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Because of the fact that the deportee also bought a bunch of hotel furniture, I was left to dispose of it, and as you might guess, it was also stressful.  The person who sold the furniture to the deportee agreed to buy it back, but this is Las Vegas, and his offer was a rip-off.   I had no idea how I was going to survive this, and it seems I developed a stutter, and became extremely embarrassed when confronted with any new situation.

There was a day when I looked forward to challenges, but challenges became my nemeses at this point.  In addition to confusion, I noticed my math skills were failing quickly, and I seem to have lost my ability to spell even simple words.  This, from the person who won numerous spelling bees all the way through school!

I would get side-tracked easily, and my decision-making skills were, at this time, almost non-existent.  It was a chore just trying to decide what to buy as groceries.  Forget anything that had to do with business.

Finally, the man who was the upholsterer said there was a house next to him that was vacant and asked me if I wanted to look at it.  It was large, but it was $400 a month (in 1990) and this is where my life took an unexpected turn, and I told my son he could either work or me or live with me.  What was I thinking?  It was only a long time afterward that I realized that it was a cruel thing to say.  My son was so hurt that he packed up his VW and headed for Tucson, where one of my brothers lived.  It was quite a while before I heard from him.

A man came to the upholster to have his car interior done, and in another bad decision, I agreed to move to Los Angeles with him, as he was in the army and was being transferred there as a recruiter.  Life there was not pleasant, as I had difficulty finding work because of my lack of skills.  However, I did manage to find a job in a camera shop in Reseda, and as it was a neighboring community of Northridge, the commute wasn't too bad.  And the hours were good.  The pay was adequate, but, I noticed that my earlier symptoms would come and go, and there was another that I was unprepared for.  I began losing my hair.

Stress.  That's what I decided, though I would still have the fevers and aches and the loss of spelling ability, the confusion, the decisions...the stuttering, and my self-esteem went downhill as well.  I felt as if my brain were falling apart a little bit at a time, and it only made things worse.

One day, I saw an ad for computer school, and decided to check into it.  I did this on my own, with no discussion, and no input from my roommate.  So I quit the job.  By then, we had moved into Inglewood, because of changes in the recruiting station.  As it turned out, it wasn't far from the school, and I was able to ride the bus if I couldn't take his truck, as he often used a government vehicle.

Somehow, I managed to maintain a 4.0 GPA, but I have no clue how.  And that winter, I had another bout with rheumatic fever, which I had had as a child.  This time, it was the trigger for the worst onset of all the symptoms.  I never seemed able to rest, even though I did eventually fall asleep at night.  I thought it was "just depression."  I had dealt with depression to one degree or another most of my life, so this was nothing new, I thought.  I just had achy joints, fever, confusion, and all the other symptoms, but now I added vivid dreams, nightmares, and short-term memory loss.  What was happening to me?

In April of 1992, I graduated, and went looking for work.  I went to several interviews, and one day, I had one down on Century Boulevard, close to LAX.  My appointment was a 2:00 PM and as usual, I was a few minutes early.  By 2:15, I hadn't been called in and I had begun to feel antsy.  I couldn't explain that...just that I needed to get home.

I was told the interviewer wouldn't be there until after 3:00 and I said, "Let me reschedule.  I have to get home."  I ran across the street to the bus stop, not bothering to walk to the nearest crosswalk, and took the bus home.  I walked in the door and turned the TV on which I seldom ever did.  The news was on, and the Talking Heads were discussing the verdicts in the trial of the policemen who beat Rodney King a year or two before.  The trial was held in Simi Valley which is a white enclave that frowns on folks with any other skin color.  Knowing the venue, the verdict was a given.

My roommate had gone to a town up north to visit a friend, and I was left alone in the apartment without even a phone.  The nearest one was on the corner about 50 yards away. (Before cell phones became small enough and cheap enough for everyone to have one!) 

As I watched the TV screen, waiting for "something," the camera cut away to an intersection at Florence and Normandy, the block my roommate worked on.  Reginald Denny was being pulled from his big rig and being stoned by whoever was near enough to add a few blows to the already-downed man.  I began to cry.

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