by Guy Johnson
Jackson had never been so far away from the village. He could no longer see the buildings themselves, only the smoke from various cooking fires. The sun now restated its presence by burning him every time he stopped to get his breath. In the distance, he saw a small arroyo lined with scrub and stunted trees. He sought safety from the sun in the shade of the shrubbery. In the middle of the arroyo was a small stream of cool water. Jackson threw himself facedown in the water and soaked himself. His head was throbbing and his chest hurt from running full speed. He stood up and heard the warning rattle of a sidewinder. He watched the snake writhe out of view under a thicket of sagebrush.
Jackson did not return home until he saw his grandfather drive up to the cottage that evening. When he walked in, his grandfather was examining the door. Jackson was so exhausted and hungry that he could barely talk. Nonetheless, his grandfather interrogated him while he prepared the evening meal. Jackson told him everything, except that he had stolen sausages from the store. His grandfather examined his eye, which now had a large, dark bruise around it, and saw that he was slightly feverish from too much sun. Jackson was so spent, he could not finish his dinner. He fell asleep at the table. His grandfather put him to bed and had to rise several times during the night to place cold compresses on his body.
Jackson was awakened before dawn by his grandfather. He was told to get dressed. There was no breakfast cooked. They left the cottage as soon as Jackson was dressed and went to Jorge’s house. There were no lights on when they arrived. Jackson was told to wait outside. His grandfather drew an ivory-handled pistol from a holster and kicked the door open.
Jorge had gone to sleep with his rifle at the foot of his bed as a precaution, although he didn’t expect any trouble. He was awakened by the sound of his door splintering, but he had trouble coming to full consciousness because he had been in a deep slumber. By the time he had his wits about him, King was in his bedroom. At first, Jorge was indignant. He was about to give King a piece of his mind when King picked up his rifle and smashed the butt into his chest. The blow knocked the air out of Jorge and stunned him. His wife began screaming for help as King pulled Jorge by the hair from his bed. She tried to intercede and help her husband, but King knocked her down and she did not get up.
Jorge was dragged outside of his house and dropped in the dirt. King pulled out both his pistols and fired several rounds into the store to wake the village. He then proceeded to beat and kick Jorge senseless, taking his time with every blow and kick, repeating in Spanish, “You will never lay a hand on my grandson again, even if he comes for your mother!”
Before he passed out, Jorge begged his fellow villagers for help. No one came to his aid. King continued to kick him even after he was unconscious. Finally, an old lady yelled that Jorge had been only trying to protect his business and that King’s grandson had stolen meat from the store.
King turned to his grandson; there was fire in his eyes. “Did you lie to me? Did you steal from this man?”
Jackson nodded his head in admission.
King went and pulled a wire coat hanger off a nearby clothesline and opened it. He wrapped part of the wire around his hand and advanced upon his grandson, who was now quivering with fear. King commenced to whip his grandson with the wire until the boy’s legs were bloody with welts while the whole village watched. When he finished, he said in Spanish for all to hear, “I will kill the next person who lays a hand on my grandson. I have whipped him so that you will see we do not coddle thieves and liars in my family. If you have a problem with him, come to me. I will see that justice is done.”
Jackson remained in the house for the next three days with the shades pulled down. He was too embarrassed to show his face to the villagers. He had been humiliated twice in front of them. When his grandfather came home in the evenings, Jackson stayed out of his way and kept silent. He never initiated another conversation. He would rather do without than ask his grandfather for anything. The seedlings of hate and resentment had been sown and they would be fed and watered regularly over the years by his grandfather’s stern code.
When Jackson did leave the cottage, he avoided the village and went to the arroyo with the little stream. As the days passed, he wandered farther afield. He went upstream and discovered a series of steep ravines, which he explored. Once again, his hunger made him bold, and he attempted to eat anything that he saw animals eat. Unfortunately, he did not realize that some animals were able to metabolize certain foods which were toxic to man. So, when he attempted to make a meal of red berries which he saw both birds and kangaroo rats eating, he did not expect to get sick. In less than an hour after eating as many of the bitter berries as he could stand, his stomach began to hurt. In fact, the pain doubled him up so that he could not walk. He dragged himself to a shady spot by the stream and passed out.
When he awoke, he heard the mournful howl of a coyote. The stars were out in all their brilliance. A quarter moon smiled down upon him. The ravine looked strange and ominous in the dim moonlight. The terrain was unrecognizable. He didn’t know which direction was the way home. He forced himself to his feet and discovered he could barely walk due to the pain. The temperature had dropped nearly fifty degrees and he was shivering with cold and sweating at the same time. He sat back down, dizzy and exhausted. He fell back in a stupor which lasted for hours.
In the early morning before dawn, the sound of men’s voices awakened him. He did not have the strength to call out. He attempted to drag himself closer, but he was too weak and stiff to move. He lay back and waited for discovery or death; he no longer cared. His grandfather’s voice brought him out of his delirium. Jackson heard him say, “Where the hell is that boy?” There was unmistakable anger in his voice. If Jackson had had the strength he would have crawled deeper into the thickets of madrona and manzanita to avoid discovery. He did not want to face the anger of his grandfather again.
A flashlight passed over his foot, then steadied on him. “I’ve found him!” he heard a familiar voice say. There were sounds of running feet. Hands reached underneath him and propped him up. Someone poured cool water down his throat. A flashlight shined in his face. He heard his grandfather ask, “What happened, boy? Are you all right?”
Jackson raised his hand in front of his face defensively and pleaded weakly, “Please don’t whip me. Please don’t whip me.”
Strong arms lifted him up and held him close. He could smell his grandfather’s cigars and cologne as he was carried back to a waiting jeep.
The next morning, Jackson had vague memories of men in white coats putting tubes down his throat, making him throw up. He turned over in his bed, hoping to fall asleep again, but a tantalizing smell brushed away the cobwebs of sleep. It was the smell of frying bacon. He threw back his blankets and swung his legs slowly out of bed. An occasional pain lanced through his stomach. He sat on the side of the bed for several minutes, trying to marshal his strength.
His grandfather appeared at the door and watched him silently. When Jackson saw that his grandfather was watching him, he grew frightened. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up earlier,” he mumbled. He tried to push himself to his feet and his legs collapsed under him. He fell back on the bed heavily. His grandfather was by his side in an instant. Jackson felt cool hands touch his brow and then his legs were lifted back in bed. He fell asleep again despite his desire to see if bacon really was cooking.
When Jackson awakened, there was a woman sitting in the room knitting. He did not recognize her, but she seemed friendly enough, for she smiled at him when she saw him stir. She washed his face with a damp towel and gestured with her hand, asking him if he wanted to eat. Jackson was famished. He nodded his head so enthusiastically, it made her laugh. She brought in a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and tortillas. Jackson’s eyes grew big when he saw the food. He wasn’t sure it was all for him, but she indicated that it was. He cleaned the plate and would have asked for more, but the memory of his grandfather made him keep his desires to himself.
“How’s the wolf cub?” Carlos asked lightly.
“I’m fine,” Jackson answered. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to teach you how to hunt, fish, and forage for food,” Carlos answered. “El Negro says that all your problems have originated with your desire to eat. So, he says, it’s time for you to learn what’s safe to eat and what’s not.”
“How am I going to hunt?”
“Well,” said Carlos, reaching underneath Jackson’s bed. He pulled out a soft rifle case and handed it to Jackson. “I’m going to teach you how to use this.”
Jackson couldn’t believe his eyes. He opened the case slowly and pulled out a Marlin twenty-two-caliber rifle with a small scope. “This is mine?” he asked incredulously.
“It used to be your grandfather’s but he’s had your name carved into the stock.”
Jackson turned over the rifle and saw that his name was indeed carved deeply in the rich wooden luster of the rifle stock. “Gosh” was all he managed to say.
For the next seven weeks, Jackson spent nearly every day with Carlos, sometimes leaving the house early in the morning before his grandfather departed and returning late at night. Each morning, the woman who had brought him the breakfast while he was recuperating came in to cook a hearty meal. His first week was spent learning to use and care for his rifle. Shooting came easily to Jackson. He practiced target shooting on cans and small rodents. He was taught to field-strip and clean his rifle. Next, he learned to set traps for rabbits, quail, roadrunners, and armadillos. He was taught to find evidence of different kinds of animals by checking the feces and their tracks. During the fourth week, he learned to build a smokeless fire, and how to skin and gut small game in the field. He also learned what seasonings grew wild and what type of vegetable matter could be digested by man.
At the end of the summer, Jackson’s skin was tanned and sun hardened. He had grown leaner from physical exertion. He and Carlos explored the area throughout the nearby foothills and ravines surrounding the cottage. Sometimes they hiked as far as twenty-five miles from the village. They took only salt, tortillas, and canteens of water with them. They lived off the land, eating only that which they could forage, catch, or kill. It was one of the most thrilling experiences that eight-year-old Jackson could imagine: walking the desolate land with a knife in his belt and a rifle in his hands. He was an avid learner and he sucked in the information that Carlos gave him.
On the last day that Carlos was to spend with him, they were sitting around a small fire, roasting a rabbit which Jackson had shot and cleaned. An old mesquite provided partial shade from the omnipresent sun. To the north and east of them lay the dry, red, furrowed foothills which were the beginning of the southern branch of the Sierras. To the south lay the blue-green ravines and arroyos leading to the village, the colors supplied by sagebrush and desert shrubbery. And fifteen miles to the west was the shimmering presence of the Sea of Cortez. It was some of the most beautiful country Jackson had ever seen.
Carlos prodded him with a foot and nodded his head toward the rabbit, indicating that it needed to be turned on the makeshift spit. Jackson responded quickly, adjusting the rabbit so that the backside cooked.
“You have learned much, Wolf Cub,” Carlos observed, watching his young companion.
Jackson nodded his head appreciatively. He very much wanted to earn Carlos’s respect and affection. No one since his father had treated him as well.
“Next week, you’ll return to San Francisco and civilization,” Carlos commented, still watching him. “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson answered slowly, nudging a large beetle with his foot. The insect climbed on top of his shoe and stopped to take stock of its whereabouts, waving its antennae. Jackson put his hand down and let the beetle crawl up on his finger. He held his finger in front of his face to inspect the insect more closely. “This has been the best and the worst summer of my life.”
Carlos nodded understandingly. He did not intrude further. He looked at the shadows on the hills and figured it was about one in the afternoon. “You know, about fifty years ago, this area was the home of some of the most notorious banditos that ever lived.”
“Really?” Jackson asked with interest, flicking the beetle off his finger.
“Yes,” Carlos confirmed. “A band of men could hide in these hills and ravines for years and never be found. There are endless canyons and arroyos around here and many of them have water.”
“Really?” Jackson asked again. “How did you find me when I was sick? How did you know where to look?”
“We didn’t. Your grandfather threatened to burn down the whole village if we didn’t find you. So, we had a lot of volunteers. Your tracks were discovered by the creek. We just spread out from there, checking every ravine and canyon in the area.”
“I thought that he would be happy to get rid of me,” Jackson said, pulling his knife from its sheath. He began sharpening it with his whetstone as he had been taught.
Carlos shook his head. “You are the most important person in El Negro’s life.” Carlos smiled wryly. “He would have hung the owner of the store and burned the village to the ground if you had not been found.” Jackson said nothing. He continued to sharpen his knife. Carlos realized that Jackson did not believe him. “Your grandfather is a hard man who grew up in hard times. He does not express affection well, but he is one of the best friends that a man can have. He will wade into a pack of wolves for you, if he takes you as his friend.”
Jackson heard Carlos’s words but did not respond. All he remembered was the beating that he had received in front of the whole village. The physical pain was insignificant compared with the humiliation which he felt. He knew that he would never forget, and forgiveness was an act far beyond his eight-year-old consciousness.
Tuesday, June 22, 1982
Creighton Bedrosian was a round-faced, pink-skinned, chunky man of average height. His brown hair and mustache were peppered with gray. He wore rimless glasses over his pale blue eyes, which gave his face a quaint appearance. But there was nothing quaint about Creighton Bedrosian. He was a man with agendas. He had been the city manager for the City of Oakland for nearly five years and he was now ready to move on. He was under consideration for two different city managerships in larger municipalities.
He began rifling through the papers on his desk, looking for the materials that he would need for the meeting. The list of council resolutions was incomplete. There were several city council subcommittee meetings scheduled for six that evening. Creighton detested late council work; it reflected badly on him as the administrator of the city council agenda. He gritted his teeth. Someone was going to get his butt kicked. Then, of course, there was that little matter of the mayor’s surprise resolution on a Citizen Review Commission Over Police Activities. Yes, someone was definitely going to get his butt kicked. He gathered up the printouts and left his office for the conference room. Creighton seated himself at the head of the conference table and began reviewing his notes. He was working on his strategy to deal with Jackson when Howard Gomes entered the room.
Howard sat down at the table next to Creighton with a smile and a quick nod of his head. He was a tall, angular man with straight black hair, prominent cheekbones, and a beak for a nose. His small brown eyes were set deep in his face, giving him a ferretlike appearance. There was a trace of a New York City accent when he spoke.
“How’s it going, boss?” Howard asked, dropping his file onto the table in front of him. He wore an expensive designer suit with casual arrogance.
Creighton looked him up and down intently. “New suit?”
“No, I bought it last year,” Howard said, fingering the lapel. “The tie is new. I got it last night.”
Creighton picked up a sheaf of papers and tapped them on the table, attempting to align the sides. “You spend too much money
on clothes. Watch out, or I’ll think you’re going ethnic on me.”
“Hell, I’m as ethnic as a burrito and beans, a bar mitzvah, or a pizza.”
Bedrosian warned, “Just don’t let it get to chitterlings and collard greens.”
“No worries!” Howard chuckled in response then asked, “Did you ever come to a decision about who you want to fill the graffiti-abatement position?”
Bedrosian looked up. “No, why?”
“Why don’t you let Elsa handle it?” Howard paused, searching for the right words. “She’s in between project assignments and it would result in a significant salary savings. You could put her up in Montclair.”
“Not in this political climate! You obviously didn’t listen to council testimony. The position has to start work on East Fourteenth. What’s a nice Protestant girl from Minnesota going to do with a bunch of community activists from Little Soweto in east Oakland?”
“Her legs will dazzle them. She has one fine pair of legs.”
“I guess you’ve seen them up close and personal?”
Howard answered with a wide grin.
Bedrosian shook his head with a rueful smile. “I’m always coming to bail you out.”
“Hey, if you want to bail me out of something, transfer this municipal classification study to someone else. This is a thousand-headed monster. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”
“What did you offer to shut the union up?”
“I told them if this study isn’t complete by 1988, we would pay retroactive pay for every day after that until the study was complete, if the reclassification resulted in an increase in pay. And, I also agreed that the union would have approval agreement over all their specific job classifications.”