Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

BOB HORTON Continued from page 68 I had remembered to pick up the key from a hook in the kitchen where it was always kept when Creighton — he’s my older brother — was away at school, medical school in Philadelphia. I got in, slammed the door, and turned on the ignition. They let me drive the Ford when Creighton was away. I had a driver’s license and also a credit card for gas stations. The first thing I did when I got out into the open city road was to look in the mirror to see if anyone was following me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I could picture Roberta rushing to the telephone and calling my father. But there was no one behind me; no one I knew, that is. I expect she just thought I was kidding. I was always saying things like that. I drove past all the “nice” houses in the Los Angeles suburb where I lived; thinking how dreary everybody seemed doing the same things on the same days in the same way, year in, year out. They brought their children up to that way, too. And that was the way my parents wanted me to be. “Sure I have everything,” I mimicked my father. But nobody really understood me or cared how I felt about things. They tried to dominate me, to make sure I would grow up into the type who would be a credit to them. How I hated that phrase! Creighton was already like that and they i were always comparing him to me. It was always Creighton -this and Creightonthat. No matter what I tried to do Creighton did it better. Creighton, six years older than me, had left a trail of success that haunted me everywhere I turned. In school the teachers always said, “So you’re Creighton’s brother. Well, you’ll have to study hard to get the high marks he had.” It made me want to scream. And it was not only in school. When I came home after school my mother would say — and she said it so many times — “Now how did you manage to get so dirty? When Creighton was your age, he could get through the day without getting so messy.” Creighton -this and Creightonthat. Thinking it over I was getting madder and madder. And the madder I got the faster I drove. What made me start remembering this all over again? I guess I had almost forgotten about it until, not long ago, I made that stopover in Washington, D.C., on my way back from New York to Hollywood and my current TV series, “Wagon Train.” I was standing in line with a crowd of other sightseers waiting to get into the Washington Monument. Just in front of me were a nice-looking couple wearing blue jeans and sweaters. He must have been about seventeen and I guess the girl was sixteen. Everybody else seemed relaxed, on a holiday, but this pair stood there looking so tense and worried. Then I guess they must have felt my stare and they turned around. The boy looked belligerent, as though he wanted to fight me for just looking at them and then the girl recognized me. She smiled and we started talking and I found out their names were John and Susan. “Do you live here in Washington?” I asked. “Yeah,” the boy said, “but we’re leaving, we’re running. . . .” He stopped himself short and hitched at his pants, em barrassed at having given himself away. I didn’t say anything then, but I tagged along with them as we went through the monument and then I asked them to have a Coke with me. They seemed so mixedup and I felt so sorry for them. “Our parents don’t understand us,” Susan said. “You don’t know how it is. ...” But I did know how it was and I wanted to help them. So I told them about the time I had run away. I told them how I could still remember climbing into the car and driving away from home, driving fast and feeling as though someone were thumping me in my stomach. I could hardly control my anger. Suddenly I became aware of the road again and that I was driving eastwards from the city — fast. But to where? I had planned my walk-out but not where I was going. Well, what did it really matter? I was getting away and that was all I cared about. I drove and drove until all of a sudden it was cold. I hadn’t noticed that it was beginning to get dark and cold. I only had on an open shirt and a light sweater. I turned on the heater and rolled up the windows tight until it became stuffy and hot and I felt drowsy and the road looked like a never-ending snake. There was only one thing to do. I was angry but still I knew I had to stop. I pulled over by the side of the highway, turned off the heater and took a nap. It must have been about an hour later when I woke up. The car had become cold again. I started to drive and then noticed that I had almost run out of gas. I put my hand in my pocket for money . . . only 75 cents. Not enough for much gas. I was lucky I had that credit card. 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