From Donuts To Death

From Donuts to Death

Only The Lonely…

Where most people can claim to having had many friends in their lifetime I can claim to have had only three; and one of those existed only in my imagination. It’s not that I deliberately set out to avoid as many friendships as possible, it was just the way I was raised—and I don’t necessarily consider that a bad thing. It was what it was, and I have learned to accept that part of my life.

Because I’ve always been blessed with a good memory I have been fortunate enough to be able to recall certain episodes of my early life that should’ve faded long before I was even out of diapers. As I’ve mentioned several times before, as a child I was small, weak, and sickly, and my mother thinking I was living on death’s door constantly hovered over me never letting me out of her sight. Consequently, never letting me out of her sight meant that when I played, she was watching me; when I slept, I was within an arm’s length of her grasp; and when I went to the bathroom, she was waiting outside the door for me to finish.

I was rarely permitted to go outside at all, and whenever I did she made sure that I was never out of her sight. The few times I was allowed to mingle with other neighborhood kids she would insist on monitoring our activities from her vantage point not more than ten feet away, yelling her disapproval when someone even looked like he was going to touch me. That type of overbearing parental surveillance usually put a quick damper on any games we may have decided to play together, and sooner rather than later I would find that everyone had eventually drifted off leaving me by myself. By the time I was old enough to be enrolled in kindergarten I was pretty much hardwired to be a loner.

I still remember her horror the day that I had to go off to kindergarten with the rest of the barrio brats and spend half a day out of her sight. We walked the five blocks to Sherman Elementary School that morning, and every step of the way she held my hand so tightly that I all but lost feeling in every finger of my right hand. About a block from the school she pulled me into a pastry shop and bought me a huge raspberry-jelly filled donut and a small bottle of milk.

“¡Mira!” she said, frowning as we sat at a small table. “No se if they’re gonna feed you or not before you come home, so eat it all.”

“Mamá, it’s too big.” I whined.

“Mira hijito, eat as much as you can and I’ll save the rest so you can eat it when you finish with school.” She said simply.

I stuffed about half of that gigantic jelly donut into my little belly before she yanked me off the chair to resume our Sherman Elementary death march.

As we entered the schoolyard through a large chain link gate I remember seeing a large brick building with several tables set up in front of the doors; lines of moms and kids were standing in front of each one. After studying the signs attached to each table my mother guided me up to one on our left and we took our place behind another mother holding a blond girl in a light blue dress with matching socks and white sandals. She turned to look at me and smiled. Not knowing what to do or say I looked down at my shoes, tugged at my suspenders and concentrated on not going wee-wee in my new short pants. As if on cue my stomach gurgled and I stifled a burp.

Soon after my mother had filled out a few forms and was given a stack of papers to take home, a tall dark-haired woman wearing glasses took me by my other hand and began leading me towards the building. As she started walking me in the direction of one of the large doors I looked back to see where my mother had gone. She was still standing there, near the table, and she was crying like a baby, holding a dainty white handkerchief over her mouth with one hand while tightly clutching the white bag with the rest of my jelly donut in the other. Suddenly realizing that I was probably being led away to some great and scary unknown I stiffened up and let out a guttural scream. Turning in the direction of my mother I twisted and pulled and tried to lunge away from my captor.

Apparently anticipating my reaction the woman quickly countered my move, scooped me up and into her arms, and tightly cradled me across her bosom. Wildly kicking my feet and twisting my head under her arm I tightened all the muscles in my body and tried to reach out for my mother while screaming as loud as my asthmatic lungs would allow.

Too late! Before I knew it I had been carried into the dark building and into a room filled full of very small tables and chairs—and about a dozen wide-eyed kids. They all seemed to be frozen in various poses, and they were all staring at me. As she bent over and put me down on my feet I tried to make a quick escape through the now closed and locked door. Quicker on her feet than I thought she’d be, she quickly side-stepped and blocked my escape. Realizing that I had been outmaneuvered by the crafty ninja woman I pulled my last trick: I fell to the floor, closed my eyes and played dead. When worked on my mother this tactic would usually stop all her efforts to make me do whatever it was she’d wanted me to do. After a while of lying there motionless she would quietly whisper in my ear telling me how silly I looked as a dead kid. That would get me to giggling at first, then laughing full force. Getting up from my death pose she’d hug me and let me do, or have, whatever I’d played dead for.

That tried and true tactic didn’t work at all for me that morning (or ever again). After playing dead for what seemed hours I eventually lost track of what the rest of the kids were doing. Occasionally, and seemingly from far away, I would hear someone ask, “is he going to be OK?”, quickly followed by an adult type “shush”. Finally, I squinted one eye open and the room’s ceiling came into view. Hanging from it I saw cardboard numbers in various colors and sizes, all twirling around in the breeze created by a large metal fan positioned in a corner. Getting up on one elbow I saw that everyone was now on the other side of the room sitting in a circle on the floor with their hands raised, some yelling out the names of the large letters that the teacher was raising above her head.

I felt tired and a little dizzy, the back of my head hurting from the hardwood floor, and I needed to go wee-wee. Worse, my stomach was really gurgling now. I slowly and quietly got up. My knees felt a little shaky, and as I took a step I grabbed the edge of a table for balance.

“Frankie D ?” I looked up to see that the teacher, still holding a red “R” in her hand, was now looking at me and smiling. “You want to join us?”

“No, I have to go wee-wee.” That sent the entire class into a hysterical laughing fit and caused the teacher to quickly stand and shush them quiet again.

“You mean you need to do number one, right?” She sweetly inquired, walking slowly towards me.

“No, I have to wee-wee.” More giggling and a couple of girls turned a bit red in the face.

“Well, Frankie D, when we have to go to the bathroom we either say we have to do number one or number two.” She instructed. “I think you were sleeping a little when we talked about that a little while ago. So, number one is what you need to do, right?”

By now I was sure that whatever number was assigned to it, it was coming out sooner than later. Besides, “wee-wee” was what my mother had always told me to say. Unless, of course, it was “ca-ca”.

“I think so.” I answered, and suddenly I didn’t feel so good. My stomach, which had just been gurgling until now, seemed to be doing somersaults.

“Come with me, Frankie D, I’ll show you where you have to go.”

Taking a step towards the teacher my head swooned and my legs felt like rubber. As I started to bend forward she caught me under my arms, just in time for a giant burp to loudly escape my throat–followed closely by a load of semi-digested jelly donut and milk projectile vomited right onto the teacher’s midsection.

“CHRIST ALMIGHTY!” Was what I remember her yelling as I went down to my knees.

“Guww…” was all I could manage for a response. One more giant abdominal contraction that brought up a bitter stream of bile and drove me to the floor, and I was done.

Lots of yelling, the grating sound of tables and chairs being shoved around the floor, and little feet scurrying around is all I can recall hearing as I lay with my knees up to my chin. I felt cold but strangely warm and moist in my mid-section. Big hands wrapped themselves around my hips and I felt myself being pulled up.

“Careful, he’s pissed himself too.” Some man was saying, and I wondered what that meant.

I must’ve passed out, or my mind has mercifully erased the memories of the next few hours, but some time later I found myself on a bed, of sorts—wrapped in a blanket. The room was white and smelled a lot like when my mother swabbed my forehead with alcohol. An older woman dressed in a white dress, with what I would learn later in life was a stethoscope dangling from her neck, entered my field of vision and asked me if I hurt anywhere. I told her I didn’t hurt anywhere but wondered where my pants had gone.

“Oh, we washed them out along with your underpants, and they’re hung up drying now. Would you like some water?”

“No,” I said, “but can I go home?

“Well honey, we’ll have to wait until your mother comes to pick you up. We’ve sent someone from the school to notify her that you got a little sick. So she should be here to take you home pretty soon. But until then you can just rest there.”

I must’ve napped out again because the next thing I remember is my mother holding me tight against her shoulder and trying to get my slightly damp underpants on.

Thus went my very first day in school. Not a banner day.

The memory of my subsequent kindergarten days at Sherman Elementary is spotty but I do remember not caring to participate in activities with the other kids. I was happy to be left alone drawing or practicing writing in the classroom while the rest of the class was sent out to play during recess. When I was forced to join the class outside my time would be spent isolated in a corner of the large playground searching for cloverleaves in the grass or collecting little smooth round stones. I just didn’t care to be around anyone. I enjoyed being alone.

The teacher, a real trooper, continued to try to convince me to join the group activities—and when I would acquiesce, I would usually start out OK but more often than not would soon find myself drifting away into my own world. It was about then that I started talking to Jerry.

Pleased To Meet You…Won’t You Change Your Name?

l recall the very day, and almost the very moment, when my best friend Robert and I forever parted ways. Because of one question, and one very succinct answer, his life and mine split and we each began to travel a path completely opposite from the other. Picture a big “Y”…he went left and I went right. Neither of us realized that it would happen then, nor did we understand that at that moment our lives would turn away from each other and would never ever cross again. Prior to that particular moment our lives had been closely intertwined and we had shared a lot of good times. I was fifteen and he was sixteen.

As I’ve alluded to in the previous paragraph, the beginning of the end of our friendship began with a simple question, and the event was permanently forged a few seconds later with an even simpler answer. Had the answer to that question been any different, my life would have taken a very different path, and probably would have ended as tragically for me as it did for him.

But first, the beginning…

I guess it was one day after school, during my first semester in the seventh grade at John Marshall Junior High School that I first noticed him riding with the rest of us on our school bus home. He was actually hard to miss, standing a head taller than the rest of us, and ruggedly handsome—causing the girls on the bus to whisper to each other and stifle silly giggles after shooting stealthy glances his way. Ignoring everyone completely, and oblivious to the attention he was attracting, he stood staring blankly ahead rhythmically rocking from side to side with the rest of us as the ancient diesel bus lumbered noisily along Liberty Road.

As the bus screeched to a stop in front of King’s Market I quickly exited out the back doors and into the hot and humid afternoon sun. Waiting for the bus to rumble off I held my breath until the black diesel exhaust cloud thinned out enough for me to check traffic and quickly walk across Liberty Road, already starting to buzz with the early afternoon traffic. Glancing casually over my shoulder I noticed him walking a few yards behind me. I quickly turned my attention back to where I was going, but not after having taken note of his neatly pleated khaki pants, intentionally long in the inseam to allow the cuffs to be folded up once over his tan spit-shined Florsheim capped toe dress shoes, and an untucked plaid cotton sport shirt worn over a white T-shirt and buttoned only at the collar. Official pachuco uniform. I immediately decided that this guy was a bad ass, and a big one at that.

Picking up my tempo I strained to listen for the clip-clop of his steel tapped heels, hoping they weren’t getting any louder, thus closer. Keeping my head down and my ears open I was relieved when the sound of his steps on the cracked sidewalk began to fade slightly then disappear altogether. I chanced a quick look over my right shoulder and saw that he’d turned off onto the street before mine. Relieved, I took a quick breath and continued walking the remaining half block to my house at a much more relaxed pace. Turning right onto my street I headed to our most recent rental. A tiny house, even smaller than the one we’d lived in on House Street.

Our move had been prompted by a disagreement with the old landlord regarding the condition of our front yard and our inability to afford the rent because of the expense resulting from my mother’s sudden medical problems. Caught in an ever-tightening financial noose my dad’s drinking increased and my mother swallowed her pride reaching out to my Tía Juanita for help.

Having lost her first husband to illness a few years back my aunt still lived in their old home on Jewell Street with her second husband. Some time back she’d decided to purchase the two little houses on either side of her property with the intention of demolishing them and using the land for expansion and some landscaping. But before she had a chance to pick up a sledgehammer my mother begged her to let us move into one of them—rent free and temporarily—at least until we got back on our feet. Taking pity on her little sister she decided to delay her original plans and agreed to let us move in.

And so it was that one hot and sticky evening my father, having borrowed a pickup from his job at Younger Brothers Trucking, piled our meager belongings into the bed of the truck and made the move from the house on House Street to the little hovel on Jewell Street. At the time I didn’t know that Robert’s grandparents were living directly across the street of our rental, in a neat white frame home with cheery yellow shutters.

A few days later at school, and while going from one class to another, I spotted Robert (at the time I didn’t know his name) strolling down the hall with a group of local pachucos from the neighborhood. Although I was familiar with most of the guys in the group, having gone through about six years of school with them, I made it my business to never have anything to do with them at any time. They smoked, I didn’t; they regularly skipped school, I didn’t do that either; and they all carried finely sharpened switchblade knives in their socks. I sure as hell didn’t.

They wore the Chicano Home Boys uniform of the day, looking all bad and cool, with their tan or black spit-shined Stacy-Adams dress shoes, and walking together with a little hitch to each step while casting menacing looks to all those who dared meet their half-lidded piercing gaze. When not in school they entertained themselves, and earned a little money, by committing petty crimes such as, B & E, auto theft, burglary and shoplifting. I, on the other hand not to be outdone, once brazenly snuck into a movie theater through the back door. Sitting in the dark, and not even bothering to watch the movie, I was so frightened that I’d be caught that I had to run to the bathroom to throw up and pee—at the same time. Yeah, I know—but I haven’t done those things in quite a while now.

Watching the cocky group stroll down the hallway parting the flood of oncoming students with just their steely stares, I wondered where this new guy had come from and, more importantly, exactly where he lived. I knew where all the other pachucos lived and made sure I was never within a block of their houses when the sun went down, so I wanted to make damn sure I knew where this new threat made his bed. I was soon to find out—and it was awfully close.

For the remainder of the semester I managed to avoid Robert the same way I avoided the other thugs. I made sure not to be where they usually were, and in school I took classes that I knew they would avoid. Everything worked out for me until school let out for the summer.

Early one Monday morning, on a typically hot and muggy June day, I was helping my mother do the weekly clothes washing. She had recently acquired a used GE agitator washing machine complete with rubber rollers to squeeze-dry the wash once it had gone through the rinse cycle. After she put the damp clothes into a straw basket it was my job to haul the basket out to the back yard and hang the laundry on the wire clotheslines she had strung between a couple of trees.

After hanging out the last load that morning I decided to walk around our house and into the front yard where a few trees provided some welcome shade from the hot morning sun. Stretching out on the cool grass I was busy finding faces in the puffy white clouds when I heard someone whistle. Startled, I sat up looking to find whoever it was that had whistled. Again—but this time I localized it as coming from across the street.

Robert was standing inside the chain link fence surrounding the yellow shuttered white house across from ours. He was leaning on the gate, one hand to his mouth forming the shrill whistle I’d heard, and the other hand lazily waving at me.

Standing up I stupidly pointed to myself while at the same time looking over both shoulders to see if someone had snuck up behind me. No, no one there.

“¡Órale, ese!” (What’s up, Homey?) He said in a low strong voice.

“Me?” I asked in a phlegmy whine.

“Yeah man, tú.”

“Oh, OK. What?”

“Ven para acá.” (Come here).

“Me? Uh…I mean OK…..ese.”

Barefoot, and wearing only an old pair of ripped jeans and no shirt, I puffed my chest up, which caused my ribs to stick out even more than when I slouched, and started across the street. That, in itself, was an act of absolute heroism for me since the street had recently been given a fresh layering of black tar, then coated with white shell, and walking barefoot across it was sheer torment. Trying to look all manly, and swelled up to my full one hundred and five pounds, I swaggered painfully across the punishing shell road and was finally gratefully relieved when I reached the less agonizing baked mud ditch on the other side.

Opening the gate to the chain link fence he motioned me up the stairs to the small concrete porch and sat heavily down on a weathered wooden chair. Yes, this was the same guy that I’d seen on the bus, but there was something different about him now. About four inches taller than me and a good thirty pounds heavier, he somehow seemed less aloof than before. Instead of the khaki pants and sport shirt buttoned at the collar, he was dressed in a white Tshirt, newish looking blue jeans folded up at the cuffs exposing a fairly new pair of black Chuck Taylor Converse All Stars. Hardly hoodlum attire; at least for our neighborhood.

Pointing to a matching chair on the other side of the porch he said, “I saw you in school and on the bus, ese.” He stated as I sat down.

“Yeah, that was me.”

“¿Como te llamas?” (What’s your name?)

“Frankie…no, I mean Frank. Sí, me llamo Frank.”

“Frankie, ¿qué? He asked quizzingly.

“DeLeón.”

“No, ese. I mean your nickname.” He was starting to look annoyed.

“No tengo un nickname. Nomas Frank.” (Just Frank). I was starting to sweat a little, and I didn’t think it was because of the heat.

“¡Que relaje, ese! (Well, that sucks homey). Everyone tiene un nickname. It’s a must, ese! How else are vatos going to know you?” He was definitely annoyed.

“I don’t know.” I moaned. “Everyone just calls me Frankie…I mean Frank.”

He looked a little disgusted but slid back on the flat wood chair stroking the dark beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Me, what?”

“¿Como te llamas?

“Robert.” He said plainly.

“What’s your nickname?”

“I don’t have one.”

“But, I thought you said that everyone had a nickname?”

“Sí, vato, they do.”

“So why don’t you have a nickname?”

“I don’t need one, ese. Robert or Beto is enough. Pero, you should have one. As skinny as you are you need to have a good nickname. That way people can get a good impression of you right away.”

Well, that kind of made sense. But, I was thinking, what goes with Frank?

Still stroking his upper lip he turned to me and said, “Aver, Frank no vale nada (ain’t worth nothing), pero, ‘Frankie’ sí. Así es que tu nickname va a ser…um…‘Frankie the Bear.’”

“What?!” That was the only thing I could think of to say. “Frankie the Bear? I don’t look like a bear! Bears are fat and hairy, and I’m skinny and…..you know…not much hair.”

“Simón, ese.” (Right on homey). See, you’re like so opposite a bear that you should have a nickname that makes people think of you as a bear. And that way they’ll be a little scared of you.”

Now, even as young and naïve as I was during that time I still thought it was bullshit and kind of stupid. But fearing for my well being I just sat there and smiled. Further, I’d just met this guy less than five minutes ago and he already thought enough of me to have tagged me with a nickname (street name). OK, a stupid one! But his rationalization that a good street name would earn me some street cred made a bit of sense. But, still……”Frankie the Bear?”

“Well I don’t know about ‘Frankie the Bear’, ese,” I explained. “I don’t think my mom will like it.”

“Well, it’s not for your mother to know anyway, vato! What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t know my mom.”

We talked for at least a couple of hours while sitting on those hard chairs in the shade of that cool concrete porch. Having just met, I should have been shocked at the openness of his conversation and the ease with which he divulged personal facts of his life. I guess you could say we just hit it off. I had just made a friend. My first.

He went on to tell me that a few months ago he had left Corpus Christi, Texas, where he, his mother and sister had lived for a few years. His mom, he explained, was a hard-willed and drug-addicted woman who had either been married and divorced multiple times, or had just lived with a succession of Latin lovers and had never been married at all. Robert wasn’t sure. He did remember his father though, because of all the men his mother had entertained over the years he had been the one that always came back and stayed the longest. But he too would eventually leave them and never return to the coastal city.

Mom had decided on Houston because his grandparents had lived there for many years. She had left home at a very young age and had never returned. Now, though, with two kids she decided that it was time for her to come home. They rented a small house not too far from the Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, and a few blocks from her parents.

He and his sister had enrolled in school: John Marshall Junior High for him and Breckenridge Elementary for the sister. A few weeks after moving in mom had brought home some stray guy, and he’d liked her enough to stay on for a while.

Robert did not like the guy and apparently the feeling was mutual. Trouble started brewing quickly. One night a fairly violent argument between his mother and the live-in boyfriend ended when Robert took a beer bottle to the guy’s head. To avoid further confrontations, and to try to keep this guy’s paycheck coming home, his mother asked Robert’s grandparents to take him in. They had agreed on the condition that both Robert and his sister would come to live with them. It was agreed, and a few weeks later they had moved in right across the street from us.

After a couple of hours of talking I heard my mother calling. Apparently the next load of freshly washed and squeezed dried damp clothes had been sitting in a basket waiting to be hung out.

I got up from the chair, “Orale, ese, me tengo que ir. (I have to go). Mí mama me está llamando.” (My mom is calling me).

“Bueno, allí nos vemos.” (I’ll be seeing you). He said casually. “Pero dile a tu mamá que ya no te llamas Pancho. (But, tell your mom that you’re no longer named Frankie). Te llamas Frankie the Bear.”

Yeah, that’s going to work out really well for me.

Although I didn’t realize it then, I had just made my first real friend. It was one of those things that just happened to me so quickly and so naturally that I didn’t even take notice. Walking back across the street to my house I somehow felt that I had known Robert all my life. He fit neatly into a space in my being that until now had been occupied by an imaginary creation.

Besides Robert, and a few acquaintances around school, no one ever knew that I had now been christened “Frankie the Bear.” I sure as hell never told anyone. Thankfully, I was still “Frank” to almost everyone I knew, and “Frankie” to my aunts and uncles. To my mother I was “Frank, Frankie, Pancho, Panchito, Francisco, and flaco (skinny); depending on her mood at the time, and the nature of the occasion. I usually ran and hid when I heard her call for “FRANCISCO!”

Soon, Jerry would be all but forgotten.

A Deal Is Struck

Given my body (skinny), and my normal demeanor (skittish), as a teen I was not much for settling disagreements with my fists. Anytime I sensed a confrontation I would either remove myself from the situation pronto, or blithely try to talk myself out of it. One day Robert asked why I was never around when the honor of our neighborhood (El Crisol) was being defended from some verbal slight delivered by some other neighborhood—say, Magnolia Gardens. I told him that when the fists started flying I usually ran for the nearest hiding place. His eyes went real dark and squinty and he asked me point-blank if I even knew how to fight. In the most honest moment of my entire life I told him I did not. His glare went soft and he said, “Well, we need to fix that.”

In spite of all my physical shortcomings I was a pretty good student. My report card usually displayed “A’s”, with an occasional sprinkling of “B’s”. On the other hand, Robert was not the scholarly type, and given that his attendance was spotty at best, he’d be lucky to get passed on to the next grade at the end of the semester.

“OK,” he started. “I can teach you how to fight if you help me do schoolwork.”

“I don’t want to learn how to fight.” I countered. “Besides, we don’t even have the same classes.”

“That’s what makes it perfect.” He said. “You’re smart, and the classes I take should be easy for you, so you do my homework and I teach you to fight. And….since you’re pretty skinny and even if you did know how to fight you’d probably just get your ass kicked—so I can take care of you too. Kinda protect you, ¿vez ese?” (You see, homey?)

“Well,” I said warily. “I guess we could give it a try. But, when would I have time to have you teach me to fight?”

“Do my homework when I need it done, and when you come over to give it back to me we can go into my grandfather’s garage and practice. One homework, one fighting lesson.”

“Umm, I guess.” I mumbled.

“Sure, ese,” he said proudly, “if you don’t want to start fights at least I can show you how to defend yourself.”

Well, that didn’t sound so bad, so I agreed.

Over the next few months I would help Robert with assignments that he would be having trouble with, always being careful to have him copy them in his own hand before turning them in. In return we would go into the little garage, and after moving his grandfather’s little Ford coupé out, engage in some physical self-defense exercises.

Mostly the lessons centered on how to fight dirty. Kicks to the groin, fingers to the eyes, and if the opponent is on the ground knee drops to the neck and/or head. Most importantly, even if the other guy quits you keep on hitting and kicking until he can’t get up.

I was not a good student, and soon Robert realized that despite his efforts I would never have the ability to successfully mount, or even defend, an attack. After a few weeks he finally just said, “Look, if someone threatens you or asks to meet you after school to fight, just tell me. I’ll take care of it for you.” Perfect!

It must’ve not taken long for the word to spread that “Frankie (the Bear)” was Robert’s friend, and Robert’s blurring fists would answer any harm coming my way. And in case you’re wondering—no, we were painfully straight. None of us knew, or at least admitted we knew, that there were guys that liked guys…you know.

One Saturday evening, after receiving one of Robert’s lessons in dirty street fighting, he casually asked if I’d like to go to church. Thinking that perhaps Robert wanted to make sure I’d have somewhere to go after he’d groin-kicked me to death, I timidly responded, “…uh, I don’t know.” I quickly added that I’d been to the Catholic Church down the street with my mom once, but after deciding that we weren’t sure what was going on there we never went again.

“Yeah” he said, “I used to go too, but the ‘cura’ (priest) asked if I would like to be an altar boy, but I don’t do anything that allows me to be called boy. Instead, mis abuelos and I go to the Pentecostal church sometime—wanna go?”

Not wanting to put a dent into our now comfortable relationship I agreed to ask my mother if I could go. She curiously agreed with the admonition that I not embarrass our family by acting stupid. I agreed. This seemingly simple conversation and the subsequent Sunday visit would set in motion events that would profoundly affect and forever change my life, and that of my mother’s and father’s. These events would ultimately lead to my mother’s severe depression and loss of self-esteem, and the damnation of my father’s soul.

“Y”

“Hey, ozito,” (little bear) Robert asked. “Do you want to do something with me tonight?”

“Don’t know, what?” I questioned.

“Well, you know that laundromat on Quitman Street, the one with the big glass windows in front?”

“I think so.”

“So tonight, me and a couple of vatos are planning to break in through the back door to get some money.”

“Robert, it’s a laundromat not a bank! There are washers in there.” I quipped with some impatience.

“No, ese. They also have some candy machines there, and they’re easy to break into. We can get a lot of money out of them.”

Probably seeing the sudden fear flashing across my face, he added, “You don’t have to break in with us, all you have to do is wait out front and be a lookout. Afterwards we split the money evenly. What do you think, vato?”

“No, Robert. I can’t do that. Not only is it dangerous, but if I get caught I’ll be sent to Gatesville.” (The boys’ reform school in South Texas). “No.”

“OK, vato. I have to go now. See you tomorrow.” He walked off, shoulders squared. As I watched him go I had no way of knowing that it would be the last time I would ever see him.

Robert and Frankie the Bear would be no more.

**********

It was a small entry on page five in the morning edition of the Houston Press:

“Local Businessman Shoots Three”

It went on to say that the owner of a local laundromat had caught three teens vandalizing his vending machines and had opened fire with his .22 carbine rifle. One teen was dead at the scene and two others had been admitted to the Jeff Davis Emergency Room with serious injuries. One teen had sustained six bullet wounds to the back and side, and the other had been shot through the right arm, with the bullet still lodged near his heart. Both were expected to survive, and were to be arraigned in Juvenile Court as soon as they were able to be released from the hospital.

Robert was sentenced to nine months at the Gatesville Reform School for Boys, and after many operations to remove the bullet and fix nerve damage, he never regained the use of his right arm.

Fifty years later, while serving a fifty year term for manufacturing and dealing various drugs, he died in Huntsville State Prison in Huntsville, Texas, of a massive heart attack.

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Frank DeLeon

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