“Man, man, fuck all that. We ain’t got all day. We gotta line up … remember.”
“Yeah, okay. What’s happenin’?”
“I talked to Fargo and he copped out that he started it. He’s salty about his nose, but he can laugh at it, too. He didn’t expect it. Somebody told him you were a punk or something. But he’ll let it drop if you will … unless you start talking shit and bragging.”
“Afraid of getting his ass kicked.” Alex said it without reflection; it was the standard conclusion by the routine values of the reformatory. Anyone who avoided any fight by so much as “excuse me” or one step backward was deemed afraid.
“Naw, uh-uh, that little cat ain’t afraid of a grizzly bear. He’s a fightin’ motherfucker … an’ probably can kick your ass. In fact, ’cause he is a tough little cat and everybody knows it, he can let it slide without anybody thinkin’ he punked out. He knows he was dead wrong and respects you for having guts.”
The detail grounds was now virtually empty. A few stragglers were running toward their formations. Cottages were straightening ranks while a counselor took a head count.
A supervising counselor was bearing down on Alex and Lulu, waving an arm for them to move on. They started to move, angling away from each other while going in the same general direction.
“So what’ll I tell him?” Lulu called from ten feet away.
“It’s over as far as I’m concerned. I’ll shake his hand when I see him.”
“Man, don’t get fuckin’ sickening.” Lulu turned and began sprinting for Lincoln, which was the farthest formation. Alex half-walked, half-trotted toward where he belonged, a sudden elation filling him. He’d been ready to fight but was happy that it was unnecessary. It was the sudden removal of the tension, however, that made him glow inwardly.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Constantine snapped when Alex reached the cottage and slipped into his position.
“Just late, man, just late.” The smile went, the elation died. As he marched in step, able to do so without thinking about it, he rankled at the way Constantine had spoken. Sooner or later I’m gonna have trouble with him, Alex thought. Then he remembered the cigarette hidden in his pants cuff. The cottage would fall out at the recreation area for half an hour, then wash up and march to supper. It was summer, with long evenings, so after supper there’d be a softball game. He would be the center of three or four boys because of the cigarette. He’d have to share it to get a match, but he didn’t mind. He liked sharing. They would lie on the grass as far away from the counselor as possible and pass the butt around surreptitiously. He felt good looking forward to it.…
* * *
The houseparents were a couple in their early fifties named Hoffman. They had twin daughters who were married, and a third in the WACs. Although one counselor worked from midnight to eight A.M., and a second counselor worked from eight A.M. to five P.M., the Hoffmans were in charge. Living in a small apartment in the cottage, they were nearly as available as real parents. Any boy could knock on their door except, infrequently, when a DO NOT DISTURB sign dangled from the doorknob. When it was there the boys speculated on what was happening within. Roosevelt and Lincoln cottages, with older boys, didn’t have housemothers, but all the others had the same staff setup as Scouts. The Hoffmans, however, were more involved with their boys, and did all they could to make institutional living as homelike as possible. They used their own money for a record player, and to have ice-cream-and-cake birthday parties once a week for every boy having a birthday in that period. The Hoffmans tried to break down the “codes” of the underworld that these teenagers were making their personal ethics. When it became obvious that a boy was no longer malleable, he was transferred to another cottage, unless he was under the care of the institution psychiatrist, who was also the only physician. Scouts Cottage was deliberately more lax than the other cottages. Alex sometimes felt that he didn’t belong there, but he was nonetheless grateful—except for Constantine.
Two boys were assigned to the cottage as a work assignment. Called “housecats,” they cleaned and did light maintenance. Every boy had some small cleanup duty in addition to his own room, for Mrs. Hoffman kept the cottage immaculate, despite fifty delinquents, many of whom knew nothing except slovenliness and dirt, which go with poverty.
The Hoffmans showed a special interest in Alex. They were interested in all the boys, but even real parents have favorites, albeit secretly, and the Hoffmans were more interested in some boys than others. When a housecat went home, Mrs. Hoffman offered Alex the job. It was better than digging ditches, raking leaves, or pushing a lawnmower, and Alex had no desire to learn a trade—shoe shop, paint shop, sheet metal.…
Constantine, without doubt, was Mr. Hoffman’s most favored boy. Tall, well-built, and good-looking, with curly black hair and a seductive smile, it was easy to see why he was a monitor, especially when so many others were unattractive—unattractive in both looks and manner. Many were grossly ignorant and angry, illiterate black boys from the rural South, brought to Watts as sharecropping diminished in favor of mechanized farming; their parents searched for factory work and they took to the streets of the city. The Chicanos, many of them, had similar stories, except that their parents came across the border. And Okie accents were common among the whites, children of the Dust Bowl—or of broken homes and alcoholics. Youths of all races unable to respond to affection except with suspicion, unable to handle any problem except with rage, children disturbed by an endless list of family and social ills. Scouts Cottage had more boys with severe emotional problems than did the other cottages. Though the Hoffmans were fair, or tried to be, it was impossible not to prefer one who seemed near the All-American ideal. Constantine knew the value of his handsomeness. He hid his rage better than the others, and he also hid his background; his mother was a call girl, and he was a mistake. Nobody knew who his father was.
From the beginning Constantine saw Alex as a potential rival with the Hoffmans. The newcomer’s education also rankled Constantine, for Alex occasionally, and unintentionally, used some word that the ill-educated boys didn’t know. The second day that Alex was in the cottage, Constantine chalked an announcement on the bulletin board. Without thinking, Alex spoke up to correct a misspelling. The correction flushed Constantine’s cheeks and planted the seed of hostility.
Many of the authority-hating boys disliked Constantine, whispering, “He’s just a kiss-ass snitch.” But they were also afraid of him. When they saw how he felt about Alex, they kept their distance from the latter. It wasn’t “silence,” and he could always find someone to help him smoke the cigarettes Lulu gave him, but he couldn’t make any close friendships, and oftentimes he ached with loneliness, although he didn’t see anyone in Scouts whom he really liked and wanted for a buddy. He doubted that he could whip Constantine, though he wasn’t afraid to try—except he knew that it would turn Mr. Hoffman against him. He was careful to give Constantine no excuse to start anything. Getting out of step, making a marching mistake, or talking in ranks would bring a foot in the ass, the standard summary punishment approved by Mr. Hoffman and the superintendent. Alex was among those, and they were many, who never accepted a kick without a fight. That would bring Mr. Hoffman down on him, win or lose. Ergo, he made no mistakes. His quarters were immaculate. The anxiety would have been too great, and he would have gone at Constantine no matter what, except that he could relax completely in the mornings when he worked for Mrs. Hoffman. All the boys were gone in the mornings except for the other housecat, a thin Chicano nicknamed Hava. They usually worked for an hour or two, waxing the dayroom, pruning weeds from the shrubbery outside the cottage, washing windows.… Even then his mind could relax. Then, invariably, Mrs. Hoffman would call them into the apartment for donuts or cake or some other sweet delicacy. Whenever he thought of Mrs. Hoffman in the later years, he always thought of brownies; she gave him the first one he could ever remember. He dreaded noon when he and Hava joined the rest of the cottage on the ground
s detail. Even though he didn’t see Constantine at school in the afternoon, he had to stay ready. Seldom did an afternoon pass without at least one fist fight.
* * *
A month after becoming a housecat, Alex made a bushel of Chicano enemies, adding to his dilemma of feeling he didn’t belong. It was Sunday morning and he’d gone to Mass, so he could talk to Lulu afterward—find out if the Mexican was getting a visit in the afternoon. If so, Alex would pay the black monitor two cigarettes to make sure he was assigned to escort Lulu’s visitors to the visiting grounds. En route he’d pick up two packs of Lucky Strikes and hide them under a brick beside the recreational area for later pickup. Following visiting hours, everyone in Scouts was searched, and everyone who got a visit was skin-searched before returning to their cottages. Tomorrow, during school recess, he’d retrieve the cigarettes, take twelve and deliver the rest.
Mass was over. The boys had to file out one aisle at a time. Even then there was horseplay. Just beyond the door, where the priest stood and smiled good mornings, a grab-assing youth jumped backward to avoid retaliation and crashed into Alex, knocking him backward into someone else. “Excuse me, man,” he said. “I’m sorry.” But the boy ahead, who’d knocked Alex back, merely glanced at what he’d done and ignored the situation. Alex thought he saw contempt flicker on the boy’s face.
“Hey, man!” Alex called, his face hot. “Can’t you say ‘excuse me’?” His voice was loud and challenging. It froze the youth, called “Chango,” a huero Chicano with bright green eyes, low forehead, and hair that stood up like porcupine quills.
“What…?” he snapped, eyes glassy. “What the fuck did you say?”
A fight was at hand. More words would make no difference to that certainty. So while the Chicano’s mouth was still open, Alex put his fist in it, then followed the clean punch with a swarming volley. The first two punches caught the Chicano flush, knocking him backward. He clutched at Alex, ducking his head under the swings. They grappled, seeking a hold or a clean knee to the testicles.
The priest came running at the first sound of violence. He was still wearing the vestments of the Mass. He grabbed Alex by the collar from the rear and hurled him back. Alex couldn’t keep his feet under him and fell on his rump, hands extended behind him to take some of the force and to scrape the skin. Meanwhile, the priest had grabbed the furious Mexican and was holding him. The Chicano was spitting blood and cursing Alex—who gave him the finger in return.
Two counselors pushed through the milling boys, yelling: “Clear it out! Get to your cottages! Get on there! Break it up!”
As Alex got up, waiting for whatever was next, a dark Chicano from Roosevelt Cottage who looked like an Indian (and was nicknamed “Indio”) passed close by and paused for a moment, his dark eyes glittering. His face was a mask of fury. “You fucked up, white boy,” he snarled. “You shouldn’t have punched my homeboy. You’re gonna get fucked up.”
“Fuck you and your greasy mother, too.”
“Okay, punk, okay!”
“Okay my ass, sissy!”
A counselor was bearing down, hand outstretched to grab Alex as a culprit. Indio turned away, going with the flow of movement to join his cottage. He stopped to look back and nod affirmation of his threat.
The man vised Alex’s arms, digging in until the boy flinched.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. It was obvious that he, too, was a little nonplussed.
The antagonists were kept apart and escorted to the supervising counselor. He was in charge of the institution on Sunday mornings. He grabbed the Chicano’s nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. He asked no questions because he didn’t want to hear any lies. “You’re in different cottages so you can’t try a rematch. Can’t you find plenty of fights?…” He looked at the blank faces and knew how useless was any advice, even sardonic. “You’ve both got three hours of extra duty tonight. The next time you start fighting at church, I’m gonna finish it … and then drag your asses to the disciplinary cottage. They’ll have to pull my size twelve outa your butts.” To the men, he said: “Take ’em back to their cottages. Don’t bother with an incident report.”
* * *
That sunny afternoon, with the visiting grounds full of boys and their families, so it looked like a picnic area in a park, Alex looked for Lulu and his family. He had walked Lulu’s sister and her husband in earlier, picked up the cigarettes, and now he was back to see his friend. Lulu saw him coming and got up to meet him, beyond hearing range. Usually he motioned Alex over. Now his face was stern. “Man, how come you copped a Sunday punch on Chango?”
“Because the motherfucker crashed into me … and he was gonna Sunday me.”
Lulu shook his head. “Watch yourself, man. A whole bunch of beans are mad.”
“Let ’em scratch their asses and get glad.” The bravado hid the knot of worry. It wasn’t overpowering fear, but it was serious. It would have been worse in nearly any other cottage, for Chicanos were fifty percent of the institution’s population, but of fifty boys in Scouts, just seven were Mexican, and none were troublemakers. In fact, they were there because they were too Americanized and didn’t even speak Spanish, which made them semi-outcasts among other Chicanos. Except for Hava. He was well-liked, or so it seemed to Alex. Hava always had plenty of friends from other cottages to talk to him on the grounds detail and whenever else the cottages mingled. Lulu said that Hava’s brother was a bigshot narcotics peddler in East Los Angeles. Alex hoped Hava wouldn’t turn against him; not that he was afraid of the Chicano. Alex could handle him with ease, but he liked Hava. He also liked Lulu. “What about you, man?” Alex asked; he was just learning about race. He’d never thought that anyone but white persons could be prejudiced, and he’d never been so.
“I won’t jump you … but I’m a Mexican … and I can’t go against my people to help you.”
“Yeah, I know, man.”
One of the counselors who watched over the visiting grounds had been eyeing the talking boys. It was against the rules, and he’d let them have enough leeway. He started to move in. They saw him and said goodbye, shaking hands. It was an unusual gesture, gauged by the predicament.
Alex continued to the restroom, and while he urinated an ache of loneliness rose inside him. It seemed as if he was at war with the whole world without having anyone on his side.
“Fuck ’em,” he muttered as he buttoned his pants.
Because it was summer and twilights were long, the cottages went to the outdoor recreation yards following supper. A big, mainly dirt athletic field was divided in half by a line. Scouts Cottage had one half; Washington Cottage the other. Hoover Cottage had an area visible in the distance, and the other cottages were elsewhere on the state property, near the buildings housing them.
When the ranks disintegrated, most of the boys gathered around Mr. Hoffman and Constantine—and the cardboard boxes filled with brown bags, the goodies left by visitors earlier in the day. Mr. Hoffman called out each name, and as each boy got his bag and turned away he was joined by his friends. They flopped on the lawn and gorged on whatever the family had left, predominantly cookies and candy.
Ignoring the crowd, Alex strolled with his head down to the trees beside the road, which was the boundary line. He sat down with a tree trunk as a back brace. Pretty soon he would be picked up to do the extra duty for the fight—wash the high, vaulted windows in the mess hall. Meanwhile, he’d light up a cigarette. Probably one or two of the few boys he talked to would come over, mouths salivating for nicotine. He’d share with them because it made him feel good, even thought he had no close friends in this cottage—not even one partner, which nearly everyone had unless they were finks or dingalings.
Two boys whom he didn’t expect approached him. One was Watkins, a skinny Okie with a loud mouth. Hearing his voice without seeing him, anyone would expect a huge brute, not a fourteen-year-old with a wizened countenance and a jagged scar down his cheek.
The second boy was a newcomer, but Alex
had seen him over a year earlier in Juvenile Hall. Joe Altabella by name, he was called JoJo. An already husky lad, he would fatten on pasta with passing years. Now he was good-looking, with curly dark hair tumbling down his forehead. He wore a ducktail, as did everyone. Because he was Italian, and could also pretty much understand Spanish, he got along with the Mexicans. He wasn’t considered a “white boy,” per se. He’d had a visit today, his parents (the mother cried) and two sisters. One was a skinny ten-year-old, but the other had many boys looking. Precociously developed at thirteen, she had full breasts and hips to go along with luxuriant dark hair and big hazel eyes—and the tint of olive in lovely skin. Alex flashed these thoughts in the half minute as the two boys approached. He shaded his eyes with his hand to look up. The dying sun was behind them.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Ain’t much,” Watkins said. “Thought you might wanna smoke one of JoJo’s fags with us—but you’re fired up already.”
“I saw that scene at Mass this morning,” JoJo said. “Chango is a troublemaker. He tried to get me jumped in Juvenile Hall … said I was trying to be a Mexican ’cause I was speaking Spanish. He’s a real nutty guy.”
“Yeah, man, you gots troubles,” Watkins commented.
The statement touched a nerve, seemed a challenge. “I got trouble,” Alex said, “but he’s got two black eyes. You guys come over to offer help?”
“No, no!” Watkins said. “I ain’t fightin’ all the Mexicans for no California boy.” His voice was shrill, nearly a parody. It made Alex smile. Watkins was a clown in his way.
“We wanna get outa here,” JoJo said. “Split.”
Watkins turned his head and glared. “We decided I’d tell him, huh, man?” He waited for JoJo’s nod, then said to Alex, “Would you like to make it outa here?”
“I haven’t thought about it … not seriously anyway. Everybody thinks about it some.”
“Well, man, put some serious thought on it and let us know.”
Little Boy Blue Page 22
