760131 - Labuanan's Plea

Friday, as always, was terrible at the zoo. For some reason, Fridays are extraordinarily hectic but nothing gets done. . . .

The day ended with the Labuanan Plea. An old Philipino, Labuanan had been charges with drunk driving, having an open container and driving without a license. He could understand English albeit with some difficulty. I worked out a deal with Jerry Sevier under which Labuanan would plead to 25102(a) [drunk driving] plus one other count for two days jail with credit for time served [2 days] plus a $315.00 fine.

Bradstreet would not buy it, so I dropped Counts II and III altogether. Jerry then began to explain the waiver of rights form to Labuanan. It was a long litany of quids and pro quo's designed by the Supreme Court to insure that all guilty pleas are knowingly and voluntarily made.

Labuanan began to have trouble with “beyond a reasonable doubt,” “compulsory service of process,” and “giving up defences” although he did manage to grasp “twelve people deciding.”

After about five minutes with this nonsense in open court, the right honourable Bradstreet took over.

“Can you say, with your thought, that your are guilty?”

“Yes, yes, I am guilty”

“Are you saying this because you are in fact guilty or has anyone made any promises to you to make you say you are guilty?”

“Yes, yes, I am guilty”

Five more minutes of this charade reveal that the defendant had not in fact been stopped while actually driving but only after he had come to rest at the side of the highway. Still, Labuanan admitted that he had been driving. Even so, there now began to be talk about having a court trial, to which end an interpreter would have to be summoned up from Earlimart. The purpose of this judge-trial would be to convict Labuanan since he could not “knowingly” plead guilty to the court's satisfaction. In other words, we would force him to plead not guilty only to turn around and prove him wrong.

The man only wanted to plead, pay and get back to Indio, where he lived, six hours away. I couldn't stand the gutless over-refined absurdity of the whole thing. At length I stood up and suggested that the problem would not be solved by a translator since the defendant's trouble was not in comprehension of English but in understanding legal concepts. At this point, Bradstreet, answered “You're the trouble.” Sevier later said that Bradstreet was grinning but I didn't notice it.

I smouldered for about 30 seconds and then said, “We dismiss.” I walked up to the clerk, filled out a dismissal form and flipped in back to her. Without looking at Bradstreet, I strode out of the courtroom.

760228 - Take Him, Sarge!

Once I got to Visalia Muni, I noticed a beefy Marine gunny sergeant standing cocksure in the hallway. He had an air of vulgarity. He came up to me and asked if I were a public defender. I told him I wasn't, that I was a district attorney. All the better. Pointing to slight and silent young Mexican, the sergeant said he wanted a 488 (petty theft) charged dismissed against a potential recruit. I said it shouldn't be a problem.

We got to talking and, referring to Judge Bradstreet's chaotic arraignments, the sergeant volunteered that they would handle things differently in the Corps. I didn't say anything but was not impressed by the sergeant's bravado or by his hints of rough and ready manly justice.

Mark Cutler, who was representing the would be recruit, came over and had me sign some papers, which I did without looking at them. “A man after my own heart,” said the sergeant, “he doesn't look at what he's signing.” Cutler was quick on cue, “He's all yours sergeant; make a man out of him” and with that he gave me a push on the shoulder.

We all laughed aloud but I wondered why tricking a man into a helpless predicament should be the source of such mirth. Is the laughter a sign of disdain or compassion?

Once the papers were signed, the sergeant began to bitch about wasting all this time in court waiting for pre-trials to begin. As papers were shuffled, he found out that young Marino (for that was his name) had an outstanding $25.00 parking ticket If he paid it, the sergeant said, Marino would then be his and would “work for me” hand waxing cars.

A little later he beckoned Marino to come over. Snapping his arm straight out, he said “Get inside, sit down, keep quiet and smile a lot.” As if impelled by some force emanating from the tip of the gunny's finger, the diminuitive Marino obeyed meekly and without a word. It seemed as if his head was slightly bowed, although it really wasn't.

“Might as well get him used to it,” the sergeant smiled.

Bullying or kindness? At the time I thought he was just being a domineering asshole but years later it I see it differently. The Marine Corps' “yellow foot prints” reception ritual is nothing but shock and awe. Even if you fully expect a cold shower to be cold, nothing quite prepares you for the icy chill when it hits your skin. From the looks of him, the shy and slight Marino was in for the shower of his life. And so yes, the barking gunny was immunizing his charge making what was in store for him a little less frightful.

Whatever it was, it would be better than anything the State of California had to offer him.

680828 -Les Evenements d'Août

The routine for Wednesday was much like any other weekday in the French countryside: le petite dejuner, of grilled bread, butter, jam and café au lait at the long table at eight; milling about with something vaguely in mind until nine thirty or ten when anyone who had nothing better to do could crowd into the car (if there was room) for the shopping trip to Lons-le-Saunier, the nearest provincial city; followed by le déjuner at 12:30 or one, again at the long table. With half the day more or less leading up to dinner, there was nothing left to do in the afternoon except repair to the garden for coffee and cakes. At this point, some family members might take off to do something, before assembling once again at the long table for supper, around eight thirty or nine. To be sure, there were days when something special -- a trip to the lake, a trip to a neighbouring village to sample cheese -- was planned. But for the most part, the whole point of the summer break was idleness.

Montain (L) - Lavigny (R)

But the French are never idle in the mind. At breakfast, lunch and dinner there was always plenty of chatter about Empire era clocks, the latest film or novel to take the country, the insufferability of the bureaucracy, the impossiblity of Céline, the absurdities of the latest scandal, the hopelessness of the English, what to do with Christian, something to do with Pascal or Montaigne, one's favourite sound-pun or calembour, and, of course, since this was 1968, les evenements de mai when the de Gaulle government was almost seemingly topled by rioting students.

I had little to contribute to any of this since I was totally ignorant of Empire era clocks and of most of the other topics of conversation and dispute. As for calembours, it had to be explained to me that si tu es gai, ri donc! (if you are happy, laugh then) was riotously clever because a géridonc was a style of 16th century table. The best I could manage was to indicate that I could see how someone might think that was funny, had he been sufficiently up to snuff in things French. And not just French. Around this time, for reasons which remain inscrutable to me, Jerry Lewis became the lastest craze in France. Praised as Le Roi du Crazy by the likes of Jean Luc Godard and Robert Beanyoun, Lewis became the darling, of the French intelligentsia and, to their lights, the most singular thing that America had contributed to the arts. My comment that I didn't think imbecility was very funny did not go over well. Well surely, I liked the Marx Brothers. No, I didn't care for them either. This was tantamount to scuttling Franco-American relations. Even worse was my opinion that a dispute over grades did not seem to me much reason to be tearing up the cobblestones of Paris. Evidement, I was the kill-joy of a good topic for endless argument. I learned to content myself with the humbler pleasure of being a spectator of how the French behave a table.

In the evening, conversation died down in time for the news. A small TV was set up in a sitting nook of the large salon, where those who wanted could watch. The O.R.T.F. was government run and the news this night, as most others, was the usual boring French stuff, except that in the middle of the humdrum, the screen flashed on to a grand émeute outside the Democratic Convention in Chicago. The screen showed the insipid, clown-like face of Hubert Humphrey (an unintended rival to Jerry Lewis) at a podium before switching to scenes of cops clubbing students in a fog teargas. I was stunned but what I recall most was the faces of my French family all of which turned from the TV to me. Across their lips came an ever so slight smile that said: you see, you are no different from us.

It was not malicious but it was more of a reproach against me than the country. Certainly the French were never duped by American Exceptionalism. But, in spite of everything, in spite of all the disgust and discouragement, I still felt that America had “a cleaner slate” somehow. No longer. Looking back now with the historical scale of things in mind, the riot outside the convention was the smallest of beer. It did not come close to the repression of the Bonus Marchers or of countless labor strikes, to say nothing of the Negroes and to say even less of the “pacification” of the Indians. But I was young and needed an ideal.

I got up and quietly extricated myself from the embarassing gaze of my relatives. As I walked out the back door into the garden, their chatter had already turned to something else.

Lavigny (pre yuppy)

It was dark and a light rain had begun to fall but I needed to walk out my thoughts. I headed out the front gate, passed the water fountain in the small village square and down the hill to the main road. There was nothing in Montain, except cows and a dairy; but across the valley on the hill over was Lavigny, a slightly bigger town that had something that passed for a bar. I crossed the main road and walked up to the town. In the narrow streets I found an open door to a dimly lit., dingy peasant bar. I sat down at a rough hewn wood table off to the side, and ordered a brandy, and then another and another until three or so in the morning. After I steeped myself in thought and alcohol, I got up and walked back in the rain to Montain, where I crawled into bed and fell asleep, absolved of any nagging need to register to vote.

Le petite dejeuner would begin another day.

660915 - A Night of Power

After a miserable summer selling encyclopedias on the hot asphalt of New York City, I flew to Denver (9/10) to meet up with Lili Appelman,a girl friend from Stockbridge. Lili announced that she would like to visit Mexico and I announced back that she was more than welcome to stay at my house, as I had at hers more than once. For whatever reasons which I have since forgot (1), it was decided that I would go by land and she by air.

I arrived in Santa Fe on the 12th, spent the night on campus and left for El Paso the next day, arriving in Mexico City on the morning of the 15th where, as was my custom, I went first to the Hotel Regis for a steam bath, massage and haircut before taking a cab home. It was an incredibly tight schedule given that Las Fiestas Patrias began that very night.

Amidst the privileged classes le boulot en or was a command from the Presidency to make one's presence known at the National Palace on the night of El Grito, when the reigning Chief Magistrate appears on the balcony, rings a bell, waves a flag and invokes the name of independence and liberty to the delirious multitude below. The Spanish have an identical celebration in Granada on January 1st to commemorate the day they reconquered the city and drove the hated Infidel from Spain. Of course, on the night of September 16th what is celebrated is the day the hated Spanish gauchupin was driven from Mexico. In any case, to learn that one's name has -- for whatever inscrutable reason -- been dropped from The List is a form of exile and the cause of troubled anguish. Even worse is to learn that one's neighbour, who is patently less worthy than one's self, has received the cherished embossed envelope.

Mother's name was always on The List. After a while, she got “tired of going to the thing” and would give her pass to someone from the family or to anyone else who wanted the Joy of Man's Desiring. But Lili and I had never gone and we wanted to go. So we hurried to dress ourselves appropriately and at around 8:30 in the evening we piled into a cab and headed toward the Zócalo.

As one might imagine, getting to the Palace was no easy matter. The entire vast central square would be closed to traffic. The surrounding narrow 16th century streets would be jammed with people headed toward the square and chauffeured cars or taxis inching through people and past one another toward some place more or less close to one of the Palace's many side entrances. Needless to say, people discussed their best strategies on “getting to the palace.” All I recall is that mother said one had to go early or else it would be “impossible to get through.”

The National Palace, built on the site of Moctezuma's residence, is a vast Spanish renaissance building built on a grid, like el Escorial, of four square inner court yards within one large square. The place is a matrix of stairwells and corridors. We arrived at one of the entrances on the south side and made our way up one of many stone staircases, underneath crisscrossing, arches towards one of the corridors on the second floor that led to the gallery along the front of the palace.

The stairwells were jammed with men in business suits and their accompanying women who, having spent a day, and more likely two, in preparation, were decked out in a variety of furs, long gowns and assorted jewels, They proceeded up the stairs in a “restrained rush” trying to appear as stately as necessity would allow, given that places on the front balconies were not reserved. I was delighted with a species of vicarious importance and Lili, who had always affected an air of insouciance was, visibly awe-struck.

We walked down a long corridor and then turned right onto the front gallery and continued walking toward the central balcony's chamber. I certainly did not expect to get to the main balcony, as that was obviously reserved for His Excellency. I did not even expect to get to the second or third chamber left or right of centre, as these would be reserved for the cabinet and the Estado Mayor or chiefs of staff. But it was intuitively obvious, from the outset, that the name of the game was to get as close to the sun as possible. 

Lili and I made it half way toward the central balcony before the gallery chambers (and their balconies) were already filled up. Finding the first free balcony available, I positioned myself on the right corner railing and decided that this was going to be my station until 11 p.m. Mother tootled off to run into and chat with acquaintances while Lili and I took turns relieving one another on post.

The crowd on our balcony got less and less gentle as the night wore on. Women reached out and pulled in their sister or cousin to fill a spot and less and less gently tried to nudge others out of the way, even if this meant squeezing me over the rail. I had no idea how strong the railing was and remained as immovable as possible short of shoving back. Decorum was being hard put. It was like the subway at commute hour only New Yorkers were far better mannered.

Then a moment of paradox. As the clocked ticked toward 10:30 p.m. a ripple of commotion swept through the gallery. Everyone understood what this meant and the well heeled, well-coifed crowd rushed from the balcony to line up, very precisely, on the edge of the red carpet and clap genteelly as the Chief Magistrate of the Nation strode by accompanied by a general or two. It was just like those court scenes in movies like War and Peace.

No sooner had his presidency passed into the next chamber than there was a mad rush back to the balconies; for some to regain the spot they had so hardly nudged for; for others to gain a spot they hadn't been able to claim. For my part, I had decided that it was well enough to watch the president proceed by from the entrance to the balcony and so repositioning myself in my front corner spot was but a matter of one or two steps back, while holding out room for Lili.

Old faces or new, we were all once again squeezed into a small space, when all of a sudden the awning hanging over us fell down, showering us with decades of black dust. To the best of my recollection, the thing collapsed when some woman leaned or pulled too heavily on one of the support rods causing the bracket to pry itself loose from the centuries old masonry. As the Dramatic Moment approached, there we were encased in darkness and dusted in soot.

Exasperate cries filled the space. Ay por Dios! and Qué barbaridad! and similar expressions. Now, in a spirit of sudden unity, there was a joint effort, in which I assisted, to get this damn thing off of us. I believe I helped yank the other rod from its bracket and the whole contraption was tossed over-side and whoever was below be damned!

Finally, the great moment arrived. A military colour guard of academy cadets in their black and purple trimmed uniforms, goose-stepped down the corridor toward the central chamber, bearing the national Tricolor. A sudden hush overcame the murmuring crowd below, as a hundred thousand eyes focused on the main balcony. Along the central facade we all inclined ourselves in the same direction. Anticipation ruled.

Then, the nondescript man who presided over the nation gave his grito. As if triggered by some mysterious electric charge, to each of the prescribed litany of shouts, the crowd roared back with Viva! until it erupted into an indecipherable roar of cheers while el presidente waved the flag with one hand, pulled a bell-cord with the other and massive fireworks erupted over the square and surrounding buildings. A military band struck up the national anthem but it was all but inaudible in the human din.

Finally everyone on the balconies could suspire and relax. All that was needed was a cigarette and a drink of which there was plenty. There were pyramids of delicacies and liveries walked around with silver trays of champagne. For those who preferred harder waters there was plenty of the best imported scotch. Now people could mill around at ease, letting everyone who mattered know that they too were there.

I hadn't had much to eat. Whatever fare there had been in the dingy bus stops of the arid north was pretty squalid stuff. So I was glad to be able to gorge myself on caviar, roast beef and some deliciously filled crocks of pastry, as Lili and mother chatted. I got mildly drunk and remember tossing food at upheld hands below, until mother grabbed me and said it was time to go.

What a strange thing life is, I thought to myself. But twelve hours before, I had been crammed into a bus filled with the smell and body warmth of decent but ordinary labourers, tradesmen and peasant women. Then, as if transported by magic, I was crammed onto a balcony with the aspiring and grasping upper class in their furs, jewels and imported suits looking down on the bus-people beneath them. The one thing that united us was that we all responded, like insects, to the mysterious pull of that thing called “power.”

==================================

(1)   I probably had junk to drop off at St. John's and it would make no sense to fly it down to Mexico or, more problematically, deal with customs just to end up returning it stateside.  I went by bus instead of rail because the train took two nights and two days whereas the bus did the same distance in 24 hrs., careening wildly down two lane highways.   I liked, if I could, to sit on the first row, right, first because it had more legroom and no one would be leaning back into me but, better yet, I had a panoramic view of all our close calls on the road.   Actually, it was amazing how skilled these drivers were and how they handled a no nonsense choreography with other buses and trucks.  I learned a lot about driving from watching these maestros.

 

A Dumb but Sovereign Animal

Although Fire Watch was a daily routine, I only recall one time standing guard at a post. As its name implies, fire watch was not so much a matter of guarding a post as it was a question of standing at the end of the squad bay like a human fire alarm. Mercifully, this pleasant duty was rotated among us recruits on an hourly basis, the end result being that once every three days I would be awoken in the dead of night to go stand fire watch for an hour. A gentle hand (and it was always gentle) would shake my shoulder... “It's your turn.” “Uh, ok...” I'd mumble, swinging myself off the rack to put on my uniform. I'd be handed the flash-light and fire-watch jacket and head off to the end of the bay.

It is interesting how boot-camp taught things. I don't ever recall anyone shilly-shallying or making a fuss. As he did it, so I do it and so the guy after me will do it. He wanted to get back to sleep as much as I did not want to be woken up, just as I expected to get back to sleep when I woke up my relief. We were in this together and so we synchronized our wants and duties without complaint and with mutual understanding.

The barracks were built of concrete and so there wasn't much to do on fire watch except stand there and listen to the sound of fifty men breathing almost like a single swelling and subsiding wave. Anyone who tells you that this is not a sensuous experience is suppressing. The air is warm and sweet with the elixir of youth. There is a feeling of latency, of dormant power, as inactive and vulnerable as, in a matter of hours, it will violently burst forth and make itself felt in body and sound throughout the day. As happy as I would be to get back to sleep, I still felt a solicitude for these sleeping lions, my platoon mates, for whose sakes I was standing watch not quite pointlessly.

"I will take charge of this post and all government property in view. I will walk my post in a military manner...report all violations of orders I am instructed to enforce...and quit my post only when properly relieved."

Guarding post is different. It could be called the soldier's first duty and is taken quite seriously. There are accounts of Japanese soldiers still guarding their posts 40 years after the war was over. It was explained to us in no uncertain terms that “taking charge” of the post meant, first, standing guard and, second, not letting anyone pass without first being identified and cleared. Anyone. And anyone, included the Commandant of the Marine Corps should he materialize. In fact, it included not only the President of the United States but Jesus Christ himself should he pass by.

I was walked to my post by Sgt. Bond, who repeated the lecture we had been given and had me repeat my general orders. He then left me standing there in the dark, rifle at shoulder arms, before the dawn's early light.

I felt important and stupid at the same time. What the hell was I guarding anyway? The entrance to the parking lot of an admin building? In the pitch black of pre-dawn it was difficult to see exactly what “government property was in view.” All I could see, looking down the road to our barracks in the distance, was a solitary street lamp. The idea of seriously guarding some totally arbitrary perimeter in a recruit training base was rather ridiculous. How could a grown man, and a lawyer to boot, take this shit seriously?

And yet I did. I did, first off, because I was told to, and being told to meant that was that. But I also realized that, as much like baby-steps as this duty might be, it was important just the way standing at attention is important for posture, for attitude and for everything else that is built thereupon.

Just as these thoughts were passing through my mind, a young NCO in his mid twenties came running across the road headed toward the building. He was carrying a bundle in his hands and was obviously late.

“HALT!” I said. “Advance and be recognized.”

“Awww shiiiii....”

At this point a host of angels and devils began their competitive jihads.

Aww, poor guy, just wave him on.

Are you fucking nuts!? (This was the angel speaking.)

He's not gonna chew your ass out; he's obviously late; he'll be grateful.

Grateful my ass! The minute you fail to do your job his “awww shiiiii” will turn and dump all manner of crap on you for dereliction of duty.

Naahhh.

And how do you know that Bond isn't lurking in the dark shadows waiting for you to fuck up, huh? And then there'll be hell to pay.

I stood my ground, as he put his bundle down and impatiently pulled out his I.D. He let me know that he was marking time to get this over, and I let him know that I was going to check him out (howsoever quickly) before I let him pass. We both understood one another. He could have played games by pulling rank and testing my resolve. I could have played games back by shining a light into his face to make sure he was who he purported to be. Neither of us did either.

“OK, sergeant, you can pass.”

Without so much as a grunt, he picked up his bundle and continued his run.

If there is a real presence in military life it is the chain of command. It is always inescapably there; and, as a recruit, one is very much aware that he is at the very bottom of the chain, in a way that the entire structure of the military presses down upon him like a peine fort et dur.

Civilians may laugh, but for a private to call a sergeant to heel is no small thing. Can I really do this? Should I? are as instinctive a reaction as the purpose of this drill was to inculcate that the answer is, yes. A recruit may be dumb animal, but within the small compass of his guard post he is king.

•

"To be especially watchful at night, and, during the time for challenging, to challenge all persons on or near my post and to allow no one to pass without proper authority."

750712 - GOING AWOL

Standing in formation in some moment I had to myself, it occurred to me that it would have been better to have gone to the remote, humid swamps of Parris Island. The problem with MCRD San Diego was that the world left behind, with all its soft creature comforts was always in view, making one's current predicament all the more painful.

Standing in formation, after our brutal reveille routines, I would stare at the airplanes taking off from San Diego International Airport and think of the passengers resting back in their soft seats being offered orange juice or coffee as they were lifted into the skies. And then, of course, a smoke if they wished. If they would just let me have my morning Joe and a cig, I'll be fine. They can have my ass the whole rest of the day for whatever they want. Is five minutes too much to ask?

In the afternoon, after hours of close order drill (which I actually very much enjoyed) I would stand facing the other direction, east. As our DI rambled on about something my mind would drift over to the softly lit Mission Hills in the distance, with their terraced gardens of Spanish stucco -- an impression of green and white bathed in an amber glow, with a dot, here and there, of red. An alluring contrast to the unremitting hardness of metal, concrete, military canvas, harsh lights and clanging sounds...

Lights out several hours later I would steal away, off base. In my first escapade, after screwing a girl I knew, I made it all the way to a hilltop street in Las Lomas, in the Mexico of 20 years yore, and from there descended into the lush greenery of Chapala Michoacan. In a second escape, I found myself in a very luxurious house or perhaps restaurant, with descending verandas made of sleek marble slabs resting atop gentle cascades of water. I was welcomed with refined, graciousness by an elegant Mexican woman accompanied by seven daughters and a good looking son, whom I didn't quite see. I subsided into the mellowness of it all and then woke up wondering what the hell I was doing in this nightmare.

But my DI's gave me a break. After piss call, our morning drill consisted of swabbing the squad bay's deck. Not with mops -- God forbid anything halfway decent like that -- but on our hands and knees pushing wet towels along the floor in formation (of course) while being yelled at (of course) to hurry up (of course). But during this process, the towels had to be rinsed off, and were passed through the port holes (windows) to a crew of four whose duty it was to rinse them in the wash basins outside. One did not have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that those on whom the gods had smiled got assigned this task. I was filled with gratitude and as the warm water flowed over our hands, we kneaded the towels and chatted away about nothing much in particular in a spirit of acceptance and solidarity. I loved this shit too.

5906 - Gonzalo

The boys were all of 12 and 13. They played baseball together, they road their bikes together, they went rowing at the lake where they encountered enemy ships which they pelted with water balloons and paddle splashes and they sometimes gave one another bloody noses.

They had also banded together as Knights of Dublin Lane in the garage. They turned broom sticks and curtain rods into lances and the tops of metal trash cans into shields. With these they charged full bore at one another.

Most of the boys lived on the same block, although skinny John lived around the corner and chubby, cherubic Georgie lived two blocks over.

Hank was the unspoken leader of the pack. He was the best fighter and that was a fact everyone had felt, including Mark who was the beta runner up on account of the fact that he was smarter and had been more places than anyone else. Hank and Mark held an uneasy ostensibly friendly truce.

Hank had the best knight's shield. His dad had fastened leather strips on the inside which made it easy to handle and secure. Mark's shield was impressive but useless. Painted red with a big silver "M" on it, he had fashioned it after a Roman Legionnaire's shield with laminated steel over a cabinet door. It was really heavy. Mark had overlooked that legionnaires weren't knights. Their shields were built to serve as a wall while standing ground. He was going to have to rethink this.

But of all the shields, Georgie's stood out the most. It was small... made from a pizza tray or the metal cover to something. It was flimsy and made even flimsier by little gold chains which looped out and around from some fancy glued-on knob in the middle. It was painted white and gold and he proudly showed it to everyone.

Several days after everyone had presented their shields and the first Tournament had been held, Hank pulled Mark to the side and said, "I donno about Georgie... He doesn't really belong in the club, do you think?"

"Whaddya mean?" Mark asked.

"Well look at that flimsy excuse of a shield that he's got. I mean what kind of man puts together something like that?"

"Well...we all make mistakes," Mark said evasively.

"... and after the first fight, the stupid chains got loose and he was fussing about fixing them... I mean shit... "

"So...he'll eventually make a new one."

"And have you seen his room...?"

Actually Mark hadn't.

"He has stuffed piggies on his bed!"

"He does?"

"I've seen it."

"Well that's his business; didn't you have stuffed teddy bears?"

"I did but not now."

"Do you actually want him in the club?" Hank asked in the way one would say, do you really want dog shit on your plate?

"Well...no... but that's not the point."

"Well what is the point?"

"I mean he's been our friend, a member of the club. He has a right to explain himself... "

"You say we should have a trial?"

"Well, I guess... yeah..."

"Where?"

"We can hold it in my garage."

The club wasn't that big. The situation was explained to an older boy on the block who agreed to be the judge. Hank took on the job of prosecutor and Mark, since it was his idea, got to be the public defender. That left a jury of about three or four.

Innocently, unknowingly, Georgie ambled onto the block later in the afternoon in his unmistakably rotund way with his little giggly smile. Mark noticed that his lips were kinda ruby red.

Hank approached him and in abrupt and certain terms told him he was being accused of faggotry and would have to defend himself before the club. Georgie turned sheet white. He started to protest this outrage, but Hank told him it was either a trial or he could get his ass kicked right then and there.

"Don't worry," Mark said, "I'm going to be your lawyer."

Georgie submitted.

Frank the older boy sat on a steamer trunk, opposite the three boy jury while prosecution and defense took their positions on the left and right.

Hank was merciless. Demanding that Georgie answer "yes" or "no" to a long list of high crimes and misdemeanors. It was true, was it not,

that he lived with his mother and three sisters

that he collected little nic-nacs,

which he kept in a class case,

that he used some kind of cream on his skin,

that his shield was a useless, girlie contraption,

that he was fat and ran like a sissy,

that he giggled

It was all undeniable and the best Mark could counter with was that Georgie did own a baseball mitt. Mark argued that it wasn't Georgie's fault that he lived with his sisters and that it was normal to collect things.

Hank turned ferocious. "You collect things?" "Well yes," Mark answered. "Ok.. I've seen your room," Hank retorted, "but you collect models that you build and cars. Robert here has his bowl full of marbles but no man collects little porcelain pussy cats and miniature Chinese dolls!"

The porcelain pussy cats and miniature dolls cinched the matter... that and Georgie's suspiciously rosy cheeks. The jury deliberated all of two minutes before returning their verdict.

Hank demanded that Georgie be banished forever from the block and Frank pronounced the sentence in a cold unfeeling way.

"Dont show your sissy faggot face on the block ever again," Hank added, "or I'll shit can your ass. "

The last Mark ever saw of Georgie he was headed toward the corner, bowed over and sobbing while the others jeered. He never showed his face on the block again.

Several years later, during one of Mark's vacations from school, Hank mentioned, that he had run into Georgie down in the night club district. Oh yeah? Mark said.

"Yeah. You know, i think he's gone over to the other side."

"Well, it's no wonder, Hank, after what you did to him."

"I didn't do nuthin.  He was a fag; that's all there is to it."

©