had missed putting this on its list of don’ts.)

Verne Snitz was always ready to point out the hypocrisy depicted in the novel Elmer Gantry, by Sinclair Lewis and as portrayed by Burt Lancaster in the movie version. Elmer was a traveling evangelist who preached vociferously against the sins of the flesh but was wont to get a peek at a woman’s ankles (which was all he could see, since they wore long dresses and exposed nothing else) whenever he got the chance.

Anyway, this was my frame of mind when Timmy McGavin and his cronies set me up for the … epiphany in the parking lot.

Part 2: At the Door

The Sunday night sermon had been on The Fall of Babylon as described in the book of Revelation. Pastor Coney had asserted unequivocally (and loudly into his microphone) that the mystical Babylon depicted in the book was, in fact, New York City. It would be destroyed in one hour from nuclear warheads rained down upon it by Russia.

This would be immediately followed by the rise of the beast and the false prophet at which time the mark of the beast would be applied to the middle of your forehead or in the palm of your right hand (if you missed the Rapture—the taking up of the faithful).

The mark would be applied to all those left behind at the Rapture, and if YOU weren’t ready for Christ to return, then YOU would be forced to take the mark. The fear of God fell over the audience as this news was revealed from the pulpit, shouted at the top of Pastor Coney’s scratchy voice, and delivered to the microphone held one inch from his mouth.

An altar call was given for those who didn’t want to be left behind, but before the faithful could go forward, a message in an unknown tongue (or at least one that nobody recognized) brought a hush over the congregation.

Dead silence followed, and Pastor Coney whispered, Is there an interpretation?

From another part of the nave it came. Behold, my people, a man said, I am at the door, and blessed is he who is written in the Lamb’s Book of Life.

Pastor Coney needed to say little more. A mass stampede ensued as people rushed to embrace the altar, falling on their knees and crying aloud, lifting their hands to heaven, and babbling in foreign tongues.

Including me, of course, I was more than aware that Jesus could come at any moment and that I could easily be left behind if caught in a movie theater or at a dance doing something other than taking pictures for the high school annual.

It eventually wound down, and as usual, my friends Marty Gasbert, the paraplegic; his girlfriend Paula; Timmy, her brother; and Billy Bradford wanted to go drag North Street.

Entertainment for teenagers was somewhat limited in Plateau City; mainly consisting of drag races on the only lighted commercial straightaway in town between two drive-ins at either end, while yelling epithets at other teens in other cars.

And this was done in my car, of course, since I had the only transportation available to the five of us.

But I never so much as started up the car. Other people had other things in mind …

Part 3: The Fall in the Parking Lot

We wheeled Marty out to the car (parked across the street from the church in the Guff Brothers Market parking lot) and loaded him into it. I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, barely noticing the passenger door open and close.

Somebody had climbed in beside me.

I glanced over, expecting to see Timmy, since Paula and Billy usually squeezed into the backseat as one big intimately happy group, Paula all but sitting on Marty’s lap.

I did a double take. The passenger was a girl I’d never seen before. What … ?

Somebody was leaning against the driver’s window on my right behind the individual in the passenger’s seat. I could see more in the lights that lit the parking lot. A crowd had gathered around the car.

Dan. It was Timmy’s voice. Say hello to Wanda.

Hello.

That was probably the only word I said to her, because Timmy started up a chant, Kiss her! Kiss her!

I stared at Wanda, and in the dim light of the fluorescents cascading through the windshield, she looked back at me. She was a dishwater blonde, with freckles speckled across a roundish face. The eye that I could see was blue, and the other one, shrouded in darkness, probably was the same color.

Somebody behind me gave me a shove in her direction.

Go for it, a voice said. Kiss her!

Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her! came voices behind him, chanting in union.

Come on, Dan, you gotta kiss a girl sometime!

Wanda slid closer to me. In the half light of the Guff Brothers sign, she seemed to have a wistful, though eager, look.

I don’t know what to do, I said. What’s your name?

It was the only delaying tactic I could think of.

Wanda Gleeson, she said in a somewhat breathless Marilyn Monroe-ish voice.

Who cares what her name is! Timmy shouted, frustration clearly discernible in his voice. It’s easy! You wrap your arms around her and plant your mouth on top of hers.

Wanda made it easy by sliding closer to me on the ’49 Dodge front seat that had been designed long before anybody thought of make-out-inhibiting bucket seats. Things of this nature had been greatly facilitated in the early ’60s by automobiles with front seats having no obstructions. The backseat was even more accommodating, ergonomically designed, as they were, without the hindrance of a steering wheel.

No seat belts also greatly provided ease of access.

Just wrap your arms around me, Wanda said, and our lips will meet.

I can hear you now, dear reader. Did thoughts of the Masked Rider of the Plains intrude in this romantic encounter to inhibit your response to the presence of this willing blonde in the front seat of your Dodge?

The answer is, not consciously. However, the fact that the Masked Man had only the company of his faithful Indian companion, who was male, throughout his daring adventures on the plains, romantic urges never became an issue.

Well, never mind. The correct answer is an emphatic No, and I did as I was told, but my initial shock turned to boredom as the kiss dragged on, and my mind started to wander. I gave her a few pats on the back as a display of affection.

This resulted in an unexpectedly negative reaction.

Don’t pat me like a dog! she exclaimed, instantly breaking off the kiss.

The shouts around us died down, and a groan ensued from the gathered mob.

He patted her on the back.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Wanda immediately slid back to her side of the car. Take me home.

Where’s home? I asked, disappointed that my show of affection had had such a negative result.

It had always worked for my dog, I thought.

Home turned out to be the upper story of the Stewler Warehouse, sitting on Fifth Street just before the overpass took you across the extensive Plateau City train tracks.

Wanda insisted on letting herself out of the car in front of the warehouse, and I watched her disappear into its inky depths.

My world had been turned upside down. I had been yanked unexpectedly from the ecstasy of encountering the Divine, ascending to the heights of his glory, to the concrete surface of the Guff Brothers parking lot where I had suddenly encountered the baser nature of the flesh; waylaid by my fellow believers who had interrupted my progression to the heavenlies.

That was the problem. I had been betrayed into lust by believers whom I had trusted to be on the same heavenly path. I was so disturbed I made an appointment with Pastor Coney.

Part 4: Funniest Thing in a Week

Pastor Coney met me at the door of his $50,000 sprawling wood-framed rancher in the Redrocks, a wealthy Plateau City upper-class neighborhood. I had parked on the curb, absorbing the ambience of the marbled walkway that meandered through the vast grassy, well-watered front lawn, past the new Lincoln Continental parked close to the house.

Hello, Dan. He shook my hand at the door, greeting me with a toothy smile, his nerdy black-framed glasses reflecting the afternoon sunlight, wavy black hair combed to the side, revealing a lean, pale face. He ushered me back into his study.

The house was essentially two story, although the second story was more of a balcony that encircled the lower paneled living room, kitchen, dining room, and, presumably, bedrooms.

We ascended a spiral staircase in the corner, and I quickly found myself in his study, sitting on the other side of his dark oak desk.

So what’s the problem?

As I told him the story of Wanda in the parking lot, I was amazed that his face had grown an odd shade of pink. He appeared to swallow several times and once covered his mouth. His shoulders shook slightly.

I stared at him.

Well, he said, gripping the edge of the desk, the tremors slowly subsiding, you’ve got to take these things in stride.

Take these things in stride.

These things—the betrayal by Christians who were supposed to be seeking those things from above and not encouraging a believer in Christ to stumble over the carnal pleasures of the flesh.

I sat there unable to speak. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand my point. He thought I was upset simply because I kissed a girl in a parking lot. I was unable to articulate what the problem really was.

OK, I said lamely.

Good, he said, quickly changing the subject by saying, Well, how’s everything else going?

Once again, I was unable to tell him how everything else was going because the answer was It’s all going terrible now that I had been betrayed and had crashed from the Higher Heights of Glory to the depths of carnal desire.

And, of course, I was mightily striving not to use profane four-letter words, which were rising to my tongue, and not to be vocalized in a Pentecostal pastor’s office.

OK.

Good. He stood, and I was escorted down the stairs, past the trappings of worldly wealth, the possession of which seemed to be somewhat unworthy of a man of God seeking the higher state of glory.

But for me, with newly converted eyes that saw stars where there may have been only cinders, it seemed that I was touching a mansion in the kingdom of God.

And quickly I found myself outdoors, breathing the cold air of late autumn, making my way past the seemingly divine Lincoln Continental to find my humbler ’49 Ford.

Take it in stride.

And was that faint sound I heard as I opened the passenger door the voices of angels singing? Or was it somebody laughing uproariously, like they hadn’t had anything to laugh about in a long, long time?

CHAPTER 3

Fear in Your Senior Year

Part 1: Something’s Coming

You can feel the change in the air as the sky brightens in the east. The dew on the still green grass that turned to frost has burned off quickly by the sun rising over the dark mass of the mesa, bringing a day that is almost … but not quite … like the days of summer.

The shadows are deeper, the sky bluer, and there’s color tingeing the alders that Dad planted at intervals along the white fence bordering the western side of our property.

And the excitement … mingled with fear … is growing in the pit of your gut as summer ends and the first day of school approaches.

You might have been working … eight hours a day … at a summer job sweating in the ninety-five-degree heat under a merciless sun … trying to stash away some school cash. You could have been in the peach or cherry orchards, a packing plant, down at Ralph Pritikin’s as a busboy in cold air-conditioning with grease up to your elbows, or maybe caddying for rich golfers and hoarding their tips.

No matter … there was still a sense of loss of freedom. The freedom, at least, from pressure of lectures, tests, homework, and grades, and pressure (and fear) of your fellow peers.

And confinement. The confinement of the classroom.

There are butterflies in your stomach as the challenge of the coming year comes into view, bringing its unknown changes.

You don’t have to worry about the school bus now; you’ve got wheels in the form of the ’49 Dodge, and now you have to worry about keeping it in gas, changing the oil, and finding a place to park in the parking lots surrounding the sprawling one-story high school.

The trepidation doesn’t end as you enter the front doors and the halls are jammed with students trying to get to their lockers and find their first-period class.

You finally find your locker and your first-period class: college prep English.

Part 2: The Wurm Has Not Turned

Mr. Earl Wurm sports an early ’60s flattop and black-rimmed glasses that match his black hair and magnify his bluish eyes. The rest of his face is well proportioned, on the lean side, and he stands around six feet or so (hard to say when you’re sitting in a student desk looking up). He’s in shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his pants have a crease running down the length of his leg.

In short, he’s not hard to look at and is relatively cool for an English teacher.

The bell rings, and the kids settle down. I glance around at my compadres, spotting a few second-string intellectuals … not the top echelon of Weston, Braydon, and members of their social elite, such as Brianna McSwift. But Bentley’s in here, along with Quintana, and some of the other semiheavy hitters.

Once again, I had not reached the top echelon …

This is college preparatory English, Wurm began when the bell rang. And it’s not going to be like anything you’ve experienced before.

That quieted everybody down.

You’re used to being led by the hand through every step in every lesson and given a test every time you turn around.

He held up an English textbook.

And you’re used to having one of these where the teacher makes assignments, you read them, and then he tells you what you’ve read.

He threw the book in the trash. It landed with a resounding crash and knocked the wastebasket over. Some gum and candy bar wrappers spilled out on the floor, along with a few other not so easily identifiable objects.

A collective gasp came from the room.

"In here, you’re going to be on your own. I’m going to try as much as I can to simulate a college course in English. I’m going to assign so much reading material, you’ll have to take shortcuts to get it all done.

And I’m going to show you what shortcuts to take.

Oh, goody, I thought, he’s going to teach us how to cheat.

And you’re going to have a term paper assigned every couple of weeks.

A term paper every couple of weeks. Now, that makes sense, I thought in a mixture of sarcasm and fear.

In short, I’m going to load you down because, trust me …

The overhead lights reflected off his glasses obscuring his eyes, making him look like a flat-topped robot. When you get to college …

His voice trailed off,