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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 . . .
Version 1: Jerry
I know you are busy forgetting
But don’t be sitting an’ fretting
It’s okay to grow
Really old, y’ know
If it’s not your pants you’re wetting.
Version 2: Karo
I know you are busy forgetting
All those miserable nights of bed wetting
Go ahead and pee
It’s okay with me
If it’s not on my sofa you’re setting.
Version 3: Limpy
I know you are busy forgetting
All those miserable nights of bed wetting
But try as you might
You pee all night
And try to claim you’re just sweating.
Version 4: Betty
I know you are busy forgetting
All those miserable nights of bed wetting
But try as you might
Your minds one big fright
Maybe you need a blood-letting.
Version 5: Jay
I know you are busy forgetting
All those miserable nights of bed wetting
But try as you might
Your minds one big fright
This whole damned thing is upsetting!!
First: Shaun.
In about 1975 or 1976, when Shaun was about five or so years old, we were living in Cardiff-by-the-Sea near San Diego. His mother was in Seattle at the time so we lived alone.
It was my custom to sit at my desk and write. Occasionally, Shaun would come by my desk and ask a question. (Kids ask questions about anything and everything; that’s what they do.)
This happened on a daily basis usually several times in an evening. I would always answer his questions as best I could but I would always add: “What? Are you writing a book?”
One evening, he walked up to my desk and said: “Dad, I need 57 pieces of paper.” Somewhat taken aback, I said: “Okay, Son. But WHY would you need 57 pieces of paper?”
He replied: “I’ve decided to write a book.”
Second: Janis.
When we lived in Seattle, I decided one Spring that we would do some backpacking. I think Denise was 13, Susan was 10 and Janis would have been 7. At first, being “city kids”, they resisted. They did NOT want to do that. I forced them to go and, after the first couple of hikes, they decided that they really liked it.
During each hiking adventure, I would take my camera and take lots of photos. Then I would take the film to the developers and have them made into slides. Then, at the next available time, the whole family would gather and I would put the slides in the carousel and we would have a slide show and look at all the places we had been.
During one slide show, Janis said: “Dad, where did you get these slides?” I told her, simply, that I had gotten them at the developer’s so we could view them. She thought for a few minutes and then asked: “Dad . . . how do THEY know what it looks like where WE went??”
Janis, again.
When she was about 4 years old and it was near Christmas time, I was curios to find out who wrote “The Night Before Christmas”. I looked in every book, encyclopedia, etc., that we had. I could not find out what I wanted to know.
Finally, in frustration, I sat down at my desk, pounded on it and shouted aloud: “DAMMIT!! WHO wrote “The Night Before Christmas”!!!!”
Janis was nearby and, with more than a little fear and concern, shouted: “It wasn’t ME, Dad!! I didn’t do it!! I don’t even know HOW to write!!”
The Bosheldest
When I started back working at Hopkins Distribution on Thursday, there was a young person of indeterminate gender. I HATE when that happens. Don’t know how to address him/her. When people are like that, they should introduce themselves by saying: “Hello, I am a man/woman.” Or something so we’d know.
Anyway, all day Thursday, I wondered. Then he/she said something about his/her girlfriend. So I thought: “Okay, so it’s a guy. Maybe.” These days you never know. Then, that afternoon, one of the leads told me to work with him. “Yippee!! Skippee!!”, I said to me.
Then, yesterday, I was working alongside him. Turns out his name is Dan. He said several times: “I’m really tired, today.” Finally, I asked: “How old are you, Dan?” “I’m 29.” He replied. I said: “Well, if you’re so damned tired at your age, what the hell will you do when you get old???” Then he said: “Have you ever had cancer? And gone through radiation and chemo-therapy?” And I said: “No, I have not.” And, without missing a beat, I continued: “Just don’t die here, Son. I don’t wanna’ hafta’ deal with your dead body. Okay?” One of the Hispanic gals was working nearby during this exchange and cracked way up. As did Dan and I . . .
The Bosheldest
Subtitled: A bag of peanuts, a dime and Big Daddy.
Back in the olden days, we were visiting at Big Daddy’s house. Since we moved to Los Angeles in September of 1951, this must have been about 1949 or 1950; so I would have been 8 or 9 years old. Why were we visiting Big Daddy? I don’t know but, in those days, family visited a lot. No one had televisions, cell phones, laptops, PC’s, internet or email. Very few people even had telephones. (At our house, we didn’t even have electricity and running water. We used coal oil lamps, went to the well to draw water when we needed it and walked a ways to go to the toilet.) But I digress; that’s another story.
So we visited. During this visit, some of us kids decided to go play. “Play”, in this sense, meant wandering around the countryside.
I don’t know who all was included in our little gang. I know there was me and Ed. I think Charles Aubrey (Ain’t Nancy’s boy) was there, too. Anyway, there were probably six or eight of us kids on the roam.
During our travels, we came upon this house; whose, I don’t know to this day. As a group, we decided to go inside and see if we could find anything. As we wandered around the house, we found a glass bowl with a bag of peanuts, a dime and some other stuff. Keep in mind, in those days a dime was money!! It was a time that you could buy a penny candy bar (that costs about 75 cents today). You could go to a movie for nine cents. Cokes (the big ones) were a nickel. But I digress, once again.
As we walked the back country roads we all ate the peanuts. I don’t know who ended up with the dime. It wasn’t me; honest!!Stolen goods are always delicious!!
When we arrived back at Big Daddy’s house, he was standing there looking like God. God with an attitude. It felt a lot like the dreaded Judgement Day. Somehow, he knew what we had done. How COULD he? Well, he WAS God . . . LOL!!
And, just to set the stage and how things were at that time . . . nobody – and I mean NOBODY – ever back-talked Big Daddy. He was the supreme ruler and commander of the family. Even his grown children (who, at the time, must have been in their thirties) would not sass Big Daddy. If they did, a huge right hand would come around and make them horizontal for a while.
So, as we arrived back at his house, he was standing there holding a ROPE in his huge right hand.
My first thougt was: “Oh my God!! He’s going to hang us by the neck until we are dead!!” (I saw a lot of cowboy movies in those days and I KNEW a lynching when I saw one!!)
He said something like: “You bohwees are in a lot of trouble. Stealing is a sin and you WILL be punished!! (I could feel my neck stretching even as he spoke.)
He took that rope and gave each and every one of us a whuppin’ not to be forgotten. Did I ever steal again? Not EVER!! Not because I knew it was wrong but because I knew Big Daddy would whup me – or hang me by my neck until I was dead.
The Bosheldest
FIRST MEMORABLE BEATING:
Back in 1953, when I was 12 and Walt was 18 he beat the stuffing out of me. Walt was a real bully with us younger siblings. I remember that Ed, bless his heart, would beg Walt not to hurt him. He would promise anything to get out of being beaten up.
Not me. I never would do that. And I never would cry. I think that’s why Walt used me for his special “whipping boy”. I think my stubbornness just made him madder.
We lived at 1501 W. 105th Street in L.A. I remember we had a big overstuffed easy chair in the living room. Walt got mad at me for some slight; real or imagined. I don’t think anyone else was home – if they were, they were hiding – but Ed Pierce was there. He was Walt’s best friend at the time.
Anyway, Walt made me get on my knees in front of that chair and and lean over so he could whip me. I did just what he said. (I always took my “punishment” without complaint. I don’t know why but I did.)
I don’t know whether he used a wire coathanger or the wire handle of a fly swatter; but I suppose it doesn’t matter.
He beat and he beat me. And he kept beating me. I thought he would NEVER stop. One of the worst pains of my life; both physical and emotional. I guess the fact that I refused to cry must have made him SO angry that he just totally lost it.
Afterward, he told me that I’d better not let Mom or Dad see my back or “I’ll do it again, only worse”.
After all, Ed Pierce came and looked at my back. I don’t think it was actually bleeding but it was bruised and battered. Ed made Walt come and look at me. He asked him: “What’s the matter with you??”
Walt looked at me and started to cry. He bawled like a baby for a long time. Then he put his arms around me and told me he was sorry and that he would never hit me again. And he didn’t. He was truly filled with remorse and shame.
SECOND MEMORABLE BEATING:
In 1955, when I was 14, Dad and I were home alone (why, I don’t know). He got angry with me for some reason. He made me take off my shirt and stand in front of him’ facing the wall. He started whipping me across the back with something. I think it might have been his leather belt. But, as before, it doesn’t matter.
He told me that if I flinched – or cried out – he would “give it to me more”. But, of course, I did. And he did.
It was another of the worst pains of my life. He just kept hitting and – it seemed – each stroke was harder and more painful than the one before. I remember that, at some point, I no longer really felt the pain. Maybe a “psychotic break” or something. I could just hear him grunting and panting as he beat me.
Afterward, I ran away from home (AGAIN!! I did that a LOT in those days.) I wanderer around Hawthorne for a few hours. I don’t remember how or why but I ended up at the Police Dept. I remember talking to Lt. Baumgartner. He interviewed me and asked what my problem was. I told him I did not want to go home. And he wanted to know why. (I don’t know why but I still wanted to protect Dad. Love, I guess.) Finally, I told him I was afraid. He looked at my back. And when he first looked, I heard him gasp. Must have been pretty bad. He took photos of my back and then he drove me home.
He went in the house with me. I heard him talking to Dad. He really reamed him. He wasn’t exactly yelling but he was making himself heard.
He told Dad: “If I EVER find out that you did this again, I will have you prosecuted to the fullest. And if that doesn’t work I will come back here and I will personally shoot you. Do you understand me, you son-of-a-bitch?”
Dad mumbled something which must have been some kind of agreement because Lt. Baumgartner left. Dad never said a word to me. He just went into his room and kept drinking.
Unlike Walt, I don’t think he felt any shame or remorse. At least, not consciously. But he never did beat me again.
As I grew older and learned a lot about human behavior, I could see that Walt and Dad were just fighting demons of their own. And terrible demons they must have been. And I know that they “suffered” more than I ever did. And, having learned to understand them, I was never bitter. Just really saddened that I could never do anything to help.
The Bosheldest
Version 1: Jay
I wish I could see all your faces
Though some are really sad cases
But pretty or not
I love you a lot
On second thought, stay in your places.
Version 2: Jerry
I wish I could see all your faces
But we’re spread out in so many places
In distance, we’re apart
But not in our hearts
And we talk on a regular basis.
Version 3: Karo
I wish I could see all your faces
But we’re spread out in so many places
If I had a canoe
I’d take off my shoe
And use it to paddle in races.
Version 4: Limpy
I wish I could see all your faces
But we’re spread out in so many places
If I had a canoe
You know what I’d do?
I suppose I’d take it to the races.
Version 5: Betty.
I wish I could see all your faces
But we’re spread out in so many places
If I had a canoe
You know what I’d do?
I’d bring all my love in big cases.
In 1982, after Walt died, we were all together at Mom’s house in Inglewood. At one point, Ed took me aside and said: “Well, My Bwothew, Walton is gone. Ah guess Ah’m next. Aftew I’m gone, you’ll be the seniow man. It’ll be up to you to take cawe of Mothew.” And I did as best that I could.
When my time comes, Little Brother, you will be the “seniow man”. I will pass it all to you. All I ask is that you take care of My Sweet Angel and help her through what is likely to be a very difficult time for her. If there is any insurance proceeds, see that she gets them. Just help her to do the things that she will need to do. Okay? I love you . . .
The Bosheldest
Version 1: Betty
I know you’re thinkin’ I don’t care
But I really, truly do. I swear
Yeah, I left y’all in a lurch
‘Cuz I hadda go to church
Better Heaven than you-know-where.
Version 2: Jay
I know you’re thinkin’ I don’t care
But I really, truly do. I swear.
I wish I could be there
All that fun to share
But I always gotta’ be somewhere.
Version 3: Jerry
I know you’re thinkin’ I don’t care
But I really, truly do. I swear.
I probably bore you
Love you? I shore do
But playing without me’s not fair.
Version 4: Karo
I know you’re thinkin’ I don’t care
But I really, truly do. I swear.
I probably bore you
And sometimes ignore you
Bother me and God if you dare.
Version 5: Limpy
I know you’re thinkin’ I don’t care
But I really, truly do. I swear.
I probably bore you
And sometimes ignore you
Cause I’m prayin’, or singin’ or fixin’ hair.
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