Hysterical Journey to Historic Places

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<strong style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Standing Up Straight

I’ve been a foul mouthed little hellion my whole life. It is a bad habit to get into, and it one time cost me dear. Auburn, California, where I was born and raised was a beautiful little town back in the 50’s and a great place to be a kid in. From anywhere in town a kid could hike from his house down to the American River to fish, skinny dip, or pan for gold. There were old mine shafts all over the canyon that we could play in. There were abandoned railroad trestles for us to climb on and plenty of trees for us fall out of. There was a hobo camp beside the railroad tracks where we could sit and visit with some pretty colorful and interesting fellows. We could play in the city dump or float on rubber inner tubes down the PG&E ditch that ran past the front of our house. Once in awhile it would snow in Auburn and school would be let out so we could play in the snow.

The community loved its kids and supported us in every way it could. Each year at Christmas every school kid was treated to bag of hard candy and a free movie at the State Theater. On Halloween all of the merchants in town whitewashed their storefront windows and kids were let out of school early to go paint Halloween pictures on them. Prizes were awarded, of course. It was followed by a parade and cartoon show in the high school auditorium so that we couldn’t create too much mischief around town. Times were great fun for us kids back then. We were encouraged to express ourselves.

At age 8 I had made the acquaintance of a local street cop who took the view that if kids were treated well by the police from an early age we maybe would grow up to become law abiding citizens. That cop always had time for a chat whenever I saw him around town. I had become friendly with him and he would always admonish me to stand up straight and stay out of trouble. Standing up straight didn’t have anything to do with my posture. It was about doing the right things for others and being honest and good in all of my affairs.

Elementary school kids went to Lincoln Way School from kindergarten to grade 4. The grade school was situated across the street from the Placer High School and separated from it only by a playground. On an adjoining corner between the high school and the grade school was a local burger joint called Joe’s Frosty. It was a convenient hang out for kids from both schools. Mostly the grade school kids were tolerated well enough by the high school kids, but a few of the older kids liked to bully us younger ones. They would cut in line, demand our money, threaten us and occasionally slap us around if we didn’t like it.

One day during the spring of the year that I was a 4^th grader some friends and I gathered after school at Joe’s. There were some high school kids there that started pushing us around. There were four of them. Standing up straight and tall I told those bullies to pick on somebody their own size. The one who was giving my friend, Alan, a dutch rub turned around to me and said, “What did you say, you little turd?” More loudly this time and looking him directly in the eye, I said, “You heard me, shit weasel. I said to lay off him”. Bold talk, perhaps, for an 8 year old, but we were encouraged to express ourselves. It got my face slapped hard enough to rattle my teeth. I got thrown down in the mud, and I got pantsed in front of my friends. Alan liked it though. He went home and told his mom that I had called some older kids a shit weasel and they beat me up. His mom forbade Alan to hang out with me after that because I had a potty mouth. Even though it had saved her only son’s ass. That’s a different story though. What that incident did was single me out to those bullies.

Whenever I saw those four guys, after that, it was more of the same for me. They would come up to me at Joe’s and start pushing me around, and I would say something like, “Why don’t you sorry sumbitches go get a job? The sewer plant is hiring. They pay two bits and hour plus all you can eat.” Whap, whap, whap, and my pants would come down around my ankles in front of my friends. It went on like that all summer.

Fortunately grades 5 through 8 were out at E. V. Cain School, which was not so close to the high school. I didn’t see those damn bullies as often, but they were still around. One day I saw them coming after me and just pulled my own pants down. My friend, the street cop, saw me do that and came over for a chat. He said to me, “What’s up with that, pal?” I told him those four goddamn dirty shit buzzards right over there were going to pants me, and I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.” He said, “Okay, pal, I see. You can’t just show them your ass though. Public indecency, I could run you in for it, and besides that, it just ain’t no way for a man to stand up straight.”

During the 6^th grade the four of them caught me out at the fairgrounds one day. They took me out behind the livestock pens and beat the crap out of me. They had been drinking that day and they rubbed dog shit in my hair. All things considered I would rather have been pantsed. Before they left I got back on my feet, stood up straight, and through bloodied lips I told them that if they “weren’t such an ugly bunch of cornholers, and so damn stupid too, they might get some girlfriends who didn’t have the clap”. I had some difficulty breathing for awhile after that. They may have cracked a rib or something with those kicks.

I got a paper route in the 7^th grade and it kept me busy after school. My route was over in Racetrack, which is a neighborhood of long steep hills. Riding my bike over there everyday made my legs strong and improved my wind. During the 8^th grade I was riding my bike over through Racetrack Park one day on my way to the paper route when those assholes jumped me again. They were in a white Plymouth Fury, but there were only three of them that time. I got in a few good licks of my own. One of them I kicked so hard in his knee that I heard it pop. He left the fray howling in pain. Another of them was bleeding through his mouth from a fat lip I had given him. I had bloused the eye on the third. The ass kicking that I had to take that day was painful and vicious, but I was standing up straight when they left me. As they drove off I hollered that the chicken farm needed three shit roosters to screw some hens, but they kept going.

Those guys were already out of school, and no doubt shoveling manure someplace for a living, by the time I started my freshman year at Placer High. Guy who had the white Plymouth was still around town though, but he didn’t have many friends left. Neither did I for that matter. My friends were scared to be around me by then. They knew they could possibly get hurt. I ended up spending quite a bit of my time alone. One Friday night in October of 1962 I was walking home from the movies by myself when the white Plymouth passed me by from behind. It turned around and came back, and I was thinking, “Oh crap. Here we go again.” They didn’t stop, but they slowed down and a guy leaned out the rear window and threw a water balloon at me. It took me plumb in the bread basket and was filled with warm piss. The guy who threw the balloon I did not recognize, but the driver was the same little shit monkey as before. Him I knew.

The very next day I was riding my bike downtown and saw the white Plymouth in the parking lot at Joe’s Frosty. The day of reckoning had finally come. He was sitting by himself at an outside table having lunch. As I strode up to him he was trying to stand, bring up his dukes, and swallow a mouthful of burger all at the same time. He was coming into me slightly and my punch clocked him square in the nose like the crack of doom. Damn, it was great. Muhammad Ali could not have thrown that punch better. I had gathered it up from clear down in Tasmania, it had perfect leverage and momentum with my stride, and the follow through, aimed two inches behind his nose carried years of pent up rage. Both of his grubby hands went up to his face and blood was gushing through his fingers. He was standing beside the table all spraddle-legged with his eyes shut and his nose badly broken when I kicked him hard as I could right in his ballsacks. As he was doubling over I grabbed him behind his greasy head and slammed his face down onto the table hard enough to make his dog wince. As he lay blubbering and retching on the ground I stood up straight, reached over and picked up the remains of his meal, walked over and dropped it in the trash barrel. Lunch was over. I never even knew his name.

Am not sure why I am telling this story. It has always been a thing that I have kept to myself. It is not a part of my life that I take much pride in. Bad language has its consequences I guess, but so does standing up straight. It has nothing to with your posture. It is about doing the right things for others, and being honest and good in all of your affairs.

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