other three guys eventually showed up, and we formed a circle seated on the lawn. Each of the three of us, who were inside at the time, were stepping on one another’s accounting of what happened. There were a lot of shut-ups and “Let me tell it” comments, each interrupting who was talking at the time, till finally it was agreed that I should tell the story.
As I questioned everyone as to who had canvassed the entire interior of the dance hall and explored every closet, nook, and cranny, it was unanimous among the six of us that each one of our group had a look at the whole place, and nothing was left undiscovered.
So what was that slamming door from? Was someone in the building with us? All we could agree on was that whatever it was, it couldn’t be good and it wouldn’t be something we wanted to look into further. As we recounted the experience to the other three guys who didn’t hear the slamming, we did so with a conviction that made believers out of them. They could tell by the pitch in our voices that this was the real deal and not another one of the pranks we frequently played on one another.
None of us would ever go in the building again; we wouldn’t get near the place if the sun started going down. All that we would do now was gather information about this new mystery that now gripped each of our lives. We couldn’t tell any of the parents, because imagine the can of worms that would open.
“What in the world were you idiots thinking by breaking into that old building? Don’t you know you could go to jail? Ay dios mio!” (That’s OMG in Spanish.)
Well, we didn’t want any of that, so mum was the word among my fellow felons—no parent shall be made aware of those events.
We had to run it by somebody though, but who could we trust?
In the end, we just kept our mouths shut for the next two years. We continued playing in the brick pits daily and carried on as normal, wondering what it was that day in the old dance hall.
Chapter 8
My New Friends
My father had clients down in Mexico who would come up to enjoy some R & R in Tucson. One man in particular, whom my dad was practically brothers with, came to visit toward the end of that summer. His name was Jorge, and he told me to call him uncle. The minute I saw him, he would instruct me to run and get my bank. He would then stuff bills in it and any change he had at the moment. I came to love this man along with his beautiful wife, Lorenza. They had become very well-to-do now, as Jorge had come from poor means. He grew up running the streets barefoot with my dad, and the two had remained friends throughout the years.
On this trip, he brought his two sons, George and Albert, with George, the older of the two boys, being my age. There was an immediate click with young George, and instant friends we became. His English was nonexistent, and my Spanish was just enough to get us rolling. Little brother Albert had to come with us wherever we went, but it wasn’t so bad after a while. We needed a foil for our jokes, and he was glad to have the privilege of being able to tag along. They stayed at a nice motel with a pool, and that was where we promptly headed, making a bond that I’ll never forget.
My dad was born in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico. It lies about a hundred miles south of the Arizona border. As a kid, he was shuffled around to many relatives until he ended up in Tucson at age nineteen. Many of the friends from his youthful years in Mexico ended up financially well-heeled, starting businesses and having a strong entrepreneurial drive. My dad, having been raised in the States and forced to learn English, became an invaluable asset. Through my father, they learned the American way. They were introduced to state-of-the-art equipment and marketing practices needed to elevate performance and profitability to peak levels.
The Mexican clientele were not comfortable with the ways and the language of the gringo, so my dad had a captive audience. He was known as a man of high integrity and trusted by anyone who came to know him.
That was how my family became import/export brokers. He was the purchasing agent for many businesses south of the border. He charged a fee of 10 percent over cost, and they would provide the funds in advance. Soon my dad had credit everywhere and a stable crème de la crème clients with carte blanche pedigrees.
Every one of his clients had children, but I only spent time with George and Albert. They were kindred souls and equally as mischievous. I shared everything with George because he was my new best friend, and the trust couldn’t have been greater. Uncle Jorge was glad he could leave his kids with me as I would entertain them and just maybe they could pick up some English along the way. So imagine this, every morning, my dad would take me over to the motel for the day’s events. Uncle Jorge would give me a $100 bill for our expenses. Holy shit, that is close to $900 in 2017 money.
I was a thirteen-year-old who normally would have to scrounge for dimes from my folks just to go to the corner Chinaman’s market for a treat. I didn’t know what to do. This money covered taxi fares to all the miniature golf courses, all the malt shops, all the lunch counters, and all the movie theaters. The boys loved the Jerry Lewis movies and the scary movies I had introduced them to. After a while, it became a nuisance having to translate every ten seconds, but who’s complaining? We were in hog heaven running about the town.
The arcade guy would see us coming, and he practically rolled out a red carpet; he even turned a blind eye when we went to the peep show booths. We just poured money into all his machines, and we drank every soda in the joint. He truly loved us. I remember walking home from school and stopping in with my crew, and he would light up.
“Where are your Mexican buddies?” he would ask.
I said, “Next summer they’ll be back.” I did tell him that I was going to Mexico and their house in a week for about four days, and I would say hello.
He would say, “Mi casa su casa.” Oh, and he would let me have a free Coke just for the hell of it.
My buddies would ask me what was up, and I’d tell them that I had made the guy’s monthly rent and that he was showing some gratitude and love.
There were two miniature golf courses in town back then, and they were on opposite sides of the city. That was how the taxicab drivers came to know us. We played rounds of golf, and then it was the pinball machines. Popcorn, candy, hot dogs and Cokes—how we didn’t have major stomach issues was beyond me. I guess if there were any other activities in the ’50s, we probably covered them. I couldn’t burn through that much money if I tried.
We even took in the same Jerry Lewis movie twice in one day. That was because it was hot, and the theater had this awesome air-conditioning system. Even the hobos on the streets of downtown knew us by name. A dime was a good score for a bum back then, so imagine a dollar bill. Oh yeah, I took care of them too.
I was being proactive for the future when I would be walking the streets of downtown with my crew of misfits. I felt like Don Fanucci from the Godfather II movie, when he walked the streets of Little Italy in 1920s New York City. If I would’ve worn a ring back then, and I would have had it kissed by every poor soul on the street.
My friends were leaving to go back home, and I felt a heavy heart as they drove off back to Mexico. The money that was left amounted to about $22, and Uncle Jorge told me to put it in my bank. That fell on deaf ears as I paraded my new wealth in front of my friends. We had Twinkies, soda pop, and did I mention we were now juvenile smokers?
Lucky Strikes for everybody—ah, the good life. It got to where my parents were wondering where we got our hands on cigarettes. They even went down to the store and gave the poor old Chinaman a tongue-lashing about selling us the evil weeds. So old Jeff told
