Rev. Joe Goes to The Big House.

My folks would never have been in the running for the Ward and June Cleaver Parenting Award.  The reason they had children, let alone 5, is unclear to me.  It seemed then and seems now that they felt as long as we were fed, clothed, and a roof was over our head they had fulfilled their parental duties.  They were more involved with the youngest two.

For reasons I will not go into here, I was estranged from my father since I was 13. What few interactions we had were never pleasant, and occasionally they were violent.  This state of affairs continued well into my twenties.  Somewhere along in there we did start “talking” a little.  Towards the end of his life, the relationship was better, but it was never a good or cherished relationship.

My mother wanted desperately to keep peace in the house.  This boiled down to her not confronting me, to not parenting me to avoid any conflict.   She was trying to keep things below my father’s radar.  Essentially since the estrangement, I went my own way and did what I wanted as long I kept out of trouble with outside authority.  I felt like I raised myself from the age of 13.  While I did not do an awful job, neither did I do a Cracker Jack job.

Looking back I know that both of parents were dealing with their own issues.  Those issues seemed to leave them little time to be parents.

The year is 1972 and I am 20 years old.  I had gone to college straight out of high school.  I wanted to ensure that I had a deferment for the draft, although I am sure I would have been eligible for a medical deferment.  In 1969 the retina on my left eye detached and I had one of the first laser surgeries to correct a retinal detachment.  I had been an indifferent scholar in high school.  I essentially slept through my junior and senior years.  However, my grades were good enough for a minor scholarship to the in-state school, the University of Rhode Island.  Unfortunately, they routed me into the business college. What little scholastic interest I had dwelt elsewhere.  Being able to sleep through high school and still make passing grades left me with no study habits. Add to that the freshman partying syndrome, and I finished the first year of college with less than stellar grades and no scholarship.  I dropped out of college.

The summer after I graduated high school my parents had moved to Connecticut as my father had been stationed at the home office of Kaman Aerospace.  A few months later the economy took a nose dive, and he was laid off.  Kaman did hire him back into his old field representative position in a few months later and they were back in Rhode Island.  I am sure their financial situation was not the best.  They and my four younger brothers were crowded into a small rental house.  It was a far cry from the two-story American dream suburban house they had bought in Enfield, Connecticut when he had been transferred to the home office.

I moved in with them.  That lasted no time at all.  After a big scene with my mother I moved out, and I found an apartment in the same building as Fred of Meatballs and Impounds fame.  At that point I lost touch with my mother.  I do know that sometime after that, my parents separated again and she moved back to Oklahoma with my 4 brothers.   There were a couple times in there that I tried to contact my father who was still in Rhode Island working at the Navy base in North Kingstown.  They were disasters.

I’m unclear on the how the next part happened.  Was I just not told?  Was I told and forgotten? My parents had more or less reconciled, and my father had been transferred overseas to Tehran, Iran to oversee a helicopter repair and maintenance program for the Iranian military. For a story on their time in Iran see Ali Goes Home Early.

Before he left he gave me an old car he had been driving after my mother went back Oklahoma.  One night the parking area behind my apartment building was full.  I parked the car in the street.  I came out next morning and it had been stripped and was setting up on blocks. I spent the next year or year and a half car-less.

My parents’ transfer overseas left Paul, the brother just younger than me, alone in Oklahoma at 18. He did have the benefits of an extended family in Oklahoma.  I was alone in Rhode Island with essentially no support system. And I was not particular mature for my age.  I was about as stupid as only a 20 year old can be.

At the time it was just the way it was.  I have since raised two children.  Truthfully, my ex raised them, and I, for the most part, just tried to stay out of the way.   But I have at least seen the process.  I will not say that my brother and I were abandoned as we were both of age to be on our own.  Kids, that age, still generally need help from parents and family.  Both of my children have grown into fine adults, but they both took some time fully spreading their wings. For the most part, I believe that people generally do the best they can.  I am sure my parents were doing the best they could in their circumstances.

During my whole time after I dropped out of college until I moved to Oklahoma in the summer of 1973, I had a steady job.  I had managed to land a plum position with A.J. Krajewski, manufacturers of fine injection molded products.  You may have seen some of their work.  They had a big contract with Thermos.  We made what was then the common red nipple that was on the lid of thermos bottles.  We made a gray plastic workman’s lunchbox for them.  We made a lot of those nipples and lunchboxes.  They had two machines dedicated to those products that ran 24 hours a day.  They also made plastic combs, plastic key fobs that were used in advertising give-aways, and many other fine products.

I had a “key” position.  I was one of the two floaters on the day shift.  The other floater was bilingual in Portuguese and English.  Most of the women running the injection molding machines were Portuguese immigrants and spoke little or no English.  He translated frequently, and took on other float duties occasionally.  As a floater I was responsible for keeping the hoppers on the huge injection molding machines full of plastic pellets.  Most of the machines required a full time operator, but some jobs would run without one.  For those jobs you did occasionally have to go by and do some function.  I was also responsible for keeping the plant floor clean, no small task with all the plastic pellets, plastic shavings, and other byproducts of the process.  I loaded and unloaded trucks.  I ran the fork lift as necessary.

My key responsibility, as far as the Portuguese women were concerned was to give breaks.  An injection molding machine cannot stop.  To shut one down and restart is a major task and takes several hours.  Each operator was entitled to two fifteen breaks a day, plus a lunch break.  The translator and I would go from machine to machine allowing the women to leave.  Each of these machines typically cycled ever 30 to 60 seconds depending on what was being made.  You would open the door, reach in and take out the product.  Sometimes there was extra hand work that needed performed.  You might need to trim off plastic where it had flashed beyond the mold, or break the parts away from the runners.  One job in particular was rough as you had to put the part on a machine that added threading on the inside of the part.  The tough part was that the threading took about as long as a machine cycle so you were never pausing.  Whenever they had a run of those, I always ended up running the job. It was very physically demanding and many of the women could not or would not do it.

I did not mind operating the machines giving breaks, but occasionally I was required to do it all day long.  If I opted for overtime, that was what I was doing sometimes for 12 hours at a time.  Tending a machine that cycled every 30 seconds, is not hard work, but it was mind numbing. It was a paycheck and I was glad to have it.  They liked me there because I came to work regularly, and worked hard when I was there.

As I detailed in A Wino’s Wisdom, I came to live in what I fondly called Providence’s Bermuda Triangle.  I was in a triangle bounded by the main Providence police station, a fire station, and a major inner city hospital.  The sirens were constant and the darker it become the more frequent the sirens seemed.

My apartment was cheap, reasonably clean, and the heat always worked.  However, the neighborhood was very rough.  Hookers working the traffic were a common site.  The building across from mine was minutes from caving in and a flop house for winos.  At one point the building on one side of us burned to the ground while we played cards inside our building.  We thought nothing of the sirens as they were so common.  The building on the other side was this massive dark structure.   It was apartments, but it was always dark.  There never seemed to be enough tenants around to fill the structure.  The building seemed very foreboding.

This was New England and at least back then air conditioning was not common, especially in inner city tenements.  In the middle of summer, the apartment building I lived in sometimes became too unbearable to stay inside.  This brought the inhabitants out on the stoops to try to stay cool.  At least until it became late and advisable to not be on the street.

This particular evening there were 3 or 4 of us sitting outside.  This included a fellow who was not a tenant but visiting one. We had bought some beer and were drinking and shooting the breeze.  I was feeling nicely from the beer, but was far from being intoxicated.  At some point I needed to visit the facilities and went upstairs to my apartment.  I took longer than I might have otherwise as I grabbed a bite to eat.

When I came back down the fellow who was visiting was being arrested and thrown into the back of a paddy wagon.  At the time I was unsure as to why.  I found out afterwards that he had gotten in his car with one of the stoop sitters and put his vehicle through its paces around the block.  The police must have accidentally been in the area because they stopped him just as he was parking back in front of the building.  A search of his car revealed a hand gun.  If I had this information it might have changed my decision as to what I did next, or not, I’ll never know.

I was young.  I was very idealistic.  It was the period of Vietnam War protests and advancing civil rights.  Police were generally thought to be the enemy.  Add to this that I had a few beers, enough to evaporate some of my inhibitions and most of my sensibility.  I thought they were roughing up my bosom buddy of 30 minutes.  I went over to protest the police’s treatment of this individual.

One of the policeman’s reactions to this was, “Well you just get in the back of the paddy wagon too.”  So that is what I started to do.  Except in one hand I had a beer, and in the other hand I had a cigarette.  For some reason this irritated one of the officers.  He yanked me off of the step of the paddy wagon and began to shove me around and hit on me.  My natural reaction was to cover myself up.  Apparently, the motion of my raising my arms to cover my face was to be interpreted a hitting a uniformed police officer.  That is what the charges were.

They handcuffed and “helped” me into the back of the paddy wagon.  I was very pissed at this point.  I was glaring at the cop in the back with us. Apparently, that was a bad move too.  He took out a black jack and showed it to me.  I decided to look elsewhere.

We were unloaded at the main Providence police station and processed in.  I do remember the plain clothed officer doing the intake seemed very bored.  At one point he asked me my city of birth.  I answered, “Checotah.”  He said, “Chicago.”  I corrected him back to Checotah.  He typed Chicago into the form.  I left it at that.  They took away my belt and shoe laces and threw me into a cell that had a hanging metal platform for a bed.   Most importantly, though, they did not let me make a phone call.  Not that I had a lot of folks I could call, but I would have come up with someone.

Next morning we were to be arraigned.  I had spent all night sleeping the best I could on the metal bed.  I was not given breakfast. I was not given any way to clean up.  I was not given a way to comb my hair which was on the long side.  I still had on my work clothes from a day in the factory.  I looked like crap.

They transported us over to the courthouse and marched us in front of the arraigning judge.  Just before I went in the courtroom, an officer grabbed my hair and shoved me into the courtroom like I had been struggling.  This was the police force that charged me with striking an officer when I had not.  This was the police force that carried illegal black jacks.  This was the police force that would not let me make a phone call.  I was not in a good place.

I was arraigned, and bail set at $5000. I do remember the judge lectured the group of prisoners about evil of drink and staying out of gin mills.  And gin mills are the words that he used.  I just wish I had been in a gin mill.

Rhode Island is not a very big state.  It is about the size of  Los Angeles County, and does not have near the population.  What I soon discovered was that the city of Providence did not keep you in their jail if you did not make bail.  You were sent off to the Rhode State Penitentiary, The Big House.  Before I could click my heels and wish I was back in Kansas, I was on a prison bus headed down I-95 to my new home.  I was one scared little boy.  I was doing my damndest to not cry.  I was going to a place where it was not a good idea to show that you were weak.  I’m not sure now how good a job I did in restraining the tears.

I was processed in.  My meager belongings inventoried, my street clothes taken from me, and I was issued the khaki prison grab.  Only problem was that everything was about 2 or 3 sizes too big for me.  I may have been the one that invented sagging as a fashion statement.  Only thing was that I was definitely not advertising my availability.  I was led inside and placed into a cell.  I count my lucky stars to this day that I had a cell by myself.

The next three days are blurry in many respects. There are certain snippets that stand out.

The first was that when I was first placed in cell I found a double edge razor on the ledge of the bars.  I have no idea why it was there.  Maybe someone thought it might be funny to see if the newbie sliced his wrists.  Perhaps someone was just trying to hide it, or get me in further trouble. It scared me so I flushed it down the toilet.

The second was on the first night I was there.  They announced a phone call for what I thought was my name.  Whether this actually happened, or was my imagination that they said my name, I do not know.  In my imagination, it was my new bosom buddy arranging bail for me. I yelled, and yelled from my cell and no one paid a bit of attention to me.  I was beside myself.

I did find someone to tag along with… a little.  He was a reluctant “pal”, but he did show me where to go and answered a couple of my questions.

I remember being served chicken that was nearly raw for one meal.  Something about the meal, my situation, or both made me ill. I remember throwing up in my cell.

One afternoon, I watched a softball game between the prisoners.  I remember two things distinctly.  One was the thought of rushing the wall and the barbwire and seeing what would happen.  The other was watching a particularly hard hit ball that seemed to sail forever.  I sat there just hoping it would fly over the wall to its freedom.  It fell short.

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but I managed to get a prison guard’s attention.  I cried on his shoulder, and explained my situation.  I dumped on him everything from my parents being out of the country to not being allowed to make a phone call at the Providence police station.  He took me into an office.  I really could not think of anyone to call.  I really was not on socializing/exchanging phone number terms with any of the Portuguese at work.  I had no relatives in Rhode Island.  I had run around with a small group of guys in high school.  This was a couple years later, and I had lost touch.  I had stayed in touch with some of my fellow employees from my dish washing days at my after school job at the Rhode Island institution, Newport Creamery.  I had probably been closest to Jeff and Fred.   I found Jeff’s parents’ number in the phone book and gave them call.

For some reason I think I talked to Jeff’s mother, but I really do not remember.  It could have been either of his parents or him.  It is a mystery to this day as why his father helped me out.  Outside of Jeff, I really did not know the family.  Jeff and I had not been that close since he went off to college in Massachusetts.  They did arrange my bail, and I am grateful to this day.

Jeff came by the prison and picked me up.  We made a side trip by my bank so I could withdraw the money they had given the bail bondsman.  I seem to remember it being around $200, at least according to Jeff.  I can only hope he reimbursed his father.

Afterward we went back to my apartment.  Even though it was midday, I was frantic to get to work. My job was the only anchor I had in my life at this point.  I was more than a little afraid that I would not have a job since I had not shown up for 3 days or called.  Since I had just forked over $200, I was feeling the strong need to make money.   Jeff took me to work and then went on.

I went in and found the boss.  I explained my situation to him, and fortunately I was still employed.  I worked the rest of the day.

I may have walked the few miles home, or I may have taken the bus.  I varied on what I did in that regard.  Generally I took the bus in the morning and walked home in the evening to save the bus charge.  When I arrived at my apartment I found it had been burglarized between the time I was there with Jeff and I arrived home from work.  All my electronics were gone, and anything remotely of value.  I had a new stereo that I was making payments on.  I made those payments for nearly a year after I did not have the stereo.  I had totally internalized the meme that you take care of your debts.

For a few reasons, to this day, I believe it was Jeff that ripped me off.  First, is that I discovered later that he had a drug habit beyond the commonly used marijuana.  Secondly, he was the only one that knew my apartment was going to be vacant for a few hours. Lastly, I never saw the sucker after that.  But how do you turn around and accuse someone of ripping off your apartment after they had just bailed you out of jail? I called the police.  Why I do not know.  They came by, took my report and went back to ignoring hookers and winos.

I’m not going to claim that I was depressed at this point because that would have been a step up from the dark cloud swirling in my soul.   I was in the epicenter of a shit storm.

I spent the next couple weeks contacting legal services trying to find free or reduced legal aide.  I had no luck there.  I even contacted the ACLU.  Unlike me, they did not feel that my civil rights had been violated.  I was a little lost at this point about what to do.  During lunch at work shortly thereafter, I was sitting on the seat of the forklift, resting.  I must have been looking very despondent.  I know I was feeling that way.  The Quality Assurance tester came out to talk to me.  He was in his forties and may well have had kids my age.  I really did not know that much about him.  We talked a little about my situation.  He gave me a card of a lawyer he knew who also happened to be a Rhode Island State Senator.

I called shortly thereafter, and explained who I was and who had suggested that I contact him.  I made an appointment.  I had to take off work to make the appointment, and since he was outside of Providence,  I had to hitchhike to wherever his office was.  We met.  I explained my situation.  He agreed to take my case.  He wanted $100 or so up front with a total legal fee of $500 to be paid before we went to court. $500 in 1972 dollars would translate to around $2,800 in 2010 dollars, but that depends on which index you use.  It was a significant amount of money. I was netting $60 or $70 a week. My legal fee worked out to be two months worth of wages.   I had a little money in the bank.  I had been hoping to save enough to buy a decent car.   I really started pinching pennies and saving on my already tight budget.

Time rocked on, and over the next few months I managed to scrap together the rest of the money.  The universe has an  ironic sense of humor.  As it turned, out my court date was set for Friday, April 13, 1973.  This just also happened to be my 21^st birthday.  I had long ago determined that I was going to turn 21 on the Friday the 13^th.  I thought it very fitting for the way my life seemed to be going.

If you believe TV court dramas, lawyers really do not like to go to court.  They prefer to take care of things before and wrap things up quickly.   My lawyer told me the best thing for me to do was to plea nolo contendere. This is a plea that is essentially saying you do not contest the charges and you throw yourself on the mercy of the court.  It is neither a plea of guilty or innocent, but does have the same affect as a guilty plea.  I really felt I was innocent and had been railroaded, but having paid this fellow $500 for maybe an hour and half worth of work, I was going to take his advice.  Also, I just wanted the situation to be over with.  This seemed like the fastest way to do that.

I was asked for my plea, and as instructed I replied, “nolo contendere.”   There was an exchange in there between the judge and lawyer.  I was given a 6 months sentence suspended.  After six months the charges were to be expunged as long as I keep my nose clean, and I would have no record. I am not quite sure how the next part came to be.  Perhaps the judge noticed my birth date on the paperwork.  At any rate, he wished me a happy birthday, much to my surprise. There was some scattered laughter around the court room.  I politely thanked the judge.  We left the court room shortly thereafter.  As I remember there were some additional court costs, but the amount eludes me at this point.  All in all, my little bout of social consciousness had cost me dearly.

My cousin Nancy’s husband had graduated recently with an art degree.  He had found a job working with a regional theater in Springfield, Massachusetts.  They were going back to Oklahoma for a summer visit.  I had enough of living where I knew no one.  I decided to tag along with them and move to Oklahoma.  Technically, I probably should have stayed in Rhode Island until my probation was over, but since I did not have to report to a probation officer I decided “what the heck”.

I managed to bring together a few more dollars, sold off or gave away what was left of my belongings.  I was left with 3 or 4 boxes of stuff.  One was probably clothes.  It would not surprise me if the rest were not books.  Steve and Nancy came to Providence.  I loaded my boxes into their car, and I was off to a new phase of my life.

I did send a card back to the QA men letting the folks at A.J. Krajewski know I had made it safely to Oklahoma.