charged at them. But what should have been a good old ass-stomping, to talk about later, turned out to be something completely different.
The white dudes pulled out guns. Then one of them flashed a badge.
“Everyone line up. This is the Huntington Beach Police Department.”
They were chota!
“Puta madre,” Chicharrón said, as the cops turned him around and had him place his hands against the side of the van. Then the rest of us, even the girls, were forced to kneel and keep our hands on our heads. Corina started to sob, but I could tell she tried not to. Hermie looked scared as did Santita. Canica and Smiley swaggered and acted cool, but I knew the mescaline had a lot to do with it.
They separated the guys from the girls. After a quick search, the girls were allowed to stand by the side. But the guys were told to squat on the asphalt and not move. One of the cops radioed in some information. Another proceeded to harass us.
“Tough guys, eh? Gonna take us on. You don’t look so tough now.”
I went to move my leg over to another, more comfortable, position. But the cop yelled at me, his hand still palming a .38 revolver.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he said, coming up to my face, eyeball to eyeball. “Did I give you permission to move? Don’t do anything unless I say—you fuckin’ greaser asshole!”
They had us squatting there for five, ten, then fifteen minutes. We couldn’t stand up, kneel or sit. The circulation in my legs felt blocked. The muscles cramped and ached. But we weren’t supposed to do anything but squat. After several long minutes more, one of the cops started throwing sand in our faces.
“Hey!” we all yelled at once.
“Don’t move, I said,” the cop continued. “Don’t understand English or what? I don’t want to hear anything, don’t want to see anyone lift a finger.”
They were getting us to do something stupid in anger, an excuse to knock us around. One of the cops came up to the parking area with Wilo and Rita, who had been down below trying to keep quiet. They brought the beer cans.
“This is a violation,” a cop said.
Then another cop turned around smiling. He had Black Dog’s jacket and had found caps of mescaline and some joints.
“All right, now we got some felonies.”
The cops were ecstatic. They had something good to book us for.
They dragged us handcuffed to the local jail, and took us into a small interrogation room. By now Corina cried. Black Dog talked back, acting up even as the cops poked blackjacks into his ribs. They separated him from the rest of us and took him first.
The police called our parents. Chicharrón’s father said he’d take me home. After several hours, they finally released us. Only Black Dog didn’t go home. The officers transported him to a juvenile facility. Besides the drugs they found, Black Dog had several prior arrests. It didn’t look good for Black Dog.
I said goodby to Corina, and nodded a goodby to Hermie and Santita whose mother came in ranting about us troublemakers and how she’d never let the sisters go anywhere with us again. For a second, in the midst of her mother’s squabbling and hands flying, I thought Hermie smiled at me.
“You have to work, to help us out here,” Mama said. “You’re a big man now. There’s got to be something you can do.”
We had just moved to South San Gabriel. I was nine years old—a good working age, as far as my mother was concerned; she had picked cotton at the age of nine in South Texas. But looking for work at nine is not easy in a city. We weren’t fruit pickers, which were often children as young as three. In a city, a child had to find people to work for—cleaning up for them, doing deliveries or tending lawns. I did a little bit of everything. Mowing lawns with Rano, picking up boxes and cleaning out people’s garages. I even did housework like my mother had done when we were younger. I vacuumed, wiped windows, scrubbed floors on my knees and used tooth
The white dudes pulled out guns. Then one of them flashed a badge.
“Everyone line up. This is the Huntington Beach Police Department.”
They were chota!
“Puta madre,” Chicharrón said, as the cops turned him around and had him place his hands against the side of the van. Then the rest of us, even the girls, were forced to kneel and keep our hands on our heads. Corina started to sob, but I could tell she tried not to. Hermie looked scared as did Santita. Canica and Smiley swaggered and acted cool, but I knew the mescaline had a lot to do with it.
They separated the guys from the girls. After a quick search, the girls were allowed to stand by the side. But the guys were told to squat on the asphalt and not move. One of the cops radioed in some information. Another proceeded to harass us.
“Tough guys, eh? Gonna take us on. You don’t look so tough now.”
I went to move my leg over to another, more comfortable, position. But the cop yelled at me, his hand still palming a .38 revolver.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he said, coming up to my face, eyeball to eyeball. “Did I give you permission to move? Don’t do anything unless I say—you fuckin’ greaser asshole!”
They had us squatting there for five, ten, then fifteen minutes. We couldn’t stand up, kneel or sit. The circulation in my legs felt blocked. The muscles cramped and ached. But we weren’t supposed to do anything but squat. After several long minutes more, one of the cops started throwing sand in our faces.
“Hey!” we all yelled at once.
“Don’t move, I said,” the cop continued. “Don’t understand English or what? I don’t want to hear anything, don’t want to see anyone lift a finger.”
They were getting us to do something stupid in anger, an excuse to knock us around. One of the cops came up to the parking area with Wilo and Rita, who had been down below trying to keep quiet. They brought the beer cans.
“This is a violation,” a cop said.
Then another cop turned around smiling. He had Black Dog’s jacket and had found caps of mescaline and some joints.
“All right, now we got some felonies.”
The cops were ecstatic. They had something good to book us for.
They dragged us handcuffed to the local jail, and took us into a small interrogation room. By now Corina cried. Black Dog talked back, acting up even as the cops poked blackjacks into his ribs. They separated him from the rest of us and took him first.
The police called our parents. Chicharrón’s father said he’d take me home. After several hours, they finally released us. Only Black Dog didn’t go home. The officers transported him to a juvenile facility. Besides the drugs they found, Black Dog had several prior arrests. It didn’t look good for Black Dog.
I said goodby to Corina, and nodded a goodby to Hermie and Santita whose mother came in ranting about us troublemakers and how she’d never let the sisters go anywhere with us again. For a second, in the midst of her mother’s squabbling and hands flying, I thought Hermie smiled at me.
“You have to work, to help us out here,” Mama said. “You’re a big man now. There’s got to be something you can do.”
We had just moved to South San Gabriel. I was nine years old—a good working age, as far as my mother was concerned; she had picked cotton at the age of nine in South Texas. But looking for work at nine is not easy in a city. We weren’t fruit pickers, which were often children as young as three. In a city, a child had to find people to work for—cleaning up for them, doing deliveries or tending lawns. I did a little bit of everything. Mowing lawns with Rano, picking up boxes and cleaning out people’s garages. I even did housework like my mother had done when we were younger. I vacuumed, wiped windows, scrubbed floors on my knees and used tooth
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