Life in the Fast Lane
Conclusion
Frankie Lands A Gig
“Sharon?” I spoke her name hesitantly into the receiver, while behind me I could feel Michael’s eyes boring into my back. “Well, yeah, I can talk for just a bit. What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just sitting at home and I started thinking about you…about what you’ve been doing, I mean. I haven’t seen you at the dances for a while…so, you know, just wondering.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I had my mom ask some people at her work how one gets in touch with somebody at the base, and some guy gave her the central number. So I called it then I just asked if I could talk to you.”
“Your mom works with somebody here at the base?”
“No, she’s a dealer at one of the casinos downtown, so she runs into a lot of people. Anyway, I haven’t seen you at the dances lately.”
“The dances. Ah yeah, well my schedule has changed and now I’m working swings on Saturday night,” I lied, “and also, I’ve been doing a little bit of baby-sitting…if you can believe that.”
“Babysitting? What?”
***
OK, that much was true. A few days after Judy had left town I was on the radar working a midnight shift when Sergeant Nietzsche pulled up a chair next to me.
“Hey, DeLeón, anything happening?” He asked, just before taking a big sip from his gigantic coffee cup.
“No, it’s pretty quiet. I’ve only had a couple of altitude requests in the last two hours, sir.”
“Hey, you can cut the ‘sir’ shit. I’m just an enlisted guy like you who happens to have a couple of extra stripes on my sleeves. Save that shit for the useless fucking officers.”
“Oh, okay…sir—I mean…okay.”
“So, what does a good-looking single kid like you do on your days off?”
“Oh…not much.” I answered hesitantly, and concentrated on keeping my eyes on the radar display, just in case this was some kind of attention test.
“No, seriously,” He insisted. “Do you go out to the casinos? Get hammered? Stay in the barracks and read philosophy books like that crazy fuck, Cooley? Chase the locals? What?”
“Not much, really. I don’t have a lot of money so I kinda hang around the Rec Room and shoot pool, go to the pool, and stuff. ”
“So you don’t have a girlfriend here or at home? And where is that anyway?”
“No, no girlfriend anywhere,” I lied (again), “and I’m from Houston.”
“Houston, huh? Nice town. Well anyway, how would you like to earn some extra money?”
“Doing what?”
“Babysitting.”
OK, now that one threw me for a loop—and I turned completely away from my radar console and stared him in the face. “Babysitting? Really? You’re kidding, right?”
Nietzsche broke into a big smile. “No, really. Look, I’ve been watching you since you got here and I think you’re a good worker. But you don’t seem to hang around a lot of the other guys and do the stuff that they do.”
“Like what?” I asked, puzzled.
“Like go out on your three-day break and get shit-faced every night then come back to work half hung-over. That’s what!”
“Oh, so then you know I don’t go out and get hammered on a regular basis? Well, you’re right; I don’t do that for sure. I don’t have that kind of money.”
“That’s what I mean! He said, slapping his hand on his knee. “You’re different!”
On this count he was only partially right. Even though I wasn’t making very much money from my paycheck, and I was still having to make monthly payments on the rings that I’d bought for Amparo, I was augmenting my meager income somewhat by playing my guitar at the Officers’ Club on my days off. But, more about that later.
I turned back to my radar to process an altitude request from the SAGE center in Reno. Having measured the target’s altitude and assessed the target’s flight direction, I pressed the red “SEND” button and turned back to Sergeant Nietzsche,
“Well,” I started hesitantly, “I don’t know about different. I just don’t make a lot of money—and, you know, I’m trying to save some of it to get back home on leave maybe next year.” (Another lie).
“OK, I can help you there! See, my wife and I have a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, and because of her age we can’t get out much. We’ve tried some teen girls from town, but then I have to drive all the way down to Winnemucca to get’m, then when we get home, drive’m all the way back. By the time I finally get home my wife’s totally out of the mood. Know what I mean, right?”
No, I really didn’t. “Uh, sure.” I said, anyway.
“There ya go! See, you’re on my crew so we have the same days off, so when me and the wife want to go out and have a little dinner and maybe do a little gambling you can come over and watch our little girl. By the time we get home you’ve already put her to bed and she’s sleeping nice and tight. Then after you leave my wife’s still warmed up and I can probably get me a little nooky. See what I mean?”
I’d never seen Sergeant Nietzsche get so worked up, or so personal, before. And although I’d never heard the word ‘nooky’, I had a pretty good idea what it meant.
I thought quickly, and for the first time ever in my life, I put on my negotiating hat. “So…” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. “If I agree to babysit, just exactly what’re you thinking about paying me?”
“So! You’ll do it?!”
“I didn’t say I would…yet. How much you gonna pay me?”
“OK! Let’s see.” He kicked back in his squeaky gray rolling desk chair and looked up to the ceiling. “I usually pay the local girls a buck fifty an hour. What do you think?”
I thought about it for a couple of seconds, and on a whim decided to barter a bit. “Three bucks an hour and you’re on.”
“What? Three bucks!!” The rolling chair let out a torturous squeal as Nietzsche straightened up—his coffee making a sloshing sound in the plastic cup. “No way, man! That’s a fortune!”
I could see that even though at my counteroffer caused him some agitation, his eyes were saying that he was more afraid of me completely refusing and him totally losing the deal. I looked him square in the face. “OK, OK. So what’s your offer then, sarge? A buck fifty isn’t going to work.”
“Shit!” He dropped his head, looking at the floor and for the first time I noticed the little round bald spot on the top of his head. He looked up at me, a deep furrow now between his eyes. “OK, look. How do I know you’ll even know what you’re doing? What kind of experience do you have?
“Experience? Oh, really a lot. See, I’ve got this little brother, Ricky’s his name. And because my mom was always sick, I had to take care of him all the time. So I know what’s what in that department.”
“A brother? Shit, DeLeon! You were taking care of a boy! And your brother, at that! My kid’s a little girl!”
“A baby is a baby. Same, same! Only the plumbing is different.” I was really feeling confident now. “So? What’s your offer?”
“Shit, OK! Two and a half bucks an hour! I can’t go higher than that!”
“Look, you asked me if I would do this—not the other way around. But I’ll cut you some slack and agree to your offer of two-fifty an hour.” And at that moment I became the first official male babysitter at the Winnemucca Air Force Station, and probably in the whole state of Nevada.
***
“So you’re babysitting now? Really?” Sharon said, dubiously. “For who?”
“My sergeant. He lives in base housing here on the compound and he says it’s too much trouble for him to hire local girls as he has to go back and forth into town.”
“And you babysit? When do you find time for that? Don’t you have to work?”
“Sure. But he’s my crew chief, so we’re on the same days off. That makes it easy.”
“Christ! That’s crazy.” She said curiously. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ll learn. How hard could it be? Besides, the money’s good: Two-fifty an hour.”
“Wow, I’m impressed. Well, anyway I haven’t seen you at the dances on Saturday for a while. What’cha been doing…I mean, besides babysitting?”
“Oh, not much. Just working, you know. And…yeah, babysitting.”
“Really? Well, I heard you’ve been dating some girl named Judy. That’s not who you’re babysitting, is it?”
“Judy?” I said, surprised that she knew about her. “Judy, no she’s just a friend. And, she happens to be just a few years older than three.”
“Well, I heard you were kinda at her house all the time. All the time!”
“Not all the time!” I suddenly felt defensive and a bit annoyed. “Anyway, who’s telling you these things?”
“This is a small town, Frank, and word gets around. Anyhow, I hear she’s stuck-up. And a rich bitch, at that.”
Now that comment really annoyed me. “Well, for your information she’s a really nice girl and her parents are really great. Besides, they left Winnemucca not too long ago and moved to California.”
“Oh, you’re just a fountain of information on her, huh?” Sharon said, just a little too catty.
“OK, look. I gotta get back to work.” I didn’t want to talk to her anymore so I signaled Michael to cut the connection. He shot me the bird and smiled—large.
“Hey,” she said softly after a couple of seconds, “I’m sorry. What you do is your own business. Sorry.”
I was still a little angry but was able to manage a, “Oh, that’s OK, but I do have to get back to work.”
“So, before you go,” she said hurriedly, “are you planning to come to the dance this Saturday?”
“No, not this Saturday, I’m working.” I said, “But, we’re rotating our shifts next week, and then Saturdays will be my first day off for the next cycle. I’ll probably be able to catch a few dances then.”
“Oh, OK.” She sounded a bit dejected, and there was a long pause before either of us spoke.
Not wanting to end our conversation on a negative note, I quickly asked, “Hey, you wanna go get a Coke sometime with me?”
“Did you get a car?” She quickly asked.
“No, but I have a good friend who’ll lend me his wheels just about anytime I ask!” This I said while staring directly at Michael with my eyes wide, nodding my head. He made a couple of obscene gestures; one that included grabbing his crotch while making swirling tongue movements.
“Would that be the same car you drove down and parked at Judy’s all the time?”
The question caught me off guard and I didn’t answer.
“OK,” Sharon said quietly, “I’m sorry.” And, after another short pause, “OK sure, we can go for a Coke or something—whenever you want…if I’m not busy.”
“Alright great, let me have your number and I’ll call you in the next couple of days.”
After the call was disconnected I asked Michael what he was doing working the switchboard.
“Sometimes I trade off with the communications guys and work some mid shifts.”
“But you work at the motor pool fixing cars.”
“Yeah, well I happen to have me one of those secondary job descriptions where most everyone has just one. So if I ever get assigned at a large airbase, I’ll be assigned to do either one or the other, depending on their need. But here, anything goes.” He leaned back and gave me his trademark Cheshire cat grin.
I walked out and back to my work section wondering if Michael was putting me on.
***
My babysitting gig started with a lot of apprehension from all parties concerned. Sergeant Nietzsche confided in me that when he told his wife about me babysitting she had expressed some pretty serious but not unexpected doubts.
To satisfy her reservations she insisted that I submit to an “interview” conducted by her alone, after which she would make the final decision as to whether or not I was experienced and trustworthy enough to be left alone with her very young daughter.
On my part, although I was anxious to make a little extra income to help finance my extracurricular activities when not working on the hill, I was also very apprehensive about taking on the responsibility of caring for an infant; particularly after I’d lied about having cared for my brother when he was an infant.
Lastly, and after due consideration (and probably a few objections from his wife), Sergeant Nietzsche requested a renegotiation of my previously agreed to hourly pay—particularly after he told her how much he’d agreed to pay to a virtual stranger to take care of their only child. On that issue I remained firm, knowing that I held the upper hand. He would have to pay me what I demanded or do without a babysitter.
So a couple of days later Sergeant Nietzsche told me that he needed to have me start babysitting the following weekend, but that his wife, Cassandra, wanted to talk to me beforehand. “You know, she wants to make sure you’re not some kind of axe murderer, or something.” He flashed a little grin and winked.
The Nietzsches lived in one of the smaller homes on base housing, but it was still the nicest house I’d ever been in–not counting Judy’s. Two bedrooms, a nice den, and a tidy kitchen right off a small dining room, the house was cozy and very nicely decorated. And although the housing units were located on the south side of the base, it was still a little bit of a walk from my barracks room.
I was met at the door by both Cassandra and Sergeant Nietzsche, (“Call me “Don”. We’re not on duty now…”), and invited to sit down in a chenille-covered Danish modern arm chair. After bringing me a glass of iced tea, we all settled in for the interrogation.
Surprisingly Cassandra was mostly interested in hearing about my being raised in Texas. They’d never been down south but she had always wanted to visit Texas. “It’s so big!” She exclaimed breathlessly, “And there has to be so much to do there!”
I told her that I had no idea on that count because, besides a trip to Mexico that my mom had taken me on when I was less than five years old, I had pretty much just stayed in Houston and done nothing.
She told me she and Don were both from Ohio and had been high school sweethearts before marrying five years ago. The baby, Candace—Candy for short—was a little over three years old, and this was the first time that she and the baby had been able to accompany Don on one of his assignments.
“And the worst one, at that!” Don added thoughtfully. “But at least we got base housing and don’t have to live in ‘beautiful downtown Winnemucca’ among the ‘effing’ weirdoes.”
Cassandra (“please call me Cassie…”) gave Don a quick “shush” look, and politely asked me if I wanted another glass of tea. I declined, worried that if I had another I might have to excuse myself to empty my quickly bloating bladder.
After about an hour of idle chit-chat Cassie placed her hands on her daintily crossed legs and pursing her lips, turned to her husband: “Well then Don,” she cooed, “I think Frank (call me ‘Frank’) will do just fine. Don’t you think?”
“Hell yes! I told you he’s a good kid! He works for me and he ain’t like the rest of the clowns on my crew!”
Cassie frowned at Don’s exuberance and turned back to me, one eyebrow arched. “Well, now the only thing we need is to get Candy’s approval.”
“I’ll go get her!” Don said, probably happier than me that the interview was finally over. He all but jumped off the couch and blew by me heading toward a small hallway just off the living room.
“We put Candy down for her nap just before you got here,” Cassie said, “hoping we wouldn’t be interrupted. And we weren’t, were we?”
Candy turned out to be a most delightful child. Petite and perky, she had inherited her mother’s beautiful blue eyes and button nose, and her father’s widely expressive smile. Incredibly intelligent even at her tender age, she seemed to have already mastered the art of politeness and graciousness, ending each request with “please” (pronounced ‘peese’), and acknowledging every granted wish with a smile-wrapped “tank you”.
Don came out carrying Candy from her pinkly feminine little bedroom. Her blond hair was pulled back into little twin pony-tails and she was dressed in a little light blue tank-top, white shorts and little brown leather sandals. Don put her down and she walked right up to me, extended her little hand and greeted me in a halting doll-like voice: “Hi…mister Fank. My name is (big breath) Candy. How do you do!” Her face took on a mock serious look, accentuated with a pair of pooched lips.
Our little baby handshake ended abruptly as her little hands shot down between her legs and she said hurriedly, “Daddy, oh! I have to go potty! You know I have to go every time after I get up from my nap!”
Don looked a little lost for a second but Cassie had already gotten up from the couch and was quickly ushering Candy back down the hallway. Just before disappearing through the bathroom door, Candy looked over her shoulder and said breathlessly, “I’ll be back Mister Fank, don’t go!”
I smiled, genuinely impressed and told Don that I thought she was really cute. “She kinda reminds me a little of Shirley Temple.” I added.
“Yeah, takes after me, don’t you think?”
“Um, not really.” I said, shaking my head.
“Well, when we told her about you…that you were going to be her babysitter, the first thing she wanted to know was your name and why a man would want to babysit her. I didn’t know what to say to her, so you may want to think of something to tell her if she asks you.”
“Sure, that’s easy: money!” I laughed and Don smiled painfully.
After completing her trip to the bathroom, Candy came running and skipping back into the living room and took a position between the arm of my chair and my right leg—her little left arm resting on my thigh. While her parents and I talked she would occasionally look up at me, smile, and nod her head as if in agreement to whatever it was that we were saying.
Up to that point in my life I had never been around children, and really had no idea how to deal with them on a personal level. But just after a few minutes of having met her, Candy had already begun to steal my heart.
Dances, And Other Things
I began my babysitting for the Nietzsches the following weekend and the experience proved to be extremely beneficial for all concerned. Caring for little Candy was pleasant beyond belief—easier and more satisfying than I’d ever dreamed it would be. She was a little bundle of joy who acted more adult than most of the adults that I knew at that point.
On the evenings that I was asked to babysit, Cassie insisted that I skip eating at the chow hall before coming over.
“I don’t know how you can stand to eat there!” She told me. “It’s small, and looks dirty—and God only knows what those horrid- looking cooks are up to before they start cooking.”
As far as I was concerned, the food there was fine; much better than anything I’d ever had at home, and, although certainly not up to par with the fine restaurants at the downtown casinos, it was, after all, free. Regardless, Cassie always made sure that there was a complete home-cooked meal in the refrigerator, or one just out of the oven waiting for me.
A couple of times Don complained to anyone who would listen, that even though they were going out to have dinner at some restaurant or casino, Cassie would always insist on preparing a full meal for me, in addition to Candy’s meal, to eat after they’d left. Then, to boot, he would have to spend money on their own dinner and entertainment, and finally he still had to pony up for my babysitting wages. Although all that seemed to aggravate him to no end, I had to admit it was a bit of a racket.
When it was time for dinner Candy would insist on my eating at the same time she ate hers—along with her dolls. While I was warming up our food Candy would busy herself seating four of her dolls on the table’s side chairs then setting out her little tea set as a place setting for each one of them. Satisfied that everything was set out correctly, she would then direct that I sit at the head of the table and her at the foot.
Before we were allowed to start eating she would insist that we say grace, and when doing so I was required to hold onto the plastic hands of the dolls on either side of me. After grace she would instruct each doll how to eat their food and drink their tea “with manners”—like her and Fank. She would also remind them that if they wanted to talk to me they had to address me as, “Mr. Fank the sir”. With her little index finger wagging in their direction, she told them that she was the only one allowed to call me just plain Fank. Thankfully the dolls never had much to say.
Her bedtime was somewhere between seven-thirty and eight o’clock, and once I’d gotten her ready for bed and changed her into her night gown it was story time. I usually read her a selection from one of her many storybooks stashed under her little night table, and when she decided that she’d heard enough she’d make a little fake yawn and stretch her little arms over her head.
“I’m tired now, Fank.” She’d say, feigning extreme fatigue and blinking her eyes rapidly. “Time for me to sleep, OK?”
After tucking her in tightly she’d never let me leave her room without giving my head a big hug and planting a wet sloppy kiss on my cheek. As I looked back at her before partially closing her door she’d always say, “Fank, tank you for taking care of me when mommy’s away at night. I love you.” I always told her that I loved her too.
Over the months I found that I’d grown extremely attached to Candy, so when Don told me that he’d received orders and was being transferred in a few weeks to Stead Air Force Base in Reno, I was more heartbroken than sad. The days seemed to fly by, and on the last day that I babysat Candy, Cassie and Don asked me not to mention that I wouldn’t be babysitting her ever again. When I asked them what they were going to say to her, they said they planned to tell Candy that I would also be transferred to Reno, but would arrive at a much later date.
The last time I saw Candy I was careful not to say goodbye. When she asked when I was coming to see her in her new house, I just said that it would be very soon.
“OK,” she said, in her breathless little way, “but hurry, because me and my babies (her dolls) are going to miss you verrry much until we can see you again.” Then she planted a wet sloppy kiss on my cheek and said, “I love you”.
It was hard for me not to tear up just a bit.
When I saw them the day before they left we all promised to stay in touch, and they promised to send me pictures of Candy as she grew up.
Sadly, I never heard from them ever again—but I’ve never forgotten Candy.
***
The extra money I made babysitting Candy came in very handy. For one thing I was able to send my mother a money order to cover the cost of sending me my Gibson guitar via Greyhound shipping. The day it arrived brought me much happiness and I spent one whole evening getting reacquainted with my old friend.
One evening, as I was in my room teaching myself a couple of Peter, Paul and Mary folk songs. I heard a knock on my door. It turned out that a couple of guys from my work crew were on their way to the Officers’ Club when they overheard me playing as they passed my room. After a few minutes they asked me if I wanted to come with them to the club and maybe play a few songs.
“I don’t know a lot of songs, really.” I said, truthfully. But they didn’t seem to care and insisted that I join them.
After a couple of minutes of urging, and the promise of a few free drinks, I agreed to join them.
When we arrived there were just a few guys hanging around the bar listening to the juke box. One of the guys I was with said to no one in particular, “Hey, unplug that thing and let’s get us a little hootenanny going here.”
I wasn’t sure what he’d just said, but after spotting a covered-up piano sitting against the wall, I told them I needed to tune up my guitar. Finally, all tuned up I pulled up a chair and started strumming through a few chords.
“Hey!” Someone behind me said. “You know how to play “If I Had a Hammer”? As luck would have it I liked that particular song so much I’d been learning the chords for a couple of weeks.
“Yeah, well I know the chord structure, but I’m not too sure of all the lyrics.”
“No sweat!” One of the guys from my barracks chimed in. “Start it up and we’ll all join in. Among all of us we’ll figure out the words. And if we don’t, who gives a shit!” Everyone whooped and cheered on that so I looked down and formed a C chord.
And so with a little flourish I proceeded to strum through the first two intro bars of C, Em, F, & G, and launched into the first verse. Before I knew it the whole group was singing and clapping, and we had us a grand old hootenanny going!
A couple of songs later I was handed a beer, then another; pretty soon I realized that the more beer I consumed, the better I played and the better we all sounded.
That evening was the start of a lot of good times and did a lot to boost my self-confidence and break up my loneliness. We’d gather a few nights a week at the club and play and sing a lot of the folk songs that were beginning to take hold in the music world. Since I’d heard, or knew of, very few non-religious songs while in Houston, just about every song that was popular and well-known to most of my colleagues was completely new to me. I found that folk and country music, for the most part, was fairly simple, chord-wise. Many popular songs consisted of a plain three- or four-chord progression and were done in three-four or four-four time. In no time at all my repertoire had grown and I found myself doing more and more solos, with the group just listening and swaying to the beat. The music probably just transported them back home to their pre-Air Force days.
One evening, while tuning my guitar to the club’s piano, I started sounding out chords to a couple of songs I sang and played on the guitar. I remembered those evenings back in Houston at church when I would pound out a few “coritos” for the congregation on the piano. So I just began to transpose some of the songs’ chord structure to the keys on the piano—sounding bass with my left hand and full chords with my right—and before I knew it I was banging out stuff like Jerry Lee Lewis’s, “Whole Lotta Shaking Goin’ On”, Fats Domino’s, “Blueberry Hill”, and The Kingsmen’s, “Louie Louie”.
The extra income also made it a little easier for me to spend more time with Sharon, which later ended up causing us both a boatload of problems. I had resumed going to the Town Hall dances, and with my newly-acquired dancing skills was able to pretty much dance with Sharon the whole night. But after some time we found that although the dances were fun, we both wanted to spend more time alone with each other.
When I couldn’t borrow Michael’s car to go into town, I found I could now afford to use a taxi for transportation. A pickup and return at the base, using the same car and driver, cost two dollars round trip, or three dollars if I used one taxi to drive me into town and another to bring me back to the base. With this newfound mode of transportation, I began to spend more time at Sharon’s house—usually in the evenings when her mom was at work.
One evening, while I was at Sharon’s house, I heard a loud knock at the door. Sharon answered, then quickly turned to me.
“It’s Michael, and he’s here in an Air Force jeep!”
What?!
I got up quickly from the couch and sprinted to the door. There was Michael, in uniform.
“Hey Frank! Come on man, you’re needed back at the base! Come on!! We gotta go!!”
I didn’t know what to think or what else to say, so I followed Michael, who by now was back at the jeep. On the way back to the base I kept asking him if we’d been put on alert, because we’d been briefed earlier in the week that relations between Russia and the U.S. had been deteriorating. Michael would only tell me that the lieutenant on duty had asked that I be returned to the base as soon as possible.
We flew through the front gate and pulled up in front of the Officers’ Club.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, slightly confused.
“This is where the lieutenant said to bring you.”
He jumped out of the jeep and waited for me to come around the front of the vehicle.
“Come on man! Hurry!”
We jogged to the front door and entered the darkened club. I spotted the duty lieutenant standing by the bar with the base commander next to him.
“Well,” the lieutenant said to Michael. “I see you found him.”
“Yes sir, I did. He wasn’t too hard to find.”
I stood there, not knowing what to do when the commander walked around and approached me.
“Well, airman DeLeón, I’m told you play a pretty mean piano.”
“Wha…What?” I stuttered.
He pointed to the area where the piano was normally stowed. It was now uncovered and pulled away from the wall. There was a set of drums set up and a couple of guitars on their stands behind two large amplifiers.
“See,” the commander continued, “we commissioned this band to play for us this weekend and it seems their piano player took ill and didn’t show up. I asked around and a couple of the guys, particularly your pal Michael here, told me that you would be happy to volunteer your services.”
“I, uh, so that’s why I was brought back here…sir? To play the piano?”
“Yup. Now get your ass behind that thing and let’s get some music going.”
I was shocked, confused and angry. Some guy in a gold sequined jacket walked up to me. “So, you need our set list?”
“What? What’s that?”
“Our set list! The songs we’re going to play. You know!”
“No, I don’t know. And, I’m not a professional musician.”
“Hey, neither are we. I’m a trucker when I’m not playing gigs and the rest of my guys are carpenters and mechanics. Anyway, just follow along—you’ll do fine.”
When I pulled the bench out from the piano everyone in the club, which was unusually packed, applauded. I broke out in a little sweat.
“So, since I can’t pay you—that would be illegal—I’ll keep your glass filled with whatever you’re drinking.” The lieutenant said, startling me a bit.
“Uh, I don’t know.” I saw he had a glass in his hand. “What’re you drinking?”
“Scotch and water. Cutty Sark scotch. A real man’s drink.”
“OK, that’ll be fine.” I’d never tasted scotch in my life and my first mouthful almost made me gag. But as with most liquor, after the third one, the Curry Sark was sliding down my throat effortlessly. From that night on, Cutty Sark scotch would be my drink of choice for many years.
Sometime later the base commander relented and instructed the bartenders that anytime I played the guitar or the piano at the club, in addition to free drinks, they should also give me a fiver. Many mornings I woke up to a raging hangover but that crumpled up five- dollar bill in my pocket always made me feel better.
A few months later Sharon’s mother met me at the door of her house as I arrived to visit Sharon.
“You kids really did it now, didn’t you?” She said, after having taken a large drag off her Kool menthol cigarette.
“Did what?” I asked.
“You went and got Sharon pregnant, that’s what!”
All feeling went out of my body and my mind stopped.
“Alright, don’t just stand there like a dope. Come on in and we’ll see how we can rectify this situation.”
She spun on her heel and went inside the house, leaving me on the porch to ponder my situation.
September 29, 1962
Three months had passed since Sharon and I were married and moved into the little home near downtown Winnemucca. And although I was still pulling those grueling nine days on and three days off shifts on top of the mountain, I was now also working almost full time at a Chevron station owned by one of the town’s prominent Basques, Philip Egosque.
Now heavily pregnant and a few days past her expected delivery date, Sharon had been ordered by her doctor to take daily walks to help position the baby correctly for its birth. It was during one of these walks about a mile from home, on a warm windless evening, that Sharon’s water suddenly and unexpectedly broke.
We’re Having a Baby!
“We’ve got to go home now!” I said to Sharon, a bit frantic. “Can you still walk OK?”
“Yes,” she answered, looking down between her legs at the growing puddle of liquid on the sidewalk, “but I don’t think I want to walk all the way home with this stuff running down my legs. Besides, a lot of it is getting into my shoes.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Not really, but the baby does seem a bit restless in there.”
“Maybe I should flag down a cab. Can you wait here?”
“Yeah, if I can lean against this wall I should be OK.”
The wall was the eastside wall of The Star casino, and there was usually a cab or two parked in the front ready to chauffeur a winning gambler to the next casino, or a losing one home.
I trotted around to the front of the building, and as luck would have it there were no cabs parked at the cab stand. Now what?
Hurrying back to where she was still standing uncomfortably, Sharon was holding her shoes in her hands—flimsy little slip-ons that afforded her swollen feet the freedom they needed.
“Sorry, there’s no cabs at the taxi stand.” I said, breathlessly.
“Great! Now what do we do?”
“We’ll just have to walk back home, I guess. Just leave your shoes off and lean on me.”
She pushed herself off the wall and put her arm around my shoulders.
“OK,” I said. “Easy does it.”
Normally a very petite and small-boned girl, she was now almost obscenely bloated, and even walking slowly caused her great discomfort. We’d walked (more like hobbled) about a block when a car, approaching us from behind, slowed down and stopped.
“Is she OK?” The woman driving yelled out the window.
“Well,” I responded, a little out of breath, “we’re about to have a baby! Her water broke back there and we’re trying to get home.”
“Shouldn’t she be going to the hospital?” The woman asked, now showing a bit more concern as she kept pace with her car.
Sharon spoke up. “No, I need to get home first to get my suitcase so I’ll have what I need after the baby comes.”
The woman slammed on the brakes, threw the car into Park, and came rushing out.
“Jesus, girl!” she said, grabbing Sharon’s other shoulder to help support her. “Let’s get you to my car and I’ll give you a ride back to your house. But then you really need to get to an emergency room—soon!”
Between the two of us we trundled her into the back seat, and I, with Sharon’s slightly soggy shoes still in hand, jumped into the right front seat.
“OK, now where to?”
“Straight until the end of the block, then left.”
In a few minutes we were back at our little house and I was pulling Sharon’s pre-packed suitcase out from under the bed.
She pulled something out from the dresser and barricaded herself in our small bathroom.
“Hey! Are you OK? We have to leave right away!” I yelled through the door.
“Just take the suitcase out to the car and put it in the trunk!” She yelled back. “I have to change first—and besides there’s still some stuff running out.”
I didn’t want to ask what that meant, so I hurried out to the old Chevy and threw the suitcase in the trunk.
As I hurried back into the house Sharon came waddling out of the bathroom, holding herself upright by sliding along the wall.
“Jesus, Sharon!” I said, now truly concerned. “You can hardly stand!”
“Well, I just got a real sharp cramp and I feel like I have to poop!” She said, pausing slightly and looking a little bit embarrassed.
I wasn’t sure pooping was on the agenda when giving birth so I hurried to grab her arm and guide her out the front door and to the car.
“Ow, ow, ow!” she exclaimed as I positioned her onto the raggedy bench seat.
“Oh my God! Is it coming out?”
“No dammit, you’re squeezing my arm too tightly!” She groaned as she tried in vain to swing her swollen legs into the car.
“Oh, sorry. Here let me get your legs in.”
“God, Frank! I feel like some kind of invalid!”
“No, no, no! You’re just having a baby, that’s all!”
“Well, no shit! That’s all?” She spewed that out sarcastically.
Finally getting all of her onto the seat, I slammed the creaky door and hurried around to the driver’s side. I prayed that the car would start, and wondered if maybe I should call on Jesus’s holy blood for help, just to be safe—like my mother used to do every time she got into dad’s car. As I turned the key I decided that I would do just that—but silently.
The winded little six-cylinder engine turned over painfully a couple of times then caught, sending a shudder through the whole body of the car.
“What?” Sharon asked, as I put the car into reverse.
“What, what?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder guiding the car out of the driveway.
“What did you say about blood?”
“Blood?”
“Yeah, you said ‘blood’ something just now.”
I did? “Oh, no! Not ‘blood’!” I thought quickly, then said, “I said ‘flood’! I said I hope the engine doesn’t flood!”
“Oh. It sure sounded like you said something about ‘blood’ and ‘Jesus’.
“That’s silly! Why would I say ‘blood’ or ‘Jesus’? I said, pulling out into the street.
“Well, that’s what I was wondering.”
Concentrating on the road I said, “That’s crazy.” But, I thought, it did work!
***
Guiding the car out onto the main road I tried to gather my thoughts and remember just exactly where the hospital was.
“OK, we’ll be there in just a couple of minutes.” I said to Sharon in my most calming tone of voice.
“Well, let’s stop at Alberta’s first so I can tell her the good news!”
Alberta was Sharon’s elder sister and had recently married Bernie, her long-time boyfriend. They lived in a second floor apartment on the other side of town and in a completely opposite direction from where the hospital was located.
“Alberta? Really? Alberta?”
“Yeah, you know. My sister.”
“I know who Alberta is, Sharon!! We can’t go see her now. You’re, you’re…about to burst!!”
“Oh, I am not! Stop exaggerating! Now that I’m in the car and not leaking anymore, I’m feeling pretty good.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just closed my mouth and shook my head.
“Don’t tell me you forgot where she lives?” Sharon calmly said, as she pointed out the window with her right hand as she held her humongous belly steady with her left.
“No! For God’s sake, Sharon! I know where she lives! I just can’t believe you really want me to take you there before we go to the hospital!”
“Sure, why not. It’ll just take a couple of minutes anyway. Then we can go to the hospital. Take the next right over there.”
And so we did go see Alberta…and Bernie. I parked the car in the apartment’s parking lot, being careful to leave it running, and went up the steps to the second floor. I knocked on the door, then heard a chain drop, and the door peeked open.
“Oh, hi Frank!” Alberta said cheerfully. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, sorry for the bother.” I started to say. “But, Sharon…”
“Hey Dinks!” Sharon yelled over my left shoulder. “Guess what? I’m about to pop!” (“Dinks” was Alberta’s family nickname).
Startled, I looked to my left to see Sharon standing there, both hands holding up her belly, grinning crazily.
“Jesus girl! Come on in before you drop the kid on the floor!” Alberta stepped to one side and gestured grandly for us to enter.
Somewhat regaining my composure, I yelled, “Sharon!! What the hell are doing here? You’re supposed to be in the car! And…did you just climb all those steps!!”
“Sure, silly. What? Do you think I flew up here?”
“Hey Bernie!” Alberta yelled back into the apartment. “Come here! Sharon’s here and she’s about to pop, but I think it’s probably Frank who’s gonna have a baby!”
“NO!” I blurted out. “We need to go! Now!!” And with that I grabbed Sharon’s arm and turned her in the direction of the stairs.
“Ow,” Sharon complained, “OK, don’t pull me so hard!”
As we gingerly navigated the stairs back down to the parking lot I heard Alberta yell, “Hey, ya’ll come back when you can stay longer!” Then she laughed loudly.
“Crazy Dinks!” Sharon said, as I pushed her legs back into the car.
“Sorry, but I don’t think Dinks is the crazy one here.” Putting the car in gear, I tried to remember where the hospital was.
***
Thirty-five minutes after Sharon was wheeled out of the check-in area and taken in the direction of the delivery room, I heard a loud and elongated pain-filled cry. After a few seconds of curious quiet, I heard the distinct sound of a baby crying uncontrollably.
At 9:37pm, on September 29, 1962, Ricky Mitchell DeLeón, was born.
