Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  They soon got into a routine and got along with everyone in the cell, but they stayed to themselves. Both Chente and I believed they were up to something, but it was nothing more than a feeling. I wasn’t surprised about a month later when Trigger approached me while I swept and said he and Shotgun wanted to talk to everyone in the cell.

  “Órale, Sinbad, me and the Camarada want to get at you and everyone else about something, so if you can, stay in tonight and let someone else get on the broom.”

  “All right,” I said, and went to cell-5, where Chente was playing poker. As soon as he saw me outside the cell, he folded his hand and came over to me.

  “What’s up, carnal?”

  “Trigger just got at me about staying in tonight because he and Shotgun want to rap to all of us about something.”

  Chente thought for a moment.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll do what he asked and stay in. I just wanted you to know what was going on in case you had some pedo with these two.”

  “If I did, you’d know about it.”

  “All right, I’m gone,” I said, and left.

  I had gone to Chente to note his reaction and see if he was hiding something from me. Trigger had come to me, and wanted me to stay in. Everyone else would already be in the cell, so if someone else was a target, I wouldn’t be needed in the cell.

  So the target was me, and Chente had no idea what was going on. I had learned to read him and I knew he wasn’t hiding anything.

  At dinner time, Chente caught up to me.

  “Hey Mad, you thought about what Trigger told you earlier?”

  “Not much. A bit.”

  “He asked you to stay in. All of us except you would already be in the cell. So it’s you they need. You feel what I’m saying?”

  I looked him in the eye. “I figured the same thing. I’ll be ready.”

  We walked to the chow hall and I ate everything they served. It was a good day. Hamburgers and fries, salad, milk, chocolate cake. Normally I couldn’t eat when I felt threatened. But I was numb. The drugs, despair, and the overwhelming grief caused by the murder of a piece of me had taken their toll and I’d lost the ability to feel anything. If I was the target, they would regret trying me.

  After dinner, I asked Smiley, a tall Mexican who lived in cell-1, if he wanted to stay out and handle the broom because I was tired. Of course he jumped at the chance. He knew that, besides being able to walk around until 11 p.m., he would get a cut of all the drugs being moved and sold. He thanked me and went off to gather the broom.

  Once we were all in the cell and settled in, Trigger turned on the TV and turned up the volume. Then he asked all of us to come into the sleeping area so we could all talk.

  It didn’t feel like I was being targeted, or that anyone was, for that matter. Chente and I looked at each other and stayed ready, but when Shotgun sat down and took off his shoes, it became obvious. Whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with violence and, more importantly, nothing to do with me. I relaxed a little, but not completely, because with them anything was possible.

  Trigger knelt down on the floor in the center of us and began to talk.

  “Watcha, we wanted to talk to you vatos out of respect and we hadn’t said anything before because we needed some tiempo to see if we could trust you. Me and the Camarada are looking at some serious fuckin time. I know all of you got muertes, so maybe you want in on this. The bottom line is we’re out of here. Here’s the deal. I got business I need to handle out there, so we’re pressed for time. The problem is, to get out of here it has to be done off the roof at night, and we need help getting the rope up there and cutting the steel cage.”

  I relaxed and sat down on my bunk. Not much surprises me anymore, but that clearly blindsided me. Never in a million years would I have guessed what they had in mind was escaping. I continued listening to Trigger.

  “We got a vato turning himself in tomorrow night, and he’ll be packing hacksaw blades so we can cut through the cage. Next Friday night we’re scheduled to go outside at night, so that day we need to get the rope ready. We’ll cut strips of sheet and braid it together until we have two hundred fifty feet; that’s about how high the building is.”

  “How the hell do you expect to get all that rope on the roof? They search us before they allow us up there,” said Chente.

  “We’ll need seventeen more people we can trust to carry five feet of rope in each shoe. They search us for weapons, and that’s usually just a pat-down. So unless something changes, we’ll be all right. Once we’re up there, Shotgun and me will begin to cut the cage. We’ll need everyone carrying rope to stand around behind the ping-pong table as if the game is the most interesting thing in the world. That way, you block the cop’s view of the fence where we’ll be working. Then one by one you’ll go to the bathroom, where someone will be tying the rope together. Once you give that vato your rope, walk back to the pingpong game and wait until we’re done. It’ll take approximately forty minutes to cut the fence. That’ll give us twenty more minutes to climb down and split.”

  Everyone in the cell seemed excited about it, but I wasn’t sure it would work. Involving seventeen more cats in it besides the eight in our cell was necessary for it to work. But all it would take was for one of those idiots to brag to a friend or girl outside and the house of cards would fall.

  I decided to shower and get in while everyone talked and watched TV. When the hot water hit my face, I took a deep breath and allowed the water to relax me. Fifteen minutes before, I had been ready to fight for my life. As I showered I was overcome with a moment of relief and exhaustion. I didn’t want to be there. I was tired of pretending. I wished so badly I could somehow wake up and find myself home in bed where all I had to worry about was a beating. I knew I’d survive that. But in that cell with all of those gangsters and killers, I wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 18

  Adolescence, 1977–1978

  Taking something from someone who hurt me seemed fair. Although it started off like that, the truth was I liked stealing. Through my seventh and eighth grade years, I routinely took things that didn’t belong to me. I believed I was justified since those people hurt me first, and I used that as an excuse to steal.

  It was normal for boys my age to have rapid growth spurts, but for some reason it hadn’t happened to me. My parents were concerned and took every opportunity to remind me about it.

  My father seemed the most upset since he was six feet tall, and white. I was short and very dark.

  During one of his rage-filled nights of drinking, he grabbed me by the neck and said, “I know your mother is a whore and that she fucks others, maybe she fucked a nigger and that’s where you came from.”

  He smiled and left. He was drunk, but I’ve never forgotten those words. They stung and hurt me deeper than any beating I’d ever received. I loved, worshipped, and sometimes hated my father, and after that I knew deep down he thought I wasn’t his son.

  The next day we went to a martial arts competition, where I fought in a class for black belt fourteen- to sixteen-year-olds, and won. My father was very happy, and as I lifted the trophy over my head and he hugged me I remembered his words and they stung again.

  It may have started with my father’s words, or it may have been the special “vitamins” he began buying in Tijuana, Mexico for me, but a new resentment started growing inside me. I thought everyone was against me, and that deep down inside everyone hated me and wished I’d die and go away.

  I trained harder and with a renewed dedication, fueled by rage and pain. I learned to control my beasts, but they seemed to take on a life of their own. Normally, when I wasn’t upset I was fine. But as soon as I got angry, my vision clouded over in a red haze and, depending on the degree of the rage, I’d lose all control.

  It happened overnight. I don’t remember how or when, but I began to grow, fast. My knees hurt terribly from the rapid growth, and so did my head. The headaches were th
e worst.

  With the growth I also gained confidence, though that was shortlived. We were coming to the end of my eighth grade year and that meant the school dance was coming up. After winning competition after competition in the martial arts, I thought that would translate to popularity.

  A girl at school had caught my attention. Wendy was very beautiful and popular. She was blond, with big blue eyes and a beautiful smile. I imagined asking her out, and her accepting, but I never had the courage to do it. She wasn’t seeing anyone, but I just didn’t believe she’d ever go anywhere with someone like me. But I felt confident. Unstoppable.

  At recess I saw her talking to her friends, and I walked up to her.

  “Hi Wendy. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, hi. I’m fine.”

  “Are you going to the dance next week?”

  “Probably, how about you?”

  “Maybe. Has anyone asked you?”

  “No, but I’ll probably go anyway.”

  “Umm, do you think maybe, I mean, do you want to go with me?”

  “Oh my God, that’s so cute.”

  For a moment I thought she’d say yes.

  “Have you looked in the mirror?”

  I was confused. Did I have something in my nose or teeth? She saw that I didn’t understand. She pulled out her make-up mirror.

  “Look at yourself. Now look at me. Do you think I’d ever go to the dance with a wetback?”

  She laughed at me and her friends all joined in.

  What had I ever done to cause her to make fun of how I looked? Honestly, I wanted to cry. No matter what I did, it was never good enough. I went and sat down next to the basketball court. I wished I could have crawled into a hole and died. Not that she had said no, but that she and her friends had laughed at me and called me a wetback.

  A week before the end of my eighth grade year, I was walking to class when the school principal and English Lit teacher, Mr. Holtz, stopped and asked me to come to his office. As I followed him, I wondered why he needed to see me in his office. Why couldn’t he tell me whatever was on his mind there? We entered his office and he sat down behind his desk. He didn’t ask me to sit, so I stood there while he went through some papers.

  “Do you know what these are?”

  The papers he held weren’t familiar.

  “I’ll tell you. They’re reports. Over the past two years, students have lost things with no explanation. Food, homework, sports gear. The list goes on. All of the missing items have come from boys, and you are one of the few who has never had something turn up missing. Can you explain that?”

  I knew he suspected me of stealing the items, but I also knew he was fishing, hoping I’d admit it was me.

  “I keep track of my things.”

  “No,” he yelled and stood up. “I know the rest of the students here and I know they would not take anything. But you,” he pointed his finger at me, “you are a thief.”

  I said, “Why, because I’m not white? Because you don’t come to my house for dinner? Because you think everyone that looks like me is a wetback?” I was getting angry. “I’ve seen you laugh when people call me that. All of you think it’s funny, but it’s not.”

  “I know you took those things. You are a thief. It’s written there, all over your face,” he said as he pointed at me.

  I thought, Yeah, you’re right. I am a thief, thank you for making that so clear. But I said nothing. I just stared at him.

  “You know what, this is a closed issue. It’s the end of the year, and if I could prove you took those things I’d expel you. Get out of my sight. You’re nothing but a common wet . . . ah… thief.”

  During the next class, which was Lit, Mr. Holtz asked everyone to please not leave their personal items unattended because there was a thief among us. He looked directly at me as he said this.

  At graduation, Mr. Holtz smiled broadly as he shook my parents’ hands and told them how proud they should be and that I was part of the school’s proud history.

  I thought, Fuckin’ hypocrite.

  That was 1978, the summer before my freshman year in high school. My father and mother were sleeping in separate beds and the tension at home had never been higher.

  The only difference was me. I had changed. I was tired of being the butt of everyone’s jokes and their punching bag. I didn’t really know what I’d do to make things different, or change how people saw me, but the first change had to come from inside of me, and it had. I was stronger and felt like I could do anything. I didn’t know it then, but those vitamins my father began giving me months before were more than just vitamins. They were anabolic steroids.

  During a fighting competition, he learned from a fighter in the men’s division that steroids would provide fast results. As a matter of proof the fighter offered himself and his record, as well as the Russian and German Olympic teams and their success. It was all the proof my father needed, and shortly after that conversation he took a trip to Mexico, where he bought several cycles of Dianabol.

  I’m sure my father had no idea about the possible side effects of the drug. How could he, when no one did in 1978? He only knew the results and that outweighed everything else.

  That summer my routine was the same as the year before. Every morning I’d wake up early and my father would give me a ride to the bus stop where I’d catch the bus to Huntington Beach, surf the morning break, come home, put in three to five miles of road work, train at the studio until 7 or 8 p.m., then sleep.

  My beach routine was about to change for the better. I always surfed off to the side so I wouldn’t drop in on any of the locals. They were all older and guarded their territory like they owned the beach. I simply wanted to surf and not attract attention.

  I was off to the side looking out over the beach as I waxed my board when a couple of the locals came up to me. “What’s up, brah?”

  “What’s going on,” I replied.

  “We’ve seen you come out here for the longest, but never see you around. What’s up with that? Where you from?”

  “Look, I get it. I’ll leave, you don’t want me here because I’m not from Huntington.”

  “Nah, pup, it ain’t like that. You’re cool. We just wanted to see what’s up with you. Maybe you want to line up with us.”

  “No doubt, that would be cool,” I said.

  I thought they wanted to chase me off but they’d just asked me to join their line and surf with them, and the guys impressed me. They were surfers. Long-haired, all of them were at least seventeen and older, and they were cool. They were also feared. I knew from watching them that no one surfed their break unless they allowed it.

  There were a total of eight of them, all wearing black and blue O’Neill wetsuits. As I made it to the line-up, they nodded to me. After catching a few sets with them, Brody, who had asked me to join them, introduced me to his brothers. There was Sandman, Turtle, Jeff, Go-Go, Robert, Matt, and Silver, who was the only blond in the group.

  “These are my brothers, my tribe, The Pack. We hold down Huntington because it’s ours. From now on, whenever you come out, this will be your spot. If we’re not out that day and any motherfuckers tell you to move, tell them you’re with us and to go fuck themselves.”

  “Thanks, Brody. Man, when I saw you and Matt coming over earlier I thought you were going to make me leave. I’ve been watching you guys for a while and I’ve seen you kick dudes out of here. I always thought it was only a matter of time until it was my turn.”

  “Listen, last year we noticed you. Go-Go had seen you out here to the side and thought you had some skills, so we just let you do what you were doing. You didn’t try to line up with us or get friendly, you just did your thing. We basically ignored you. Then I noticed you taking the bus inland and figured you traveled a ways to surf. Where are you from?”

  “La Puente,” I said.

  “Damn, that’s a fuckin’ long bus ride.”

  “Yeah, but I like to surf and I need to get away from my house
. It sucks there.”

  “I hear you, man. I know what that feels like. But from now on, when you need a place, this is it. All right, brah?”

  I nodded.

  This guy, who was cool and The Pack’s leader, had offered me a place many wished was theirs, but he’d picked me. He didn’t care how I looked or if my skin was dark. When they looked at me, they saw a surfer.

  “Let’s head in, brah, I’m fuckin’ hungry. You?” Go-Go asked.

  “Yeah, I could eat, but I only have enough money for the bus fare.”

  “Don’t stress, brah, I got you,” said Go-Go.

  Go-Go was the youngest of The Pack. He was seventeen with long black hair, green eyes, a wiry build, and always seemed to be going a hundred miles a minute. We made our way in and the rest followed. When we reached the shore and I stood next to them, I realized I was only an inch or two shorter than the tallest. I smiled. Walking to the parking lot, we came to a four-wheel-drive Chevy truck that belonged to Silver and most of the guys put their boards in the back and began to take off their wetsuits. Brody walked past us to a beat-up older VW bus and placed his board in it.

  “Let’s shower and get some food. Put your board in my ride,” said Brody.

  As I did, I noticed a girl was asleep in the back of the bus.

  “That’s my girl, Brenda. Let me wake her. Babe, you want to eat?”

  “Brody, noooo . . . just bring me something,” she pouted.

  “What can I say, brah? She needs her sleep.”

  We showered to get all the salt water off of us and then crossed Pacific Coast Highway to a bagel shop where Matt ordered us all bagels and coffee.

  When we got our stuff and returned to the parking lot, Brenda was up and three other girls had joined her. I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful they all were. I mean, they were every teenager’s dream. As we approached, Go-Go picked up one of them and she turned and kissed him deeply. The rest of The Pack opened the bags of bagels and ate. Silver, Go-Go, Brody, and Turtle paired up with the girls who were obviously their girlfriends.

  “So who’s the stray,” asked Brenda.