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garoteA story of my father's, from the year 1950, when he was 16 years old.
During Christmas vacation of my junior year at Live Oak High I decided to accept an invitation to hitch-hike to Riverside, California, with a senior buddy, Don. (In those days it wasn't considered as dangerous as it is now.) He was going to visit relatives and I was going to see the big city.
We left early one morning and lucked out, getting to southern California in two stages. First, a local farmer was taking some rice (in 100 lb sacks) to Sacramento and we were only on Hwy 99 a few minutes before he came by, recognized me and picked us up. Then a salesman claimed he wanted someone to talk to so we rode clear to mid L.A. with him, arriving in the early evening at the intersection of Hwy 99 and the road east, toward Riverside.
Two young men came by in an older 2-door Ford. They pulled their seats forward and we climbed into the back , holding our 2 small suitcases on our knees. I noticed that the handles for rolling up the windows next to the back seats had been removed and I began to worry. At first our two benefactors talked with us casually about where we were going and how to get there, etc., but soon lapsed in to Mexican-Spanish and conversed only with each other. My 2.5 years of high-school Spanish came in handy when I understood that they were going to turn off the main street and take our suitcases and money. I mumbled to my buddy that we had better get out and, at the next stop-light, I pushed the seat forward, shoving the driver against the steering wheel, reached up to the door handle and tried to get out with my bag. Don was able to push the seat on his side further forward, since he had no obstructions, and suddenly he was running down the street with his stuff. I was still trying to get by the driver, who was now pushing back against me using the steering wheel for leverage, and I was trapped. I gave up on my bag but as I was pulling my leg out the door I was hit on the head. Apparently the guy on Don's side came around the back of the car and I didn't see him.
I woke up alongside the street with a very painful head, blood running down the front of my shirt, no wallet or bag and completely bewildered. My "buddy" was nowhere in sight! I didn't know where I was or what to do. I wanted to find a policeman so I tried to flag down a car and ask for help. No one would stop! Looking back, I can hardly blame them since I must have appeared pretty dangerous, bloody and dirty as I was. Then a car pulled up and the driver, claiming to be a plain-clothes policeman, told me to go sit at a nearby bus stop bench and he would radio for someone to help me.
I found the bench and sat down, ready to collapse, and dozed. A bright, red light woke me up and I was ordered to stand and put up my hands. The two policemen patted me down, looked at my head, listened to my story and put me in handcuffs on the back seat of their patrol car. Apparently they were on an assignment so I sat while they went to a house and argued with several people. Occasionally, a curious face would come near the window on my side and look me over. My head hurt, the handcuffs made my hands and arms ache and I realized I hadn't eaten since noon.
After what seemed like several hours my "rescuers" drove to an ugly building in the middle of town and I was booked into the Georgia Street Jail as a "Transient Delinquent" with no money and no identification. After a nurse tended to my head injury (including a bandage wrapped clear around my head), I was allowed to call home, collect, and my mother said they would send money for a bus ticket right away. Then, after following a policeman in a parade down a long hall and listening to comments from the occupants of the cells on either side, I was locked in a cell. I mentioned my hunger and was told, "Breakfast is at seven."
A shadow in the back of the cell turned out to be another lodger who couldn't speak much English. I considered ignoring him to collapse on the cot but decided it would be better to try to be friendly. He seemed to be a nice young man, about my age, who claimed to have been in the wrong place and arrested for fighting at a football game. His clothes were torn but he didn't look injured. He was concerned and embarrassed about the rip in his pants, which was very long and showed his underwear. I don't know why but I asked a passing trusty if he would get me a needle and thread which I used to crudely close the rip, thereby earning the title "mi amigo."
After we were served gruel, bread and coffee at dawn the next morning I wanted to question an officer about when I would be allowed to go home, so I asked my new friend and cellmate what to do. He grinned and answered, "un momento," then proceeded to shout to another inmate a few cells away who returned the yell. They continued, calling each other names which I didn't fully understand, until a policeman arrived ordering "Knock off the noise." After a minute of discussion his answer to my query was that I would be sent home as soon as the money arrived for a bus ticket, which sometimes "takes a few days."
I spent "a few days" (actually three) reading day-old newspapers hoping to find unfinished crossword puzzles, practicing my inadequate Spanish language skills and listening to Mexican music, some of which even my "amigo" didn't like. I even managed to get my bloody shirt washed, leaving only a light brown stain on the front. Then my bandage was removed, leaving a small scar which was covered by an ugly band-aid after I washed the blood out of my hair. My biggest memory of this time was the extreme embarrassment I felt every time I had to urinate or defecate in the stainless-steel, un-lidded commode which stuck out from the inside wall of the cell. The whole world (in my cellblock) could see me.
Finally, one morning I was given a ride to a Greyhound depot in L.A., handed a ticket and put on a bus for home. The ride was supposed to be all day up the middle of California. I had no money for food (though my parents said later that they included expense money with the cost of the ticket), and nothing to look at except flat, boring landscape. I found a comic book under a seat which I read and later traded for a candy bar, thus quieting some of my stomach sounds.
Apparently, from what I heard later, my traveling companion continued on to Riverside and spent a few days with relatives before he returned to Live Oak. He did not tell anyone about our robbery and showed no concern over what happened to me, even when we ran into each other on our return to school. I never had much to do with him after that.
This was on a backup CD I burned for him 20 years ago on a whim, then dropped into his desk drawer. Thinking about it now, I am struck by how differently the world operated when he was a kid, and how different his skillset had to be while navigating it. I'm older now than he was when I was born, so in my current perspective, we met in the middle: I was raised by people who had a skillset from that kind of world, and now I'm using a skillset that's ... similar in many ways, while very confusingly different in others.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-12 11:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-08-14 09:17 pm (UTC)I think the "child delinquency" laws have changed since then, or at least the way they're applied is different. In this modern age I assume the cops would have let my Dad make a phone call to his parents at the station, who could have vouched for his identity immediately. Then his parents could have bought him a bus ticket remotely, and he could have gone directly to the station instead of spending 3 days in jail. Better for the cops, because they could be done with him much faster.
On the other hand I don't know if he would be able to ride the bus without showing ID. Back in his day, all you needed was a ticket. So nowadays it's possible they would have refused to let on the bus - or the train, or a plane - and his parents would have needed to drive five hours to LA and pick him up. They would not like that...
no subject
Date: 2024-08-14 10:31 pm (UTC)Ok, in France the police may ask your docs on a train. But that's France, and they do have problems with terrorism.