The Ring and The Bridge, Lasting Impressions

The Ring

HAIKU Headline: "Bieber jailed."

And you tell me there's a God?

I won't sleep. Will you?

This was inspired by a conversation overheard in line at the grocery store. My, my...their dramatization of the situation was incredible....suitable for the Hallmark Channel. One might have thought Justin Bieber to be a close friend in genuine danger; but I doubt a close friend would have received more concern, perhaps not as much.

At first, I was disappointed in the generation. Then, I harkened to another time long ago when a lad of nine witnessed from the third row the absolute emotional insanity of female adolescence.

It was the Alabama State Fair in Montgomery, 1955. Of course, there were rides to ride, games to play, strange sights to see and good things to eat; BUT appearing on stage in the afternoon and into the early evening were entertainers, singers and dancers.....mostly country and blue grass oriented with some gospel thrown in for the gentile ladies of the communities. It was about 3:00 pm when I took a seat on one of the benches in the 3rd row. I was completely surrounded by teenage girls. There were no adults and very few guys near the stage. A few adults were standing at the rear of the open area. One was my mother. The emcee...a chubby guy in a plaid jacket...introduced the next act. Before he could utter a word, the place began to seethe....to heat up. They knew. Suddenly, girls were coming from everywhere and I was being squeezed and pushed closer and closer to the stage. Really, as I reflect on it now, it could have been fairly dangerous, since several of the benches were all tipped over, legs up. If a person had fallen on a bench leg, bad things could have happened. Finally, over the screaming of the dozens of girls, I heard these words: "I'm sure you're going to hear much more from this young man.....Mr. Elvis Presley." They erupted into a shrieking mass of adoration, many actually crying....and this was before he had opened his mouth. The adults watching from the rear must have thought all of this very strange indeed. Elvis quieted the girls with subtle hand gestures as the other two of the trio warmed up a moment. He began with a love song. That quieted the crowd. You could only hear Elvis....and some muffled sobbing from those girls so affected. During the song, he knelt and kissed a girl leaning on the stage, crying. She passed out.....smooth out…. and they barely made room for her to fall. So it is with adolescent girls. When she wilted away, I saw a glimmer of a smile crossed "The King's" face. He was eating up that attention and adoration. Guess he and Tom Parker knew how to exploit that, huh?

So, adolescent girls have not really changed much over the last 80 years; and, believe me, they are NOT more mature than guys at that age. I never screamed or cried when I met Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. I did not scream and cry some years earlier when I met Gene Autry, Lash Larue, Red Ryder or Roy Rogers...separate occasions in early 50s. I certainly did not scream and cry when I met Fess Parker (Davy Crockett). I did cry when Ol' Yeller had to be put down.

By the way, the next day my mother told me that Elvis was a "phenomenon" and explained what that meant. She said the public reaction was greater than that for Frank Sinatra. After some phone calls, she told me we were joining the Elvis Presley Fan Club. She said that would give us early notices of record releases and that we should buy 2 of each new release - one to play and one to collect. My father thought her crazy; but later realized what a good decision it was. I still have the membership card, although I do not remember its number. I never owned one of his early Sun Records releases; but, for a time, did own every Elvis Presley RCA release, whether 45, 45EP, or LP. The collection later brought pretty good money too. She was right. He was a phenomenon.

The Bridge

Five years later, my father was temporarily assigned to conduct some Ground Control Approach training for 4 months in Pueblo, Colorado. Virtually all the attendees of the elementary school and integral junior high school were Mexican or Mexican-Indian. To the best of my knowledge, there were only three other students that were not: a black guy of my age, Jesse, and his two younger sisters….all Air Force brats like me. Jesse and I were resented greatly by the local guys and suffered a number of “shove arounds” and fights. Strangely enough, the sisters did not experience the same kind of treatment and were fairly well accepted by the other girls in school.

About 150 yards from the school was a bridge. That bridge was the demarcation line that separated classes in Pueblo. On the other side of the bridge were white people of greater incomes, white people who would not tolerate invasion or misdeeds by local Mexican and Mexican Indian boys and had demonstrated their lack of patience on several occasions. The principal, in all his wisdom, saw fit to schedule study hall as the last class of the day for Jesse and I. Then, he gave us a fifteen minute lead every afternoon, so we could get to the bridge without confrontation. So, every afternoon, Jesse and I would hustle to the bridge together, always together.

Jose Morales was a punk. Why is it the little guys always get to be the gang bosses? He was a punk thirteen year old and the instigator of many confrontations experienced by Jesse or me. I always wondered what was gained by beating up little kids. He always had bigger guys do the dirty work. Oh, he might slap you a time or two; but when it came to the actual punching and kicking, the bigger guys stepped in to do his bidding. This day, Jose and six others in their teens, were waiting at the bridge. Jesse and I paid a dear price. I was dumb enough and desperate enough to challenge Jose to fight alone….mano a mano. Well, that did not happen. Jesse got an even worse beating than I and needed my help to get home. Jesse had two broken ribs and his jaw had to be re-aligned. I had cracked ribs, a black eye and a cigarette burn on the palm of my hand. After complaints from our parents, the principal decided to let us leave at the beginning of study hall and the gym teacher provided an escort. Needless to say, none of this helped the opinion of Hispanics I had formed after the incident with the ring and the visit to the Alamo. No, I knew my feelings were completely justified. Little did I know I would have to wait a long time, but vengeance would be mine.

A little over ten years after taking the beating at the bridge, I received a boon. My basic training flight was graduating. We were in the yard in front of the barracks mixing with the members of the squadron who lived in the other half of the barracks. Our Training Instructors had bought enough beer for each of us to have two. Now, we had not mixed with them before. We were always on a slightly different time table. I was milling around, listening to people discussing where they had been assigned for technical training, when I heard a familiar voice. Oh, it wasn’t identifiable…until I saw the eyes and the little scar above the right one. Jose Morales. He looked right at me and right through me. There was no recognition on his part. I looked away, but listened intently. He was going to Sheppard AFB and, according to my orders, the same squadron. You see, because I had two years of Reserve Officers Training while at the University of Oklahoma, I was awarded a stripe upon enlistment. When other recruits, after basic, received a stripe, I received my second stripe; so that first stripe ultimately meant that I would be a squadron training leader throughout basic and technical training school. I knew if Jose was in my squadron, he would likely be under my supervision. There is a God.

When we arrived at our squadron, there was more good news. Our Squadron Commander had been my “big brother” in the fraternity at OU. When I was a pledge and was elected Pledge Class Social Chairman, he was the senior who had guided me well. He graduated early and left for the Air Force after my first semester; but, now, we were on a first name basis. It did not take long for the troops to recognize my “pull”. As a newly assigned “Red Rope” or student squadron leader at Sheppard AFB, Texas, I was over all three shifts of my squadron’s trainees. They also answered to their specific Shift Leaders, the “yellow ropes.” The “yellow ropes” answered to me and the lieutenant. The troops answered to any of us for the condition of their personal area in the barracks, how they appeared in their uniforms, their timeliness, how they marched in ranks and a myriad of other activities. There was a personal inspection at the beginning of each shift. We had the power to assign extra work activities like latrine cleaning, kitchen patrol (KP), pool painting or grounds clean-up to those who did not measure up to standards; and, in Jose’s case...my standards.

Now, Jose was the only troop of Hispanic decent in our squadron. Jose had cleaned up his act. A little research indicated that he “wised up” sometime between failing to graduate on time and not having any real work prospects at the age of 23. Also, the draft was relentless. There were no lottery numbers in those days. The green gardens of Southeast Asia were calling draftees. Those guys were all in the Army or the Marines and many, if not most, would experience, would be involved, in live combat in South Vietnam. He had successfully passed his GED course and received his diploma….then immediately joined the Air Force, the non-combatant’s military. His shift leader and I both noticed his demeanor. He was courteous and helpful, always friendly, and never a smart-ass. What a change! According to his instructors, he was an excellent student and had what they considered an uncommon understanding of circuitry. He always presented himself well, clean and pressed uniform and gleaming boots….not only during inspection, but all the time. In a time when many were trying to get away with growing some extra hair, he kept his short and “by the book.” Yes, it was obvious that Jose had “made the turn.” I did not care. He would pay.

I was especially sneaky and deceitful. In the night, while others slept, I would mar his shiny boots. Oh, I wouldn’t ruin them; but he would not have time to fix them before inspection. I would grab one of his “gig slips” and assign him some extra duty. Sometimes, I would wrinkle his uniform while he showered in the morning. He certainly did not have time to iron anything. I would grab a gig slip during inspection. Once, I hid his cap. Everyone had to have a cap. Once I cut the thread on a button, so it would come loose when he buttoned the shirt….all little things that were maddening to a guy who was trying so hard to be a “sharp troop”….and each thing had lead to extra duties. He finally figured out that someone was out to get him when I removed the stripe on his left sleeve only. Jose was becoming exasperated with extra duties assigned for things that he knew were not his fault. I could see it in his demeanor, see it in the way he walked and marched. He was not a happy guy. I did not care. He was still going to pay…and pay.

One Saturday night, I saw Jose drunk for the first time since I had known him. He stumbled up the stairs and managed to find his bunk before falling asleep. I filled a bucket with warm water and, while he snored away, placed his fingertips in the bucket. I was at the door of my room when he awoke. “Aw, man. I pissed in my pants” he declared aloud and stumbled out of bed. The latrine was downstairs, to the left at the bottom of the stairs. He paused at the top, wavering a bit. Without a single thought of the harm I might cause him, I reached out in the darkness and smacked him on the back of the head. Thank God he was drunk. He tumbled down the wooden stairway, landing on his back at the bottom. In the dim light, I saw the look come over his face. I saw his color drain a bit. He started gagging and ran to one of the toilets. Jose vomited volumes, hanging over the toilet with the seat up. In the meantime, I had quietly entered the latrine and stood behind him. He was still drunk and hanging over the toilet, sighing. He thought his travails were over. I reached down and pushed his face into the toilet, into the mess. I banged the seat on his head a couple of times and left the latrine without a word, without being seen.

The next morning, there was a knock on my door. “Enter.” Jose came in looking like a broken man. He said, “I must speak to someone, so I come to you.” “Why would you come to me? What can I do for you?” He swallowed hard, gathering courage, and said, “You pick on me. Others are picking on me too. Someone messes with my uniform and my boots. Someone messes with my personal area. Now they are messing with me. I got drunk and pissed in my pants last night and somebody knocked me down the stairs and pushed my face in the toilet. I don’t know who or why.”

I gave him a kind of stern look and said, “Jose, do you think if you knew why, you might figure out who.” “I guess” he responded, “but I never knew any of these people before. I’m the only one from Colorado. What could any of them have against me? I’m nice to everyone.” He was right. All the troops liked him well enough, and he was nice to absolutely everyone. Had he suffered enough? I decided to let the cat out of the bag. What could I lose? I looked at him very hard, gave him the “snake eye”, and asked, “Could it be something that happened at the bridge?” “The bridge?” “Yes, the bridge.” He looked at me inquisitively and I could almost hear his wheels turning. Suddenly, he whispered, “It’s you. I remember you. You wanted to fight me alone.” I smiled a smug and knowing smile and said, “Yes, it’s me….and your ass is mine for five more months. Jose looked down at the floor and said, “I guess I deserve it. I wasn’t a very nice person in those days.”

“No, you weren’t.” There was a pregnant pause; but, during those moments, I realized it was over. Then I spoke up. “Jose, you’ve paid the price. You've changed your ways and you’re a very sharp troop. You and I are even. I don't think bad things will plague you any longer.” I reached into one of my drawers and pulled out a pint of rum I had stashed away. I stuck out my hand to shake his, then offered him the first drink with a smile. "Hair of the dog and all that." He laughed. I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to keep coming up with ways to mess with him. Just before he took the first swig, he got soft-eyed and a little choked up. “Thanks” he whispered.

Suddenly, I thought of the ring and my feelings toward Hispanics. I piped up, “You’re the first Mexican I ever liked.” “You like me?” “Sure. You’re a good troop and people like you….you’re a nice guy. It was all about payback.” I told him the story of the ring and the Alamo and reminded him of things that happened at the bridge. He seemed to understand and said, “I don’t think it has anything to do with the ring or Mexicans. It’s about being abused. Nobody likes that. Not me, not anyone. I felt abused back then, so you and that black kid suffered. What was his name? Jesse something? You see? I remember too. It haunts me sometimes. No, Maria and I both just happened to be Mexicans.”

Jose went on the be a successful Air Force “lifer.” A friend who also retired from the Air Force years later knew Jose pretty well. Jose made Chief Master Sergeant in minimum time and, at one time in his later career, had been considered for the position of First Sergeant of the Air Force, a most coveted responsibility. He had one wife for all those years and three sons, all of whom were honor students and graduated from college. Now, that’s making something of your life. What a legacy for a punk-ass Mexican delinquent.

People do change and, often, for the better. I’ve since been glad that Jose was able to change a lasting impression. I still don't like Maria, but I hope her character improved. I am no longer a vengeful person, but still very sensitive to people's behavior. Guess it is the service brat in me.

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