The jail, two blocks from the sheriff’s office, was a
one-story brick building, consisting of a large room with several small cells
at one end. As there was nobody in the jail, we were allowed to stay in the big
room.
You’ll stay here, you little punks, until you tell me who
you are and where you’re from the officer threatened, mad at being outsmarted
by a couple of kids.
Oh, yeah, was as smart an answer as I could think of.
The officer stepped outside and Jimmy and I heard the key
turn in the lock.
Lousy place, Jimmy remarked as he wandered around the room.
But it’s not Boys Aid, I reminded. Even the Roseville jail had its points over that place
we looked at everything there was to look at, the bunks, mattresses, and the
one blanket. I studied the obscene scribbling on the walls and the names of the
fellows who had been here before me. There was nothing much to see.
Jimmy and I stood by the window, looking through the bars.
Occasionally we could see some people walking by. Across the vacant lot was a
house, with a big pile of wood with an ax in the chopping block beside it.
Somebody was going to have a lot of wood to cut.
A fellow walked across the lot, and I called out, got a cigarette,
Bud? Sort of person. He eyed us up and down, seeing how young we were, he said,
I got no cigarettes, but how’d you like to get out of this dump?
How would we like to get out! Jimmy shrieked.
Lead me to the door, and watch me go! Look the man pointed
to a place where two of the bars had been sawed and rewelded. He told us, just
wrap a blanket around the bar and hit it real hard.
With what? We asked, with the cynicism of tough youth.
Wait. I’ll get you something.
We waited, bug-eyed, while the man walked over to the
chopping block and came back with the ax. He passed the ax between the bars and
wished us, “Good luck”. Then he sauntered on his way across the lot.
What’ll we use to wrap around the bar? Jimmy asked
excitedly. He looked around, ran over to the bunk and grabbed the one blanket
in the room. He wrapped it carefully around the bar. Cautiously I tapped the
bar with the ax. Nothing happened.
Hit it a little harder, Jimmy urged. I hit the bar harder,
and harder. Nothing happened. I grew desperate and whacked the bar as hard as I
could. Nothing happened.
You gotta hit it harder, Jimmy insisted. I know, I know, I
muttered and by that time I was hitting the bar so loudly, it is a wonder that
the men at the sheriff’s office didn’t hear us.
We aint getting no place, Jimmy decided and yanked the
blanket off the bar. I struck the bar with all the strength I had. It broke and
fell out of the window, landing on the dirt ground with a thud. Lucky for us no
one was passing. I shouted, we’re on our way.
We lost all thought of being quiet. I banged and banged on
the other bar until it, too, fell out. We climbed through that window but quick
I tore my shirt, my face was scratched, but who cared? Bending low, we ran to
the railroad tracks and followed them for about a mile until we came to what is
called the jungle. That’s where the hobs hang out. Five or six old men, with
boney, gangling bodies, in clothes so old they were green, with long hair and
in need of a shave, were stewing a couple of chickens in a rusty kettle. The
bums were kind to us kids. They welcomed us, fed us and listened with laughter
to our tale of escape. These men, the dregs of society, enjoyed seeing a couple
of punks outsmart the cops.
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