Wildflower
Last Updated on Tuesday, 22 June 2010 10:17 Written by George Friday, 19 March 2010 01:35
1944:
I tried to get my job back at the New Weston but Grady, the chief bellhop informed me that he was going to fire me but I beat him to the punch by quitting. “I’m sick and tired of hearing your excuses, Birimisa. You were always late for work and you never shined your shoes.”
So I said to myself, “What the heck you doing in this crummy town in the first place, George?” I packed my tin suitcase, went down to the Holland Tunnel and stuck out my thumb. I wasn’t sure where I was going but I got a ride all the way to San Francisco. I was only a hundred miles from Santa Cruz, the sleepy small town where I was born—where the Professor and Mom had a summer home. I hitched down Highway One—past Devil’s Slide and the redwoods in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I gobbled down a couple of hot dogs on the Boardwalk—rode the roller coaster and then stopped at the Plunge. I looked for the huge poster of Buster Crabbe but it was gone.
I was nervous as hell as I rang the doorbell of the white stucco bungalow that was trimmed in green—no response. So I knocked loudly on the door. “Mom?” I yelled. “Are you home?” When there was no answer I looked in the front window but the blinds were pulled down. “Mom?”
“Go away, Mister!”
“It’s—uh—me—your son, Georgie.”
“If you don’t go away I’ll call the police.”
“It’s Georgie, Mom. I came all the way from New York just to see you.”
Her voice trembled. “Is that you, Georgie?”
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.”
A key turned in the lock and the door opened a crack. “Is that really you?
I tried to keep the anger of of my voice. “How many times you want me to tell you, for crimany sakes?”
She opened the door halfway She was wearing a starched yellow apron with smiling black cats on it. “Why are you like that?’
“Like what, Mom?
“Where is your sailor suit?”
“I’m out of the Navy.”
“Did they kick you out?”
“I was the only survivor of an aircraft carrier,” I lied. “It got sunk by the Nazi’s so I got me an Honorable Discharge.”
Her tongue nervously licked at the bright red lipstick on her mouth. “My Daddy says the Germans are a superior race—they will win the war. They—”
“Uh—have you heard from Louie or Jackie?”
“Jackie’s a grown man—he can’t spell. He–”
“You got a letter from him?”
“He’s somewhere in the Pacific Ocean killing the Japs.”
“Louie?”
“He’s a paratrooper.”
“Wow! How exciting!”
She scratched the bridge of her nose. “You came here to get money from me?”
“Heck no I didn’t!” I clenched my fists. “Jesus, Mom, I just came here to see you an I wanna see Easter, too!”
“She played the oboe with the San Francisco Symphony on the boardwalk,” Mom said proudly. “Your little sister is a genius. She has perfect pitch. She’s an expert on the the violin, the clarinet, the glockenspiel and the piano.”
“Jesus, Mom!” I was furious. “Do I have to stand out here—aren’t you even—?”
“ I would invite you in for a bite to eat but the Professor—my Daddy will be home any minute and he can’t stand to be disturbed.”
I shook my head in disgust. “It’s always him—it always comes back to him.”
“Don’t you dare say nasty things about my Daddy.” She reached into her apron. “You will need this.” Her diamond ring sparkled in the slanting rays of the sun as she held out a five dollars bill. My hand was shaking but I took the money. “Give your mother a kewpie-doll kiss!”
I gave her a quick peck on her rouged cheek.
“Take care of yourself,” she said. “Your nails are dirty, Georgie. No one will give you a job unless you cut them and keep them clean.” She quickly closed the door.
I felt like pounding on the door and screaming, “Jesus Christ, Mom! What the fuck is the matter with you? I’m back from the war and you can’t even invite mer for dinner?” Angry tears splashed down my face as I ran the half a mile to the deserted beach. I tore off all my clothes, and ran into the sea. A huge wave crashed down on me, twirling and twisting me head over heels. It knocked the breath out of me and I gagged on the salt water. For a moment I thought the strong tide was going to pull me out to sea but I thrashed around and finally found my footing. I wiped my body with my underwear, put on my clothes and hitched a ride to Watsonville. It took me a half hour to find Daddy’s grave that was in the cemetery next to the narrow two lane highway. “You were a real son of a bitch, y’know,” I stopped in front of the house that used to belong to us at 1018 Main Street. I hurried downtown, past the the red brick Catholic Church where I had been baptized. I gave my middle finger to the Lettunich building. “Fuck you, Uncle Mateo!” I moved by the Plaza—a postage stamp of a park where Daddy had been giving his Commie speech. I stuck out my thumb—a smiling Mexican with a gold tooth picked me up and drove me to Castroville, the artichoke center of the world. I slept in a haystack on the side of the road.
In the morning I caught the Greyhound to L.A. and went to work in a Popsicle factory. My job was to load them into a walk-in refrigerator. At night I would cruise Pershing Square, then cross the street to the elegant bar at the Biltmore Hotel, that was a mixture of gays and straights. When I saw a giant of a man on a bar stool all alone, I sidled up to him but I didn’t say a word. I quickly chug-a-lugged a beer so I could get drunk enough to get up the nerve to talk to him. “Hi,” I finally said as I stared at his crotch. “What are you up to?”
He grinned and thrust out his jaw. “Let’s go to my place for a drink.”
“You live around here?”
“Upstairs.”
I was impressed. “Here—uh— at the fancy Biltmore?”
“No, I live in Timbuktu.”
Once in his room he sat on the edge of the bed with his legs spread wide. He winked at me and massaged his groin. When I groped him he flashed his badge. “LAPD. You’re under arrest.” He handcuffed my hands behind my back. As we got on the elevator a white haired man in a tuxedo looked at me like I had crawled out from under a rock. I was in a state of shock as the cop led me into the dank and dark lobby of the Lincoln Heights Police Station. The fat bellied officer behind the counter grinned and barked, “You take the cake, Derrigan. The fags—they really go for you in a big way.–that’s the fourth one you busted tonight and it’s only eleven.”
My face reddened with shame. “I ain’t fuckin like that!”
After I was fingerprinted I was locked up in a cell. After an hour or so I fell into a fitful sleep on a thin, stinking mattress.
I woke up when I felt a hand groping me.—a toothless young man was looking down at me. “I give a great gum job,” he said.
I pushed his hand away. “Lay off, for cryin out loud.”
“What you in for?” he said as he took his hand away.
“Uh—I’m –I had one too many and—here I am.”
“Oh, my dear, there must be a big mistake.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You just —you happen to be in the queer tank.”
I was too embarrassed to say anything. I turned over on my side and tried to go to sleep. The next day the judge intoned, “A hundred dollars or 30 days in jail. You must also register as a sex offender.”
I had just been paid at the Popsicle factory so I managed to scrape up the hundred bucks. However, I refused to register as a queer. I stuck out my thumb – got the hell out of California.