Fourteen was a good/bad year . ..

It was a year of “firsts” and “lasts”.

I will relate something that happened when I was fourteen.  Along with my best friend at the time, I ran away from home.  (I did that a lot in those days . . . LOL!!)  My buddy’s name was Ricky Durling.  (Not Darling . . . we weren’t that close, okay?)

Anywaay, we ran away.  We hitch-hiked from Los Angeles to Tijuana; where we spent three weeks in jail.  Here’s how it all happened . . .

When we reached Tijuana (where we had heard that there were “chicks” to be had; it was a “wide-open” town.)  And it was.

The first place we went was the Blue Fox Cafe.  It was roaring with activity.  And there were “chicks” everywhere!!  Most of them were probably about our age.  I can understand now that they were just trying to make money in a depressed economy.  But at that time, I was in Teen Heaven.

We sat down in a booth at the Blue Fox and we were immediately served Cerveza (beer).  As we sat there drinking our first beers, young girls sat beside each of us.  And, under the table, they were touching and squeezing our “manhood”.  (Talk about TEEN HEAVEN!!)

Then we had to admit that we had “no dinero”.  Suddenly, we were Pesona Non Grata.  The beers were removed and – alas – so were the hands!!  We were tossed out – literally – the back door into the alley.

Ricky said:  “Man, that was great!!  We need to get some DINERO!!”  As we were walking the streets of Tijuana – wondering where we were gonna’ get some dinero – Ricky had the bright idea that we could steal some hubcabs and sell them.  Thereby, getting some of that preccious dinero . . . so that we could go back to the Blue Fox Cafe and get some you-know-what.  They are “ready, willing and waiting”.

I told him that I thought that was NOT a good idea.  He decided to go for it anyway.  (There is NO reasoning with a horny 14-year-old, I tell ya’.)

So, when he started to take the hubcaps off a near new Olsmobile (they were “spiinners” and were very popular in Los Angeles),  I walked down to the end of the block; so as, hopefully, not to be caught in the crossfire when they killed him.

Of course, a monster-sized PoliciaMan came up and accosted him.  He pulled out a monster-sized .45 caliber revolver and held him at bay.  Of course, as a real friend will always do, Ricky pointed down the block to me and said that I was his accomplice; a lookout to be precise.  (Way to go, Rick!!  MY buddy!!)

Anyway, the monster cop pointed his monster .45 at me and ordered me to come there.  When he had the two of us together, he said something that I shall never forget:  “Jou mi’ as well to go ahea’ and ron away.  I theenk I may jus’ choot you, anyway.”  Of course, I can’t speak for Ricky but – at that moment – my 14-year-old hard-on became a slug . . . LOL!!

The monster cop hauled us off to the Tijuana jail.  When we arrived, we were thrown into a monster holding-type cell with a bunch of other men.  Most of them were Mexican but there were six sailors – on leave from San Diego – who were being held for public drunkenness and one of them was in for battery of a shop owner.

There was one American there – as we learned later – who was being held on manslaughter charges; he had killed a Mexican in a bar fight.  Needless to say, I was frightened.  Suddenly, I was not fourteen anymore; I was more like six and I wanted My Mommy!!  LOL!!

Of course, being fourteen, I would never admit that.  I was “tough” and “macho” – at least, on the outside.

At one point that evening, an official guy in uniforrm came to the cell and called us over to the bars and demanded out names.  Well, when he asked Ricky his name, Little Mr. Smartass told him:  “My name is Mickey Mouse.”  So I – also being a little smartass – told him that my name was “Donald Duck”.

He studiously wrote our names down on his paperwork.  Then he told us that we would – at some time – be taken “upstairs” for formal charging.  And, nice guy that he was, he said:  “Meester Maws an’ Meester Dock, when they tell you wha’ jou are charge’ with, jou better admi’ dat jou are guilty.  Odderwise, dey will beat jou onteel jou DO admi’ dat jou are guilty.”

I was becoming more and more afraid by the minute; at least on the inside.

There was an American inmate who was a “trusty” and he was the one who brought our food.  I use the term “food” quite loosely; it could just barely be called food.  It was some kind of “gruel” crap and it was awful!!  And, along with it, came a piece of so-called bread.  The bread was interspersed with chunks of some kind of wood.  (Apparently, the Quality Control in the kitchen left a lot to be desired.)  Being a fussy eater, I refused to eat that crap.  At first.  I can assure you that, if you get hungry enough, you will eat anything.  Just pick out the wood – and other contaminants – and eat away.

That night, as I sat on the edge of a steel bunk, I saw something that I shall never forget (and, Lord knows, I have tried!!).  As I sat there wondering what the hell I had done to my life. It was the first, last and only time I ever saw a man have sex with another man.

There was a man – passed out drunk – on the floor of the cell.  He was lying face-down with his head turned to the left and his arms down alongside his body.  Another man came over to him, managed to reach under him, unbuckle his belt, loosen his pants and pull them down around his knees.

Then he pulled out his penis – stroked it a few times to get it ready – and then got on his knees over the drunk guy.  He worked his penis into the other guy’s asshole and proceeded to screw him.

After he was done, he wiped off his tool, put it back inside his pants and returned to where he had been sitting on the floor leaning against the wall.

He didn’t even have the decency to pull the other guy’s pants back up.  I don’t suppose rapists are ever all that considerate, anyway.

Ricky and I managed to sruvive that hell-hole for another three weeks. I suppose we might even still be there except we got lucky. The American trusty who brought our food told me that he had been there for sixteen years!! He was accused of manslaughter; he got in a fight and the other guy died. He never even got a trial. They just threw him in the jail and he stayed there. There was no such thing as a “right” to anything such as a lawyer or a trial; at least at that time.

(A couple of years after I got out, there was a newpaper story about that guy. After seventeen or eighteen years in the Tijuana jail he was released. There was a photo of the Tijuana jail in the paper . . . which gave me chills when I saw it.)

Anyway, after we had been there for about three weeks, there was an American there from San Diego looking at everyone in the big cell. Turns out he was a federal drug agent and he was looking for someone in a drug-related case.
He just happened to see me and he said: “Son, you don’t look like a Chicano; what are you doing here?”

I gave him the abbreviated story of how we got there. He made arrangements to get us out and he took us to the juvenile facility in San Diego; where we spent another thirty days.
When they called Dad and told him where I was, he said: “He got himself in there. He can just get himself out.”

During my stay at that facility, I was in the restroom taking a leak. At the stall next to me was a strapping young man of about eighteen years of age. After he had taken a leak, he turned to me – holding a very large penis in his hand – and said: “Hey, Kid!! Want some a this?”

All I could think of to say was: “No, thank you.” and I left the restroom in a hurry. (Never saw him again, thank God.)

Eventually, Dad DID come to get me from the juvenile facility. It was on my 15th birthday and I had to go to court. I was categorized as “an incorrigible delinquent” and when the judge asked me: “Son, am I ever going to see you again?”, I said: “No, sir!!” It took another 45 years but I guess I DID get back to lockup. (But that’s another story.)

When I was 14, it was also the last time that I got a severe beating from our father (who, hopefully, art in Heaven).
Also, it was the year that I got my first taste of “womanhood”. It was Nancy Huddleston. I was 14 and she was 11 but she was built like 17!! How SWEET it was!!

About 4 years later when I was 18 and working at A. C. Martin & Assoc., I met a structural engineer named Bill Huddleston. He was about the right age and I always wondered if he had a daughter named Nancy but I was afraid to ask.

Also, that year, was the first time I ever tried to smoke a cigar.

I remember that I somehow got hold of a cigar and I snuck out to the little shed way in the back yard. I smoked it and – of course – it made me terribly sick.

I went back in the house and sat down in the big easy chair. (Coincidentally, this was the same chair that I shared with Nancy Huddleston as she introduced me to the joys of sex.)

Anyway, I finally barfed all over the floor right by the front door. I can’t remember why but Walt and Patricia were staying with us at that time. Patricia was quite pregnant; I think with Stella.
She came in the front door with a bag of groceries in each arm. And, of course, she stepped in the barf. I remember her feet went WAY up in the air and she landed – KERPLOP!! – right in the middle of my mess.

It seems funny now but it was NOT funny at the time. Patricia, bless her heart, cleaned up me, herself, the floor and all the groceries.

I told her what I had done – kids WILL tell the truth when they are in pain – and after she had made every thing right, she said something like: “This will be just OUR little secret.”
I know that I would have been beaten to death by our father if he ever found out what I had done and the aftermath.

Fourteen was a good/bad year . . .

We called him Big Daddy

This is Big Daddy.

James Carr Dailey.

Our mom’s father.

I only have one memory of him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. His legs had sores on them. 

In this photo he looks intelligent, thoughtful and easy going.

I wonder what he was like in real life?