Livin' After Midnight

by Tom Nelson

  Tom just asks a little sheepishly, “So . . . do you guys party?”

  ~~~

  There were three men and a woman in the pool when Tom had hopped in. Two couples. Tom is at the apartment of one of the couples where lines of coke have been laid out on a glass-topped table. Everyone is snorting coke with straws and rolled-up bills. “Wow! This is some good shit!” says one of the guys, and the comment is reiterated throughout the others. “Looks like you just found a few new customers.”

  “Excellent,” Tom says, “because the person I was delivering to earlier just got scratched off my clientele list.” Everyone laughs.

  “It must be tough, man, dealing with that kinda shit. People settin’ you up, rattin’ you out,” one of the guys says, and the others sort of mumble their agreement.

  “Yeah, it’s a bitch!” Tom replies. “Playing this game in a town like LA, it’s not if I get busted,” he pauses a second, “it’s when I get busted.”

  1984

  Tom is ushered into a jail cell connected to the courthouse. He is wearing what he had on when he was busted: shorts, T-shirt, and Reebok running shoes with his socks rolled down. He has just been bussed in from the Hollywood police station, where he spent the night waiting to go to his arraignment this morning in Downtown LA.

  Tom walks into the small holding cell and looks around. There are five Mexican men in the cell with him, all either waiting to go to court or back to the LA County jail. Tom sits down across from the others and, almost immediately, one of them—obviously the self-appointed leader—asks, “Hey, homes, what size are those shoes?”

  Tom doesn’t reply and acts as though he doesn’t know he is being talked to.

  “I said, what size are those shoes, homes?” the Mexican man repeats as he stands up.

  Tom, now on full alert, casually looks up and says, “They’re my size, homes.”

  “Oh, you think you’re funny, huh? Let’s rush this fool and take his shit!” the man says and the other four men in his group come to their feet. Tom stands up and, as the five guys move toward him, takes a large step back and up onto the bench where he was sitting. The men approach Tom with wailing fists, but the room is too small for all of them to get near enough to land a blow. Tom immediately strikes the leader of the group in the nose, which reels him for a moment, and Tom lands several more blows to the heads and faces of the others. Tom is standing on the bench, so he is two feet taller than his adversaries. The leader throws a combination of punches to Tom’s midsection, but they fall useless against his solid torso. Tom takes this opportunity to throw a jab at the eye of the leader and opens a cut, which makes the man step back and reach for his eye and feel blood. Arthur would be proud, Tom thinks.

  Suddenly the sound of keys being used in the large steel security door snaps everyone to attention. This door isolates the holding cell from the courtroom, so they all quickly return to the seats where they had been prior to the scuffle. The last thing any of them wants is for the judge and the entire court to know they are fighting in the holding cell, in addition to their other charges.

  The deputy on duty comes into the hallway and asks in a demanding voice, “What the hell are you guys doing in here?” He looks around with a menacing eye.

  Tom and the leader of the group of Mexicans both reply in unison, “Nothing.”

  The deputy says, “It doesn’t sound like nothing!” as he looks around the cell again. “Keep it down in here. Court is still in session!” and he returns to the courtroom with the clanking of the keys.

  All six men in the holding cell are still seated, sort of evaluating their physical situations. Tom is fine with the exception of a couple of sore spots on his ribs. The leader of the others has a one-inch cut above his left eye, which is swelling quite nicely, and two others have a couple of lumps forming on their heads and faces. The two who were at the back of the pack made it through the scuffle unscathed.

  The five men across from Tom are debating whether they want to start round two when the clanking of the keys interrupts them once again.

  Ushered into the hallway by the deputy is a very Caucasian-looking man wearing handcuffs, which the deputy removes once the inmate is securely isolated from the courtroom. The deputy opens the barred gate of the holding cell and the ‘new guy’ walks in and sits down. The deputy heads back into the court and the five Mexicans begin talking among themselves in Spanish, building each other up to intimidate the new guy. It’s obviously working because the new guy becomes a bit tense as the five Mexicans’ conversation goes on. It is apparent to Tom that this guy can understand every word they are saying.

  The leader of the group, now in slightly better shape after wiping his eye with a T-shirt and some water from the holding cell sink, stands up and starts his spiel all over again, “Hey, homes, what size are those shoes?” Only this time he is talking to the new guy in the cell.

  The guy sits still and quiet and doesn’t respond. He already knows what their intentions are, as does Tom, and he is trying to figure out the best way to get the hell out of this situation.

  “I asked you a question, man. What size are those fucking shoes?”

  “They’re his size,” Tom’s voice was a low grumble. Tom looks over at the leader, then takes in the group one at a time, and says, “Do you really think I’m just going to sit here while you guys beat up on this man and rob him of his shoes?”

  Tom’s eyes keep moving around the group, three out of five of which have bumps, scrapes, or cuts from their previous round with Tom. “I’ve already touched you guys up once,” he continues looking around the group, always making eye contact, “and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, wood,” the leader calls Tom by a more respected term in the California prison system: peckerwood.

  Tom replies, “You’re wrong, man,” and pauses for effect, then says, “I know exactly what I’m getting myself into.” Tom turns to the new guy in the cell that he has just stood up for and asks, “Cual es tu nombre?”

  “Miguel,” is the response. “I speak English and Spanish, as you obviously already know,” Miguel tells Tom in English.

  Tom replies, “I know.”

  Miguel is an educated Peruvian man who speaks several languages. Tom will learn very little about his new friend during their first encounter, however.

  Tom, still in his seat next to Miguel facing the five Mexican men, says quietly, “Just stick close to me during the rest of this little adventure.” Miguel looks at Tom with admiration and appreciation for what has just taken place. He fully understands both the Spanish and English parts of what is transpiring and understands that Tom is stepping in on his behalf.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” Miguel asks.

  “Not much,” Tom replies with a little chuckle, “but I know enough of every language in the world to know when I’m getting myself into trouble.”

  Both men laugh. It feels good to laugh and relieve some of the tension. The holding cell is just the beginning of this altercation.

  “What are you in jail for?” Miguel asks.

  “I got busted with a bag of weed. Not even an ounce. Cops rolled up on me and a girl kicking it at the park. I should be out of here pretty quick.” Tom asks Miguel, “How about you?”

  “I got busted with cocaine,” Miguel replies. Their conversation is interrupted by the sounds of keys rattling in the big, barred door of the courthouse holding cell.

  ~~~

  Tom and Miguel are in the LA County jail following their experience with the five Mexican men in the courthouse holding cell. They are being processed into the jail following court, which means going from one holding cell to another—deeper into the belly of the whale—as each part of the process is completed.

  Both men are issued LA County jail jumpsuits, but they are different colors, which indicates they will not end up in the same place at the end of intake processing. Tom wears a solid blue jumpsuit, while Miguel has a jump
suit that is primarily blue but has grayish sleeves and pockets. The color schemes tell the deputies where in the jail an inmate should be housed. This cuts down on inmates roaming around the huge jail and going places they shouldn’t. The five Mexican men are going through the same process since all of them came in to court from another jail located within LA County. Tom and the leader of the group are keeping a good eye on each other.

  Once they are issued all of the stuff that the LA County jail provides—jumpsuit, underwear, T-shirt, socks, and a bedroll consisting of a sheet and a blanket—they are ushered into a large, dormitory-type room of approximately 10,000 square feet. The dorm contains rows and rows of bunkbeds with ultrathin mattresses on them. It looks as though the place is already overflowing with other inmates. Great, Tom thinks, this is going to be a fucking shit show!

  Tom immediately starts looking around for a pool of Caucasian inmates and spots a couple of white faces together in the crowd. Tom tells Miguel, “Come on. We’re going over here.” He leads Miguel through the rows of bunks to where he had seen other whites.

  Rule 1 about the California jail and prison systems: everything is separated by race.

  Whites, blacks, northern Mexicans, southern Mexicans, and illegal aliens (referred to as Border Brothers) make up the majority of the populations. Whether you are racist or not, you better stick to the rules of your race, or you’ll be in deep shit.

  As Tom and Miguel approach the group, they are met by a guy wearing a jumpsuit similar to Tom’s and asked, “What up, wood?” again being referred to as peckerwood. This time, however, it was a proper prison greeting and a test to see Tom’s reaction to being calleda peckerwood.

  Tom replies, “You know, same old shit.” And moves forward to shake hands and give a brotherly hug, which is accepted well. He has obviously passed the little test, “I’m Tom.”

  “Swann,” the other guy says, introducing himself. Swann is a skinny white boy with medium-length brown hair and brown eyes.

  “Who’s running this show?” Tom asks. He needs to let the other whites know what went down in court today, just in case the five Mexicans suddenly become fifty or more.

  The other inmate gives a jerk of his head signaling Tom to follow him. Deep inside what is a virtual fortress of bunkbeds is the person in charge of making decisions for the whites. Tom and Miguel enter the shot caller’s lair and sit down on the edge of a bunkbed across from him. It’s a guy Tom knows from the streets of Hollywood: Formosa Joe. One crazy SOB!

  “Hey, Joe,” Tom says and is greeted in return. “I need a blade,” Tom says as he relays the story of the courthouse fight to Joe.

  “Fuck!” Joe sort of mutters. He knows this can mean a nasty little battle in this dorm. The whites are probably outnumbered three to one by the southern Mexicans, which appear to be the group that the five Mexicans belong to.

  Joe reaches over to a bunk on the other side of his bed and runs his hand under the edge. He retrieves a homemade knife and hands it over to Tom. “It’s not a bonecrusher, Tom, but it’ll do some damage.”

  Tom accepts the shiv and gives it a good looking over. Miguel, seated beside him, looks very uptight and afraid.

  “What’s going to happen?” Miguel asks Tom.

  “I don’t know yet. Could be a war. Could be nothing.” Tom looks over at Miguel with a serious, but compassionate face.

  “Aren’t you afraid?” Miguel asks.

  Tom considers this question for a few seconds and replies, “I guess I’m not thinking about being afraid right now. I have too much to do keepin’ us safe.” Tom let out a deep sigh. “I’m gonna get some sleep,” Tom says to Joe and Miguel. “If anyone brown comes within twenty-five feet of me, wake me up.” He is looking Joe right in the eyes.

  Joe says, “Don’t worry, Tom, I’ll wake your ass up!”

  Tom lays back on one of the lower beds adjacent to Joe’s and closes his eyes. He goes to sleep quickly and starts to dream about battle scenes.

  ~~~

  Formosa Joe shakes Tom’s arm and says his name lightly. Tom instantly wakes.

  “What’s up?” Tom asks as he sits straight up.

  “There’s an S.A. over here who says he wants to talk to you,” Joe says.

  “Okay,” Tom says as he stands up to see over the bunkbeds to where the Spanish American/Mexican man is standing. “Is he by himself?” He looks for the guy’s posse, but he appears to be alone. “Watch for my signal,” Tom says as he stuffs the shiv in the pocket of his jumpsuit and begins to move toward the other man.

  “What signal?!” Joe asks in a hushed but stressed voice.

  “Oh, you’ll know it when you see it,” Tom says as he walks away.

  “Oh, shit!” Joe mutters to himself. He knows Tom and is aware of his reputation.

  Tom meanders between a few bunkbeds to get to the guy who is obviously the shot caller for the southern Mexicans in the dorm.

  “What’s up, wood?” comes the greeting and the guy puts out his hand for Tom to shake. Tom looks around quickly, wondering if the handshake is this guy’s signal to his men to rush him. No one is running at him with a homemade knife.

  “Just trying to get some sleep,” comes Tom’s reply. “What’s up with you?” Tom reaches forward and shakes the other man’s hand.

  “I hear you handled five of my guys at the court today. Then called ’em out again to help that other wood,” he says in his stereotypical Spanish American from East LA accent then pauses and sort of cracks his neck.

  “Yeah?” Tom asks.

  “It’s done, man,” the Mexican man says. “You represented hard!” He looks at Tom with a mix of respect and hatred and says, “Nothing’s gonna happen to you or your homie over there,” and nods toward where Miguel stands watching with Joe. “It’s over.” He extends his hand once again, and again Tom shakes it.

  The Mexican shot caller turns and walks back toward where his men are located in the dorm. Tom lets him get a few steps away before turning around and walking back to where Miguel and Joe stand with several other whites looking on.

  “So, what’s the deal?” Joe asks.

  Tom replies, “According to him, it’s over.” Joe sighs with relief as Tom makes his way back to the bunk where he had been sleeping before. Tom looks at Miguel and says, “You should try to get some sleep too,” then turns to Joe and reiterates his statement from earlier. “Again, wake me up if anyone brown comes within twenty-five feet of me.”

  Tom lays down on the bed, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep again.

  ~~~

  Joe is waking Tom once again because names are being called for transfer out of the huge dorm they are in for a more permanent location where they will be held for future court dates.

  Miguel’s name is called, and he looks at Tom for support. He has relied on Tom for safety and protection, but now he will be on his own. Tom turns to Miguel and assures him that he will be fine. “Just stick with your own race, or find a group of whites, Miguel, and you’re gonna be all right.”

  Miguel acknowledges Tom’s instructions and extends a hand for Tom to shake. Tom takes the other man’s hand and, as he shakes it, realizes there is a note in Miguel’s hand. Tom accepts the note and Miguel says, “Call this number when you get out. They will take good care of you.” Tom puts the note in his jumpsuit pocket. And, with that, Tom and Miguel’s adventures together end. The two men do not see each other again for nearly two decades.

  ~~~

  A few weeks later, Tom is out of jail after serving fifteen days of a thirty-day jail sentence for being busted with weed. He has rented another dumpy little Hollywood apartment. As Tom is rummaging around the place, he comes to a kitchen drawer. His junk drawer. He opens it and, as he continues his rummaging, spots the piece of paper Miguel had given him a few weeks earlier in the LA County jail. On it is a number and the name Miguel. Tom takes the note out of the drawer and places it on the counter. What will he say to whoever answers his call?

  Tom finally
drags the phone into the kitchen and dials the number.

  It is answered after the second ring, “Hola?”

  “Yeah, uh, hi,” Tom sort of stammers, “Miguel told me to call this number. I met him a couple of weeks ago.” He hesitates for a second, then says, “My name is Tom.”

  “Si, Tom! We have been expecting your call.” The man on the other end of the line says in heavily accented English. “Miguel told us what happened.”

  “Yeah?” Tom replies.

  “Come out and see us, Tom. We have a little something for you.” The man continues rambling in his heavily accented English. Tom misses his name and barely manages to write down the address. “Okay” Tom says, “I’ll try to get out there tomorrow.” The address Tom is given is about eighty miles east of Los Angeles in Chino.

  “Si, si,” the man says, “you are welcome anytime.”

  ~~~

  The next day, Tom pulls up to a house in a very basic, nondescript Chino neighborhood. While the homes are in decent repair, they are nothing special. Tom sees the address and pulls to the curb in front of the house. There are other cars parked there as well, filling the driveway. He parks, gets out, and walks toward the front door of the house.

  Before Tom can get to the second of three steps leading to the door, it is flung open by a short, brown-skinned man with a thin, wispy moustache that could use a trim. He says, “Tom,” which lasts about three seconds and extends an arm to welcome Tom inside. “We have been looking forward to meeting you!” the man says, “Miguel told us how you looked out for him in da jail.” Although his English is good, the man speaks with a heavy Spanish accent. Tom enters the house tentatively and looks around as he follows the other man into the kitchen.

  “Are you thirsty?” the man asks. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water will be great,” Tom replies.

  “Oh, where are my manners?” The man hands Tom a bottle of water from the refrigerator and says, “My name is Juan. Let’s go outside,” and motions toward a door off the kitchen. Another man enters the room and introduces himself with a firm handshake. How many people are here, Tom wonders.