A Man Named Dave

Acknowledgments
    Since this has been my most arduous project, it is only prudent I pay respect to those who made this book possible:
    With all respect, I bid adieu to my former publisher. I wish to convey my deepest thanks to Irene Xanthos, Lori Golden, Ronnie O’Brien, Jane Barone, Joy Fauver, Doreen Hess, and the small band of others who truly believed in my works before their commercial success.
    Also, to Peter, Terri, Kim, and Bob: against all odds, thank you for allowing me to become a New York Times best-selling author.
    To my dear friend Youngsuk Chi, “The Book Expert”, for his excitability, mentoring, and for believing, just as I do, in maintaining the uncompromising standard of excellence. With dignity and honor!
    A special thank-you to the owners and staff of Sonoma County’s finest coffee establishment, Coffee Bazaar, for again allowing me and Marsha to plug in, take over, and wreak havoc at all hours, while maintaining the maximum level of mocha-ness that is still keeping us up at nights.
    To Cathy Lewis and Nancy Graves of Carmel’s Carriage House Inn – my home away from home – taking me in from the cold and putting me up in “my room”.
    A special thank-you to the institution formerly known as The Hogs Breath Inn of Carmel, where Law, Order, and Ice Cream still prevail. My gratitude to Tim, Joyce, Lana, and the entire crew for granting me space so to slave away at all hours among the beauty of your serene town.
    To the musician Pat Metheny, who unknowingly provided haunting yet soul-stirring theme music to all three tomes. With A Child Called “It” it was “Farmer’s Trust”, for The Lost Boy, “If I Could”, and now with A Man Named Dave, the incredibly moving music of “The Bat, Part II”. Spending endless hours listening to these tracks made me draw from the recesses of my soul.
    To Marsha, editor extraordinaire, of Donohoe Publishing Projects for her absolute devotion to every word of every page. This is only one of the many reasons why I love you. For Marsha, it was a matter of … “The Bat, Part II”.
    To the staff of Dutton Plume for their overwhelming professionalism and sincere kindness, as well as believing that I was indeed worthy of being a hardcover author. To Brian Tart, editor-in-chief, for his trust, genuine sincerity, and meticulous attention to detail as well as for his patience when it counted the most. I also wish to thank Mary Ellen O’Boyle for an inspiring and majestic cover to the book. To everyone at Dutton Plume, thank you for making me a member of your family.
    Finally, to the millions of readers who took A Child Called “It” and The Lost Boy into their hearts: I am forever grateful. You may not realize, but your actions have made the world a better place.

Author’s Note
    Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to protect the dignity and privacy of others.
    As with the first two installments of the trilogy, this third part depicts the language and wisdom that was solely developed from my viewpoint as well as that particular time period.
    This book is not under any circumstances meant to be used as a reprisal or an opportunity to be vindictive, but rather to serve a purpose of what transpires in my life and the valuable lessons learned.

1 – The End
    March 4, 1973 Daly City, California
     
    I’m scared. My feet are cold and my stomach cries for food. From the darkness of the garage I strain my ears to pick up the slightest sound of Mother’s bed creaking as she rolls over in the bedroom upstairs. I can also tell by the range of Mother’s hacking cough if she’s still asleep or about to get up. I pray Mother doesn’t cough herself awake. I pray I still have more time. Just a few more minutes before another day in hell begins. I close my eyes as tightly as I can and mumble a quick prayer, even though I know God hates me.
    Because I am not worthy enough to be a member of “The Family”, I lie on top of an old, worn-out army cot without a blanket. I curl up into a tight ball to keep as warm as possible. I use the top of my shirt as a tent to cover my head, imagining my exhaled air will somehow keep my face and ears warm. I bury my hands either between my legs or into my armpits. Whenever I feel brave enough, and only after I’m certain that Mother has passed out, I steal a rag from the top of a dirty pile and wrap it tightly around my feet. I’ll do anything to stay warm.
    To stay warm is to stay alive.
    I’m mentally and physically exhausted. It’s been