The black dropped instantly, flat on his back, blood gushing from his mouth where his teeth were driven through his lip. He was out cold. It was the first time Alex had ever knocked someone unconscious. And from the encounter he learned the value of surprise. He was certain the black could whip him in a fair fight.
The fight cost him five days in “seclusion.” He didn’t mind because a prior occupant had stashed half a dozen books under the bunk. Two were Zane Grey Westerns, which he always enjoyed, and three were from the Hardy Boys series, which he’d once loved but now found too simple. Still, he read them. The last book didn’t have a title that meant anything to him—Native Son—and he put it aside until nothing else remained. It was a little hard to read at first, but soon he forgot the words he sometimes missed and was lost in its world of ghettos and blackness and life. He was too young to know why it was affecting him so much, why it was so different from everything else he’d read. It was as if the brutalized and hate-filled young Negro reflected an unbelievable amount of what Alex had seen and experienced and felt. Alex still had the last few chapters to read when a counselor told him to get ready for the main population. He wasn’t supposed to have books in seclusion, so he couldn’t carry it out. Feeling a pang of guilt, he nevertheless tore out the remaining chapters and stuffed them down the front of his denims. He had to finish this book. He did so that night seated on a toilet in the small dormitory restroom under a wan light after the regular lights were turned off.
The black monitor still had strands of catgut jutting from his drooping lower lip. But when his glance met Alex’s, the black looked away, and the white boy recognized his own victory. He’d expected another challenge and was ready to fight without bothering to talk. The monitor’s nickname was T-Bone, and whenever the counselor brought out the boxing gloves, T-Bone put them on with anyone who dared. After seeing T-Bone, Alex was even more certain that the black could beat him up. But T-Bone didn’t know it, nor did anyone else in the company. Thereafter Alex had far less trouble than during the first sojourn in Juvenile Hall. On Sunday afternoons, following the visiting hours, the boys got the packages of candy and magazines brought by their families. Alex got no visitors, but he always was offered lots of candy and the first chance at the magazines. He had gained status in a pecking order built entirely on violence. He was too young to question its values, where a cretin could be the most highly respected if he was the toughest, but nonetheless his intelligence gave him an advantage. He had beaten the black by thinking fast, and now he had an upper hand because he’d been smarter.
During the weeks of waiting for delivery to reform school, Alex kept pretty much to himself, his demeanor aloof, discouraging any attempts at friendship. Even the fact that he was going to reform school, the worst punishment the state possessed, gave him added status in Juvenile Hall.
* * *
During a long rainstorm, the worst to strike southern California since 1933, a counselor came to the classroom to fetch him. If it had been someone in Juvenile Hall calling him for an interview, a monitor would have come with the pass; the counselor meant that transportation to Whittier was waiting.
A pair of men in cheap business suits were waiting for him and two others. The men were from Whittier. The other two boys were Chicano; they were brothers who had inflicted multiple slices on a youth from a different street gang. These two brothers were from “White Fence,” a barrio with a block-long white fence in it. They were also afraid of Whittier; White Fence was a gang at war with nearly all other Chicano gangs. It was without allies. And its members, unless unusually tough, were given a rough time in the youth institutions. They’d been pointed out to Alex by another Chicano, a friend of Lulu’s from Temple Street. Lulu was already in Whittier.
The Chicano brothers were already in civilian clothes and being handcuffed together when Alex entered; one of them was holding a shoe-box of letters and snapshots. A rain-pelted tree was wind-lashed so it scratched a window; it was the loudest sound as Alex changed into his own clothes, now musty from hanging unwashed for so long. The men from the reform school watched him, and when he was through one of them patted him down and brought out another pair of handcuffs.
“Should we put this one in the middle?” he asked his partner. “He’s the jackrabbit in the bunch.”
“Naw, he’ll be okay on the outside.”
The steel was fastened around Alex’s right wrist, binding it to the left wrist of one Chicano. The trio was shepherded through the electronically controlled doors and hurried with heads down through the rain gusts—one man leading, the other following—to a station wagon with State of California on its side.
The drive took an hour. Whittier was a suburban community east of Los Angeles, and at first Alex had a terrifying thought that they were really going back to Pacific Colony, which was also east. Whittier, however, was ten miles to the south.
Elsewhere the storm was hitting the southern California coast with wicked backhand slaps, and causing canyon houses to slide off their perches; but here it was merely shivering trees and overflowing gutters and empty sidewalks. Once the driver had to slam a heel into the brake pedal to avoid plowing into a stalled car. Everyone in the station wagon lurched forward. Alex was shot through with a moment’s fear as the car slid on the wet street, but as it straightened out and they gained momentum, he wished that they’d been wrecked—a bad wreck in which the prisoners had a chance to run. In later years, whenever he was transported anywhere he would beg fate for such an accident. This was just the first time.
The tires hissed on the wet asphalt as they passed beyond the barrios of East Los Angeles to the stucco suburbs and citrus groves. Trees leaned and writhed. The few vehicles moving around traveled slowly, their headlights turned on.
Whittier State School had its name on the front gate. The gate was open and no fence ran along the front. It faced a busy boulevard. The rear, however, had tall fences with rolled concertina. The buildings spread were brick Tudor. The grounds were twenty acres of manicured lawns and trim lodges. It looked more like a small college than a reform school. It took close inspection to see the chains welded across the windowframes, making sure they wouldn’t open wide enough for a body.
Receiving Company was what its name indicated, a place where newcomers were processed and indoctrinated. The first day was spent at the institution hospital; he was examined, vaccinated, inoculated, and, because of his history, interviewed by a psychologist. Half of the next day was spent with a social worker, who had the court records but wanted to know what schools and institutions he’d been in, what social service agencies had handled him. Whittier would write for more information about him. Such things were immaterial to Alex; he was concerned solely with learning the reform school routine, the mores and styles, in learning his role and being accepted. The routine was basically military school discipline, enforced by civilians. The main civilian in each company was called a housefather; he and his wife lived in the cottage with the boys. Two other men worked the morning and graveyard shifts; they were counselors. Aiding the civilians were “officers,” three boys, one of each race; they called the cadence, gave orders, and were quick to kick the slow-witted in the buttocks for dozens of infractions.
Mr. Morris, the Receiving Company housefather, still had traces of an English accent. In his fifties, he was a balding physical-fitness zealot. So was his petite-framed wife. In addition to the perforated paddle (“Bend over and grab your ankles”), Mr. Morris enforced discipline by liberal calisthenics. Minor infractions, such as audibly cutting wind in the dayroom or whispering in line, brought thirty-five situps or twenty pushups. Serious matters could bring an ear-ringing cuff on the head, a kick in the rump, or swats with the paddle, depending on circumstances and mood. Then, in the evening, the miscreants (there were several every day) did one hundred pushups in five sets of twenty, fifty deep knee bends, and fifty situps, which Mr. Morris did with them. Often his wife did them too. Despite being forty years old, she’d kept
a taut figure, and the boys watched her brown legs and tried to sneak glances up her dress. The most adventuresome attached tiny bits of mirror to their shoes, then stood close to her, swearing later that they saw hair via the mirror.
Three hours a day were spent learning how to march. Alex already knew how from his sojourns in military schools, but he was a rarity. For the first three days, a newcomer was taught by a boy officer away from the rest of the company. After that, he was put with the others to learn or suffer. Being out of step brought a boot in the butt, as did any other drilling error. At the end of each drill period, the company did half an hour of strenuous exercises; they also did them before breakfast. When they went to a regular company they were in top condition, the thin arms of boyhood growing a ridge of muscle at the tricep, an unusual thing in young boys; and instead of boyhood’s usual tummy, they developed rippling stomach muscles. Mr. Morris worked hard to create healthy bodies; he didn’t think they had minds, so he didn’t bother with that. In weeks they marched like a military drill team.
Because Alex knew how to march and had had the experience of other institutions, he avoided conflict with the officers. But he had a small, hard nugget of resentment for what they did, meanwhile recognizing that any of them could make mincemeat of him. Nevertheless, he knew that any kick or punch on the shoulder would make him fight whoever did it. He must have radiated his preparedness, for he wasn’t kicked when he whispered during silent periods. The officers just signaled him to be quiet. They were obviously picked first because they were among the toughest in the company, and secondly because they would do so for extra prerogatives; few thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds understood the underworld “code” to the extent where this behavior violated it. They did know that outright “snitching” was wrong, but doing the Man’s work of enforcing order was different. Alex seemed to be the only one who had misgivings when an officer beat up another boy for breaking the rules. A big, tough white officer (he weighed one seventy and shaved regularly at fifteen) nicknamed Skull kicked a smaller Mexican for horseplay in the shower line. The Mexican was snatching a towel from the waist of another Mexican in front of him. When kicked, he turned and punched—and the fight was on. The Mexican lost, but it was a hard, vicious brawl where the two boys stood toe to toe and the much larger Skull had a black eye and bumps on his face. When the Mexican officer went to a regular company, the fighting Mexican was promoted to the vacated position. He began kicking those who started the horseplay in line, those who talked, those who did anything, and joyfully pummelled any who fought back. A few boys were immune from the officers because they were too tough; they, themselves, would have been promoted except that they were just too much trouble—too rebellious. Mr. Morris took care of them. Another category received kicks, but “pulled,” delivered at half-force with the flat side of the shoe; the culprit could arch his back and take it painlessly. The majority, however, learned to march and follow the rules by bruising kicks. They learned quickly, too; and any sign of protest brought a fist in the mouth.
Receiving Company was especially strict. Everything was done in silence. Every process, from wakeup, through washup, breakfast, drill and even showers, was done by the numbers. For example, they filed into their narrow lockers preparatory to showers. The officer gave them a left face, so they stood at attention facing each locker. At the command of “one” they put their hands on the locker; at “two” they opened it; at “three” they took out the towel and put their shoes inside.…
So it went for months and months. Alex knew he’d been marked as a troublemaker from things Mr. Morris said. Word had come from the front office, based on the files. “We’ll break you,” Mr. Morris said once. “You’re not so tough,” he said another time. But Alex didn’t get into any trouble; the extreme discipline somehow made him patient and watchful. It was a challenge. He didn’t know anyone in this company, which was newcomers from the whole state of California. Receiving wasn’t allowed to mingle with other companies, but Alex saw faces he knew in church. Everyone had to attend either Catholic Mass or Protestant services. He went for the Mass because many boys wore the rosary as jewelry; he liked how it looked, and he got one from the priest. At Mass he saw Lulu, who grinned and nodded a greeting. It made Alex warm inside. He also saw Max Dembo, who waved a greeting. A few others from Juvenile Hall waved recognition and greeting. Some newcomers knew nobody, but others, especially blacks and Chicanos, saw a score or more of friends from their neighborhoods. It was old-home week to them.
The youngest boys at Whittier, from eight to ten years old, were in Wrigley Cottage; their “dress” clothes were Cub Scout uniforms. Wrigley Cottage was famous for its marches. Wrigley not only won close-order drill competition from the rest of Whittier, it had also beaten the U.S. Marine drill team from Camp Pendleton. Hoover Cottage was for slightly older boys, eleven or even twelve. Then came Scouts and Washington. The oldest and toughest boys were in Roosevelt and Lincoln. Most were fifteen and some were sixteen.
Alex was later transferred to Scouts, and he had mixed feelings about it. By comparison to the other cottages, Scouts was less regimented. It was the only cottage with private rooms instead of dormitories. On Sundays, it provided escorts for visitors from the front gate to the picnic area or auditorium; the weather dictated which. The boys thus had a chance to ask the visitors for cigarettes, the most valuable commodity in the institution. Running a distant second was Dixie Peach hair pomade; it was also contraband, as were all pomade and hair oil, because the boys drenched themselves and grossly stained the bedding. Their intricate hairdos, all with fancy ducktails, required lots of grease to stay in place. Access to the visitors allowed boys from Scouts to smuggle in cigarettes and pomade for others. The boys were searched, but the escorts could hide things in bushes en route here and there. They were too young, at least in this era, for marijuana, though a few had experience with it, and many claimed experience.
Scouts Cottage also went on more “town trips” than the others: the Boy Scout jamborees, parades, and an occasional movie. Such things were all to the good. To the bad—what caused Alex’s misgivings—was that boys too soft for Washington, Lincoln, or Roosevelt were also sent to Scouts. Not all were thus. Most were average delinquents and a few were “crazier” than average. But the twenty percent in Scouts because of being weak gave a stigma to the others; the question was always raised if a newcomer was assigned there—until he proved himself, anyway. So, despite the comparatively easier living—and it was entirely by comparison—it rankled Alex that anyone might assume him too weak for a different cottage. He was ready to fight a grizzly to prove himself.
Scouts had faces that Alex recalled from Juvenile Hall, but he couldn’t put names to them and didn’t know them. The white boy officer got him bedding and linen and showed him the room he was assigned on the second floor. All the rooms were there, down two hallways at right angles. Where the hallways joined was the stairwell and a heavy door, the only exit. Here sat the night man’s desk, too.
The room was nicer than any Alex had had in a foster home or military school. The small space was used efficiently. The bunk was built in against a wall, and its bottom had large drawers for extra clothes and property. A tiny wardrobe cabinet was fitted at the foot of the bed to the wall beside the door. The room door was never locked because the showers, washroom, and toilets were down the corridor. Writing desk and chair faced the room’s small window, which had curtains and no bars. But he couldn’t climb out because a short chain had been welded to the windowframe so it wouldn’t open far enough.
Alex noted these things while making the bed. The white boy with the English-style officer’s bars on his collar waited in the doorway.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” the officer said. “We have a room inspection before lunch. You gotta get the dust even from the corners of the bed-frame under the mattress, for example.”
Alex wanted to reply sarcastically but held back. He didn’t resent the information but how it was given. T
he tone wasn’t friendly advice; it was an order with an implicit threat. Moreover, Alex had previously noted this boy and disliked him. His last name was Constantine (everyone used last names almost exclusively, as in the army), and he conveyed (at least to Alex) a snobbish, superior attitude, as if he thought himself better than the others. Where nearly all the boys, including Alex, combed their hair in ducktails, Constantine parted his and had a small pompadour. Where the style was to pull pants far down and roll them up at the bottom (this was the “hep” look), Constantine wore his conventionally. The man often used him as an example. He was the housefather’s pet, and yet he had to be able to fight or he wouldn’t have been an officer.
Thinking about Constantine occupied Alex while he “squared” the corners of the bed in the neatest manner.
“Do the rest later,” Constantine said, meaning the rest of the cleaning of the room. Somehow this simple instruction likewise grated on Alex. Saying nothing, he knew that he and Constantine would eventually collide. Alex doubted that he could whip Constantine in a fair fight; he would have to obtain, and maintain, some kind of an advantage.…
* * *
Whittier’s youngest boys, those in Wrigley and Hoover cottages, attended school all day. Their classrooms were in the cottages. They were kept away from the corrupting influence of the older boys, who attended school for half a day in the education building, then worked the other half. Some were assigned to vocational shoe shop, print shop, paint shop, sheet metal, and so forth; they learned to put heels on institutional brogans and slop whitewash on institutional dayrooms. Others took care of the hundreds of chickens and the herd of milk cows, or irrigated the alfalfa. A handful were on the Extra Squad, a crew that labored wherever needed. Sometimes they raked leaves or swept a road—but a broken pipe beneath the road had them digging through asphalt, dirt, and clay. Alex found himself doing the work of a grown man. For the first week his back and legs ached in the morning, but his body adjusted and toughened. Although he vilified the assignment and listened to boys ridiculing it (a shovel was one of the “idiot sticks” of the world), deep inside he derived pleasure from the work. It validated him as a man, and he got a gut pleasure from the bite of the shovel into the earth and the bunching of his shoulder muscles as he hoisted it. He didn’t drive himself to special effort, but he did enough to avoid yells from the man, usually a relief counselor from one of the cottages who had nothing to do while the boys were at school. The housemother, the wife of the housefather, who had the afternoon and evening shift, kept a few boys for “housecats.” They cleaned and polished the cottage. But the day counselor had other duties, supervising a work crew or helping to watch Jefferson Cottage, the disciplinary company. Jefferson really worked hard.
Little Boy Blue Page 20
