EVERY DAY WAS SATURDAY
G. Frederick Rowe
CHAPTER ONE
A START
Daybreak. I lay beneath the warm covers and wondered if I had the nerve to go through with it. Fetching under the edge of my steel frame "day" bed, I felt the small suitcase I had secretly filled the night before. "Now, George, now or never!" I forced myself out of bed. I dressed warmly, for it was New Year's Day. With infinite care not to wake the Larsens, I opened the small first floor window and climbed out into two feet of snow. An instant vision of palm trees, white beaches and the latest adventure film set in the tropics. I was the guy in the white suit leaning on the rail, looking at the warm ocean.
Suitcase in hand, I gambled on calmly walking away from the old farm-style house on the edge of town. "Too early for them to be up on a Sunday", I thought. "Two more blocks into town and I'll be where no one will recognize me." Slipping on ruts left in the snow by autos, I headed into St. Clair, to the little bus depot which faced deserted Main Street. It was a clear but bitterly cold morning. As I approached Main Street, I could see the ice-choked St. Clair River and, beyond, the low Canadian shoreline. "Morning, son"; the ticket agent was not unfriendly.
My knees stopped quivering. I hoped I looked older than 14, "Where you headed?" "Detroit", "One way?" "One way". Detroit wasn't the Florida Keys, but it was only 60 miles away and not likely to raise suspicions. I tried to look slightly bored, like I had to visit an aunt who wasn't lucky enough to live in the country. "One way to Detroit", the agent proclaimed.
I stood in the steamy waiting-room, leafing through the latest Pacific war photos in Look, and thinking there was still time to back out. The bus arrived. Feeling committed, I climbed aboard, thinking, "They'll look for me up North for sure. I've talked about how I like it up North for years". Sitting near the driver, I checked what was left of my original $13.85. As the bus pulled away I took a last look at the town where I had spent the last few months. It didn't seem like leaving home.
I was on my way! Action had replaced weeks of planning and uncertainty. The warm, droning bus, speeding South across flat Michigan farmland, gave me a sense of temporary safety. "Too bad me and the Larsens didn't get along. The Willyettes in Detroit were like my own folks. Even sent me to "Y" camp. Too bad he died. Hard to underatand the Larsens - they took me on but didn't seem to like me much",
CHAPTER TWO
POINTS SOUTH
Detroit wasn't much warmer. I tried to buy a ticket to Cincinatti. "You see that Travelers Aid gal over there?" The ticket agent pointed across the over-heated, crowded floor. "If she gives me the o.k., I'll sell you a ticket to Cincinatti". Knees shaking again. Ignoring the order, I wound my way out the door, went around the corner of the building, referred to my road map, came in another door, lined
up at another ticket window and bought a ticket to Findlay, Ohio. Findlay wasn't suspiciously far. The Cincinatti man didn't spot me.
Night fell in Northern Ohio. Quiet farm country and small towns with warm-looking lights. I suddenly, and for no reason felt safe. The bus finally rolled into Findlay and I stepped out into the dark.
The wind had a little less bite, but those white beaches were still a long way off. Walking along a deserted residential street, I spotted an old two-story shed with the window missing on the upper level. It was only about eight feet above the sidewalk. Once inside and with back to bare wall, I tried to sleep. Too cold. Climbing back down to the street, I hiked South out of town along the street marked by highway signs. I finished off two Babe Ruths for dinner.
Two or three miles out of town, a large farm barn appeared on the right, and leaving the highway, I was soon in the hayloft and asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
TRUCKERS
"Gees O Pete, boy, where'd you spend the night?" A burly trucker peered down through the open door of an enormous cab. "I, er, that barn over there", I said, picking bits of hay off my navy blue peacoat. "Looks like it. Well, git up here", he shouted above the Diesel. Gratefully, I threw my suitcase in and climbed in after. "Where you goin', boy?" "Cincinatti". "What for?" "See my aunt", "Waal, we're
slow but we're steady", he shouted cheerfully, grinning around his cigar. With satisfaction, I noted a Southern accent.
I was to learn that truckers were my best friends. Being nomads themselves, they didn't ask many questions, while the noise from the engine usually prevented conversation anyhow. They usually went long distances, which was better than standing in the cold.
A barking dog had awakened me an hour earlier. He knew there was someone or something in the loft. Luckily his owner, who had come out to the barn to do the chores, didn't. As soon as man and dog had gone back into the house, I left the barn, taking a wide detour around the house back to the highway. I stood hitchhiking and picking hay until my friend stopped.
All that morning we rolled south through rich Ohio farm country and towns that looked quiet and prosperous. The snow disappeared. We ate at a truck stop and I was down to $4.62. I wanted to get as far south as possible before stopping to work a week or two, since it didn't look like I was going to earn enough to sleep indoors.
Parting company in Cincinatti, I headed for the Greyhound depot. The bus depot seemed like a good place to regroup and clean up. After milling around awhile, trying not to be noticed, I bought a local ticket to Covington, just across the river in Kentucky.
The South! Kentucky was the real beginning. Life suddenly seemed a bit slower. Strangers passing on the street were friendlier, and I quickly adopted what I hoped was a Southern accent - to avoid questions about my origins.
Night falling, and a dangerous ice storm coating the highway, a trucker stopped. He was headed down the Ohio to Louisville, I slept most of the way, punctuated by brief periods of semi-wakefulness in which a fine, freezing mist continued to fall as the driver wound carefully over the hills.
Louisville, and no place to rest. Straight south through the hills of Kentucky and northern Tennessee. Three more long rides and, by early afternoon of the following day, the smoky outline of Nashville appeared. I needed rest - but where?
"ALL ARE WELCOME; Enter, Rest and Pray". The First Baptist church was about to solve my problem, and, obeying instructions, I entered the front door. It was growing dark and the church was deserted. I washed up in the lower floor lavatory. Feeling much better, and having had a bite to eat earlier, I stretched out on one of the darkened pews and inmediately fell asleep.
The following dawn, I was out on the street sgain, headed for the highway and Alabama. Late in the afternoon, a driver dropped me off in Decatur, Alabama, a small and seedy-looking town near a giant lake created by the Tennessee Valley Authority a few years earlier.
CHAPTER FOUR
JOBS
I soon found that world War II had made job hunting very easy. The first grocery store I walked into on the main street, needed help. "You kin stock shelves, clean vegetables and sweep up", the owner replied in response to my story about
staying in Decatur with my aunt for a couple of months.
For one long week, I stocked shelves, cleaned vegetables, and swept up. I slept in a delapidated main street office building under a pool table on the second floor. The local gas station served as washroom. Saturday finally came and with my hard-earned $10, I walked out of town, smiling and nodding to local Negroes like a big city politician. I was learning that it's hard to suspect that a kid is a runaway if he smiles a lot.
The sun shone warmly, the crows cawed in the distance, and the world looked bright. Negroes' shacks stood in the worn-looking fields, between areas of piney woods.
The highway headed toward Vicksburg and I was anxious to see thie old Mississippi River town. Three or four rides later I arrived, and after some scouting around, found that the local Methodist Church was my best chance for accomodations.
After one or two tries, I found another grocery store job - I was becoming a specialist - and I agreed to start Monday morning.
I bought hamburgers and candy bars and found my way into my "hotel", after dark, through a narrow, stained-glass window above the sidewalk. After washing up and a sound night's sleep on the hard pews, I managed to leave early enough the next morning to avoid Sunday worshippers,
Vicksburg had stood directly on the river in Civil War days. Some time later the river bed changed course, as it does periodically, and the town was left standing on the banks of a dead-end arm of the river. The Mississippi itself could be seen in the distance, across the bottom land.
Vicksburg was fascinating to one reared on the streets of Detroit. The town itself seemed to be standing still; life and movement were associated only with the powerful river which dominates everything. The air seemed heavy with the Civil War, as though something vital, a way of life, had been snatched away some 80 years earlier.
I saw my first Southern homes, with traditional pillars across the front, and black wrought-iron fences facing the sidewalks. Worn brick streets slanted steeply down to the water. I couldn't help but think that the waterway headed toward even warmer climes.
Another week of cleaning and stocking and I headed down the new two-lane concrete highway toward the Mississippi Gulf Coast.
CHAPTER FIVE
BILOXI
I was not prepared for the change. After many miles of pine woods and flat cotton lands standing idle in the thin, late winter sun, I suddenly emerged into another world. At the town of Gulfport, I was greeted with the warm, blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. In place of endless pine trees stood live oaks festooned with Spanish moss. Gracious homes looked across the narrow coast road to the seawall and beaches. The intense color of the sky, water, harbour, boats, everything, was an almost overwhelming contrast to the greyness of Detroit.
Happily I started eastward, toward Florida. I had had a glimpse of the promised land and wanted more. A middle-aged driver picked ne up, and after some conversation elicited the
information that: I was "on my own". His doubts about the rightness of my situation were calmed when I assured him that I had not really run away from home because my parents were dead and that meant I had no home. This logic would never have worked in Michigan where everybody has a home - even if it's one the State picks out. After assuring me that I should try to get a good education he dropped me in Biloxi. I was somewhat touched by his concern for my future, even though I wasn't even slightly concerned myself.
I was so taken with Biloxi that I decided to look for a job there. Walking along the beach past the long wooden piers which stretched more than a hundred yards out into the shallow salt water, I came to a slightly run-down structure built on pilings out over the water. "Nick's Bar end Grill" the sign said. As I entered to ask for a job, I had no way of knowing I would be going in and out of that door for a full half year.
The smell of stale beer met me at the door. Across the dimly lit floor and behind the bar stood a short, husky, round- faced man. After a few questions and answers "Nick" decided to put me to work behind the short-order grill.
I agreed to work from about two in the afternoon to closing at midnight.
With my financial future secure, I went out to explore the town. The sun felt good as I walked along the beach and out on the long piers. The soft winds, flowers lining the walks leading up to modest resort hotels, shrimp boats headed out into the Gulf, sea gulls screaming, all made me feel I was well on my way to the fulfillment of adventurous dreams.
Visions crowded in, all of which prominently featured me travelling through the sunny Caribbean in en Errol Flynn white suit and Panama hat.
Practical needs were more urgent. As night approached, I spotted a lap-straked life boat beached next to a dock, and decided to try to get some sleep on the cramped bottom boards. By dawn I awoke with a truly memorable cramps in my legs. General discomfort made me a little careless and I decided to walk downtown to stretch my legs. This in turn led to a meeting with the law. A squad car picked me up, thinking it was a little strange that anyone would be out so early.
"What's yo name, boy?" The desk sergeant didn't look too threatening. "George Fowe, Sir". "Where you from?” "Gulfport, Sir", "Who's the mayor of Gulfport, boy?" "I forgot", "Ah knew you wasn't from Gulfport boy; ah could tell by your talk". Thus chastened, I told the truth, adding the bit that seemed oddly effective in Missippi: "I haven't really run away from home. My parents are dead and I don't have a home". "Oh, he ain't run away then", one officer agreed.
"What we going to do with you? Would you want to go to Boys Town?" I head heard of Father Flannigan's home for orphans through Spencer Tracy. "No use in sending me there. I'd only run away again". This seemed to pose a problem until the desk sergeant learned I had been hired by Nick Elliot. A quick phone call brought Nick to the station. He quickly agreed to take responsibility as a guardian and we left together.
"Why didn't you tell me you ran away from home? I did the same thing when I was a boy". It turned out that Nick, whose surname was originally Eliapolis had left Greece as a boy,
immigrated to America, and had done various things at various times including a stint as a prizefighter. His plans were to "work like hell” while the war lasted and afterwards travel around the country in a house trailer.
Nick introduced me to his slim, and I thought, rather pretty wife, Marie, and two toddlers, Anne and Billy. Another phone call established me as a boarder in an old rooming house across the shore road from "Nick's". I was to share a huge, sunny front room, which may have been a living room at one time, with two house painters who drank more than they painted.
Life was great. I began a routine of working evenings, sleeping 'til about 10 and spending long, glorious hours on the beach in between. Although it was a little early in the season for the locals, it was summer to me and I never tired of swimming around the long docks and baking in the sun on the beach. Although I had been a skinny kid, I now began to put on weight and was quite proud of my developing physique.
The reason for Nick's desire to "work like hell" was apparent. The Army Air Corps Base, Keesler Field, was just outside Biloxi, and the returned war heroes from the European Theater were understandably thirsty. Until midnight, Nick's Bar and Grill was packed with flyere and non-coms. Local girls were scarce and so, for the most part, the place was fllled with decorated veterans who often drank too much and who sang, joked and, occasionally, fought. Nick was adept as a bouncer and it was odd to see this 5 foot 3 inch ex-fighter steer a towering 6 footer in uniform out the side door.
"I'm going to work like hell til the war is over and then we're going to sell out, buy a house-trailer and travel around the country. If you work hard with us, you can come to", Nick promised.
When not working or swiming, I walked down the beach past the old lighthouse, eastward across the sea-highway that offered incredibly beautiful wide-open views, along the Back Bay shore to watch the shrimp boats being built in the shade of huge sheds, which in turn were shaded by immense live oaks.
However, as Spring progressed I began to get restless. I had seen a little of the world and wanted to see it all. Avoiding goodbyes, I bought a bus ticket to New Orleans and quietly slipped out of town. Once in New Orleans, I immediately bought another ticket westward to Eeaumont, Texas. Texas seemed like an adventurous direction - but I had not reckoned on homesickness. All across the flat bayou country of Louisiana I struggled with it. I couldn't be an intrepid explorer if I was going to become attached to people and places.
As I wandered around the hot, sleepy streets of Beaumont, I passed a Navy recruiting office. After about 1 minute of serious reflection, I entered. "How old are you, boy?", the burly Petty officer asked. "I'm seventeen", I lied. I had read of 14 or 15 year o1d boys who had gone through some of the Pacific battles before being discovered. "Tell you what", he continued, "you come back with a birth certificate and then we'll let you in". I said, non-chalantly, I hoped, that I would do just that and retreated. The Pacific War would just have to end without me.
I couldn't wait to get back on the bus, back through New Orleans to Biloxi where I asked Nick for my job back. He seemed somewhat glad to see me but took pains not to show it. "Ya, I guess so. Get in here and get to work"
I was to go back to my interrupted way of life, but only for about three months longer. I left again and this time I did not return. Biloxi remains a warm memory of sunny skies reflected off warm waters, of eating watermelon under a beach shed, of long swims around long piers, of crabbing, baking in the sun and dreams of following the southerly breezes to the islands of the Caribbean.
CHAPTER SIX
MINNEAPOLIS AND POINTS WEST
In the moist heat of Biloxi, I had been seized with the possibility of going to the North Woods. I had been raised on James Oliver Curwood's books like The River's End and The Flaming Forest, in which Simon Pure heroes were constantly treking over hundreds of miles of wilderness, either pursuing or being pursued by equally sterling characters who just happened to be on the other side of the law. This was heady stuff and I was on my way. Getting there was another thing.
Hitchhiking northward through Alabama, I went into a small town diner for a hamburger. Three good-sized toys and a girl came in. I felt that they were paying too much attention to me and was not too surprised when confronted as I left the diner.
"You've run away from home, boy", was the opener. "Nope, I'm just going about 20 miles north to stay with my aunt". "You've run away from home and we're going to take you to the
law". It was getting dark and I was by then nervously calculating my chances of swinging my light suitcase as a weapon and running off at full speed in an attempt to lose them in the dark. The girl had been looking on quietly and unexpectedly came to my defense. "You ain't the law and you let him go", as the three boys began to move in. Their resolve weakened and I quickly walked off in the dark, followed by a few verbal threats.
Heart pounding, I walked until out of sight, then raced up the highway. For the next three quarters of an hour approaching headlights would send me diving into the ditch. This continued until I was well out of town. Taking a chance I waved frantically at the next northbound car. It turned out to be an elderly couple in a '38 Ford sedan. "I've just learned that my aunt is ill in...". I named a town I had seen on m ever-ready gas station road map. "Sure son, get in".
Having escaped the clutches of Alabama justice, I decided to continue north by bus, and eventually found the safety and luxury of a Greyhound bound for Indianapolis.
Riding the bus is a life in itself. Alternately waking and sleeping but not doing either very well, one rides over the long miles in a state of halves - half comfortable, and half awake. The other half is spent in semi-oblivion, interspersed with abrupt stops at roadside "service stops", a loud call of "10 minutes" by the driver, a blast of night air through the opened door and stumbling out to hamburgers and candy bars. Life seems to proceed in a jumble of uneven motions which at night didn't seem to result in any forward
progress, especially since all the service stops looked alike. Finally we were all disgorged, still half-awake and rumpled, into the Indianapolis bus depot.
In Indianapolis I got a cheap room a few blocks from the depot. After getting cleaned up and rested up, I found my- self back in the depot the following evening. I had been developing a sixth sense which told me when I was noticed, and across the crowded station floor I was suddenly aware of two well-dressed, youngish men watching me. I tried to slip out quietly, and, once outside ran at top speed down one street, turned into an alley and doubled back in the reverse direction upon emerging from the alley. Heading back toward the hotel at a walk I could see that my pursuers had not been fooled by the fancy footwork. They followed on the opposite side of the street. Not knowing what else to do, I turned in at my hotel, went up to the second floor and entered my room. Within 5 minutes the detectives entered the lobby and I could hear part of the conversation with the land lady through the paper- thin walls. "No", she answered to a question. "He's a good boy and don't make no trouble". "No, I don't know why he's here or where he's goin'". With immense relief, the plain- clothesmen left and the next day I continued my bus trip north.
The world looked brighter as we rode through the prosperous dairy country of Wisconsin. The air was bracing at night even though it was summer. In the Wisconsin Dells area, the Mississippi was so blue that it was hard to believe it was the same river I had seen at Vicksburg and New Orleans.
On arriving in Minneapolis the first order of business was a job. It turned out to be a grocery store. No questions
were asked even in well-organized Minnesota because school was not in session for another month. I rented a room fora week and set out to explore the city. It was clean and efficient looking. It was easy to see why few drifters and hoboes were around. The beautiful parks looked too cold for sleeping, even in summer. I began to look at the possibility of following in the footsteps of John Oliver Curowood with more skeptical eyes.
As I worked through the week, I became even more disenchanted. My pay from the store would not even come close to paying my way if I slept indoors. The sunny regions looked more inviting than ever, as a matter of survival.
With summer drawing to a close, and with my Biloxi savings dwindling, I had to decide my next step. Safety and warmth seemed to lie in Florida, challenge in the West. I decided on the best of both worlds - I would head south-west.
CHAPTER SEVEN
POINTS WEST
I set out on Saturday morning with high hopes. The day was bright. I was rested and was about to conquer the West. I caught a bus to Sioux City, Iowa, and from this comfortable vantage, could see the country speeding by.
Southwestward from Minneapolis the land begins to open up. Trees thin out and the sky gets larger. The farms were the most beautiful I had ever seen. Big, substantial barns, straight fences, comfortable houses and huge cornfields. We went through small towns that were neat and clean. The lakes and streams were blue. "If the Swedes did all this, they've got a good
thing going, and it's so cold up here that nobody is going to move in and crowd them out, either", I thought. More power to them. Southwestern Minnesota seemed like a forgotten part of the country, or a separate country altogether. As we slipped over into Iowa, the change was noticeable. Farms were beautiful, but not that beautiful, fences didn't need to be perfect; once in a while some sloppy farmer would even need paint on his barn. I concluded that if you wanted to be perfect but cold, you could be a Minnesotan.
Pulling into Sioux City was exciting. "The beginning of the west" was stamped in thought as I found a cheap room and acquired a job in a greasy little hamburger joint.
It had occurred to me that I might look less like a runaway kid if I traded in my suitcase for a ruck sack. I could always hope to pass for a camper. I had inflated ideas about the value of my suitcase as I went into a pawnshop. "No, it isn't worth eight dollars", the owner frowned, "but to help you out, I'll give five for it". Thus chastened, I decided against investing in one of the ten-gallon hats I had admired on the cowboys who hung around the dusty stockyards.
Instead, I collected my week's pay and prepared to start off the next morning. As I lay in bed that Friday night, there was a sudden eruption of laughter. Cheering and shouting up and down the street. The War was finally over.
The following morning was one of the most beautiful I can remember, with a blue sky, and the smell of moist earth. With a springy step I set out of Sioux City over an old railroad bridge that spanned the Missouri. The river struck me as
surprisingly narrow and shallow for one with a big reputation. Nothing at all like the short but wide and powerful Detroit River that I knew so well. I was to become accustomed to Western Rivers which are often more dusty than wet.
Hiking westward out of town, the tracks seemed romantic enough, but not very profitable. I had the vague notion that I would somehow catch a freight, although just how this was to occur hadn't really troubled me. I gave up on the idea altogether as the tracks neared a westbound highway. I had some success hitchhiking, and later in the day, got out of a '31 Chevy driven by a farmer who was as dusty as the car.
Finding myself in a small town, where I was bound to be noticed, made me uncomfortably aware that Boys Town was not too distant. I headed out, hoping to find a warm barn to sleep in. Something told me I was being noticed again - I was passed by a car with three men in it. They not only looked me over, but one of the three looked suspiciously like an over-fed small town sheriff. It was no great surprise to find the car parked on the right side just outside the town limits, with the trio standing on a grassy knoll where they could view the road. I decided the best defense was cheerfulness. Grinning like the town idiot, I waved and greeted them as I walked by the car. "He's just carrying that little back pack", the fat one said. "Probably just out camping", his partner agreed.
Gratefully I slept that night under a huge oak tree which stood alone in a tilled field, not far from the main, two-lane highway that headed west. The occasional passing car was not enough to stir me.
It rained briefly the next morning, and the tree leaked. Back on the highway, after munching on a breakfast of crackers and cheese, I soon dried out as the sun came out.
"Don't thank me boy. Just thank God I saw you"; a farmer had thrown open the cab door to his stake-bed truck. An extraordinarily cheerful man with a weather-beaten face, he talked continuously, displaying the usual skepticism about what I was doing in the middle of the Nebraska wheatlands. I thanked him when he finally stopped the truck. He immediately roared back, "Don't thank me boy, thank God I saw you". How could anyone be that enthusiastic so early in the mornings?
I had given a lot of soul-searching thought to what I told strangers about myself. It was troublesome to feel it necessary to lie, especially when not too many believed me anyway. Turning it over in thought however, it seemed to be the least of evils. I may have sensed that if I had been perfectly frank, listeners might have felt obligated to become involved and stop at the nearest sheriff's office. Even if no one believed my story, they could avoid entanglement by pretending to, and, as far as I was concerned, the end result was my continued freedom,
I remembered, three years earlier, how I had become restless and homesick while spending six months in a nursing home recovering from an illness. I had jumped out of a window and tried hitchhiking the twenty-five miles or so into Detroit. A driver surprised me by delivering me to the nearest police station, whereupon the boys in blue took me back to the nursing home. I had since formed the habit of being ready to bolt should a driver slow down suspiciously close to a police
station or squad car.
The country changed as I approached western Nebraska. Green, rolling farmland gave way to drier, rougher country. Rocky walls appeared in the distance across the rangeland. Cattle had replaced cropland. The high plains were lonely and free. The sky seemed enormous.
Finally I crossed into eastern Colorado. Mountains were not yet visible. Two or three more rides, one with two ranchers in a pick-up truck with rifles hung across the inside back window. Finally, the Rockies appeared above the western horizon. Southeastern Michigan is as flat as a table. The sight of mountains was awe-inspiring.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DENVER AND SOUTH
After locating a room, which turned out to be clean and pleasant, I located a job. By this time a pattern had developed: restaurant and grocery store jobs were so readily available that getting work ceased to be a concern. Denver was no exception; in this case it was a cafeteria, one of a chain.
With necessities taken care of, I was free to roam. Walking had become my means of exploring, of exercising and of staying out of trouble. I walked for miles through each new city or town. It satisfied a need to know what was around the next corner or over the next hill. Then too, standing idly on street corners could mean being picked up by the police, while it is difficult to look suspicious while walk- ing at a purposeful pace. Walking also gave me plenty oftime to think, and even day-dream a little.
The country was big, no questions about it. From the State Capitol steps, the entire Front Range spread out in a grand sweep. I was anxious to see more of the West, and had already decided to head south into New Mexico.
Friday came end I headed South, hitchhiking. The highway follows the edge of the Rockies toward a high point at Raton Pass, on the New Mexico side. I slept that night on a hillside, in a graveyard. It had never occured to me to be afraid of graveyards - and they were grassy. It was either that or the rocks and thorns. The night was fairly warm and the view to the east, out over the flat plains country was expansive. The stars really were more brilliant than in the East.
It would be great, I thought, to have an outdoor job, like working on a ranch. How to go about it was a problem. As a city lad, I didn't speak the language of the farm or ranch. And then, the inevitable question would probably come up by a ranch owner: where was I from and why wasn't I home in school?
Next morning I went through Raton, New Mexico. It looked like the Old West: sun beaten, false front stores bordered the narrow, climbing main street. Cowboys who looked like working men leaned up against the weathered buildings.
That night I slept on the desert not far from Santa Fe. Rolled up comfortably in a blanket, I was oblivious to the threat of rattlesnakes. The special Providence reserved for ignorance was in force, for no ’rattlers’ came my way.
Next day, a middle-aged couple picked me up on their way to Albuquerque. I must have looked dusty and sunburned. Both driver and
wife looked at me skeptically from time to time. Not really caring, I dozed part of the way, even though it was late morning. When we arrived in Albuquerque, I got out into the hot street, suddenly realizing I had had too much sun. The sidewalk weaved slightly as I looked desperately for a cheap looking hotel. I had to get in off the street. Trying to look casual, I checked into a small hotel and immediately fell asleep. In a slightly dazed condition, I woke sometime later, thinking it was the next morning, since the sun streamed in the window. Sticking a still-reeling head out the door, I was assured by the cleaning lady that night had not yet come and that I still had until the next morning. Supremely grateful, I slept for another sixteen hours.
Fully recovered and cleaned up, I found a hamburger joint job as a fry cook the next day ("don't eat the small bite off the grill") and a place to sleep under a bush in a gently rolling city park.
Indians were much in evidence in Albuquerque. Quiet, watchful, self-possessed people, they lined portions of the business district. A number of stores advertised Indian-made silver jewelry and the craftsmen could be seen as they worked, by looking down through glass panes set in the floor and guarded by a railing. The Indians, in the basement, worked intently on a long table equipped with various clamps and tools. Somehow it seemed as though they should have been out in the fresh air.
It must have been about this time that the magic of the West seized me, and I have never since had occasion to change my mind about its merits. The big, sunny, rocky, thorny country. I loved every bit of it, from desert heat to
pine-filled crags. A powerful sense of freedom took hold at a forty-mile view of distant peaks, or of an eagle hunting over a vast, jumbled plain. The East suddenly seemed small, tight, cautious, soiled, humid.
Not that my boyhood in Detroit seemed all that bad. Small kids have a way of accepting Depressions as the normal state, and there was no recollection of actually going hungry. My memory of Detroit was a not-unpleaseant melange of screeching street cars, coal dust on window sills, "sheenies" with push carts, selling produce. "Nize fresh stromberdies, fifteen cents a quart" in an Italian accent, junk trucks buying rolls of carefully-saved tinfoil, shooting rats in garbage cans with a "B-B" gun, making scooters out of orange crates (decorated with bottle caps) and old roller skates, tenement mothers on upper floors throwing tubs of cold water down on laughing kids on a hot summer day, going to the West Side Open Air Market with Mom, donning corduroy knickers and "high top" boots during bitter cold months, watching horse drawn milk wagons roll along Chestnut Street, swiping free ice off the ice trucks. Grimmer memories included feeling i11 while standing in long free- food-and-clothing lines with Dad and older sister Mary. "When the Depression is over we will move out to the suburbs", Dad used to say. Neither Dad nor Mom survived the Depression. The West became my suburb.
CHAPTER NINE
GOLDEN STATE
Saturday came with its fifteen dollars or so and I couldn't wait to get started. All day long I hitchhiked west on Route 66, bedding down that night on the desert. Next day, a ride
took me through Flagstaff, Arizona, a beautiful area, high in elevation, surprising for its heavy coniferous forests in an otherwise desert or semi-arid landscape,.
Early the following afternoon I entered California by crossing the Colorado, and started westward across the Mojave Desert. An old truck with an enpty flatbed picked me up. The engine sounded like it was coming apart. "This old bus might get us into Mojave, and then again it might not", the unshaven and greasy driver commented philosophically. He had been holding it down to about 35, but as he topped a long dessert rise, he growled "Hell with it", and gunned down the long down-hill side. The noise accelerated accordingly and finally ended in the sound of total disintegration. Looking back through the dingy cab window, I could see engine parts bouncing along after us on the concrete. We gradually pulled to a stop. "Blew a cylinder clean through the block", was his awe-struck diagnosis. "We're on fire!" I replied as calmly as possible. Jumping out, we threw sand on the block.
After a few minutes of standing around in the hot sun, we both hitched a ride; my friend to get someone to dispose of his late truck and I to head toward Los Angeles.
Coming into San Bernardino was like entering the Promised Land. In contrast to stark desert, the road westward from "San Berdoo" was lined with lush orange groves. Snow-capped mountains were visible through the trees. Between rides I devoured oranges that had fallen. Groves extended even into Los Angeles, which fact wasn't lost on me as a source of future emergency rations.
Downtown Los Angeles didn't look particularly inviting as a stopping-off place. I wanted to get down to the ocean, and the name Long Beach had a ring to it. After a few inquiries, I caught a vintage, red-painted interurban train that thundered through suburban towns and across open country, finally pulling into Long Beach,
Except for the forest of oilwells surrounding the city, Long Beach looked like a beautiful place to stay awhile. I located a room on the beach, in a slightly ramshackle white frame rooming house. "If you behave yourself and don't make any trouble, you can stay as long as you like." The landlord looked a little doubtful, but finally seemed satisfied.
I quickly located a bus-boy job in a fairly good-sized cafe within sight of the beach.
I planned to stay awhile. The beach and salt water were inviting, although it was past the reguler swimming season. People seemed friendly and not too curious. I hadn't reckoned on the fact that California was better organized than Mississippi - minors needed a work permit if they weren't in school. I had given my employer a story about coming to
Long Beach (from Iowa) to wait for the arrival of my father who was a merchant mariner and due to arrive in nearby San Pedro from the late Pacific war zone - in two or three weeks. The same story to a local state bureaucrat bought a two-week work permit
The time limit was disappointing because in addition to planning a lot of time on the beach, I found that I was paid enough to keep the room and eat too - something that hadn't happened since Biloxi. I had my revenge by using the beach for two weeks without paying taxes and then reluctantly prepared to get out of town.
The trip north was sheer luxury, I had enough for a train ticket and decided to go to San Frencisco in style. It was really a combination bus and train ticket; a bus from Los Angeles over the San Gabriel mountains, followed by a train from Bakersfield north to San Francisco Bay. It was dark by the time we pulled into Oakland. I caught the ferry boat across the Bay, landing at the appropriately-named Ferry Building. It was my fifteenth birthday.
I had to give my new home the usual extensive walking tour; and on my first full day, I spent hours hiking up and down the hills. From the top of Telegraph Hill, scores of freighters, tankers, supply and warships recently returned from the War were moored in rows out in the Bay.
The city, from the little park atop Nob Hill, seemed to sparkle with the utter clarity of the Pacific air that swept across the peninsula. The air made you want to do carte wheels. The Bay and distant hills were spectacular. Steep hills, wooden houses clinging precariously to them, Chinese shops and back alleys, the Embarcadero, the exotic spice smells
from the warehouse district near the docks - all received a close inspection. On another dey, I hiked out to the ocean through the length of Golden Gate Park, and enjoyed the sight and sounds of long combers crashing on the beach, the steep cliffs, the seals playing on the rocks off-shore. There was no doubt about it: Francisco felt like home.
I loved to watch the fog creep in, late in the afternoon. From the top of Nob Hill, on a bright day, you could see it forming along the coast where cold Pacific air meets the warmer land. The great, grey, threatening wall roves inland, rapidly blanketing the Avenues and sweeping through the Golden Gate. Gulls dip and screeched. The fog stalks over the hills until, suddenly, the sunny world is blotted out. The air chills as the fresh, moist smell of the ocean sweeps over the streets and, as evening falls, the fog swirls past street lights and on toward the Bay.
A great air of mystery encompasses the city in the fog. It was easy to relive the romance of the days of the ‘49ers, the Barbary Coast, the Chinese setting up shop, the great square riggers tied up in lines along the wharves.
San Francisco is the only major American city wherein most inhabitants would not live elsewhere; indeed many think that living any place else is self-imposed exile. It was easy to adopt this point of view.
Staying in San Francisco required something more substantial than fog and scenery, however. I worked briefly as a western Union messenger, and I set pins in a bowling alley a few times. Pay-day at Western Union didn't coincide with my money supply, and, during my second week in town, I went three days with nothing to eat but a box of raisins. Getting weaker
by the minute, I managed to set pins long enough to collect dinner money. I ate ravenously, and managed to get all the extras: extra bread and butter, extra catsup, even extra soup crackers. Finishing, and quickly recovering, but nevertheless still at a low point in my career as a vagabond, I ran into Jack Alexander.
CHAPTER TEN
CON ARTIST
It has been said that men on the road fa11 into three or four categories: Tramps work and travel; hobos just travel; bums neither work nor travel. "Winos", or alcoholic bums who consume impressive amounts of cheap California wine, were at the bottom of the social scale.
Jack Alexander was about one part tramp, one part hobo and the rest, con artist. He called himself a "carney" or someone who works on or runs the concessions at travelling carnivals. Jack was 40-ish, dark hair, swarthy complexion, and claimed to be "out of Yew York, where Times Square has as many people at midnight as at noon. Makes every other place loook like Podunk". He had some nebulous family background, perhaps even kids, but he didn't talk much about that. He was mainly interested in surviving at a reasonable degree of comfort without too much strenuous effort. Just how he was between carnivals.
"Hi, kid. You look a little peaked". I resented the remark a little, looking him over suspiciously, since I had just eaten and thought I was pretty much back to normal. I filled in with sma1l talk, while deciding he didn't look like a cop.
He was too neat to be a bum. He dismissed my story about waiting for my uncle to arrive by Greyhound (it was warmer inside than out in the fog) with, "sure kid, you're on the road like everyone else". It suddenly occurred to me that there were a lot of boys bumming around, at least in California.
Sooner or later you have to trust somebody. "Yea, travelling around", I admitted. "How you fixed for cash?" he asked. "I got enough". "Couple of us guys got a room. You can bunk, too, if you want to", he offered. Suspicious, I thought, I had been warned. Seeing ny hesitation, he laughed; "Not me, kid; I'm no fairy". Fifteen minutes later, after mumbling "hello" to another guy of indeterminate age, I fell asleep on the floor, wrapped up in a spare blanket.
I must nave slept like a mummy. Roughly twelve hours later, I awoke with the sum streaming through the window. Jack and Red had just returned with a few edibles. "You and Red stick around while I try to raise a little cash". With a tug on his coat sleeve he revealed at least five watches on his forearm. "I'm going around the corner to Mission Street aad try to hawk two or three of these. You guys try to stay out of trouble. If I get a little investment capital, I got big plans". With that he disappeared, leaving Red and myself munching on the sandwiches left by the mastermind.
Red turned out to be about nineteen and from Woline, Illinois. He had apparently moved west with his parents to work in an L.A. aircraft plant. His parents had separated, but by then Red had already left high school, then a trade school in San Francisco, and wae about to leave for the San Joaquin
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valley to look for farm work when he ran into Jack Alexander. "Tell you one thing", Red ventured after we had talked awhile, "Whatever plan Jack has, it ain't no big deal". Impressed with thie sophisticated character analysis, I mumbled agreenmnt.
After cleaning up and trying to shine my hoes without polish, we set about whiling away the time. Amusement took the form of filling balloons with water and dropping them out of the fifth story window on pedestrians below.
Jack eventually returned to tell us abont the Big Plan, "You know those surplus weather balloons - you know, the big ones?" He illustrated with a three foot gap between his hands. "Anyhow I know where I can get a good deal on three gross. We can go out to the highway, going south out of town, and sell them for a dollar apiece. With that dough we can buy a car and head for the first Mardi Gras in New Orleans since before the War".
That sounded like the most important thing anyone could possibly be doing in February, so we fell to it with enthusiasn, Red agreeing that maybe Jack was all right after ell,
It would be a couple of days before we could pick up the balloons, and we were meanwhile introduced to another wonder of the carney world. That evening, Jack set up an impromptu shop on Market Street at the edge of a parking lot. A gard table on top of some discarded orange crates provided a stage. Jack was about to sell trick card decks. Our job, Red's and mine, was to shill. "All right, now, gather ‘round, Shew you what I'm gonna do", he began in a loud, confident voice. He delivered an accomplished spiel designed to make
the small crowd believe that they had been absolute bores without the cards. At the appropriate moment, I shouted, "Gimme two decks". A man standing next to me in the crowd looked my way and said, to my chagrin, "Oh, you're the shill". Deflated, I kept my mouth shut until the next round.
Finally, the weather balloons arrived, and on Saturday morning the three of us took the street car and finally a bus to the southern outskirts of the city. We blew up a couple to attract attention and cars began to stop. The big balloons were a great success.
After the weekeend, we went to buy a car. We settled on a beautiful, pre-war plymouth convertible coupe with a rumble seat. Here was freedom. From the miniature clipper ship sail plan decoration on the prow, to the jaunty open rumble seat it was a delight to the eyes. We paid cash on the spot and soon after were headed across the Bay Bridge and down the San Joaquin Valley toward L.A.
We drove night end day, mostly because it was cheaper than renting a room. Red and I took turns in the rumble seat, trying to close the door as much as possible against the night air. We wound down through the southern route; Phoenix and Tuscon were approached through miles of fig trees.
El Paso flew past. After many hours more of sand hills, mesquite and sagebrush, we drove into San Antonio.
After a quick look at this Spanish-flavored town, we went back to the road. About a day and a half later we pulled into New Orleans.
CHAPTER 11
MARDI GRAS
This would be my first time in New Orleans with enough time to absorb its real flavor.
I left my pals at our third rate hotel not far off Canal Street and spent hours exploring the Vieux Corre, its St. Louis Cathedral and museum, narrow streets, wrought iron balconies, shuttered windows, and old cafes.
The levee and docks were nearby and the United Fruit Com- pany boats were resplendent in white paint. The February wind changed to a southerly direction and it was suddenly spring- like.
I fook the St. Charles Streetcar out to the Garden Section. Big, old, Southern style homes, shaded by live oaks and magnolia trees, lined St. Charles and quiet side streets.
New Orleans is a fragile place. Nearly under water, it sits on top of a vast sponge that stretches along the lower Mississippi to the Gulf. The water level is so close to the surface of the earth that bodies must be buried in vaults, above ground. Considerable beauty, sometimes slightly faded, is interspersed with areas of aqualor. Romantic too, with a slightly decadent overtone.
Tramping up Canal Street, with streetcars moving slowly up and down the middle, crowds of businessmen in identical striped seersucker suits, housewives shopping, 1t suddenly occurred to me that the girls were among the most beautiful I had seen anywhere. Even those women I hed seen standing
in the doorways of the French Quarter, whose function I only partially suspected, looked attractive. As far as the light hearted females seen in other parts of town were concerned, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to live in a proper family again, if for no other reason than to meet some of those dainty creatures. They looked impossibly remote from my social circles.
Jack, Red and I had a few dollars between us and we decided later that evening to try an oyster bar. Inside it was dark and cool, with large fans rotating overhead. The bar itself had a brass rail, marble top and a ceiling - high, ornately carved wooden and mirrored back wall. I quickly developed a taste for ice-cold raw oysters. We followed up with Creole gumbo in a nearby joint with a small, colored, jazz band playing in the back. They were in the groove with trumpet, trombone, sax and clarinet, taking turns on solo and accompanied by the boys on banjo, bass and rinky-dink plano. "What all do they put in this gumbo?" Red asked. "Just keep eating. It's better not to ask. Besides, it's tasty". Jack was always philosophic.
Next day was Mardi Gras. Jack, Red and I carved out about three square feet of space next to the curb on Canal Street and proceeded to make our fortune selling the tourist gimmicks that Jack had bought wholesale two days earlier. The crowds grew by the hour until evening arrived and the grand parade wound its way up the broad street. The evening and half the night passed in a swirl of noisemakers, laughter, warm southern breezes, and pink girls floating by on floats.
The morning after, when we finally woke up, we surveyed
our resources and made plans. There didn't seem to be much use in hanging around New Orleans, and Florida waa handy. We had sold the Plymouth upon arrival in town, for eating money. After counting up our profits, we went out to look for another car.
This time it had to be cheap. After looking the market over, we went into a huddle and came up with an old black hearse, which must have not only looked somewhat strange, but no doubt got at least six miles to the gallon, downwind.
Much to our surprise, it ran well and, after collecting our few belongings, we started eastward out of town. Without a single worry, we headed past Lake Ponchetrain, along the Gulf Coast through the sub-tropical towns of Pass Christian, Pascagoula, and Gulfport. Biloxi gave me a temporary twinge, but I didn't even ask Jack to stop the car. It would have been no use.
We drove on through Mobile and past the pure white beaches of Panama City. We spent the night parked beside the highway and drove on to Jacksonville the next day, alternating the driving.
At Jacksonville, we laid around on the beach for a few hours and then drove southward. "Someday there's going to be four-lane super highways all up and down this state", Jack proclaimed as we steered through immaculate towns with bright flowers and glimpses of the warm sea beyond. I hoped they wouldn't change it too much.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BACK ON THE THUMB
West Palm Beach turned out to be the end of the line. Money was low, and there were no likely prospects for earning more, short of going to work, which was only a last resort. We sold the hearse to a delighted middle-aged colored man who had a hundred dollars. After lying on the beach for two days, idly kicking at the blue Portuguese Man of Wars blown up in a recent storm, we reluctantly caught a bus back to New Orleans. Seeing that fortunes were ebbing, Red went his own way. Jack and I talked over our next move.
I had shortly come to learn that it really didn't matter too much in Jack's world where travelled ~ the important thing was to keep moving. Tramps, hobos, carneys and other assorted road types are superfluoss in a settled community. They relate, however badly, only in terms of heading toward, arriving at or departing from a place.
Jack reckoned on going back to San Francisco. Not having anything better in mind, I agreed. We thumbed our way up through Baton Rouge, across Texas by way of Dalles, up through Denver and across the snow-topped Rockies, through Salt Lake City, across the deserts of western Utah and Nevada, past Reno with its garish neon sign stretched across fhe main street. "The Biggest Little City in the World", and finally through the lush Sierra forests and down the long grades to Sacramento. As we crossed the Sacramento River, on a bus for once, we passed the largest hobo jungle I had yet seen. Up and down the river bank in the gathering dusk, camp fires glowed and men could be
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seen huddled over pots made from tin cans. Perhaps they were leftovers from the Great Depression, whose forced wandering had become a habit.
We didn't stay long in San Francisco, but headed down the Valley. Around Stockton, we fell into a bonanza. Thousands of English walnut trees lined the side roads and streets, with ripe nuts littering the ground by the thousands.
In Los Angeles, we finally went to work for a couple of weeks, delivering ice. The work was tough, but it felt good to be doing something useful. My truck worked the older section of L.A., not far east of downtown. Wrestling fifty pound blocks up three or four floors to cram the blocks into dilapidated ice boxes was great fun. My reward came when I could jump into the back of the truck, toss the ice tongs on the floor, lean back against the side with a leg dangling over the tail gate and cool off by chewing bits of ice.
I could have stayed a while, but Jack was constitutionally opposed to hard work. "George, this just ain't all that smart. Wait till we get back on the road. I've got something I want to try". So off we went, down through San Diego and eastward across the desert. Jack's most recent big idea lay down the road a bit further.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FEEIGHT TRAIN
Somehow, before I started roaming, I always pictured myself "riding the rails". Somehow the picture of riding through a warm night inside the open door of an empty box
car, listening to the long melancholy wail from the steam engine, never worked out. Certainly the brief experience we had thirty miles west of Albuquerque, New Mexico didn't encourage me.
We had waited and sweated most of the day in a wide spot in the road. No one wanted to give us a ride. It was about as seedy a hick town as exists in the Southwest. Just a few false front stores, some adobe buildings, the tracks and the two-lane highway, in the midst of a vast jumbled semi-arid country.
Finally, after watching many autos and two or three trains come and go, we finally decided that we would hop the next eastbound freight that stopped for water. We positioned outselves a good distance up the track so that the crew doing the watering would not spot us, and waited. Finally, late in the day, a big "Malley" pulled up with about a half mile of cars on it. We spotted an empty coal car and ran for the steel ladder just as the train began to lurch forward. Hoping we were invisible from both engine, caboose and "yard dicks", if there were any, we jumped over the edge and crouched down below the sides of the car. We made it. If anyone saw us, they didn't do anything about it and we were on our way to Albuquerque - we thought.
We were living high. A cool breeze replaced the hot highway. The fact that we were gradually being covered with a fine film of coal dust didn't dawn on us just then. Just to see the high desert plains and hills roll by, without the obligation to make small talk with some driver, was a relief. We were not even particularly disturbed when we found that the freight was not headed into Albuquerque, but wound up in
another tiny adobe town thirty miles south of that city. We jumped off as the freight slowed to a crawl, none the worse except for an acute need for a bath. Strolling in the evening dusk, munching on fried corn chips, we decided to give up for the day and look for a room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FREE LOADING
In spite of our set-backs, we eventually wound eastward throuch Amarillo, Oklahoma City, and up toward Chicago. We didn't move very rapidly, for another facet of Jack's talent for survival without work took some time.
He honed the scheme to a fine art.
After a hard days hitchhiking, we would pull into, say, Peoria and after a bite and settling into a room we would pull out local telephone books and line up all the charitable organizations in town. The Jewish Welfare Society, Traveller's Aid Society, Salvation Army, Red Cross, all had their turn. We would march into a selected office looking a little downcast, glance sheepishly around, pretend to muster up courage, and, with our best "I don't quite know how to go about this, but.......", and would launch into our spiel. Jack: "My son and I are in a bit of a spot and maybe you can help us. We (just the two of us now - with my wife gone) left our old home in Detroit just three weeks ago to settle on a new job in L.A. We rode the Greyhound all the way and shipped three trunks with everything we own (having sold all the furniture) on the bus. Only two trunks arrived in L.A. and, as it turned out, the missing trunk had our life savings (after the funeral,
you know) of $2500, in war bonds. We were up against it because we didn't have much cash and George here, (I look a bit anguished) needs to get back in school".
"Finally we get this notice from the Greyhound people. They have a trunk Detroit but they want some sort of positive identification before they will part with it. There didn't seem to be anything to do but start hitch- hiking back, (my job didn't come through anyway) identify the trunk with my claim check and get back to L.A. as soon as we can. Our problem is that we need a little help to get to Detroit. We ran out of the last of our money yesterday and I don't think we can hold out clear to Detroit".
The fanciful tale was usually enough to break down even the more skeptical. Those who dared to doubt, were won over by an indignant Jack who, would pull out an old Detroit-L.A. bus ticket, (who knows where that came from) and a worn claim ticket, plunk them down in front of the mild-mannered volunteer and proclaim loudly, "we don't heve to stand here and have our integrity questioned. My son and I would rather starve than be insulted!" After which he would scoop up his documents (they had lain on the desk just long enough to be convincing but not long enough to be read) and start for the door. Inevitably, "Now wait a minute; don't get excited. We have all sorts of people in here you know. Here's a check (no, wait now) here's a check for $10.90. Buy something for you and your son and God bless you. I hope everything works out well for you."
Mollified, Jack would hesitantly take the check, and off we would go - back to the telephone book. Three or four such
stops in a fair-sized town kept us in necessities while we wound up to Chicago. We worked a week there, for a change of pace, and then started down toward New Orleans, plying our new trade enroute.
One such visit to a Jewish Welfare Society didn't work out very well. Jack could pass for a Jew, while with Teutonic features, I could not. Jack decided that he had better go in alone, end I agreed to stand casually on the opposite side of the street with my back to the welfare office. In that way, Jack could point to his son during his spiel, explaining at the same time that I wasn't feeling well and therefore wanted to stay out in the air.
In trying to be casual, I was careless. Jack eventually came out, fuming. "You were going to keep your back to the office. That Jewish gal took one look at you and said you sure didn't look like any Jew to her. I had to tell her you were only half-Jewish. She sust have said a dozen times that the whole thing looked fishy to her - but she finally coughed up $5.00 anyway".
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DOWNHILL
I had the uneasy feeling that things were not going too well. We were eating regularly and as Jack said "after all, we haven't worked much in the past few months." That statement no longer held much charm, I was half-consciously begining to sense that life had sparkle when I was on my own, earning my keep with some kind of honest labor. I may have dimly realized that I was on the threshhold of becoming a bum.
This discontent grew through the following weeks as we
travelled down to New Orleans and back to San Francisco. I finally had to make the break. I told Jack I was finished with the carney life, especially since not even one carnival had been involved. We parted friends; if you can call his parting shot ("You'll starve") friendly.
Suddenly, the sky looked bluer again. I treated myself to a good long, free, hike. To the top of Nob Hill and over the steep streets and sidewalk stairs of Telegraph Hill, out to Pacific Heights and toward the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. I walked all day, enjoying the sights and smells of my favorite city. I determined to look for a job the next morning and headed back to ny room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MAGAZINES
The next day dawned bright and clear, The last remnants of night fog had been cleared by the sun. The rhythmic clang of cable cars on Powell Street blended with the dazzling array of flowers for sale on the sidewalk. Each time I returned, San Francisco was a bright collage of impressions that together produced a thirst for living. Clean Pacific breezes, warm sun, bright colors, mysterious fog, watchful Chinese, clean streets, free-striding people, the North Beach smells of Italian cookery, gulls flying, fog horns on the bay, white Matson Line steamers on the Embarcadero. I could see very little of evil when in San Frencisco.
I searched the want ads for work. "Wanted: no experience necessary, represent major publishing concerns, must be free to trevel". That was for me. I could always come back to San Francisco (I disliked people who said 'Frisco'). I had
dressed up as well as my slim budget allowed and went to the designated hotel, a middling place that was respectable enough and better than I was accustomed to.
The ad said to contact a Mr. Gauney in room 314. Joining a small, nervous-looking group composed of two older teenage boys, one broken down man in his late 30's who looked like he needed a drink and two girls in their late teens or early 20's. Both were attractive. One looked a little hard, but the other, strangely for the circumstances, wore a gentle expression. "Too bad I'm not a year or two older", I thought, gauging my height against hers and my sixteen years against her probable eighteen or nineteen.
Speculation was periodically interrupted by a pin-striped business-suited young man who called in one candidate after another at about fifteen minute intervals. Finally, my sweetfaced friend whom I had not managed to even smile at was called in. Candidates left down the hall, which meant a whole suite of rooms. Impressed by this show of power, I nervously slicked my hair and waited. He finally motioned me in.
"Name?" Pin-stripe asked in a not-unfriendly way. "George Rowe". I almost added "Sir", but decided he looked more like a car salesman than a bank president. After a few more introductory questions, my interviewer, whose name was Tom Gavney, seemed satisfied with me and, in a confidential tone, gave me the story.
"We travel all over the country representing an outfit named West-Nav. Publications, Inc. What we do is sell magazine subscriptions. You get so much for each subscription sold, and the amount varies depending on which magazine we're talking
about. Now, we've found that you just can't go up to a house and open up with "I've got 42 magazines you can choose from and please sign here". "That won't sell anything. You've got to practice a good story until you can say it in your sleep. Get the customers on your side first and then hit him with the magazine bit. Interested so far?"
Knowing I could always disappear, if I chenged my mind, I nodded.
"The story we are using right now is the airplane bit. It's even printed out here". He handed me a typed sheet. "Basically, what you say you're doing is that you're in a contest, see. You want to take flying lessons end you get to make enough for your private ticket if you get enough points. Emphasize POINTS, not subscriptions or prices or anything, but POINTS. Points don't sound so expensive."
"Now, when you have got your customer interested in you as a person", Tom continued in a slight Southern drawl that didn't go with the pin-stripe, "Then you show him how you earn POINTS. See, for this here magazine you get 42 points. It also costs the customer $8.50 per year and you earn $2.25, plus renewals. Still interested?"
Assuring him I was and would be back the next morning, sharply at 9:00 a.m. start, I went out to think it over. The job offered enough to live on, travel, and comfortable hotels. It all sounded pretty nice. All I head to do was lie a little more.
Concluding that was part of being on the road, I threw my few possessions into an old suitcase and started off the next morning. Tom Gavney looked a little surprised that had kept my appointment, but started me in "training" with a guy who's name was James Keller
("James, meet George"), who was about three years older than I and apparently an old pro. Training turned out to be practicing a spiel, something I was good at by then.
It turned out that we were not going to work the San Francisco area (it had been overworked), but were going to start down the Valley toward L.A. and then East. The route sounded familiar. I stayed in the comparative luxury of the team's second class hotel that night, bought myself a new sport coat and met the rest of the team over a cafe neal.
There were eight in all, including Tom Gavney. Both girls were there. Miss Sweets turned out to own the unlikely name of Marie Stapleton. She had auburn hair, large blue eyes and didn't seem to belong to this crew. The other girl, Jane Bradley, did. Both hailed from San Francisco. Marie might be too old, but it would be comforting, I thought, to have her around anyway.
The next morning we packed into two cars ond drove toward L.A., arriving late afternoon. That evening we poured over city maps, laying out areas to work the next day. I was assigned to a run-down section east of downtown. Shades of my ice-truck days.
About nine the next norning, we started in. Tom drove one car and let each of us off in the assigned neighborhood.
"Good morning, mam, have you heard anything about the pilot training contest out at the airport?" "No? Well, I'm in it and this is how it works". I had started down the block of old houses, and before the morning was over, had made some sales. By late P.M. I was going full tilt. "And see, Sir, I get 49 points if you take American Life for only one year".
Tom picked us up at the designated time and we rode off laughing about some of the day's happenings. That evening I noticed that only Marie seemed less than satisfied.
We went out to Hollywood the next day. I had been there with Jack, on one of our excursions, so it wasn't entirely new. On the earlier trip, I had secretly hoped I'd be "discovered" by a perceptive talent scout. We had inspected the stars' footprints at Grauman's Chinese Theater, hung out in the corner drugstores (wasn't that how stars got discovered?) and admired the flambouyantly-dressed, overweight, middle-aged characters of both sexes who belonged to the Hollywood scene, and who always seemed to be walking poodle dogs. The men of the species wore berets, silk scarves and flushed complexions.
Still, to a kid from Detroit who had been convinced that the streets of Hollywood were almost, if not quite, paved with gold, the city held some magic. In Detroit, fifteen cents bought a Saturday matinee ticket, a bag of popcorn and three hours of Zorro, The Cisco Kid and two cartoons; and this was where all that heaven came from.
But this time I was here to work and the team was dropped off one by one in designated neighborhoods as before. There was always time, between houses, to admire the lush Mediterranean foliage, and the pastel stucco houses with red tile roofs on the steep residential streets.
My story didn't fool at least one dignified middle-aged gentleman. "What are you doing in the magazine racket, son?" he asked. I started to mumber something about points, but he cut me off. "Yes, I know, the old magazine racket. And such a aice- looking boy, too. Try telling the truth. Just tell people you're selling magazine subscriptions. You'll feel a lot better".
Thus chastened, I decided to have a go at it this way. For a few houses, I did just what he suggested. No sales. Not even a nibble. Perhaps people like to hear a good spiel, even if they don't fully believe it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TEXAS - AGAIN
The team worked its way eastward through Phoenix and Albuquerque with middling results. We stopped to work El Paso for a couple of days. The first day, I went into the Mexican section, working my way from one small, run down house to the next; some adobe, some brick. Stopping at one door, I knocked and was admitted by two young and pretty Mexicans. I was about half way through my story when I realized they didn't speak much English. They did giggle a lot in Spanish however, and I could feel my face reddening as, between giggles, they haltingly explained that their husbands would be home soon. I retreated with as much grace as possible.
That evening, after a delicious, hot Mexican dinner, I decided to look the Mexicun section over further, in spite of tales about long knives and short tempers. Strolling through the dark streets, I entered a cinema. A Mexican film was playing and I assumed that English sub-titles would be used. They weren't. But by then I was too embarassed to leave. One by one the dark heads turned around to look at the blond Gringo while I tried to look as though I understood the whole thing. Nobody was convinced, and for the second time that day, I was the object of much giggling. Determinedly, I sat out the entire
film, not understanding a word. Fortunately the love story had a simple plot.
From E1 Paso, we drove to Amarillo and down through San Antonio to Houston, which became a turning point in my life. I had been on the road for two years, and it didn't look like much of a future. I began to see years of drifting back and forth across the plains like a dust devil. The line between drifting and adventure is a thin one; perhaps the key 1ies in knowing when to stop. Possibly an old gentleman who had given me a lift into Biloxi nearly two years earlier was right. "You an orphen? Well, if you decide to get an education and make something of yourself, you'll deserve more credit and probably make more out of it than someone who gets it the easy way".
With the suddeness that only a teen-ager can muster on an important decision, I wrote to Mrs. Willyette in Detroit. A few days later I received a reply. "Yes", she said, "you can come back to Detroit and stay with me, go to school again, and get a part time job to help with expenses. Yes, we've missed you up here".
I grabbed my suitcase and eased out of the hotel. I didn't want to explain to Tom or anyone. A picture of Detroit filled my thoughts: cold, grey, a stony place far from the sun. Full of belching factories and biting cold and leaden skies. But I was going back, on the bus. I'd be there in a few days. It was February. I was going back because it was a chance, my only chance it seemed, to finish school. And who knows, the sunshine parts of the world were not going anywhere. No reason why I couldn't leave again, some Saturday morning.
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