Hit The Road, Jack!

Hit The Road, Jack!

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise

On Wednesday, December 14, 1960, I was home watching my mother prepare the lunch my father had insisted be on the table and ready to eat as soon as he got home. Now that he was back to working full-time hours at Younger Brothers—his dreams of becoming a Pentecostal reverend having been temporarily dashed, thanks to me—he would occasionally borrow one of the company pickups to ostensibly make parts runs for the diesel shop he was now back to managing full-time. During these runs, and if he had time, he’d make a stop at the house and have a quick lunch before returning back to work. This day he’d called around ten in the morning and told my mother to have something ready because he was planning on swinging by around noon. Both I and my brother were home that day; me, because on the previous Friday I’d quit my job at Texas State Optical, and he was recuperating from a nasty case of the flu.

Just before noon the green and white Ford pickup pulled up to the front of our house and my dad rushed into the house whistling some nondescript little tune. Having already set the table, all that my mother had left to do was to transfer the stack of hot flour tortillas to the table, and spoon out the watery red tomato and rice dish she called “sopa” into a large serving bowl. The refried beans had been on the table for a while and as they’d cooled they’d taken on a bit of a waxy look.

The three of us waited patiently as my father stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing his hands with the thin bar of Lava soap and finally drying them off with a ragged dishtowel. Pulling his chair out from under the table he sat down heavily directly across from me, looked around and stated flatly, “Let us pray”.

I had long ago given up on praying for anything, so prior to our meals at home I just bowed my head and stared at my empty plate. Ricky, sitting to my left, kicked my leg softly with his foot and made a silly face as I stole a quick look in his direction. My father, as was now his custom, went on and on pontificating about all manner of things—first thanking God for our health and the salvation of his soul—then preaching a mini sermon, impressing only himself, while our guts made growling noises. My mother by now had run out of prayer words, and probably patience, and had begun repeating, “Sí, Señor, sí Señor”, to press her case for closure.

Finally running out of things to say to God he brought his soliloquy to a merciful end with about a dozen ‘amens’. After we all had our plates filled and had begun to eat I took a deep breath and decided that this was probably the right time for me to ask the question that I’d been dreading to ask for the last two weeks.

I cleared my throat. “Dad, what are you doing around this time on Friday?”

“Um, what? Friday?” he asked, a bit puzzled. “I don’t know. What time Friday?”

“Around eleven thirty, or so.” I responded, lowering my head as I stuffed a chunk of bean filled tortilla into my mouth.

“Well,” he answered slowly, “I guess if I can I’ll come home for lunch. Why?”

Here it comes, I thought (almost aloud). “Well, I need a ride downtown on Friday.”

“A ride? Downtown? Where downtown?” He stopped chewing and was looking at me curiously.

My mother, about to put a bean refill on her plate, stopped and mumbled, “Friday?” I expected her to look away, quickly point her left index finger into space and say, “Mira!!”

My brother, who knew why I was asking, put his tortilla down and let an “Uh oh!” slip out.

“OK,” I started cautiously, “I need to be at five-fifteen Rusk Avenue at twelve noon on Friday.”

That got his attention. Wrinkling his brow and blinking rapidly he looked up toward the ceiling, and repeated, “Five, five, five-fifteen Rusk?” Now looking directly at me he asked, “Isn’t that the address for the federal building?”

“Yup.”

My brother decided that this would be the perfect time for him to refill his water glass, so he noisily pushed his chair back and slid off, glass in hand, heading for the sink.

“Why do you have to be at the federal building on Friday?” His eyes now steady on me he started to lean slowly forward.

“OK, I need to be there by noon so I can take my final physical, sign some papers, and take the oath of induction.”

Silence all around, and as I sat ramrod straight in my chair a little rivulet of sweat slowly ran down my neck.

Ricky broke the silence with a quick turn of the squeaky water faucet over the sink.

“What papers?” “What oath?” What in God’s name are you talking about?” He was getting angry very rapidly.

“Yeah!! What oath?” my mother added for emphasis.

Taking a deep breath and looking directly at him, I verbalized the words I’d been practicing for a few days: “OK, I committed to join the Air Force two weeks ago—right before I quit my job at Texas State Optical. Day after tomorrow, on Friday, after I sign the papers, and hopefully pass the final physical, I’ll take an oath and then leave for basic training in San Antonio.”

For a second I thought he was going to leap across the table and stab me with the fork he was now holding tightly—knuckles turning white. Instead, he slammed it down on the table, sending kernels of soggy orange-colored rice in all directions.

“The hell you are!! I’ll be Goddamned if you’re going anywhere, Pancho!” he bellowed. “You hear me? Nowhere!!”

Trying, for the first time in my life, to show unyielding determination in what I believed in, I stared defiantly back at him and said firmly, and probably a little disrespectfully, “Sorry, too late! And I’m afraid you don’t have a say in this at all anymore. This is now between the United States government and me. I’ve taken and passed all the tests, and I’m committed to the enlistment. Besides, I’m eighteen years old now so by law I can now legally make my own decisions.”

He sat stock-still, lower jaw jutted out and trembling ever so slightly. I continued, “But if you don’t want to give me a ride downtown then that’s fine. I’ll take the bus. I thought since I’m leaving home for good you and mom might want to see me off. I guess I was wrong.”

My mother suddenly came to life and loudly threw her two cents in. Grabbing my right shoulder, her fingernails digging in painfully and shaking me with every word, she growled, “Listen you!! Over my dead body!! You hear me? Over my dead body!! You’re not going anywhere, mister!!”

I turned to look at her and saw the hate blazing from her eyes.

“You will NOT leave!” she continued yelling, now trembling with rage, spit flying from her lips. “You owe me, you ungrateful ass! You owe me for all the sacrifices I’ve made for you and all the money you’ve cost me. And you need to pay me back! You hear me? You need to PAY ME BACK BEFORE YOU GO ANYWHERE, DESGRACIADO!!” [Disgraceful one]

Trying hard to maintain my composure I stood my ground and answered softly, “Mom, I’m sorry you feel that I owe you something—but actually I don’t. I didn’t ask to be born, nor did I intentionally get sick when I was young just to gall you or to cause you or anyone else financial problems. Regardless of what you think of me, or what you say to try to make me feel bad I’m still leaving and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

With that I pushed my chair back, stood up and walked out of the kitchen. Stepping out onto the back porch and into the cool afternoon, I slammed the screen door behind me.

Eighteen months earlier….

Nobody Here But Us Chickens

The Houston spring and summer days of 1959 were a little cooler and dryer than usual; a welcome respite from the usual brutally hot and steamy days that were only occasionally interrupted by a violent afternoon thunderstorm.

A few weeks after my humiliation at Templo Bethel, and after an extremely frustrating evening shift at the Mexican restaurant, I decided to quit. That night, after bussing a table for ten, I tried to enter the kitchen carrying the heavy tray and slipped on a wet spot on the tile floor. The entire tray of soiled dishes, glasses and silverware hit the floor and scattered in every direction. As I clumsily scurried on hands and knees trying to retrieve the clattering mess I was given a rousing standing ovation from the amused patrons. As the applause died down I heard the manager’s shrill voice screaming, “LEON!!!!” Resisting the urge to punch him in the mouth, I instead stood up, ripped off my apron, and walked out the front door—leaving the mess on the floor for someone else to clean up.

Unfortunately, after a couple of weeks of unemployment I realized that if I wanted to have anything for myself—such as shoes that didn’t fall apart when they got wet, or decent clothing—I would have to buy them on my own; and with my own money. Besides, when I told my mom I’d quit she asked me how I was going to continue to pay her back, since she’d been taking half of my paycheck every week. I told her I didn’t know, and she wasn’t happy.

After looking unsuccessfully for a few days for another after school part-time job I ended up making one of the very worst decisions of my life. Accepting my mother’s advice I submitted an application at a place called the “Houston Poultry Company”. She told me that she had heard from one of the sisters at church that this particular company was hiring (anybody), and was currently paying ninety-five cents an hour as a starting salary. But the bonus here was that at the end of each week on payday the company would allow each employee to take home two freshly processed chickens. When I came home from my interview and told her I had been hired on the spot as a general laborer my mother squealed in ecstasy—surely dreaming about just how many different ways one could cook a chicken—or two—every week.

The foreman who had interviewed me said that I would be working from four until eight-thirty, Monday through Friday; including a thirty minute unpaid lunch break. And if I wanted to, I could come in all day on Saturdays. He suggested I wear a white T-shirt, khaki work pants or jeans, and heavy rubber soled shoes because the work could get a little wet and messy.

Because the shift hours would not allow me enough time to go home after school, I was forced to endure a forty-five minute city bus ride to the plant wearing the same clothes that I’d worn that day. And no, I didn’t think of bringing myself a change of clothing on that first day.

Arriving a few minutes before my shift was to start I reported in to the floor supervisor, and after clocking in I was immediately sent to the general foreman’s office. Looking up from some spreadsheets he was studying on his metal desk he looked me over with great interest.

“I thought you were told what type of clothes to wear.” he stated, looking a bit confused.

“Yes sir, I was.” I responded sheepishly.

“Well?”

“Well, I just got out of school and rode the bus here.” I explained.

“But, you’re wearing brown dress shoes, dress pants and a long sleeve white shirt.” He leaned back in his little armless rolling chair and scratched his almost balding head.

I looked down at myself. “Yup, I am sir. This is what I wore to school today.” I smiled. “See, I don’t have enough time to go home to change, so I had to come here straight from school.”

He leaned forward resting his elbows on his untidy desk and gave me a pitiful look. “I don’t suppose you brought a change of clothing with you?”

“Uh, no.”

Well, you’re going to mess up those clothes, son. See, I had you assigned to train on the stripping machine today, and there’s a whole lot of water there. But you’re just not dressed right for that.”

“Sorry,” I said, “this is all I have to wear today.”

He looked like he was in great pain for a few seconds, and finally said, “OK, look,” as he stood up, “I guess I could reassign you to help with the Extraction Team…and…um…get you a pair of heavy rubber gloves, and maybe a rubber apron. That way maybe you won’t get wet…but you may get some shit on you.”

OK, now he really had my attention. “Excuse me?” I managed to say as he hurried past me.

“Come with me!” He said impatiently as he headed for the door.

After donning a huge black rubber apron that was so long it actually dragged on the floor in front of me, and being given a pair of rubber gloves that weighed at least a pound each, I was escorted to the back of the long aluminum building where a large steel door opened onto a concrete loading dock.

Huge Peterbilt and Kenworth diesel trucks, on whose trailer beds at least two hundred wooden coops full of live chickens were chain strapped down, were backed up, awaiting the “Delivery Team”. That team’s job was to climb up to the top row of coops, unhitch the chain-locks, and load each coop onto a track of rolling metal wheels. Then they would roll down into the building where the “Receiving Team” would deftly pull them off the track and restack them, six high, inside the building.

The Extraction Team, consisting of four men: a fat black man, probably in his forties named Samuel; two wiry meth-head looking white guys in their late teens, whose names I never got; and a large muscled heavily-tattooed Hispanic man nicknamed Bruto, who never said a word but just glared hatefully at everyone. (I decided right then that he’d probably been assigned there just to scare the chickens to death, thus saving the company one very valuable step in the lengthy processing cycle.)

The foreman explained that it was the responsibility of each member of this team to select a coop from the stack—stuffed with at least a dozen claustrophobic panic-crazed chickens—open a small hatch at the top, reach in with one hand, and after finding a hen’s two feet, and yank her out, feet first, then hang her upside-down, on a metal shackle that was slowing moving overhead toward the “cutting lady” at the “bleeding station”.

The cutting lady, a morbidly obese black woman who didn’t talk to anyone, sat in front of a large stainless steel triangular shaped table, and wielded a large and very sharp Exacto knife. As each upside-down chicken passed by she calmly grabbed its head and passed the blade through its neck, severing the carotid. The blood, pouring out of the incision, would now flow onto the slightly inclined metal table, ultimately pouring into a large fifty gallon barrel, that when filled was sent for processing elsewhere. The slowly moving conveyer then would transport and submerge the hen, now fully bled out, into a large tubular container of boiling water, killing any parasites and softening up the feathers in preparation for its next stop at the stripping station, i.e., the feather removing machine.

“There’s a few more steps involved before we cool and package the processed hens,” the supervisor explained, “but for now that’s really all you need to know.”

“OK,” I said, a bit overwhelmed.

“Any questions?”

“No.”

“Well then take a position with the Extraction Team. I think they’re about ready to start an unload sequence.”

As you’ve probably already guessed, things didn’t go so very well.

First, I discovered that because the black rubber gloves I got were so thick and heavy, when I reached into a coop trying to push my hand towards the bottom and under the chickens, I wasn’t able to grasp a chicken’s two feet because I couldn’t fully bend my fingers. So instead of having one chicken’s two legs I ended up grabbing one foot from two different chickens. Realizing that I couldn’t really grab anything with them on, I removed the gloves. This turned out to be not a very wise decision on my part as the chickens were ready for that move.

As soon as I dove my bare hands down into the coop I found out why gloves were preferred: first, at the bottom of the coop was about an inch of green and slimy chicken poo; and second, sharp beaks and sharper claws were ready to fight off anyone’s blind groping and searching for their scaly feet.

After several attempts, my hands and arms now bleeding from several deep scratches and bites, I finally succeeded in grabbing two feet belonging to the same chicken. Holding on as tightly as my injured hands would allow I yanked her out of the coop, upside-down, and I held my prize out in front of me for all my coworkers to admire. To my horror I was instantly blinded sided as my face and head were savagely pummeled by the hen’s rapidly flapping wings. Reacting to this attack as anyone would who’s getting the hell wing slapped out of him, I swung around and threw the chicken away as far as I could.

You know, it’s true that chickens don’t really fly very well at all—especially when launched by their feet—slingshot like; and this one ended her short-lived flight by landing awkwardly right on the back of Bruto’s big bald and beautifully tattooed head. Still flapping her wings wildly she dug her claws in to steady herself, thus causing Bruto to let loose of his two expertly extracted chickens, who lost no time in making a break for the great outdoors once they hit the floor.

The two meth head boys yelled something unintelligible and took off, all elbows and knees, in hot pursuit of Bruto’s fugitive chickens. Meanwhile Bruto, now wearing my chicken as a wildly flapping white hat, reached back violently and ripped her off his now bleeding neck. This move sent her off on her second unexpected flight the day.

Because two rogues and one flying chicken had temporarily taken the majority of the Extraction Team out of commission, all poultry processing came to an abrupt halt at the Houston Poultry Company. Without the Extraction Team extracting and hanging chickens upside-down on the moving shackles, the entire poultry processing operation had been severely compromised.

Having thrown the main breaker shutting down all operations, the floor supervisor arrived at our station all red-faced and sweating, demanding to know from anyone: “Just what the fuck’s going on here?” Every eye turned on me.

Standing next to my assigned coop, now minus one chicken, I inspected my wounds. Long deep vertical scratches ran from my elbows to my wrists. My hands were covered in chicken poop, and my eyes stung from the wing whipping I’d received. My apron strings had come loose from behind me causing my apron to hang loosely on my neck; and from my face down to my shoes I was splattered with green chicken shit.

Bruto was giving me the best death stare he could come up with while rubbing his neck and checking his hands; and had the supervisor not arrived as soon as he did I may have surely suffered some real life-threatening injuries.

“Ese pendejo threw a fucking chicken at me, jefe [boss].” he said gruffly. “I’m bleeding on my neck, ese. Check it out!” OK, now he didn’t seem so tough, just a little whiney.

“OK,” the supervisor said as he started to walk toward me, “let’s all calm down and get the line running again.” Looking at me from head to foot, he said, “You look like shit…literally. Are you OK?”

“I think so. I just got scratched up a bit.”

“Right.” as he looked carefully at my red streaked arms. “Let’s go back up front to the office and I’ll put some stuff on those scratches so they don’t get infected.”

By the time we reached the office the processing plant was humming smoothly again.

After washing off as much shit as I could in the small sink in the office bathroom, the supervisor swabbed down my arms with some cotton puffs soaked in alcohol. It stung like hell.

“So I think for the rest of the shift,” he said, putting the alcohol and box of cotton back in a cabinet, “I need to put you someplace else.”

I followed him out, walking through several sections of the plant until we got to a large set of glass topped doors.

“In here we got the “Pin Feather Team”, he said pointing at the doors. “I think you’ll do fine…only women work here.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

As he opened the door my ears were assaulted by a very loud low hum combined with a weird slapping sound. Closing the door behind us he had to yell to make himself heard.

“SEE, THE HENS ARE STILL UPSIDE DOWN ON THE SHACKLES BUT THEY’VE ALREADY BEEN THROUGH ONE OF TWO STRIPPING MACHINES. WHEN THEY ENTER HERE YOU HAVE TO GRAB ONE BY THE NECK AND LOCK HER HEAD ON THE CENTER PART OF THE SHACKLE. SEE? JUST LIKE THE LADIES ARE DOING.”

There were six women, three facing three, standing on a platform about two feet high. Between them the now de-feathered hens, still hanging upside-down, were moving slowly on the conveyer. They had just exited a huge machine consisting of two giant counter-rotating rollers with long rubber fingers—the source of the loud hum and slapping sounds. The rollers’ rubber fingers had literally beaten the soaked feathers off each chicken as it had passed between them.

Approaching the Pin Feather Crew, the chicken would now be grabbed by the neck and its head pulled up between its feet and locked onto the shackle. In the same motion the hen’s legs would be disengaged from the shackle and dropped. Now the chicken was right side up and hanging on the shackle by its neck.

Without any pause each woman would now peer closely at the passing chicken’s neck, and with thumbs and index fingers proceed to manually pull out any remaining feathers (pin feathers) still attached to the bird’s neck. Immediately after leaving the nimble fingered crew the bird would enter another identical feather-removing machine; but since the chicken was now right side up, the rubber fingers on those rollers would beat off any remaining feathers in the opposite direction.

Watching the six women work on those chickens was like watching a synchronized military rifle drill team perform: grab hen’s neck and swing head up and lock on shackle (hut)—disengage both feet from shackle and let them swing loose (hut)—now focus closely on hen’s neck and rapidly find and pull out tiny pin feathers with fingers before it gets too far away from you. (Boo-yah!)

“SEE HOW EASY IT IS?” the foreman yelled in my ear, startling me.

“Yeah.”

“WHAT?”

“OH, I SAID ‘YEAH’!”

“GOOD! NOW GET UP THERE AND START PULLING SOME PIN FEATHERS, BOY!!”

Addressing the crew he yelled, “SEÑORAS—THIS IS FRANK! HE’LL BE WORKING HERE FROM NOW ON, SO MAKE SOME ROOM FOR HIM!”

Amazingly, all six made a coordinated side step to the left, leaving a space on the platform for me to get up on. (Hut!)

It took me a good while to get into the rhythm but by the end of the shift I was pulling out pinfeathers with the best of them. (Boo-yah!)

***

Waiting at the bus stop that evening I was bone tired and my scratches were beginning to itch. The ends of my thumbs and index fingers were red, raw and sore; and I just didn’t see how I was going to be able to do this every day after school.

Although it was close to nine o’clock the Rapid Transit bus was almost full of mostly black and weary looking passengers. Climbing painfully up the steps I dropped my fare and looked hopefully for an empty seat. Seeing one near the back and on the left side of the bus, I grabbed the upper hand rail and headed in that direction.

It was an aisle seat—the window one being occupied by a napping well-dressed grandmotherly black woman. I swung myself in and dropped heavily onto the thin flat plastic covered cushion.

Looking up toward the front of the bus I noticed that more than a few of the passengers I had passed had taken an unnatural interest in me. Mostly they all looked annoyed. Thinking that maybe they had just noticed some of the scratches on my arms—now partially covered by my semi rolled-up sleeves—I decided to ignore them.

It wasn’t until my seat partner jerked herself out of her nap, looked angrily at me with bloodshot blinking eyes, and exclaimed, “Lordy boy, you stink!”

With that she got up, hit my left leg with her knee and said, “Move boy, I ain’t sitting here smelling yo stinky ass all the way home!

I let her out, watching her walk precariously up toward the front of the bus, finally stopping near the driver and grabbing the upper hand rail. Swinging to and fro to the motion of the bus’s momentum she turned and glared at me menacingly. Not really knowing how to react I just slid over to the window side freeing up the aisle seat for anyone who may want to sit. I rode all the way home with the whole seat to myself.

I really didn’t know I stunk. But given that I’d been sprayed with chicken shit, beat about the head and shoulders by a shit drenched chicken, and spent the better part of three hours in a humid room picking off pin feathers from wet naked chickens, I could see how that might just be possible.

Four days later, bearing many more scratches, puncture wounds in various stages of healing, and four very sore and swollen fingers, I told the foreman that I would not be returning to work after my shift was done. He smiled knowingly, shook my hand, and walked me out to the time clock. Retrieving my time card he said I could leave now but that he’d go ahead and give me credit for the day.

“Sorry it didn’t work out for you, but stop by anytime next week to get your check.”

Oh, and just as I was starting to walk out the door he presented me with two packaged up, freshly processed, fryers.

Although my mother was disappointed that I couldn’t make the grade as a chicken processor, she was, however, thrilled with the two free chickens I brought home that day.

Me? I couldn’t look a chicken in the eye for a very long time.

“Do As We Say…”

After the incident at Templo Bethel I found myself slowly developing a deep-seated anger towards the church and its doctrines, and taking a more critical view of the religion to which my parents had become enslaved.

Although I was attending services less due to my having to work part time in order to earn money for myself, my parents still forced me to attend church whenever I had an evening off or a free weekend. This often led to loud arguments, mostly between my mother and me, and added to my growing frustration with both of my parents and their completely inflexible mindset.

I had never been much of a rebel as a teen, but suddenly after having celebrated my seventeenth year, I began to openly question some of their more fundamental beliefs—much to their surprise and apparent discomfort.

For example, I began by insisting to be shown where it was written that everyone except “saved” Pentecostals were condemned to hell when their lives ended. I asked them why the Pentecostal women were required to wear certain types of clothing all the time, but the men had no such restrictions. But I think what really rankled my parents more than anything else was when I kept asking them why, now that Christ had saved their souls, they still openly displayed intense hatred toward, and made disparaging remarks about, certain (if not all) minorities?

But it was the sheer unbridled hypocrisy that I observed every day, coming mostly from the church leadership that eventually sounded the final death knell to any hopes of remaining an active member of this religion.

The rules by which the general membership were required to live by apparently didn’t apply to Reverend Villa or the lieutenants within his inner circle. As an example, television sets in our religion were completely forbidden. One could not own, or have the desire to own one, or even be in the same room where one was placed. The sheer mention of televisions or the programs they transmitted were considered grievous sins, and could only be absolved by a complete drenching in the Holy Spirit in a special service.

So, one Saturday afternoon I had been at home finishing up a history class project that was due on Monday. The previous day, while riding home on the school bus, a girl named Silvia, a homely but very nice daughter of one of Villa’s close cronies from the church, who happened to be in my history class, asked me if I could help with her project. Because I wasn’t sure when I’d be done with mine I told her I’d call her the following day to see where she was on the project and to see if she still needed help.

Having finished with my project, I tried calling her house several times but (way before call waiting) got a busy signal each time. Since my dad was home studying up on his bible and mom was taking a nap, I decided to risk it and ask if I could use the car to drive to Silvia’s house instead. She lived less than five miles from our house and I promised not to be away for more than a couple of hours. Amazingly, he agreed and in no time I was on my way.

Arriving unannounced, I parked the car in their driveway and began walking to the front door. Passing a couple of open windows prior to reaching the door I heard what sounded like a sports announcer talking over some loud crowd noise. Glancing to my right as I passed by the windows I couldn’t help but notice that sitting in their living room was a large television set. With their backs to the window sat Silvia’s mom and dad, deeply engrossed in watching a nice Saturday afternoon college football game.

Quickening my step I reached the front door and tentatively rang the doorbell. Shuffling feet, hushed whispers, and something akin to the sound of heavy furniture being dragged along a wooden floor followed the instantaneous muting of the announcer’s voice.

The front door cracked open and I saw an eye peering curiously at me.

“Oh, Frankie,” said Silvia’s mom, opening the door a bit more exposing half a set of lips, “you should’ve called.”

“I tried,” I explained, “but the line was busy.”

“Oh, Silvia must be on the phone. What do you want?”

“Uh, Silvia asked for my help with her history project and I tried calling to see if she still needed help. Since the line was busy and it was getting a bit late I thought I’d drive over instead.”

The door opened a little wider, now revealing Silvia’s mom’s full torso. From behind her I heard a door close and some heavy male throat clearing. After looking over her shoulder she turned back to me and said, “Wait here and I’ll see if Silvia can see you.”

“No, that’s OK, let Frankie come in!” Silvia’s father said in an overly loud voice, as he walked up behind his wife.

“Come on in! We were just talking about getting supper ready,” he explained—not too convincingly. “Can you stay?” He pulled the door wide open and reached out to shake my hand.

“Well,” I said, haltingly, “I don’t think so. I’ll just see if Silvia still needs help. I promised my dad I’d be home soon. But thanks anyway.”

Stepping into the front room I casually looked over to where the TV had been but saw nothing other than empty space. But on the wall facing the couch was a closed closet door under which an electrical wire snaked out—its plug firmly inserted into a wall outlet.

“SILVIA!” her mom yelled. “Come out here honey, Frankie’s here to help you with your history project.”

After appearing from the kitchen area, Silvia walked me out the back door to their small deck.

“You should’ve called, you know.” She chided, while putting her project on the table.

“I tried, but your line was busy.”

Lowering her voice, “Did you see it?”

“What, your TV?”

“Shh! Yes!” In a harsh whisper, looking back towards the back door.

“I heard it before I saw it. It’s big.”

“My uncle owns a furniture store downtown and he gave it to us for my parents’ anniversary. He had it on his sales floor as a demo, so it’s kinda used.” Still spoken in a low whisper.

“Do you watch it?” I asked quietly.

“Sometimes. I like ‘American Bandstand’.” She said stifling a little giggle with the back of her hand.

“Girl, you and Dick Clark are going straight to hell!” And we both started laughing maniacally.

***

About a month later, one evening after work my dad came home driving one of the Younger Brothers’ green and white pickup trucks. As he walked in he asked me and my brother to come out and give him a hand with something he needed moved out of the truck and into the house. As we walked out to the driveway I saw an RCA television set strapped down in the bed.

After we got it into the house and plugged in, and without being asked my father explained, “Mr. Younger was going to give this old set to one of the niggers in the shop but I told him I’d take it instead. Those burr heads wouldn’t know what to do with something this modern anyway.”

I groaned.

“Well anyway,” he continued, “I got it so we can all watch the ‘Wednesday Night Fights’. They come on at eight o’clock you know, and if you want we can get some ice cream to eat while the fights are on. So, what d’ya think kiddo?”

Not waiting to get an answer to his question, he let out a little whoop then raised his fists up into a defensive position while jumping around on his toes. Ducking and weaving like some title contending welterweight he started shadowboxing all around the room. Pretty soon he was playfully sparring with Ricky and me, while my mother, purring ‘…mira’, petted and rubbed the wooden console lovingly as if it were a new pet dog.

Needless to say, in the end we watched more than boxing on that old set; but on the positive side it did save me from attending anymore of those boring prayer circles and bible study classes on Wednesday nights.

Oh yeah, that was a really fun time for all us hell-bound sinners.

Disney Trumps Jesus

Due in part to my growing dissatisfaction with the church, its rules, the blatant hypocrisy I began to notice, and my interest in earning my own money, I began to attend services less and less. After the gig at the Mexican restaurant and my short-lived employment at the poultry processing plant I decided that I would vet my next part time job thoroughly before even considering submitting an application. One day, during our lunch break, one of my lunch buddies suggested that I check out the Shamrock Hilton Hotel. Her older brother, she said, having just returned from a hitch in the Navy, had been hired as a maintenance man and was making a pretty decent wage. He had mentioned to her that because a large expansion was in progress there were lots of job opportunities.

The hotel, located at the intersection of Main Street and Holcombe Avenue, was known as the very swankiest in the city, and catered to many visiting politicians, actors, recording artists and all manner of famous personalities of the time. Knowing this sort of terrified me a little, while at the same time raising my curiosity. Further, if somehow I did get hired, I would have to take two different buses to and from work.

In spite of my apprehensions, a few days later I decided to give it a go, and within a week I was the Shamrock Hilton’s newest dish scraper, dishwasher loader, floor mopper, and general kitchen gofer. Surprisingly, the pay, a buck twenty-five per hour, was way more than I had ever imagined making, but I told my mom it was a dollar per hour and lied when I also told her that they paid in cash. This would allow me to cash my check at the hotel’s cashier window and give my mother a smaller percentage of it than I had been forced to give her before. Sweet.

About a month after starting my job at the Hilton I overheard a couple of waiters talking about some movie that they’d seen the previous weekend. They seemed pretty excited about it so I asked them what movie they were talking about.

“It’s a Disney movie, ese: ‘20,000 Leagues Under The Sea.’ It was here a couple of years ago but it’s so good they brought it back again to the Majestic Theater, downtown.” One of the waiters explained.

“Oh,” was all I could come up with. I wondered why I’d never heard of the movie before, but then remembered that a couple of years ago we were pretty heavy into the church scene and I probably wasn’t thinking much about anything else.

But for the rest of the evening I kept thinking about the movie, and the more I thought, the more curious I became. During one of my short breaks I went into our little break room and rummaged around for a copy of the Houston Chronicle, hoping that the entertainment section hadn’t found its way onto the usually wet floor of the men’s room.

Luck was with me that day as I found an almost complete copy of the whole newspaper sitting on one of the tables. Glancing through the movie section I found the Majestic Theater’s listing of the movie, complete with dates and times. But what was most fortunate was that in a column to the left of the listing there happened to be a complete review of the movie. Folding the section and tucking it under my arm I determined that it was time for me to do some serious toilet-time reading.

The reviewer was nothing less than ecstatic of the film, expounding on the realism of the special effects, and extolling on James Mason’s excellent portrayal of Captain Nemo, and Kirk Douglas’s great job as Ned Land. But what really hooked me was the description of the movie’s villain: a giant, ship wrecking squid. Wow!! I could not image how that thing would look on the movie screen—and in Technicolor!

So I found the more I thought about it the more obsessed I became with this movie. But, being God-fearing Pentecostals, I knew that my parents would never allow me to go to any movie at all, no matter how great it was. Even though I kept my thoughts about it to myself, I was plotting and trying hard to come up with some kind of plan that would allow me to commit a movie-watching sin. Would it be even more of a sin to ask God for a little help here?

As things turned out, late on a Friday evening as I settled in for the long ride home on the second of two buses, I found a discarded copy of the Houston paper on a seat. Ignoring the news sections, I looked for and quickly found the entertainment section. Perusing the Majestic’s show schedule for the following weekend my eyes caught a small picture of Christ on the cross highlighting another theater’s show schedule.

The Kirby Theater was located on Main Street, about a block and a half away from the Majestic. It was a considerably smaller venue, mostly specializing in foreign films, independent productions, and B movies; and it usually showed mostly black and white films on its small square screen. It did not feature a cartoon at the beginning of each feature film, as was the norm at the bigger and premium first run theaters, but the admission and the price of concessions were considerably cheaper.

The ad that I was looking at announced the beginning, that very night, of a two-week run for a movie named The Life Of Christ. A small blurb under the scheduled show times said simply, “Christ’s life from birth to death—A must see for all Christians”.

Well, there it was—the answer to my prayers! Now all I had to do was to come up with a foolproof plan and present it to my parents in a way that would get them to grant me permission. Easier said than done.

For the next few days I made sure to be on my best behavior; for instance, not making faces or rolling my eyes when my dad made comments about other drivers, such as, “…those damn black nigger bastards…stupid wetbacks think they’re still driving in Mexico!” All this while driving to and from church.

Also, when I was home I made sure to volunteer to help my mom with dinner, or chased her away from the sink when it was time to do the dishes. My brother, bursting with curiosity, finally took me aside and asked me what had come over me.

“I’m working on a plan, Rick. Just don’t say anything.”

“What kind of plan?” He asked. “Does it include me?”

“Nope, just me—for now.” I answered smugly. “Just be patient. If this works we may be able to do something we haven’t done in a long time.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll find out this weekend. Now stop asking!”

Finally, on the following Wednesday about an hour before the Gillette Wednesday Night Fights came on TV, I told my dad I’d be happy to go to the store to make the ice cream run. Giving me a bit of an odd look, he hesitated slightly then dug into his pocket for some money.

“OK, Pancho. You can take the car, but just go to the ‘Shop N’Go’ up the street.”

“Sure, dad. But I’ll buy the ice cream tonight.”

“What?” He said, as he stopped counting the change in his hand.

“No problem. You always buy, so now that I’m working I’ll return the favor.”

Ramming his hand back into his pants pocket he turned and directed his attention to tuning up the old TV set. “Suit yourself. But don’t get anything other than vanilla.”

Just before the preliminary bout was about to start I made a really innocent face and began employing my hopefully well-thought-out plan.

“Hey Dad,” I started as I scooped some vanilla ice cream into my massive bowl, “Look, I know we’re prohibited from going to the movies—because of their sinful content, and all. But, what if there’s a movie that has no sinful content? What then?”

“There ain’t no such thing, Pancho. Hollywood’s full of whores and sinners. And all the movies they make are full of debauchery and temptation.” He said, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at me over his bowl.

“Well, that’s true about most movies, dad. But what if Christians made a movie and it was dedicated solely to depicting the life of Christ. Wouldn’t that be an exception?”

Putting his spoon down, he slowly turned and looked at me as if I were insane. “Yes son, it would be an exception, and a complete impossibility! Those damn heathen sinners don’t care anything about Jesus. All they care about is sex and money. Anyway, let’s watch the fights.”

“Dad,” I began to insist, “There is a movie out right now, and it’s playing at the Kirby Theater; it’s called, ‘The Life of Christ’. According to the review, it chronicles Jesus from birth to crucifixion. Really.”

With his eyes glued to the set and his bowl full of Blue Bell vanilla ice cream balanced on his knees, he quietly said, “I don’t want to talk about this now, Pancho. I wanna see that nigger get knocked on his ass. Look at how he’s mugging around and acting all smart assed.”

Well, that was the end of round one for me. I knew that for the next hour or so, he would be completely absorbed with the pugilistic action on the small black and white screen. Ricky and I had learned that it was never safe to be within his punching range when the fights were on. He would get so completely wrapped up in the boxing match, that unconsciously he would take on the role of one of the fighters, (usually the white one if it was a racially-mixed match), and punch and counter-punch the air before him—almost completely in sync with the real fight. Head weaving, elbows tucked in deflecting body shots, then suddenly flashing a wicked left jab followed by a whistling right cross, he would totally lose himself in the action. If one decided to get up, say to scoop another helping of Blue Bell, and by doing so inadvertently stepped in front of him, it was entirely possible that one of his left hooks would put you down for the count.

At the end of each round, he would sit back in the wooden kitchen chair and search around his feet for his ice cream bowl, his eyes never leaving the screen. It was not until a Gillette Razor Blade commercial was safely airing that he’d sit back, take a deep breath and shovel in a few spoonfuls. That’s when, if needed, we’d run to the bathroom or refill our own ice cream bowls.

My mother, on the other hand, hated boxing. When the fights were on she would take her bowl of ice cream into the kitchen and, while slurping away she would noisily turn pages in her bible and read passages aloud. Usually, during the sixty-second rest period between the third and fourth round she would get up and quietly walk into the front room and stand stoically behind us watching the Gillette commercial on the quivering little screen.

About ten seconds after the bell had sounded and the fighters were beginning to circle each other, she would suddenly decide that her bowl needed a refill. Swooping in from behind, she would daintily step directly into my father’s line of sight, completely blocking his view of the fight, and bend over to retrieve the carton of ice cream from the floor. This would drive my father insane and he would yell impatiently at her as he bobbed and weaved, “Woman!! Get the hell out of the way! You must be drinking muddy water—I can’t see through you!!”

Seemingly un-intimidated, she would pooch out her bottom lip, ball up and shake her left fist while delivering her very best comeback line: “Aww, shuddup you!”

Trying to maintain his concentration on the fight, my father would—while still intensely air boxing, slide around on his chair, first one way and then the other, trying to look around my mother’s skirts.

When she was satisfied that she had raised his irritability factor to the proper level she’d smoothly glide off back in the direction of the kitchen. With a swooshing of the heavy fabric of her simple cotton dress she would smartly march away, and while looking over her shoulder say, “¡Viejo pendejo!”

Later that evening after the fights were over and the TV was safely stowed away in its hiding place, I brought the subject up again.

“Look dad.” I said, as I held out the section of paper containing the Kirby Theater’s movie schedule. “See? This is the movie I was talking about. And here,” pointing to the review in the column to the left, “is what this guy wrote about the film. It really looks good, and seeing it would probably enhance my overall knowledge of Jesus and His life.”

To my great surprise he took the paper from my hand and started reading.

“Hmm, well I’ll be damned.” He said, squinting at the small print.

“Yeah,” I added anxiously. “It really looks good.”

It had taken some doing, but in the end I had finally convinced my dad that my being allowed to see the Jesus movie at the Kirby Theater would not be sinful, nor would it corrupt or demonize my soul. Of course, I’d never had any intention of seeing that movie in the first place. What I needed was cover that would allow me to travel, on a bright Saturday afternoon, to downtown Houston by a Rapid Transit bus, and deftly bypass the Kirby, walking the short distance down Texas Avenue directly to the brightly lit Majestic Theater. Once there, I was convinced that I would satisfy my overblown obsession with that wonderful Disney movie and return to my home a happy and satisfied young man.

Sadly, my well-planned deception did not work out as well as I’d anticipated, and the resulting blowback would hammer yet another nail in the coffin that had once been my father’s highflying ministerial dream. It would also confirm to the true believers at Templo Jerusalén that I was no more than an unrepentant sinner whose soul was in dire need of holy salvation—if not outright exorcism.

***

It was a short walk from my house to the bus stop that day, but even before reaching the little open-air shelter I was already experiencing some serious stress issues.

In spite of making several visits to the bathroom before leaving the house, a few minutes after beginning my walk I felt my suddenly and mysteriously full bladder begin sending SOS signals every time my shoes pounded the pavement. Further, my mouth had suddenly gone completely dry, causing my tongue to stick to the top of my mouth, and making me gag a little bit as I tried to breathe normally.

I also began to experience a strange thumping in my chest, with what thirty years later would be diagnosed as paroxysmal atrial tachycardia (an unusual but non-fatal fibrillation of the atrial chambers of the heart), and I felt a sudden urge to evacuate my bowels—a lot.

By the time I reached the shelter I was in 911 panic mode. Not daring to sit down, fearing that everything would let loose, I looked across the street and saw the little market that supplied us with our weekly gallon of Blue Bell ice cream. Throwing caution to the wind I dashed across the street and burst through the heavy iron screened doors.

The Indian storeowner’s son was on duty, and before he could utter his usual singsong salutation, I all but screamed, “WHERE’S YOUR BATHROOM?”

His eyes widened and I thought I may have seen him start reaching for the sawed off shotgun his father kept on a shelf right under the register.

“QUICK! WHERE’S THE BATHROOM?” I pleaded, now in genuine distress and stomping my feet frantically.

Perhaps realizing that I was more of a danger to myself than I was to him or the half dozen browsing customers, who were now frozen in place, he meekly pointed to the back while still keeping one eye on his father’s old but trusty weapon.

Squeezing my buttocks as tight as I could, while simultaneously holding my lower front penile area with my right hand, I did a quick Charlie Chaplin type shuffle towards the back of the store.

“But sir, that bathroom is for employees only, please!” he managed to say as I blew by him.

“S’okay, I’ll clean it up!” I screeched.

Ten minutes later I exited the now slightly malodorous privy, and although my lower gut and bladder issues had been satisfied, I still had the bumpy-thumpy thing going on in my chest—and now my head was starting to really hurt.

“Mister?” The young Indian storekeeper worriedly asked. “Are you going to be alright, or should I call an ambulance?” He really looked concerned. “You are sweating, and look very pale.”

“Uh, I’m OK now. Thanks for the use of the bathroom.” Not knowing what else to say I walked out and headed across the street to the bus shelter.

Two stops before I was supposed to get off in downtown Houston I felt a couple of crampy twinges deep in my gut and I needed to pee again. Holding on, I stumbled off the bus into the bright sunshine and very busy Saturday pedestrian sidewalk traffic.

The Kirby Theater was one stoplight dead ahead, and from where I was I could clearly see its protruding white marquee announcing, “The Life of Christ”, in slightly askew black plastic letters.

As I stood on the corner of Main Street and Texas Avenue, the Kirby Theater was no more than twenty yards dead ahead on Main. But as I looked off to my right I couldn’t help but notice the Majestic’s gaudy gold and white marquee, with bright flashing lights; it was calling me: “This is where you want to be.”

Against my suddenly better judgment, I crossed Main Street and headed towards the Majestic, leaving the Kirby behind. I hoped there was a bathroom very close to the ticket booth.

***

The movie was preceded by a newsreel and a Tom & Jerry cartoon. Sitting near the center, but in an aisle seat—just in case—I settled in with my large popcorn and Coca-Cola. Someone behind me sneezed and I swear it sounded like he said “Hallelujah!” Nah, must just be my imagination.

As the movie started, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. I casually turned my head and scanned the brightly illuminated faces but recognized no one. A few scenes later, when the giant squid was enveloping a large ship with its gigantic tenticles and dragging it down to Davey’s Locker, I swore I heard someone call my name.

“Frankie, que haces?” [Frankie, what are you doing?] OK, now that spooked me and I twisted my head back, left then right. I then realized that the sound had come from right above my head and there sure as hell wasn’t anyone there.

OK, now this was starting to worry me. Instead of concentrating on the movie I began to nervously scan the matinee crowd around me. Surely, someone from school had recognized me and was trying to do a number on my mind. OK, it was working.

But try as I might I didn’t see anyone.

Suddenly having to pee again, I put my coke and popcorn on the floor and headed back up to the lobby. As I entered the men’s room I noticed that I was shaking and I was feeling lightheaded and nauseous. This was not going too well.

Reentering the theater I had kind of lost track of what was going on with the storyline, so as I took my seat in the dark while trying to watch the screen, I knocked my coke cup over with my foot. With the theater floor’s incline I saw people in front of me quickly look down between their legs, then hurriedly raise both legs—followed by an angry look behind them to see who the klutz back there was. Row after row of people in front of me sequentially did the three-step maneuver until my coke finally ran its course.

Scrunching down into my seat and trying to eat the rest of my popcorn without a drink to wash the dry salty kernels down, proved to be almost impossible. Since my mouth was still dry all I accomplished was to clog my esophagus with backed up half eaten popcorn and subsequently choke myself.

A coughing fit, coupled with pathetic squealing sounds coming from my throat as I tried to suck in air to keep from passing out, pretty much got everyone’s attention. No matter how many ships the giant squid sank, or how many close-ups of Kirk Douglas’s arching eyebrow and jutting chin hit the screen, most of the patrons in my general vicinity were instead seriously concerned about the skinny kid about to choke to death.

I came to the painful decision that it was time for me to throw in the towel. I got up, spilling the rest of my jumbo popcorn tub on the couple in front of me, and noisily hacked my way back to the dark auditorium’s exit.

I headed for the bathroom to see if I could manage to stick my head in the hand basin and pour water down my throat. A few minutes later, finally able to breathe, I straightened up and saw myself in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight.

After drying my hands, face, head and the front of my shirt with about two dozen brittle and scratchy paper towels, I headed out to the lobby.

The Majestic Theater’s lobby fronted Texas Avenue. As I exited through the heavy clear glass doors and into the bright sunshiny day I shaded my squinting eyes with my right hand and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Standing still for a couple of seconds to get my bearings and my sight, I noticed that the normally steady moving auto traffic on Texas was dead stopped. Glancing to my right I saw that there had been an accident at the corner of Main and Texas, and the two wrecked cars were completely blocking all traffic. Great, I thought. I’ll probably have to wait forever for the bus now.

Then off to my left I heard someone yell: “Hey Brother Frankie. What are you doing there?”

Thinking that I may still be imagining things, I nonetheless looked to my left. Sitting in the stalled traffic, not five feet away from me, was a black 1958 Dodge sedan. Hanging out of the rear window wearing hugely silly toothy grins were Ruben and his sister, Betty Rodriquez. They were hysterically waving their hands. Gawking from the passenger window, mouth open and eyes peeled wide, was Mrs. Rodriguez; and lastly, behind the steering wheel sat Reverend Sergio Rodrigues—the new pastor who had been assigned to our church to replace Reverend Villa. He looked very unhappy and was slowly lowering and twisting his head so he could read the Majestic Theater’s gaudy marquee in its entirety.

Although my bladder was completely overworked and very empty, I suddenly had to pee.

Under New Management

In 1959 Reverend Villa had finally left our church for South Texas and the Puerto Rican reverend from New York had taken over as pastor. He was a light-skinned, short and stocky, very animated man (picture Lou Costello), who spoke Spanish in a clipped run-on style that made it hard to understand him at times—particularly when he got excited or carried away by the Holy Ghost. He seemed to favor dressing in cheap-looking, ill-fitting, double-breasted suits that apparently didn’t pay regular visits to the dry cleaners, as evidenced by the jagged chalk-white sweat rings arcing down in several layers under his arms. His hair was wavy and gray-flecked brown, clipped almost to the scalp on the sides, making his ears look larger than they actually were.

Married to a dark-skinned and even shorter and stockier woman who loved to cook, often helping almost full time in the church’s kitchen, he was also father to three very spirited teenagers. Elizabeth (Betty), the eldest, who was seventeen, played a mean piano and had probably entered puberty at a very early age. To describe her as shapely and very sexually mature for her age would be an understatement. Long black hair, usually worn loose, framed large expressive brown eyes and pouty red lips. All the appropriate bumps and curves were more than generously distributed on her body, and whenever she walked into church, raw female pheromones literally oozed from her in all directions. Even the most devout male church member had difficulty keeping his eyes off her bounteous breasts and rhythmically swaying buttocks as she walked up to the piano at the start of each service. The two trumpet boys and I made sure to always have our legs properly and protectively crossed during Betty’s heart thumping ascent to the piano. Brother Cantú, of course, was oblivious to any of this—instead, spending those heated few seconds tuning up his huge bass guitar.

Ruben, sixteen years old, had inherited his father’s wavy hair and his mother’s complexion. Mischievous and impish by nature, he could always be counted on to tell a good joke, more often than not bursting into a boisterous saliva-spraying laugh as he giggled out the punch line. He played the saxophone but refused to play it in church. Perhaps his love of rhythm and blues, jazz, and anything by Sam Cooke had something to do with his attitude.

Reverend Rodriguez’s third child was named Lucinda, or Lucy for short. Thirteen, and presently favoring her mother in stature and complexion, she would soon lose her remaining baby fat and enter into direct competition with her older sister’s beauty and raw sexuality. She also played the piano, though not as well as Betty, and was currently taking trumpet lessons. Her personality was more subdued than those of her siblings, but at times she would unexpectedly display a healthy sense of humor.

As far as the church activities were concerned nothing changed much after Villa left. Membership seemed to stay about the same but in my opinion the services seemed a bit less refined than they’d been under Villa’s direction. Reverend Rodriguez’s oratory style seemed less lofty and earthier; and at least for me it was hard getting used to his New York Puerto Rican accent and his rat-a-tat delivery—which often left me wondering just what the hell he was trying to say.

Ruben and I seemed to hit it off right away, even though he was a year or so younger than I was. He had a pleasing personality, and I particularly enjoyed the stories he told me about his experiences while living in the Bronx. Having never traveled more than a hundred miles from Houston, I was fascinated as he related some of the adventures he’d had in the New York school system, and I strained to imagine what his classes may have been like as he described the many different ethnic groups intermingling, sometimes not so peacefully, while attending their inner city PS (Public School).

Although I was working fairly regularly at the Hilton, I still attended church when I had some days off. The Rodriguez kids were diametrically different from the Villas in every possible way. Ruben was easy going and funny while the Villa brothers were pretty much profane bullies. Where Joni had finally ended up being aloof and standoffish to me, Betty and Lucy were earthy, fun to be around, and painfully blunt.

One Sunday after the morning service there was cake and ice cream being served in the large dining room in celebration of Mrs. Rodriguez’s birthday. After the cake was blessed, the birthday song sung, and the ice cream doled out I decided to walk out onto the large concrete steps outside the church to sit and enjoy the unseasonably cool weather. Carrying a paper plate with the cake and ice cream, I walked through the door and saw all three Rodriguez kids already sitting outside.

Squeezing in between Ruben and Lucy we began chatting mostly about what we were doing in school. Betty, a senior, was grousing about how, because of the religion she wasn’t able to attend any senior activities.

“You know, in New York, the congregation was more understanding and let a bunch of things slide.” She complained. “But my father told us we’d have to tighten up our behavior because people down here weren’t quite as civilized.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with being civil,” I interjected. “People here, especially in the church are a little more conservative. I think it has more to do with their financial status than anything else. Poor people tend to be more afraid of authority and are easily manipulated.”

Betty had been sitting on the concrete steps opposite me, but now she quickly got up and pushing Ruben aside, flopped down next to me. God, she even smelled sexy.

“You know,” Betty said, as she slid her ample buttocks next to my bony ones, “for a dumb Texan you’re pretty perceptive.”

I felt my face get a little hot.

“Oh…” I stammered, “I don’t think it’s all that. I’ve just been around these folks now for a couple of years and I think I know them.”

Her big brown eyes ratcheted onto mine, and as her lips began to form a little smile she said, “Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Is that why you thought you could get away with sneaking off and taking in a leisurely afternoon movie? Because, why? You thought no one would be smart enough to catch you?”

With that, she threw her head back and laughed heartily, joined by her brother and sister.

“You should’ve seen the look on your face, you dope! It was priceless! We all thought you were going to crap in your pants right then and there!”

Little did she know just how close to the truth she was.

Ruben chimed in, “We asked my dad not to say anything to anyone about seeing you come out of the show, but he and my mom thought it might be some kind of trap set up by some of the members of the congregation that didn’t like it when my dad got assigned pastor of your church.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I said softy. “I caught holy hell when I got home.” Ruben’s comment finally sunk in. “What trap?”

“You know,” he explained, “he saw a sinful act and then if he did nothing about it that would prove he was being guided by the devil. So he had to call your parents—he really had no choice.”

“Well,” I took a spoonful of cake, studying it and picking my words carefully, “even though I pissed off my mom and dad, and they took it out on me but good, I think they’ll end up being the losers after all. Probably most of all my dad.”

I spooned the cake slowly into my mouth, watching their reaction.

Ruben started to say something but Betty quickly shushed him. “No Ruben—cállate! We don’t know anything. And if we do we’re not allowed to say.”

“OK,” I said cautiously, “before Villa left my dad felt that he was in line for a recommendation for him to get his reverend’s license. With my screw-ups I think I may’ve caused him to be dropped from consideration. At least that’s what I think.”

A few moments went by with no one saying anything, but Ruben and Lucy kept looking up at Betty.

Finally, Betty said, “Hey, let’s walk out to where your car is parked. There are too many ears around here. Anyway, what’s done is done.”

We all got up, putting our empty plates and plastic spoons on the large brick wall that bordered the steps up to the church’s front entrance, and headed out to the parking lot at the side of the church.

When we got to where our car was parked, Lucy and Ruben hopped onto the Ford’s fender and Betty and I just walked around and rested our elbows on the hood.

“OK,” Betty started, “you know my dad doesn’t realize that he talks really loud, so unless we’re not home we usually hear everything he and my mom talk about. When we first got here from New York we spent a few evenings over at the Villa’s house getting introduced and all, and my dad and Villa went off in private to talk about the transition I guess.”

“Tell him about Villa’s two sons!” Ruben interjected.

She shot him a quick inpatient look. “Wait Ruben! I’ll get to that—OK?”

“Anyhow, we didn’t hear anything they talked about, but the following week when my parents thought we’re already sleeping…”

Lucy piped up. “Yeah, they always think we’re sleeping when they talk about all the good stuff.”

“¡Cállate!” Betty growled. “Let me finish! Anyway, I guess your dad had some problems with the church money. Do you know anything about that?”

My heart jumped, but I tried to keep my face expressionless.

“Not really,” I lied.

“Well, I guess he did but I don’t know exactly what.” She continued. “There were some suspicions that there was some money missing, but when Villa decided to do some kind of investigation…”

“Audit.” Ruben interrupted. “That’s the word dad used: audit.”

“OK, Ruben—audit!” Betty was getting a bit angry. “Can I finish now?”

I really didn’t want to hear any more about what she had to say. I was starting to get pretty uncomfortable with what had been said so far, and I was afraid to learn any more than what I already knew.

“So,” she continued, “the audit” (heavy emphasis on the word for Ruben’s benefit) I guess turned out OK, but there are still some suspicions about your dad. Did you know anything about that?”

“NO!” That came out too fast and too loud. “I mean, not really.” In a softer tone, “He just asks me to carry the money box to the car sometimes.”

“So your movie caper…and…oh yeah, and something about you making out with some country chick during a service…”

“That’s not what happened! All we did was talk and Villa went all rat fink on us in front of the whole congregation.” I started feeling that uncomfortable lump in my throat. “So you know about that?”

“Look, don’t sweat it, we don’t care about that. What we’re trying to tell you is that your dad is being looked at right now…but not because of anything you did. OK?”

I didn’t want to hear anymore. “OK, look I don’t care and I don’t want to hear anything else. As soon as I graduate and get a little money together I’m leaving.”

Ruben looked really interested suddenly. “You’re running away?”

“No, nothing that stupid. Where would I go anyway? I have my plans made and my mind made up. I just need to finish school first.” Then I realized that I’d never told anyone about my plans. “But you can’t say anything to anyone about this. Please.”

“Anyway,” Betty said, “our dad is going to ask everyone to resign their posts and then he’s going to put people in different jobs in the church. I don’t think your dad is going to be treasurer much longer.”

“That’s fine with me.” I responded, relieved with the change of topic.

The loud sounds of voices carried on the warm breeze announced that the birthday party had broken up. Small groups of people started filing out of the church and heading out to the parking lot.

“Well, here they come.” Lucy said, as she looked over her shoulder.

“Yup,” I said, brushing off my pants. “Time to head out to the car.”

“Oh,” Betty said quickly, “remind me to tell you about the Villa brothers next time. You’ll really enjoy hearing this—I promise.” With that, she spun around, and skirts flying set off to find her parents with Ruben and Lucy close behind.

Although I didn’t particularly care too much for Reverend Rodriguez, particularly after he’d ratted me out to my parents, he did seem a bit more down to earth than Villa had been. My dad, however—at least in the beginning—seemed to not take to him as well as he had to Villa. Several times, in conversations with my mother while driving home from church, he openly criticized the reverend for his way of speaking, or at other times for his choice of topics for the sermon.

“Guys like him,” he said one night when he seemed especially irritated, “wouldn’t have lasted the night back in the days when I was out on the street drinking with my friends.”

I thought that was a little harsh, but decided that since I didn’t have a dog in this fight I’d just ignore the comment. As time went on, however, I noticed my dad’s attitude and opinion slowly changing back to ass-kissing mode, probably because he was still very much in the hunt for his reverend’s license; this even after he had been booted out as treasurer

Education Begins to End, But Learning Begins

I worked at the Hilton Hotel until late February of 1960, when I at last found it increasingly difficult to balance my schoolwork with the busy evening hours I had been assigned to work. I had been promoted out of the kitchen as general gofer to busboy—working in that position for a few weeks—then to full waiter in one of the hotel’s fine restaurants. That had been a “battlefield promotion”, and had occurred when several full-time waiters neglected to show up for work.

Reporting in to my shift that evening, I was told by the maître d’ to request a waiter’s uniform at the dressing station just outside the locker room instead of my usual white shirt, pants and apron. I stepped out ten minutes later dressed in tuxedo pants, white ruffled long sleeve dress shirt, a white silk bow tie, and a waist-cut black tuxedo jacket with short tails. Looking in the full-length mirror near the locker room exit door I decided that I indeed was looking very handsome, but with no experience as a waiter, I wondered how long I’d last.

Surprisingly, the job turned out to be easier than I would have ever thought. The headwaiters, distinguished by their white tuxedo jackets, were the ones who took the actual food orders from the tables. They also delivered and opened the bottles of wine requested by the customers. When the food was ready, the waiters, those of us in the black jackets, would arrange the plated meals on large silver trays and deliver them to the guests. Overseeing the whole operation was the maître d’—dressed in a full-blown black tuxedo, shiny patent leather loafers, and wearing an aloof, and extremely bored, mustachioed expression. Very French!

I discovered that delivering the food was much easier than bussing the tables full of half-eaten entrees, cleaning overflowing ashtrays, changing tablecloths, and sweeping crumbs off the floor. Plus, the after meal tips were fantastic. Out of each dollar the headwaiters got forty-five cents, waiters, forty cents, and the bus boys fifteen cents. And all on top of our hourly salary! The maître d’ was tipped by each guest as he maneuvered them to their tables and he didn’t share.

The only downside to this new job was the hours. As a busboy/dishwasher, I was normally able to punch out after my four or five hour shift. But being a waiter—and short staffed as it was—I was often called upon to work well after midnight. The Hilton’s unofficial restaurant guest policy was that as long as there were people seated in the dining room the restaurant would remain open.

Also, sometimes there were private parties held in some of the conference rooms such as wedding receptions that required at least two or three regular waiters, and at least one bar waiter, to be assigned. Usually, this was great duty for several reasons: First, there was usually a lot of alcohol being consumed, making for some really great tips, and these were never shared with the other waiters. Secondly, the food catered for these affairs was customarily very exotic, but best of all, always served in great quantities. This made for a lot of untouched leftovers that were greedily consumed by the staff. I had my very first ever Baked Alaska during one of these functions.

One night, because one of the senior waiters decided to call in sick that evening, I was assigned to work with two other waiters at a private party that had been set up in one of the penthouse suites. It was a sixteen-year birthday party for one of the daughters of a prominent Houston family, and although there were adults present, they were heavily outnumbered by the birthday girl’s mostly female clique.

After the main meal had been served, the birthday cake consumed, and the presents opened, the majority of the chaperoning parents decided that they would rather be downstairs at one of the hotel clubs drinking and dancing to the house band’s music—leaving the boisterous teens to their own devices.

First, all at once everyone seemed to have found a hidden pack of cigarettes somewhere on their body and lit up. Not long after that, the open bar, manned by one very nervous bar waiter, was quickly overwhelmed by a few rowdy boys, asking for and chugging bottles of beer. Some of the girls, all giggly and wide-eyed went for the wine, while a couple of harder-looking ones settled for half full bottles of bourbon and whiskey.

This, of course, soon led to a loosening of their probably already pretty loose morals, and within a short time pairs of them, having spent equal amounts of time downing liquor and making out, started disappearing into the large bedrooms and bathrooms. Since the boys were outnumbered by the girls, they were “forced” to do double, and sometimes triple duty. A couple of them never returned to the main room, having either passed out due to their overconsumption of alcohol, or from sheer exhaustion.

Because it was a private party, we had been instructed by the headwaiter to stay in the room until the host released us. At that point we were to take down the bar and help the bar waiter with his cleanup. Since all the plates, glasses and silverware had already been bussed down to the kitchen, the three of us just stood at very sloppy attention checking out the action.

Not being very socially adept, I found all this behavior very confusing, to say the least. Of course I knew about the “birds and the bees”, but seeing kids, pretty much my age, acting with such wild abandon frightened me a little, while at the same time making me very curious. My two co-workers, a little older and obviously a whole lot more experienced in this type of behavior, stood quietly, hands folded over their crotches, with little leering smirks riding under their well-trimmed moustaches, all the while making quiet little obscene remarks in Spanish.

I was suddenly relieved when the guy to my left poked me in the ribs and told me to go help the bar waiter.

“Do what?” I asked, looking to see what the problem was.

“Just go, ese. I think there should be two guys up there in case some chick decides to make trouble for us.”

What the hell does that mean? I thought. “OK,” I said, “but what do I do? I’m too young to serve alcohol.”

“Godammit, just go!” Being the rookie here I really couldn’t argue, so I took off toward the bar.

About halfway across the room I was abruptly intercepted by a petite little brunette in a very pink, hoop-skirted, chiffon-like dress.

“Hey!” She said, pushing a drooping bang out of her eyes. “What’s your name?”

She reminded me a little of Annette, from the Mickey Mouse Club—but in a boozy kind of way.

“Frank…uh…Miss.”

“Frank? Like Frankie Valle?” One of her false eyelashes was coming loose and flapping about a millisecond behind each eye blink.

“Well, yeah, I guess.” She had pretty blue eyes that kept darting, ever so slightly, left and right.

“Groovy! What’cha doing here? I don’t know you, do I?”

I didn’t recall serving her so I thought I should come clean. “No, I’m a waiter, ma’am.”

She squinted her eyes trying to focus in on my face. I decided that maybe she wore glasses and chose not to wear them.

“A waiter? You mean like the two Mexicans over there?” She pointed at my leering partners. “And don’t call me ma’am! That’s what people call my mother.”

“Yes ma–, yes.”

“Wanna drink?” Her left arm swung a bottle of white wine up from behind her billowing skirt.

At this point in my life I had never even tasted wine, or for that matter, beer. My closest brush with alcohol was when I was about five years old. I remember my father teaching me how to play dominos then letting me take a sip from his glass full of Four Roses whiskey. I don’t recall what it tasted like, but I do remember I couldn’t breathe for a few seconds.

“No, I can’t drink. I’m working. Sorry.” She looked all pouty.

“You’re not cool.”

“Sorry.”

Looking up I noticed the bar guy was wildly waving me over.

“Excuse me. I have to go help the bartender.” And I took a step trying to get around her.

“Wanna mess around?” She cooed.

Again, at that point in my life I wasn’t really sure what “messing around” really meant.

“Sorry, I gotta work.”

Someone had turned down the lights in the main room, and although it wasn’t totally dark it was quite subdued.

Heading quickly toward the bar I thought I heard the rustling of skirts behind me.

“Hey! You’re not queer, are you?” She said, in a tone that wasn’t exactly angry, just kind of hurt.

I stopped and turned to see her standing there, head cocked, bottle of wine in one hand, with her other hand perched high on her hip—bottom lip pooched out. With one of her knees thrust out I couldn’t help but picture her as an angry little teakettle.

“Look, no!” I said, a bit impatiently. “No, I’m not queer, OK? I just gotta go help the bar waiter.” I turned and headed to the bar, leaving her standing in the middle of the room.

The maître d’ had instructed us to finish our cleanup and close the bar down by midnight, so with two of us putting things away and cleaning up we were done well before that. Since the party had been bussed earlier, once after the meal and then after the cake, we didn’t have much in the way of dishes—just a few napkins and several rather large pieces of birthday cake. Those would be gone before the elevator doors closed on our way down from the penthouse level.

As I was helping roll the portable bar through the door one of the other waiters called my attention to something behind me. It was the little brunette. Apparently having lost the bottle of wine she was standing in the foyer right outside the large front room with both hands on her hips.

I asked the bar waiter, “Can you push this out to the hallway while I talk to her for a little bit?” I turned and walked back to her.

“You’re leaving and you didn’t even ask my name,” she said, with a little sulkiness in her voice.

“Ah, sorry. What’s your name?”

“Now you’re making fun of me!”

I suppressed an annoyed deep breath. “No I’m not. OK, what’s your name?”

“Amanda.” She stuck her hand out almost to my face, palm down, and I wondered if she wanted me to kiss it.

“Hi Amanda.” I reached out and held her hand with both of mine.

She pulled herself really close to me, now gripping my hands with both of hers. “Can you come back after you take that stuff down?” Close up she didn’t look much older than fourteen or maybe fifteen.

“No, I don’t think so. We’re not supposed to be on this floor unless we’re working.”

“I won’t tell, honest!”

“Amanda! Look, I don’t want to get fired, and if the other guys tell the head waiter that I’m…you know, talking to one of the hotel guests then I’m in hot water.” I dropped her hands and stepped backward through the door. She let her hands fall onto the front of her dress and she looked like she was going to cry.

“That’s just my luck,” she said, looking down toward the floor and twisting a heel into the carpet. “I find one cute guy that I think likes me and he can’t wait to dump me. Shit!”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to, and I really have to go.” I glanced nervously over my shoulder to see where the bar waiter was. Still waiting for the elevator to make it to the top floor.

“Maybe I can meet you downstairs when you get off work and we can go for a ride in your car. You are getting off work now, right? I can be down by where they valet the cars and you can pick me up. Then we can just ride around town for a little while. OK?”

Well, that pretty much did it for me.

“I can’t!” was all I could say, and I spun on my heel heading for the elevator that had finally and mercifully arrived.

***

On the long elevator ride down to the hotel kitchen, and later on the bumpy trip home on the bus, I did a lot of thinking about this encounter, and about me in general. I had never thought of myself as attractive, and other than my mother and my aunts, only one female in my whole life had ever expressed a positive opinion about my physical appearance. And for what it was worth, she was gone for good, thanks to the church.

I had always been self-conscious about my looks. Whenever I looked in the mirror all I saw was a skinny boy with sunken squinty eyes and a mop of long fine unruly hair. As I thought about Estela on that long ride home that night I slowly realized that during our short relationship I’d never given any thought as to what she may have seen in me. I’d taken for granted that she cared for me as deeply as I’d cared for her and that was that. Of course, for me there was no question of what I’d seen in her: I thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen: funny, intelligent and graceful beyond belief. Surely she could’ve done so much better than me—and probably did.

After Villa had so cruelly ripped apart our budding relationship I understandably suffered a bit with the heartbreak of losing Estela forever and the bitter shame of being publicly humiliated by Villa’s completely unfounded accusations. Obviously, any doubts that I’d harbored previously about my self-worth had been blown to astronomical levels as a result of these experiences.

But now, the seemingly innocuous events that transpired that night at the Hilton, involving a little girl named Amanda, helped put me on a long and slow healing process that would eventually restore my self-confidence greatly. An attractive non-Hispanic female, from a well-to-do family, actually thought I was cute; and furthermore, really thought I owned a car. Yup, things were definitely looking up.

The Lens Maker

I continued to work at the Hilton through about March of 1960. Because of the night shifts during the week and the required church attendance on the weekends, I was finding it difficult to concentrate on my schoolwork during my senior year. I thought that the little stash of money that I had secretly saved up would be enough to carry me through at least June—but then I knew I’d have to get serious about getting another job.

By mid-June I was a Jefferson Davis Senior High School graduate. Although I didn’t actually attend the ceremony due to lack of money and transportation, I did get my diploma in the mail. So officially having run out of money I reluctantly began a job search—but with a twist. In the past I had only considered jobs that required little thinking and a lot of labor. Bussing, and even waiting tables didn’t require a lot of mental acuity, but consequently didn’t pay too much either. No, this time I was going to use my newly acquired self-confidence and my hard-earned high school diploma and shoot for the stars.

I began by scouring the daily newspaper classifieds for job openings. The one word I kept running into was “experience”—something I didn’t have much of. Not astute enough to have even drafted a simple résumé I called several companies and just innocently asked if they were hiring. The vast majority pretty much hung up on me when I admitted I had no idea what position I wanted to fill, but a couple referred me to their Personnel Department for further information. One was Southwestern Bell.

I called the company several times, only to be transferred to the wrong department or person, but finally wound up talking to an employment specialist. After answering a couple of basic questions and providing my name and social security number, I was given a date and time to report for an interview at their offices on Main Street. I was given the address of the building on Main Street, the room number, the time to report, and the name of the person that was to conduct my interview. It was suggested that I wear a suit, or at least a dress shirt and tie.

Never having owned a suit of my own I opted to spend my last few dollars on a new shirt. I did have one decent pair of black slacks that I thought I could iron to perfection, and I could always commandeer one of my dad’s best silk ties. I was all set.

The night before the interview I could hardly sleep. I tried to imagine what kind of questions a “personnel specialist” from the phone company would be asking a low-level ex-restaurant employee. Nor could I even envision for which what kind of job I would even be remotely qualified. My knowledge of telephones was limited to being able to dial the black rotary unit in the front room and visually recognize the thin black line drooping off the black knotty post in front of the house as the telephone wire.

When I did finally fall asleep I dreamed that I was working in a great high-walled room with thousands of large black phones ringing constantly. My job was to answer each one and tell the calling party to hold for Mr. Smith. I was pleased that after I had answered twenty or so phones, I had the job pretty much nailed down. Nothing to it, I thought. This was going to be easy. Now all I had to do was pass the interview.

The appointment for my interview was at ten o’clock in the morning. At nine o’clock, I stepped onto the Rapid Transit bus near my house, and after paying my fare, showed the driver the little slip of paper on which I’d written the building’s address.

“Yup, I know where that’s at,” he said.

“Oh, can you tell me when we’re close so I can get off there?” I asked simply.

“Ya think this is some kind of fucking taxi?” he growled, showing me his crooked tobacco stained teeth. “Sit down, you’re holding me up!”

I heard a couple of chuckles from the mostly black male passengers in the back, and I felt my confidence start to fade.

“OK,” I said quietly, sliding onto the long seat directly behind the driver. “It’s on Main.”

My plan now was to keep my eyes peeled as soon as we got into the central part of the city and look for the numbers of the buildings on Main. I figured once I saw the building numbers get close to the one I needed I’d ring the bell on the bus and get off. Easier said than done.

Turning onto Main I strained to find the numbers denoting the address of the buildings as we sped up the street. Most were hidden in the outer alcove of the office building and hard to see, and others were impossible to find. I finally saw one but wasn’t sure if the numbers went up from that one, or down. I rode for another ten minutes or so. As the bus made a left turn off of Main I began to panic.

“Are we close to this address?” I ventured to ask the driver as I held the paper over his right shoulder for him to see.

Glancing at me through the large rear view mirror he gruffly said, “Yeah, about a mile back.”

I jumped off the seat and took the two steps to the front exit door.

“BACK BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE, ASSHOLE!”

“I need to get off…now.”

“I SAID, GET BACK BEHIND THE LINE!”

“OK.” I said, taking half a step back.

He stopped the bus about half a block later and I got off, not really knowing where I was.

Not ever having owned a watch I had no idea what time it was, but I started walking back towards Main Street, retracing the bus route in reverse and walking as fast as I could. Passing a clock shop I looked inside and saw that it was nine thirty-five. I had no idea how much further I had to go. I decided to go in and ask someone where, and how far, the address on the paper I had in my hand was. The answer I got was not good news.

Forty minutes later, breathing hard and sweating profusely, I entered the marbled lobby of the Southwestern Bell building. Being that I was already late for my interview I made the quick decision to find the men’s room and try to do some emergency freshening up.

Looking in the mirror I saw that my hair, on which I’d spent more time than it deserved that morning, had reverted to its normal “go wherever” look. I had no comb, so I tried in vain to douse it with enough water to attempt to paste it back down to my sweating scalp.

There wasn’t much I could do with my sweat-stained shirt, so I tried to wipe down my back, chest, neck, and underarms with wads of stiff brown paper towels to see if I could at least prevent the shirt fabric from gluing itself back onto my body.

Approximately thirty minutes after my interview had been scheduled to start I opened the frosted glass door with, “Personnel” stenciled on it and approached the very busy looking, middle-aged woman wearing black cat’s eye glasses, sitting at a large wooden desk.

After I told her who I was she simply said, “You’re late!” and asked me to sit down at one of the metal chairs along the wall opposite her.

A few minutes later she called my name and pointed to a wooden door with “Interview Room” printed in gold lettering, to her left. I stepped in, trying to look fresh and dry.

“Frank, uh, Dee-long. You’re late.” said the fat, bald man with freckles on the top of his head as he stared with deep interest at my shirt.

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered, “I got lost.”

“Oh, you from out of town?”

“No, I’m from Houston.”

“But you got lost, right?”

“Yeah, the bus driver didn’t tell me where to get off.”

“Bus driver…OK. Hmm…right. Have a seat, this won’t take long.”

And sure enough, it didn’t.

***

I walked out through the heavy glass doors of the Southwestern Bell office building and into the hot mid-morning sun. I stood momentarily on the sidewalk watching the pedestrian foot traffic, mostly businessmen in suits—some carrying important looking briefcases—hurrying to and fro, going about their business. I wondered if far into the future I’d end up being one of these men, walking purposely, head down and deep in thought, to some office hidden away in one of the many cavernous concrete buildings lining Main Street. Deep in my gut I knew that that would probably never happen. But at least I was sure of what I probably would never be doing later in life: working for Southwestern Bell.

Having nowhere to go, and not wanting to board a bus home this early in the day, I pulled my tie off, stuffing it in my front pocket, and just started walking aimlessly, pausing at a couple of jewelry store windows to admire the carefully-arranged displays. Pausing at a stoplight, I looked up to see the Kirby Theater’s white marquee jutting out over the sidewalk with shaky black plastic letters announcing the title and show times of their currently running feature. A little pang of guilt shot from my stomach and into my spine, and I quickened my pace.

I crossed the heavily-trafficked Texas Avenue and turned left, passing the gigantic Ritz Hotel, whose building took up almost an entire city block. Bellboys, valets and doormen were whizzing around in constant motion—carrying luggage, opening doors, and driving guests’ cars through the hotel’s voluminous indoor parking garage doors. Glancing to my left and across Texas Avenue a large red sign in the shape of eyeglasses caught my eye: “Texas State Optical”. And in smaller white lettering near the bottom of the sign it read: “Processing Laboratory.”

Under the sign I expected to see a large and colorful window display featuring various styles of eyeglasses, and maybe some stylish frames placed on a couple of featureless mannequin heads. But all I saw was a heavy black steel door with a metal sign attached that read: “Authorized Personnel Only”.

At the end of the block I crossed the street and walked back up Texas until I got to the door. To the right of the door there was a doorbell type button under which someone had written: “For Entry—PUSH (hard).” Of greater interest to me was a handwritten card that had been taped under the button that announced, “Now Hiring Lens Processors! (No experience necessary) Push the button and wait!! This means you!!!” Now this, I thought, was more up my alley.

An extremely obese Mexican man, out of breath and huffing mightily, opened the door after I had pushed the button a couple of times and waited a few minutes.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I want to apply for the job.” I pointed out.

“What job?” he asked.

“The one on this card stuck here. ‘Lens Processor’.”

Holding on to the doorframe he leaned out, twisting his huge head to read the little sign. “Oh, that one. OK, come on up. You have to talk to the boss. I just run the lens-o-meter.”

“Oh, okay.”

About an hour later, having met Ben, the “boss”; a tall man with thinning white hair dressed in a stiff white lab coat, I was officially an employee of Texas State Optical, Inc.

The pay was less than what I had been earning at the Hilton, but getting to work would only require one bus ride, and it was a Monday through Friday, full eight-hour daytime job.

Ben showed me around and said he’d start me on the “diamond wheel”, where I’d train with a guy named Gilbert. Walking me over to where a young, thin Hispanic man was hunched over a spinning wheel, he explained that this was the position, and this was Gilbert.

Gilbert was holding in both hands a glass lens which he would rhythmically press onto the gleaming gray stone wheel two or three times, after which he’d then carefully inspect the result by holding the lens very close to his eyes. Then he’d pick up an empty eyeglass frame and hold the glass lens up to the frame—gauging the shape and size of the lens.

The wheel reminded me of a medieval sword sharpening stone, albeit this one was powered by an electric motor and had a small copper pipe suspended directly over it with water constantly dripping onto the spinning surface of the wheel.

“See,” Ben explained, “this stone wheel is impregnated with diamond dust, so by pressing the edge of a heavy prescription lens onto its surface you can manually shape it to the patient’s frame. We do this for prescription lenses for which we don’t have stencils, or maybe the lens is too thick to go through the automatic lens-shaping machine. Also, the dripping water lubricates and cools the wheel ‘cause it does get hot when you press the thick glass lenses to it. And it’s messy, so you’ll be wearing a rubber apron like he is. It’s very precise work but Gilbert is an expert at it, and after a few weeks you will be too. What do you think?”

I thought it was better than having no job at all, and OK, I didn’t have to think too much either.

Frankie Leaves The Nest

One Wednesday afternoon in September, I asked for the rest of the day off from my lens-grinding job. I’d made an appointment with an Air Force recruiter and I was scheduled to take a battery of written examinations to measure my aptitude level and help determine what job I would be most effective in while in government service.

When the results came back I found that my test results determined that I would make one dandy radar operator, and as a second choice a pretty capable air traffic controller. (Oddly, that rang a long silent bell buried very deep in my memory). The recruiter explained that the quota for air traffic control inductees had already been met so the Air Force had tentatively assigned me to the USAF Air Defense Command as a SAGE (Semi-Automatic Ground Environment) radar operator. My first assignment should be at the SAGE Center at Omaha, Nebraska, I was told, but first I would have to successfully complete a little training. Initially, I would be assigned six weeks of intensive basic training, to be conducted at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas; then, sixteen weeks of radar and elementary computer training at Keesler Air Force Base, in Biloxi, Mississippi. My induction date was set as Friday, December 16, 1960; and I was committed to a four-year enlistment. All of these meetings and arrangements were made without the knowledge of my parents or my employer.

Although the lid hadn’t blown off yet, the military situation in Vietnam was intensifying rapidly. During one of my visits to the Air Force recruiter I asked about my chances of being sent overseas and ending up in some jungle crawling through the undergrowth dodging bullets. He smiled and reassured me that airmen assigned to my career field are not usually inserted into combat situations. On my way out he patted me on the back and told me that the closest I should ever get to combat would be by arm wrestling someone for a beer at some airbase military club.

***

I gave my notice at the Texas State Optical Processing Lab during the last week of November. I told Ben that I’d joined the Air Force and would be leaving for basic training around the middle of December. Instead of being upset he shook my hand and congratulated me heartily. He told me that when he was a young man he’d tried to join the military but had not passed the physical due to bad eyesight. Instead, he went on to college with the intention of becoming an optometrist, but instead ended up running a lab for TSO. He was happy, but whenever he saw someone in uniform it still bothered him that he wasn’t able to serve his country.

I had long ago decided that the military was my only means of escape; had my home environment been other than what it was, my life would have turned out very differently. There existed several very valid reasons why I knew I had to leave.

First, I knew that as long as I stayed in Houston and lived with my parents I’d never have the opportunity of going to college. Although I hadn’t taken all the required high school subjects to qualify me for admission to college, I always felt that if I could somehow come up with the money I would take night courses that would enable me to enroll. Further, my parents, especially my mother, would never allow me to just go to school and not work. She was obsessed with the belief that I should compensate her monetarily for the time and effort she expended in raising me.

But probably the biggest reason I needed to distance myself from my family and Houston in general, was my growing hatred of any type of church participation. Although it was the church that had provided me with the opportunity to learn and play the guitar, I had lost all interest in playing church music, in or out of church.

I had discovered rock and roll, and the folk music of the sixties: Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, The Browns, The Everly Brothers, and others, and relished learning the chords and memorizing the lyrics to their music. Any attempt I made to learn or play this type of music while my parents were at home was met with threats of eternal damnation and accusations of heresy.

Every church service I was forced to attend was now spent with me thinking bitterly about Villa and the humiliation I had experienced at this hands, and the heartbreaking loss of Estela. Everywhere I looked I saw hypocrisy within the church, and I began to voice my observations and opinions of the religion and its members regularly at home. It had gotten so bad that one day my father came home and asked me to come out and see what he’d done. We walked out to his car and he proudly pointed at the back bumper where he’d slapped a bumper sticker that read, “Christians Aren’t PERFECT—Just FORGIVEN!”

On the day of my departure, I was surprised when I saw my father pull into our driveway in the green and white work pickup. My mother had spent the morning avoiding me and praying out loud for the Lord to strike me dead. I gave all my stuff (very little) to my brother, as the recruiter had advised me not to bring anything with me when I went to the induction. From this day forward the Air Force would meet all my needs, and if it didn’t, then I really never needed it anyway.

“Come on Pancho,” my father said softly, “I’ll drive you into town now because I have to get the truck back to the shop.”

“OK, I’m ready.”

I tried to say goodbye to my mother but she turned her back and refused to talk to me. I gave Ricky a brotherly hug, and headed out of the house.

All the way to the Federal Building my father said nothing. Neither did I. Pulling up to the front of the building he looked into his side view mirror and said, “Hurry up and get out. I can’t park here.”

I stepped out of the truck and turned to say goodbye. As I started to wave, he gunned the engine and drove off without saying a word.

My final pre-induction physical was administered and I passed with flying colors.

I was five feet, eleven and one-half inches, and weighed in at one hundred and twenty-seven pounds.

Ten minutes later, along with fifteen other recruits, I raised my right hand and swore the oath.

2 thoughts on “Hit The Road, Jack!”

daniel6494@aol.com says:

January 4, 2015 at 4:36 pm

Great reading! I remember Majestic Theater, it was beautiful! I don’t remember going to Kirby Theater. While you were working at the Shamrock Hilton I was @ The Methodist and St Lukes Hospital doing my hospital training.

1. Frank DeLeon says:
  
  January 4, 2015 at 7:18 pm
  
  Thanks Margaret,
  
  The Kirby was on Main, but it was a very small theater. I recall going to it just a few times. Mostly it showed re-run movies and foreign films. Not very popular during that era. Thanks for reading. Just got started on my next post, “Gone, And Mostly Forgotten”.

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2 thoughts on “Hit The Road, Jack!”

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