“The Last Ride”

(A Survival Story)

ISBN: 9781618424020

“Introduction”

We had known each other since the first grade. Michael and Willie lived in the same block as I. Tommy and French Albert lived within a few blocks from us. We always got together and did young teenager stuff like work odds jobs selling newspapers, pop bottles and cutting lawns. We played sports, played at the beach, and played with the girls. Our motto was: “Work Hard, Play Hard and Love Hard.”

I’m apologizing to you folks in advance because someone told me that I should include last names for the characters in this story, even if I have to use fictional ones. Since, this is a true story; I feel that I got to use true names. I won’t use last names for fear that someone may sue my socks off. Most of the names are pretty common, except for “Yours”, French Albert. Everyone is going to know who you are.

Prelude

When they found Tommy, he was 100 yards to the west of where we last saw him go under…. and an hour and a half later. When they pulled his lifeless body aboard the small rescue vessel, I instantly obtained a great deal of respect for the ocean. We had been playing a dangerous game, where the winner’s only reward ------was to survive. Tommy paid the ultimate price and had taken…….his last ride.

“The Big Spinners”

Galveston Island, Texas is located 40 miles due south of the metropolitan of Houston, in the Gulf of Mexico. Many people have heard of it, and most of them do not realize it is surrounded by water. The only thing connecting Galveston to the rest of the Lone Star State is a two-mile long bridge. When I was a child back in the fifties, the bridge was a narrow two lane concrete structure that also included a train track with a drawbridge near the middle to allow large vessels to past. To me, it was a major event to be caught on the span and watch the enormous section raise high in the air as a huge barge or tanker slowly navigated through the “cuts”, in and out West Bay. Many people from the mainland found jobs on the island at the many restaurants, stores, or the famous John Sealy Hospital,(where I was born),and The University of Texas Medical Branch. They soon built, what is referred to simply as the “causeway”. The drawbridge was closed to thru traffic, (except for trains), and yielded to two arch-shaped bridges to accommodate the heavier traffic flow. Not counting being air lifted, sailed or the ferry, which takes you to and fro to the Bolivar Peninsula, the causeway was the only escape from natural disasters like, the Storm of 1900, Carla, Beulah, Alicia, and the most recent of the “Big Spinners”, Ike, The Great Hurricanes of Galveston.

A Senseless Death?

My mother died in John Sealy Hospital shortly after my childbirth from blood loss. I weighed eleven lbs. at birth and if you were poor and black like we were, with no insurance to cover your hospital expenses, you did not receive proper care. I was told that a simple operation could have stopped the bleeding, but the doctors opted for the cheap way out…to allow for coagulation, but by then the loss was too great to sustain life.

The next step was a blood transfusion, but since my mother was a Jehovah’s Witness, that was ‘not’ an option. The doctors talked to my father in private and said that they could put her to sleep and when she woke up, she would never know the difference and would be able to go home in a few days.

“Let me go talk to her”, my dad said to them.

As soon as he entered her room and before he could open his mouth, she said, “Harvey, I know what you’re doing in here, but if you love me, you won’t let them give me any blood. Please, don’t let them do it.”

That must have been the hardest decision of my father’s life. He was of the Baptist persuasion, who sometimes believes that anything goes. (Do not ask me how those two religions got together. Baptist and Jehovah’s Witnesses do not agree with each other on a good day.)

If it were I faced with that dilemma, I might have said, “Shut up woman and go to sleep!” (Then again, I might not.)

I now find comfort in my father’s decision believing that my mother got her wings for being obedient to God’s word and my father got his for obeying her last wishes.

“A Raising of the Son”

As you might imagine, I had a thousand questions about my mama and what happened to her after I was born. My dad always seems to not want to talk about it, or not give me a straight answer.

He told me one time, after one of my cross-examinations about, “What happened after mom died?”

“I left you at the hospital and put you up for adoption,” he said with a grin on his face. Now, when he said that, I gasped, but the grin threw me off. I didn’t see a darn thing funny about that.

“Why did you go back and get me?” I asked in hopes of a loving or caring story with some sentimental value.

He replied, “Well, I felt sorry for ya. You see, after a baby is left there more’n tens days, dey put dem in dis long tube that stretches from the hospital, goes underground and empties out into the ocean. Dey “shoot” you out thoo’ dis tube and the sharks are always waitin’ at the end, with dey moff wide open.”

Of course, when he told me that one, I was still young enough to believe it, but as I grew older, I came to realize it was just another diversionary tactic to avoid giving me a straight answer.

There were times when I wished he had left me at the hospital. I grew up in the era of whippings, or “whoopings,” as we, southern blacks referred to it. (Nowadays, it’s called “child abuse“). Society wouldn’t call what my father used to give me a whooping or even child abuse. They would call it “assault with a deadly weapon…..with intent to kill“! Most times when he whooped me, he’d use his leather belt.

There was no particular place he had in mind for the belt to land on my body. He’d start by telling me to lay across the bed face down. As the belt landed on my butt, back or legs, I would jump up and down timing each blow as not to let it strike me twice in the same place. That was extreme pain when that happened. When I was well-done on my backside, I would flip over to catch a few licks on the fresh tender flesh of my front legs, abdomen, chest area and I couldn’t hear myself think over my screams.

 Whenever a swing seem to be heading for my face, I’d instinctively raise my forearm to block, often leaving visible marks made by the tip of the belt that the kids at school called “U’s”, (Yoo’s). The rest can usually be covered up with clothes.

My dad believed in beating me long and hard, only stopping after fatigue set in or I could no longer defend myself by blocking and jumping or, he got tired from swinging and yelling, whichever came last. I’ve had whoopings that lasted well over 30mins.

When he was real mad, he’d use whatever he got his hands on at the time, for example, tree limbs, sticks, brooms or even his fist. He has broken several brooms either across my back or across my forearm when I tried to block a swing from hitting me in the face and head area.

He really got upset one day after he broke his “walking cane” on my back. The brooms back then were much thicker and stouter than the cheaply made ones of today, but that “walking stick” was even more solid and thicker than the brooms and was treated with some sort of lacquer coating to ensure sturdiness and durability.

He stood on the porch calling me for some reason and I could tell in his voice that I was going to get a “beat down” about something. (Probably, for going out to play before washing the dishes). I ran when I heard the call, but of course, a couple of my friends, Willie and French Albert also recognizing the tone, followed close behind, so that they could get in a good laugh. For some reason, catching a whooping was always funny, when someone else was getting one.

When I reached the porch, I hesitated briefly, to listen to his shouting’s and after realizing that a whooping was forthcoming, I wanted to run inside to save myself too much embarrassment, but dad was blocking the doorway. I waited until he raised his hand to strike me and then made my move. Since, some of you folks think that guys like Kobe Bryant, and Michael Jordan is “all that” with their patented “crossover” moves, but I put a fake on my dad that would have put them guys to shame and managed to “blow” past him and the door.

We lived in a boarding house on the second floor and the stairway was just inside the foyer. I bounded up the stairs in full stride and thought I had made it out of his reach when suddenly there was a loud “crack” and I felt a searing pain in the center of my spine. The force of the blow knocked me down onto the steps as I screamed in pain. He had hit me with his walking cane and it broke in half, which made him even angrier. I had totally underestimated my dad’s speed for a man who had back problems.

“Don’t you ever run from me!” He shouted. “Now, look what you did! You broke my walking stick!”

I managed to crawl upstairs, where he beat me even more with his belt, but I didn’t seem to feel those licks. All I could do is lie there and scream from the excruciating pain I received from the walking cane.

I remember one time he beat me so long that I’d tried to fake a heart attack to make him stop. After a certain, well-placed and painful strike, I jumped up, coughed and gagged a couple of times, grabbed my chest and fell lifelessly to the floor.

Now, I knew that he wouldn’t believe that I had just died from a heart attack, so I was going to have to take the next “two or three licks”, without flinching, breathing, or making a sound. I thought I did a pretty good job “playing dead” but, after about the eleventh or twelfth lick, I miraculously came back to life.

My dad’s pet peeves, which warranted mandatory whoopings, were bad grades on your report card, getting caught outside after the sun went down, and not cleaning the house…daily. Since, it was only my dad and I, all the house cleaning was on me. Of all the numerous chores, I was responsible for, washing the dishes was the one I hated most and is the one single thing I was whooped for more than everything else I had done, put together. Not that I was a bad boy, it’s just that dad was very strict on me and didn’t let me off with much. I am grateful, in a way, that he didn’t allow me to run the streets with the boys in the hood, or participate in any after-dark activities.

“A Raisin in a Box of Flakes”

My father allowed me to play sports in Jr. High School and some games where at night, but the coach had better be the one that brought me home. Of course, Coach didn’t mind since I was his star player, but embarrassing to say the least, having to be chaperoned. Besides, I lived in the “black hood” but opted to go to a predominately-white school because someone said that you would get a much better education, but the catch was that it was a three and a half mile walk out near east beach…one-way. The all black school was only four blocks from our house.

I was ridiculed, teased and had fights often, due to the fact that the white kids didn’t like me there and called me “nigger” so much that I thought it was my middle name. I never answered to it, nor did I ever call them anything derogatory in return. Two wrongs never made a right. I figured that if I retaliated to “their” slurs, then I would be no different than “them“. I wanted to make a difference, so I always just ignored them and walked away.

They picked fights with me almost every day and although I could handle my own, sometimes, three or four of them got the best of me.

Whenever we got caught fighting, they would say that I started it and I would be the only one who got “The Board of Education” , (as the hand-carved paddle was called), from the principal, then expelled, which was grounds for a whooping from my dad when I got home. In those days, any responsible adult could whoop you, i.e., teachers, principals, next-door neighbors, etc., if they caught you doing something wrong. Then, when my dad found out, he would give me a whooping because I got a whooping from someone else. He said that it was an embarrassment to him.

On the other side of the coin, the boys from the hood often picked fights with me, calling me a traitor or an “Uncle Tom” for going to a white school. I remember walking home one day from school and these three brothers were trying to rob Johnny Lidstrum, a meek, mild-mannered white kid from one of my classes. Since, I knew the brothers; I tried to plead with them in Johnny’s defense.

“This ain’t none of yo business, Paul!” One of them said.

“Yeah! Take yo honky loving ass on down the road.” Another one said.

I stepped between Johnny and the would-be thieves and calmly said, “Run Johnny.”

As I was warned again to step out of the way, I glanced behind me for an instant to see how far Johnny had made it. To my surprise, he had only taken a few steps away.

“I said run!” I shouted at him.

“But, but…I don’t won’t to leave you with…” he started.

“Now, Johnny! I shouted even louder.

He turned and ran as fast as his awkward little legs could carry him and suddenly, before I could turn fully back around to face the hoods, I was hit and tackled on the sidewalk as blow after blow came from every angle. Now, this was different than fighting the whites. I practically grew up with these guys and knew I didn’t have a ‘snowballs chance in hell’ to win against the three of them and fighting back would only make them madder. I had to bid my time and catch them on a one-on-one basis about this matter.

So, I just lay on the sidewalk and tried to protect my head and face as much as I could. I peered through the melee to find Johnny standing at the corner about a half block away watching us and I couldn’t tell for sure but, he appeared to be crying. After a few more punches, a couple of kicks to my rib cage and one to the side of my head for good measure, they took off after Johnny. I could only silently pray that he had enough of a head start. Conformation came the next day in class when he said that he did get away and Johnny became my shadow and my first white friend. He was so timid that even the white boys picked on him and I often came to his rescue.

Johnny was obviously from a well-to-do family by the nerdy way he dressed and always had money in his pocket, at least, enough to get whatever he wanted in the lunchroom. I, on the other hand, was “Po”. We couldn’t even afford the “o-r” in the word “poor“. I often wore mixed-matched socks, high water pants, (recycled from two or three years previously, with holes in the knees and they weren’t in style in the late sixties), shoes without holes in the sole and money in my pocket was a rare occurrence.

Being black was a routine struggle at that school, but being broke was a curse. There were a few other blacks that attended there but, they were pretty high classed so they weren’t teased as much. I finally gain recognition and acceptance after I hit a buzzer beater in a play-off game that took us to the finals and even though we lost in the play-offs, I won a trophy for being in the “Best Top Five” in the district. The funny thing about that trophy was that they made me put it in the showcase in the hall and said that I could take it home at the end of the year. “Not!” When I went to retrieve it on the last day of my eighth grade, they said that I owed the school a dollar and fifty cents for a book I had checked out of the library and until I paid it, the trophy would have to stay. I often visited it throughout my eighth and ninth grade Jr. High School career and I can only imagine if it’s still there.

I also excelled in football, playing almost every position on the field, filling in where we were the weakest on both offense and defense but, Coach refuse to let me play quarterback, where I was needed the most. Even, Manuel, our star quarterback, suggested to the coach that I try out in his place, because of my speed, strength, and accurate passing abilities. He came back and told me that the coach said no because I wouldn’t be able remember the plays. Hmmm! I could remember the plays of all the other positions but, not the quarterback’s position. I guess the quarterback had a special, complicated playbook that was different from the rest of the positions and could only be deciphered by coaches……and white players.

Back then, Jr. High School was from the seventh thru the ninth grade. I kept a high g.p.a. in every class, except in biology where I made a “D” one time. I was going to get a whooping for that so, before I got home, I drew a line right through the middle of the D to make it look like a B. It didn’t work. My dad took one look at my report card and said, “What’s the matter with this B?”

My father never finished the ninth grade and I always had to read the mail and write letters for him. His handwriting was atrocious and I always got the notion that I was smarter than he was. Didn’t think that he would even notice that “B” was a little bit…warped.

“The teacher must have made a mistake”, I lied.

The next day, when I got home from school, he was waiting for me with his belt. Now, I saw my dad at one basketball game and one football game the whole time I was at Stephen F. Austin Jr. High School. He never came to no other functions, even when parents presences where mandatory but, he came up to the school to check on that funny looking “B”.

Thanks to “Lidbone”, (a nickname I gave Johnny Lidstrum), who was your average ‘run-of-the-mill’ brainiac, I brought it up to a B+. He had seen the fresh welts and I had to explained to him why I got the “U’s” on my arms and legs so, he studied with me every chance we got and let me copy off his test papers when I got stumped during a quiz.

“The Great White Hope”

Sometimes, my dad left me home alone at night, maybe two or three nights out of the week. I knew when he left that I wouldn’t see him until the next day. I guess he went to visit his girlfriend or something but, I dared not leave the house or let anyone inside while he was gone. Galveston had a curfew of nine o’clock for anyone less than sixteen years of age. About nine o‘clock, after my father had left for the evening, there came a knock at the window. I looked out to see Willie Jackson, a neighborhood hood, who lived across the street from us. I had known him since elementary school, and he was always getting into trouble so I basically stayed away from him, whenever I could.

“What’s going on Willie?” I asked through the closed window. He dug in his pocket and showed me more money than I had seen in a long time, especially, by a fifteen year old.

I opened the window with my mouth hanging wide open and asked, “Where did you get all that money?”

“Come go with me to the laundry mat”, he said, “I’ll buy you some candy and a soda, then I’ll tell you.”

The laundry mat was a twenty-four hour facility with a candy and soda machine and it was right on the corner from where we lived. I protested…a little, but the free candy and soda took precedence over my fear of being caught outside after dark. He had seen my father leave and needed someone to brag to about his newfound wealth. Within minutes, we were trading bills for coins from the bill changer, to drop into the snack machines. While we were chewing on Bit ‘O Honeys, Chick ’O Sticks, Butterfingers and drinking strawberry sodas, the wad of bills resurfaced from his pocket and he counted out forty-eight bucks, an unheard of amount for a “Po Boy” to have on his presences.

As I stared in awe, he started, “I found a way to get money out of the night deposit boxes at the bank.”

“How?” I asked impatiently.

“Well, first you get two shoelaces,” he said. “‘’”