Stress 3
So here I was, a young man of seventeen years with less than two months left in high school, sitting on a crowded city bus heading home and shaking like a leaf. When I had boarded the orange and white Rapid Transit city bus on the corner of Griggs Road and Calhoun Road, it had been mostly empty. Dropping two dimes into the coin receiver I asked the driver for a transfer ticket. He ripped a faded pink paper ticket from a thick pad, handed it to me, and motioned me to find a seat somewhere.
Holding on to the overhead rail I saw that I had my choice of just about any seat on either side of the bus. With the hot sun hanging low in the sky and the humidity clinging to my skin like a sticky, damp, sheet, I quickly decided that a window seat would be my best bet.
Finding one about four rows back I hopped onto the seat and slid across the cheap faded green plastic upholstery. I forced the window open and felt the heavy breeze generated by the jerky forward motion of the old bus warmly kissing my clammy face and smoothly gliding down my neck hurrying the beads of sweat already slowly rolling down my chest.
Looking around to make sure there were no passengers too close to me I reached into my right pants pocket to worry the already damp bill nestled safely at the bottom. Easing my hand out and glancing downward I reassured myself that I was in fact the true owner of a genuine one hundred dollar bill. The dull empty vacuum in my stomach lurched a bit and sent a stress chill up my spine.
Easing it back into my pocket and closing my eyes, my anxious mind began to form the narrative that I would have to have memorized by the time I got home. I knew that whatever I chose to tell her, short of the truth, would be picked apart and scrutinized down to the most insignificant detail. My mother was like that. What she may have lacked in formal education and common sense she more than made up with an uncanny sense of intuitive clairvoyance. Sherlock Holmes had absolutely nothing on her.
Hooky Day
As an example of my mother’s physic skills I’ll relate a little adventure I had as a young teen. While attending MacArthur Junior High, my best friend Robert talked me into skipping school; something that I had never done, or even considered doing, before. That fateful morning, while waiting for the bus to pick us up, one of Robert’s thug friends came roaring up in a sporty black Ford coupe. Robert walked over to the passenger side and ducked his head into the open window. After chatting for a minute or so he motioned me over. I scanned the street to make sure our bus was still not in sight, and not seeing it, trotted over.
The Ford driver’s name was Joe Garcia, a local punk who had dropped out of school the previous year because it was apparently interrupting his ongoing training as an aspiring criminal. A few years later he would be shot six times in the back by the owner of a laundromat he and Robert were burglarizing.
Joe’s long black greasy hair was sculpted up and back into a perfect ducktail, and he was decked out in the fully sanctioned Hispanic thug (pachuco) uniform of the day: oversized pleated khaki pants, highly polished Stacy Adams dress shoes, and a white Tshirt worn under a plaid long sleeve shirt buttoned only at the collar. He turned his half lidded gaze towards me and hissed, “Hola, ese.” That, of course, was the approved all around pachuco greeting of the day.
“Ese vato,” (back at you dude) I coolly responded while tipping my head slightly back in the approved pachuco fashion.
Robert put his hand on the back of my neck and said, “Let’s play hooky, vato.”
“Hooky?” I asked, my eyes slightly bulging and my tone suddenly very squeaky and uncool.
“Sí, vato, Nobody will know.” This, in a pre-hip hop, singsong, vocal manner.
“Yes,” I responded defensively, “but when they take attendance and you’re absent don’t they call home?”
“Naw, they just say that to scare you.” Robert said, pinning me with his glare. “They never call. You coming, ese?”
Feeling a tiny wave of fear building in the pit of my stomach, I stiffened and shot a glance at Joe. He didn’t look all too thrilled to suddenly find himself in the company of a squirming wimp; especially one who counted on Robert as his friend and protector.
“Sure, vato.” I finally said—a little too loud and half an octave too shrill. Before I knew it I was in the backseat feeling the Ford’s rear wheels spin out, with the sudden forward momentum pinning me firmly in place. Worse, all of a sudden I really needed to pee.
The day started by doing absolutely nothing. We drove aimlessly around with Robert and Joe casing out likely burglary targets and assessing the perceived take. After a much-needed stop at a gas station, where I gratefully relieved myself, we just drove around some more with the radio blaring the latest hits by the Diamonds, the Everly Brothers, and a bunch of other cool hipsters. Finally, Joe said he knew where there were some basketball courts and we should go there to shoot baskets.
“You got a ball?” I asked.
“No, vato,” Joe casually responded, “but I know we can steal one from that store on Fulton Avenue.”
“Cool,” Robert added.
Not looking to add shoplifting, or if things got dicey, armed robbery, to my presently short, but growing, list of legal infractions I quickly and thoughtfully suggested: “Why don’t we go to the courts and see if anyone’s already there? Maybe there’ll be someone there with a ball.”
“Cool,” Robert agreed.
Joe, being a little more daring said, “And if they don’t want to let us borrow their ball we can kick their ass and just take it, ese.”
Great. Assault and battery would also look good on my rap sheet.
We cruised some more, mostly in circles, all the while checking out old winos half passed out on the sidewalk, pregnant women on their way to or from the laundromat or market, and noting the absolute lack of any good looking chicks. Well, duh! They were all in school…ese.
Located in the back of an old church in a decidedly black neighborhood we finally pulled up to the courts. There were about a dozen black guys shooting baskets on the four half backboards. Small gauge chains hung from under the rims instead of silk cord netting, and when a shot whistled through the rim the ball would make a clinking sound instead of the smooth “swish” that I was used to.
At first it didn’t occur to me to wonder why on a week day at eight o’clock in the morning there would be a dozen, or so, black men in jeans and wife beaters shooting baskets. But it didn’t take me long to pounce on the reality that those guys weren’t your basic friendly family types.
As we approached the sidewalk bordering the courts, head after head began to turn our way. In a few seconds basketball activity had all but ceased and the large group of men stood quietly eyeing us suspiciously.
“What’s up, homies!” Robert called out cheerfully.
Walking a couple of steps behind him and Joe I noticed that all of a sudden they both had developed a certain hitch and sway to their stride. Assuming that this was how you were supposed walk when approaching a large group of hostile black males I did my best to imitate their homey walking style. Sadly, all I accomplished was attracting the attention of the entire scowling group, who were probably wondering why the two cool dudes had brought along a victim of polio to play basketball.
Robert, being the lead in this misadventure, made a beeline towards the biggest guy and extended his right hand. What followed was a lightning fast series of hand slaps, slips, and rubs—all the while Robert and the big black guy glowering at each other. When the hand ceremony ended they both broke into huge smiles and patted each other on the back. The pressure was off, or so I thought.
Everyone started lining up with Joe following up and doing the hand jive with the first big guy while Robert had moved on to number two. I thought about maybe rolling my eyes into my head, falling backwards and faking a fainting spell to avoid performing a gang ritual that was completely unknown to me, but before I could summon up my acting skills the big guy was on me. Smiling splendidly he quickly extended a beefy multi-tattooed hand and I froze.
Staring at his hand I was fascinated to see that even though the top of his hand was black, his palm was chalky white. Right then, what I really wanted to do was ask him why his hand was two-toned…and was that normal…and if every black person’s hand was like his—but coming to my senses the survivalist in me said that this probably wasn’t the opportune time to engage him in a discussion concerning Negroid skin pigmentation. Instead, I stupidly reached out my right hand.
Quicker than I could think he grabbed my hand, shook it violently, let it go, and commenced to do a very wicked hand jive. I countered with a rapid series of my very finest “wax on-wax off” hand moves, and even thought about finishing up with a little bugaloo foot flourish and hip sway, but fortunately, and at the last minute, I abandoned that idea.
While I continued making my cool hand moves (that, by the way, were later successfully brought to the big screen by Mr. Myagi), Big Black said, “You a funny mutha-fucker, ain’t ya?” I noticed he’d pulled back his hand and stopped smiling.
“Who me?” I froze in mid right wax.
“Yea, you homes! Hey,” he yelled over his shoulder while pulling back his hand. “Look at this crazy skinny mutha-fuka. He doin’ some karate or some shit!”
I pleadingly looked at Robert and Joe, mentally beseeching them to let’s get the fuck out of here—fast! But instead I saw them turn and walk back toward me.
Stepping around my large black, and really unhappy, hand jive partner, Robert and Joe took up positions on either side of me.
“Yeah,” Robert said. “well, he’s our little brother but he really don’t know shit.”
For what seemed to be an eternity time stood still. Absolutely no one moved, and all I could see was many black sweaty faces, each with a pair of very menacing eyes—all focused on me.
Suddenly Mr. Black let out a loud whoop and started hysterically laughing. Moving so fast that even Robert was taken by surprise, the big guy had suddenly reached and and grabbed me by the nape of the neck!
Instead of squeezing the very life out of me he instead pulled me close to him and yelled to everyone, “Crazy mutha-fuka, he’s sumpin’ else. Come on, let’s play some round ball!”
Suddenly the air was filled with the hollow sound of bouncing basketballs on concrete and the hiss of stealthy floating basketball moves. Robert and Joe relaxed and strolled over to catch an errant ball bouncing towards them. In a few minutes everyone had chosen up sides and the game was on.
It ended up being a full five on five full court game, with me, after have been picked last, ending up on the all black team. Thinking that I would probably be crushed out of existence on the first pick and roll play I begged off, claiming that an old non-existent gang injury was acting up, and limped over to sit by the fence and watch the b-ball aerobatics. This went on for the next two hours.
My memory of the rest of the day is a blur because after the games were over we just rode around, parking and talking; riding around, parking and napping; riding around and parking some more. On my insistence we did drive to the old Houston Hobby airport to watch the airplanes take off and land until it was time for school to let out.
Facing The Music
The plan was to have me dropped off at the bus stop at the exact time the bus arrived so I could be seen walking home with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. That way there would be no question that I had spent the day at school. Or so I thought.
Walking the three blocks from the bus stop to my house I mentally reviewed all the contingency stories that I would use; all depending on my mother’s mood, of course. I tried to remember how I normally greeted her on a normal “just getting home from school” day, and so as I turned down my street I thought I had it down pat.
Stepping onto the porch as I started to reach for the front screen door, it was suddenly pushed violently open from the inside. Looking up I saw my mother, her right hand on the door and her left hand on the doorframe. She looked totally pissed.
“Oh, hi mom.” I said, in the most normal voice and tone I could muster.
“Well, Pancho! Where have you been?!” That in itself, was a really bad sign. “Pancho” was used when she was beyond angry; and I would’ve loved to have heard her address me as “Frankie” instead.
“Uh, school, why? Did somebody call?” (Attendance office has done me in, I thought).
“Come in here, now—and, no, nobody called. Looking at me intently. “Why are you asking?”
“Me? Oh, no reason. Just wondering…” I faded off.
“OK mister! Put your books down and tell me what’s going on. Your face tells me you did something wrong. What was it?”
“Wrong? What wrong?” I was starting to whine and I suddenly had to pee again.
She walked me into the kitchen by pulling me by my shirt, sat me down and took her seat across the table from me. Then she just stared.
I knew she was doing: Dr. Spock later made this technique famous—it was the DeLeón mind meld, but my mother didn’t have to touch my head. Her penetrating psychic eye was now seeing me in that Ford automobile with Robert and Joe, hand jiving with Mr. Black, and later watching the Eastern Air Lines DC-7 noisily lift into the sky. She knew it all. Oh, crap!
“Mom, why are you mad at me?” I tried one last tack.
“Because I know you did something wrong today, like maybe play hooky!”
That did it! Dam Break!!
Tears literally flew out of my eyes and the guilt that I had been suppressing all day long bubbled up into one big sob.
“I’m sorry, mom! I didn’t mean to do it, I’m so sorry, and I’ll never do it again.” I gurgled. “Who told you?”
“No one told me, Pancho, I just knew.” She softly said. “And, because you told me the truth right away I’m not going to spank you. But you do have to do the dishes after supper and clean the bathroom every Saturday for the rest of the month.”
“O-O-OK.” I sniffled out.
So, for many years I have wondered how she ever knew what I did that day. When report cards came out at the end of that semester I showed perfect attendance; meaning that somehow I had not been counted absent that day. So it was then that I knew for sure that no one had called her from the school attendance office to report me truant.
My mom—she was spooky.
The Asian Connection
Ten minutes from home on the third bus I had transferred to for the long trip home from my uncle’s paint shop to my house in El Crisol, my stress and anxiety was at its highest level. Having never really learned my lesson on how well my mother could read me I was still mentally rehearsing what I was going to say to her about the money I had received.
Although she knew that my uncle usually gave me five or ten dollars whenever I went to visit my dad at work, having a hundred dollar gift was probably way out of her guessing range. Whenever I come home from visiting my dad and uncle she would immediately ask to see how much money I may have gotten. Whatever the amount was, she always took it from me to use for “house expenses”, (food), and would make it up to me by giving me fifty cents to spend anyway I wanted to.
I never told my uncle about this because I just didn’t know how he would react. Would he confront my parents and demand that they reimburse me? Would he stop giving me monetary gifts? I just didn’t know. So, I kept it to myself.
When I was a little kid I really never minded this too much because I really had no feel for money. Fifty cents was something I understood because it would let me buy a few RC Colas and Moon Pies for a whole week at Henry’s Store. But a five or ten dollar bill just didn’t generate that kind of culinary excitement. For some reason as a kid it just never dawned on me how many goodies that kind of money could buy.
Now the bus’s squeaky air brakes yanked me back into reality. My stop was coming up and I was within minutes of facing the mother of all inquisitions (no pun intended). Getting off of the now crowded bus, and still squeezing the hundred-dollar bill in my right pants pocket, I stepped into the hot dusty Houston afternoon. Pulling noisily away, the bus’s black diesel smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe cloaked me in a thick choking cloud. Turning and quickly walking away, I put my head down holding my breath until I was clear. Looking up I saw that I was within twenty, or so, feet from the front of Kings Supermarket.
The store had been there, on Liberty Road, for as long as I could remember. It was owned by a Chinese family, whom everyone assumed was named “King”; but no one ever knew for sure, as they didn’t live in the neighborhood. In fact, no one knew where they lived or where their kids went to school. I know that I never knew of any student named King that attended any of the schools in our district.
We never did any of our grocery shopping there either, and I didn’t know anyone in our neighborhood that had. The word on our street was that the prices at Kings Supermarket were inflated, meats, fish, and vegetables not very fresh, and the service rude and indifferent. Most, if not all, of our neighbors did all their grocery shopping at Henry’s Store.
A few blocks east there was a neighborhood where mostly black families lived so we assumed they did their shopping at Kings since we never saw them at Henry’s. Kings certainly wasn’t hurting for business because not only had it been there for years, the storefront was always gaily painted and the building in pretty good repair. That’s more that I could say for Henry’s; his store was old, any paint the wood had ever received had long ago chipped off, and the coolers and such were archaic.
A quick idea popped into my head and I made a beeline for the front door. Inside, the store was cool and a bit dark. Signs hung from the ceiling announcing the latest price on whatever happened to be on sale that day. The whole store smelled like a vegetable garden with a hint of slightly off fish. Seeing the large checkout counter I headed towards it while pulling out the bill from my pocket.
An oval faced middle-aged woman, with black hair streaked with gray, fixed her stare on me immediately. I cautiously approached and put on my best smile.
“Hi,” I said cheerfully.
“What you want?”
“Oh, uh, could I have some change?”
“You want change? For what?” She said, lowering her head and really fixing me in her sights.
“Uh, just for a hundred.”
If I had pulled out a bazooka from my pants pocket and pointed at her little round face her reaction could not have been any worse.
“YOU!! YOU WANT HUNDED DOLLA CHANGE?”
“Yes.”
“WHAT YOU MEAN? YOU HAVE A HUNDED DOLLA?”
“Yes I do—see?” Bad move.
She started speaking in what was apparently Chinese, but never having heard Chinese spoken before I thought she was having some kind of attack and had lost control of her vocal abilities. Waving her hands and yelling at the top of her lungs she soon attracted the attention of the entire King clan on duty.
Little Chinese people suddenly appeared from every direction, some wearing bloody aprons and carrying shiny meat cleavers, and others in dark gray work clothes—all jabbering in that unintelligible language at her, each other, and me. I was horrified.
Finally, when I thought I was going to be sliced and diced, through the throng appeared a tall dark haired middle-aged man wearing a white shirt with dark slacks. He made some arm gestures and said a couple of very loud Chinese type words. Everyone immediately shut up.
He looked down at me as I stood there in my sweaty shirt, my skinny hand halfway in the air waving a hundred dollar bill.
“OK,” He said, in perfect English. “What is the problem here?”
“I just asked if I could get change for this bill, that’s all.” I said meekly.
“Hmm. Where did you get that?” He asked, squinting a bit.
“My uncle Frank gave it to me.”
“Uncle Frank?” He mused as he ran a set of finely manicured fingers through his black hair.
“Yes.”
“Look, I know you live around here because I’ve seen you getting off the bus, but I also know that you should not be waving that kind of money around. Where did you really get it?”
“Really!” I insisted. “I got it for my graduation expenses from my Uncle Frank.”
“Alright.” He said calmly. “My mother was thinking you’d somehow taken it from the register, but we don’t keep bills like that here…only tens and twenties. So, you need to leave now with that money and go home. Or, at least go somewhere away from our store.”
With the King clan burning holes in my back, I headed for the door.
Facing The Music – Redux
Of course my plan had been to break the bill into smaller denominations and tell my mother that my uncle had given me a smaller amount, like say, two twenties. I would give up the money gladly, receiving maybe two or three dollars back, knowing that deep in my pocket I still had a lot more. So much for that plan.
Entering the house I heard my mother in the kitchen cooking and singing along with some Mexican song playing on the radio. I shuffled in, pulled up a chair from our table and sat heavily down.
“Well?” She said smiling broadly. “What did uncle have for us?”
“Us?”
“Shure.” She said sweetly. “I can smell a lot of money and my palm has really been itching! So, tell your mommy how much we got.”
Knowing I was defeated and with no way out, I dejectedly pulled out the wrinkled bill and put it on the table.
“Here it is.” I groaned
In a flash she had moved from the stove where she had been stirring some watery soup and had snatched up the bill. Carefully unfolding it her eyes began to bulge and a large smile spread across her face as she realized what it was she was holding in her hand.
Turning toward me, her mood instantly changed. Scooting her chair right next to me she darkly said,
“Don’t your ever tell your dad anything about this—you hear me?”
“Yes, but can I use some of the money for my graduation?” I need to pay the balance for my ring, and I need to rent a cap and gown.”
Clutching the bill in her fist she sat back and went into deep thought.
“Well, if you did all of that, then your father would know something was up. We can’t have him thinking you got this much money.” She said, looking up to the ceiling. “But what you can do is pay the twenty five dollars for the ring and tell him that’s all you got.”
“But what about the cap and gown?” I asked, pleadingly.
“We decided that you didn’t need that because you’re not going to the graduation. So no cap and gown.” She flatly said.
“But mom, that’s not fair! I have more than enough there to get those, plus even pay for a taxi to take me and bring me back from the Coliseum.” I whined.
“No Sir!” She stated, slamming her hand on the table. “No Coliseum, no taxi! No Sir! If he were to know what you were planning, your dad would end up taking the money and using it to buy some stupid gift for the church or the pastor. Worse, he’d probably buy them dinner at some fancy restaurant that even I’ve never been to. NO SIR!”
“But mom….”
“NO!” And with that she stood up, tucked the bill into the pocket of her apron and went back to the stove.
“I’ll give you the twenty five dollars as soon as I get this bill broken up.” She said, not looking at me. “And, not a word to anyone…and, I mean no one! You hear me?”
And so it was.
Escape
On a Friday in June of 1960, the graduating class of Jefferson Davis Senior High School individually marched up to the stage at the Sam Houston Coliseum one humid evening, and amid the cheers of family and friends, approached Mr. John Paul Rogers, to receive their high school diploma. Afterwards, various private parties and a dance at a Latin-American club were held to commemorate the occasion.
At the same time I was playing my guitar in the Iglesia Samaria church band accompanying the sweating, swaying congregation while they joyfully sang some long forgotten hymn.
I was not missed at any of the graduation festivities by any of my classmates, and I never heard from any one of them until many decades later.
*****
Two weeks later the mailman delivered an official looking manila envelope, addressed to me, to my house. My mother opened it, took out the document that attested to my successful completion of high school in the state of Texas, and put it on the kitchen table for me to find when I got home from my job at Texas State Optical.
Six months later I boarded a Continental Trailways bus destined for San Antonio, Texas. Upon arrival, a blue United States Air Force bus transported me, along with twenty-nine other lonely young men, to the basic training barracks at Lackland Air Force Base.
WOW! I thought my dad was strict! He was an angel, was proud of my graduation! We never went to any school function, dance, plays, prom etc.