Soon, it was dark but for their campfire. Down the tracks we
could see a couple of flashlights coming toward us.
Cheese it kids, the cops, Murphy, an Irish tramp warned us.
We darted into a clump of willows and threw ourselves flat
on our faces. We held our breath, trying to be perfectly still, but also, we
peeked and listened.
The beams of flashlights proved to be the constable and one
of the railroad police. They stood at the hobo’s fire and the constable asked,
have you seen a couple of runaway kids?
Kids, nope. No kids around here, the hobos answered.
What would kids be doing out this time of night? Another one
of the men questioned.
Those brats found where a bar had been sawed loose in the
jail, knocked the bar out and broke out of jail.
Sure, that must be a fine jail you have there, chuckled
Murphy, if it can’t hold a couple of kids!
Shut up or I’ll lock you up, retorted the constable.
I’ve been in worse, Murphy grinned.
Angry, the constable and the police left, their flashlights
disappearing down the tracks. Jimmy and I thanked the boss for lying and as
soon as we thought it was safe, we walked the tracks until a freight train,
headed toward Sacramento,
came puffing along. We hopped it, managing to get into an empty box car, and
got back to Sacramento,
where in the yards, we were picked up again.
The cops took us to the police station and questioned, who
are you? And where are you from?
We’re from Rio de
Janeiro, we answered.
That, the police knew, was an utter lie, so they fed us and
locked us up in the cell for the night. And this time, there was no getting out
of it. Boys Aid, with the strap, haunted my dreams. How could I get out of this
jail and stay out of all of them?
The next morning, Max Fish, the fingerprint man, took our
prints. That is done by pressing one’s fingers, one at a time, on a stamp pad,
and then pressing the inky finger on a clean sheet of paper. That morning, it
was a new and curious process to me. Afterward Fish asked a lot of foolish
questions as if he didn’t know who we were, but he must have had a pretty good
idea. Anyway, he opened the jail door, and said, You kids have just twenty
minutes to get out of town. Believe me, it didn’t take us that long!
Somehow Jimmy and I got separated. He went back to his dad
and soon was back at Boys Aid, but I hiked down the road toward Merced, picking up
cigarette butts off the road, knocking at doors to bum something to eat. All
too often, the lady of the house would say, wait a minute, and while I waited,
I would hear her turn the crank of the old-fashioned phone and I knew she was
phoning the police.
When one did, I ducked into an irrigation ditch or a bridge
culvert and laid low. No cops were going to catch Phil again! I was twelve
years old, an accomplished liar, with a jail break to my credit and a homeless
drifter.
During the day I was a tough little guy, bumming my way,
lying and stealing. But at night, I would crawl into a hay stack someplace and
cry myself to sleep. Or maybe find a horse that would let me pat him, and he’d
neigh, giving me a touch of love that my heart craved. And wherever I saw a cur
dog I’d stop and play with him we were both a couple of strays!
No comments:
Post a Comment