Bill Bailey

by The Kid from Hoboken- An Autobiography (epub)

  "What are you in for?" I asked.

  "Peddling tea," he said. How the hell could a man get arrested for selling tea? It didn't sound right. However, I didn't pursue it.

  "But it's all right," he continued. "I'll be out of here as soon as my wife hears about it. this happens at least once a month."

  Now I was really puzzled. Cops arresting a man at least once a month for selling tea on the streets? Christ, why the hell don't they leave him alone so he can make a living?

  "If you're awakened during the night," I informed my new cell mate, as if I were an old- timer, "it's because there's a guy in the next cell who the cops take out in the middle of the night and beat up. He's pissing blood, he told me this morning."

  "Who is he?" my cell mate asked.

  "Someone they brought in the other night. Young guy."

  "I bet it's one of those bank robbers," he exclaimed. "Is he a blond fellow about six feet, skinny?"

  "Yeah, that description fits him," I agreed.

  "I could see into the cell as I came in here. There's no one in it. It's empty," he assured me.

  "Gee, he must have gone out while I was asleep," I guessed.

  "Those three guys are crazy," he declared. "They went into the bank with sawed-off shotguns. Told everybody to put their hands up, and before anyone could do it one guy fired a blast at the ceiling. The shot was so big it ripped out part of the ceiling and some of the shot ricocheted all over the place. A woman was hit. She died on the way to the hospital. The bank guard didn't have a chance to put up his hands, either. He took a full blast. A cop passing the bank heard the shooting and came charging in. They blew him back through the door, right into the street.

  "Someone saw the cop bleeding on the street and called more cops. They panicked out of the bank without grabbing any money. A car was waiting for them. They took off like madmen. After only one block they ran into a police car with three cops in it on their way to the bank. Right away, the cops shot the hell out of them. One guy's dead; another's in the hospital, close to dying; this guy here was the only one they got in good enough shape to throw in jail. There are enough people out there who want to hang these guys. They're crazy; they could have cleaned out that bank without firing one shot!"

  "Boy, that's all news to me!" I told him.

  "Hell, man, the papers are full of it. Great big headlines. That's all people are talking about. These two guys are gonna hang." He looked toward the stairway. "Darned that woman! She should've been here long ago to bail me out of this mess."

  Later in the afternoon the guard came up, carrying several small pots and pans. He handed them to my cell mate. "Here," he said. "It's from your wife. She said she was having trouble bailing you out. You may have to stay overnight." He handed me the usual bottle of coffee and a sandwich. The guy's wife had cooked him a complete hot meal: rice creole with sausages, a small steak, creamed asparagus, French-dripped coffee and some cake. Far too much for one man to eat, I thought. "Join in," he invited. I put my sandwich aside and enjoyed the feast.

  The next morning, the guard came with one bottle of coffee and one sandwich--for me. "You," he poked his finger at my cell mate as he opened the door, "are free on bail. Your wife's waiting for you downstairs. Get going."

  Another day in jail. The bank robber never returned to his cell. I learned that he had been removed to another, out-of-the-way station around New Orleans. Shifting prisoners was meant to make it difficult for parents or attorneys to reach them until the police were satisfied they had the proper confession and case against him.

  I was alone again, thankful for the short stay of my "tea-selling" mate who had supplied me with cigarettes in addition to that great meal. Many months later I discovered that "tea" was another term for marijuana. They guy had been a marijuana pusher. Each stick (or cigarette) sold for 25 cents.

  On the sixth day I was transferred to the main jail at the courthouse in downtown New Orleans. The place was swarming with prisoners, all--like me--held over the holidays. Now we were being processed in groups before the judge. "Any of you men native to New Orleans or Louisiana?" he asked. No one answered. "You have 24 hours to get out of town. If you're picked up after that, it'll be 30 days. Clear?"

  Chapter XIV: The Education of a Hobo

  I was back on the street, looking for a road to Baton Rouge so I could get started. A mile before entering town, I ran into a guy I'd met briefly at the seamen's mission in Mobile. He was on his way to Galveston to see a friend who'd promised to help him find a job. We decided to travel together, at least for a while. We played it safe by staying close to the river, as far from the main drag as possible. Fewer police were in the rundown section of town than in the business districts, we knew. We passed a grocery store. My friend decided to hit the grocer for something to eat. He came back with a box of soda crackers. "Not exactly caviar," he commented, "but twice as filling."

  It was about 6:30; the sun had set. We found a shadowy doorway and sat down to eat our crackers. He was right. They were filling. The ferry was just across the street. How were we going to make it across on that boat without paying? A touring car slid slowly around the corner. We paid no attention to it. It steered right up beside the curb, only a few feet from where we were sitting. A powerful spotlight was turned on; its beam was directed into our faces, blinding us. A voice boomed, "Put your hands up or we'll blow you all apart!"

  We stood up, my upraised hands still hanging onto the cracker box. Two men, double-barreled shotguns drawn, moved in, searched us, then shoved us into the car. We were on our way to jail. Holy Toledo, is that all there is? Jail?

  We'd been caught in a roundup. Sixty men had been picked up and taken to the police station. We were processed before a table where three policemen and one young guy were sitting. "How about these two?" the policeman directed to the young guy in civilian clothes.

  "No," he drawled, "that's not them."

  We were put into a holding cell. Some men were already in there, stretched out on deck. "What the hell is this all about?" I asked anyone who was listening.

  "That dummy sitting there," someone told me, "claims he stepped out of a restaurant and was robbed by two men. Says they took his week's pay. Twenty bucks. Bet it's money he lost in a poker game; he's trying to make his wife think he was rolled."

  About five more men were brought in. There were no natives among them. The "victim" had stated that, when the robbers spoke to him, they had sounded "alien to the area." The two alleged robbers were never picked up. The whole search for them was shut down at midnight.

  We had no blankets, but a hot stove in the cell overworked itself that night. At 6:30 the next morning, we were awakened by the roar of motors. Several big vans had pulled up beside the police station. "All right now! Y'all pay attention. We don't want to see your faces in town after this morning. Y'all hear? Just to make sure we don't, we're gonna take you outta town. Now, all those going north and west, go and get in that big van on your left. The ones going south and east, take the van on your right. Now git! And don't y'all come back in this here town again. Hear me good?"

  Like a herd of sheep we shuffled out and climbed aboard. "Well, maybe they're doing us a favor. After all, we were heading west, so it'll be that much less we have to travel," I consoled my friend. The truck drove a good five miles out of town. In a clearing on the roadside, the door was opened.

  "Okay, y'all, end of the line! Now, y'all remember what that officer told you back there. Don't be seen back in town." The driver slammed the door and took off. At least 20 of us were left standing around looking silly. Our surroundings seemed familiar--flat green countryside sprinkled with clumps of brush, a farmhouse in the distance.

  "Why, the sonofabitch!" exclaimed one of the men. "They took us south instead of north! The guys wanting to go south must have been taken north! Them southern hoosier grit-eating bastards! I hope they croak."

  Another fine mess. How were we to get back to Baton Rouge, onto that ferry, without winding u
p in jail again? Southern police humor, if that's what it was, was not appreciated. Well, let the whole station house laugh; we'd show `em.

  My friend and I broke away from the others. Staying off the road, we worked our way back to town. At the city limits, we cut across some farm land to the river, being careful to stay out of sight. Several times I sank almost to my knees in swampy muck. My feet were soaked, my clothing ripped and torn by bushes and occasional barbed-wire fences. I looked like a scarecrow. We hoped to reach town at sundown.

  Once again we reached the ferry. Few automobiles were making the trip this time, and very few passengers were boarding. One thing was certain: if we hung around studying the approach, worrying about how to obtain free passage, we'd be spotted quickly and picked up by the cops. That could set us back several months. No, we knew we had to get the hell out fast.

  We decided to give the frontal approach a shot. We marched right up to the ticket man. He was alone. That gave us hope; with people around him, he'd be afraid to give free passage for fear of being reported and losing his job. We stood before him. Frankly, we looked terrible. The man studied us. Then my partner spoke up. "In the name of God, man, give us a break! We're trying to get to the other side to catch a freight train. We have no money for food, let alone fare."

  The ticket man glanced fearfully around. No one was in sight. "Pass," he breathed.

  A mile from the ferry landing, trains were being made up for the trek toward Memphis, Little Rock or the Dakotas. We checked and found out that our train would be ready to go at two in the morning. The night grew cold. We located a sand house and managed to squeeze into a corner. A sand house is a small shack built around a powerful stove and surrounded by sand. The stove's heat drives the moisture out of the sand, making it gritty. Every locomotive has a sand box inside. When the track becomes oily, the driving wheels slip and slide. That's when the engineer lets sand flow down a pipe in front of them. It creates sufficient friction to stop the sliding. We remained unnoticed in our corner when the brakeman came to fill buckets with hot sand to pour into the engine cab's sand box.

  On cold, wintry nights, the sand house is favored by men on the road as well as railroad bulls. For that reason, there's always plenty of room in a sand house. In the four or five times I have kept warm in such a place, only once did a bull hustle me out, threatening to break my head if I ever came back. One bad thing about sand houses is that you're not the only live thing basking in their warmth. Though it's true that few men attract lice, the same can't be said about crabs. I did my share to carry on the crab strain; every famished one of them and their young seemed to thrive on chewing on me in sand houses. When these parasites turn up on you, it means not only plenty of baths, but boiling out all your clothing and smearing Blue Ointment all over your body. Most times, even this gives you only temporary victory. More than likely, next night, you'll be in another flophouse, ready to entertain a new crop of the pests.

  Around 1:30 we shivered our way outside. Our train was all made up. Luckily, the yard was too windswept for the bulls to be out checking on hobos. A quick look and we were quickly climbing onto the roof of one of a long string of empty reefers. We unhooked the latch, then let ourselves down inside, securing the latch again.

  Reefers are used to transport perishable cargo like fruits and vegetables. If they require ice (oranges, apples and grapes don't), two compartments, one on each end of the car, store it. As the wheels turn, a belt between the wheels runs a fan that circulates air around the cargo inside the car. Compared to conventional boxcars, reefers are kept clean. They offer privacy, each compartment accommodating only two people. There's no room for walking around, as in a boxcar, and visibility is zero; it takes a climb to see out. During daylight, if the car is loaded, the filler door has to be left ajar to circulate air. The brakemen pay strict attention to this part of the operation. If, from the caboose, they see a filler door closed, they make it a point at the first stop to raise the door and check the car over. For an empty car, it doesn't matter whether the filler door is open or shut. At night, the brakemen can't spot doors, so it's safe to pull it shut to maintain heat inside. If it had rained during the day, a piece of cardboard could be rigged to keep the water out, but it required experience to make it work.

  Spotting the right reefer had been easy. Since most fruit and vegetables from the West were being shipped east, most empty reefers headed west. If the car used ice as a refrigerant, water would always be dripping from a drain at the end of the car. If the car was loaded, there would be a seal on the door locks.

  Newspaper is always handy to have along on the road. Besides its use as a fire starter, it's good as a blanket. A few sheets, loosely folded, can be fitted between the back and the jacket. Another sheet, rolled up, can be stuff up your pants leg to keep cold air off your legs. Some old-timers insisted it was the newspaper ink that created the warmth. Whatever it was, newspapers prevented many a cold night disaster.

  The engineer called in the brakemen with the whistle. The cars humped; air brakes were tested. The train lurched forward, starting slowly. We rolled out of the yard. Way up ahead, the shrill wail of the whistle told the world in two blasts that we were now about to highball. Our rattler rolled westward toward Texas, edging ever closer to the Gulf of Mexico. Almost every hour we stopped and sidetracked to let a fast passenger train pass or to sit and wait for signals. We didn't mind. We needed sleep.

  As dawn approached, my riding companion, wondering aloud what part of the state we were passing through, climbed up and opened the manhole door enough to see out. I sat up, paper still stuffed up my pants legs and sleeves. I felt like a stuffed straw man; maybe I even looked the part. In any case, I was warm. My buddy backed his way down and pulled out his sack of Bull Durham. We both rolled cigarettes and sat back, puffing away. Up ahead the mournful whistle cut through the early morning mist as the train clattered past small towns, depots and sleeping villages. "We must have caught something about as good as a milk run," grumbled my partner. "Seems to be dragging its ass mighty slowly across the state. I bet we aren't averaging 30 miles an hour."

  "I know we stopped at least three times," I chimed in.

  "Yes, and must have lost an hour each time. At this rate, we'll never make Texas till late tonight." Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a very small packet about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It held a needle and a spool of thread. "You carry one of these?" he queried as he threaded a needle.

  "No," I told him, watching him start sewing up a small hole in his pants knee.

  "Better get yourself a few needles and some thread at a five-and-dime store. Always handy to have if you're gonna hop rattlers the rest of your life," he advised. He took off his jacket, inspecting it carefully; then he started on a button. "If you're gonna travel this route for any time, there's only one way to do it: that's the right way. Be prepared for any emergency. Know the road. Do it right. Just like steamboating. To be a good sailor, you gotta know your ship, everything about it. Right? So, to ride these rattlers coast to coast you gotta know `em inside out. I've seen too many guys who thought they knew everything. Not interested to learn anything new. A few went to the hospital, a few went to the grave. How long you been riding these rattlers?" he wanted to know.

  I sat there marveling at this guy. I figured him for about 40, yet he talked as if he'd done a lot of traveling. I liked the way he'd sewed up that hole in his pants. He wasn't pushy; he talked as if he knew a great deal and wanted to share it. I felt his concern for me; he didn't want to see me killed on the road. I learned something from everything he was telling me, just as I learned from the old-timer who showed me how to keep from being guillotined in a boxcar doorway. "Oh, a couple of weeks," I guessed.

  "Well," he went on, relighting his cigarette, "suppose you were to hear words like `buggy' or `cage' or `chariot' or `shanty'? How about `doghouse,' `monkey,' louse house,' `crummy,' `palace,' or `way car'? What do you think all those fancy words refer to?"

&n
bsp; "Something to do with a farm?" I guessed.

  "No, no! We're talking about railroading. This is all railroad language, words you hear on the road, in and around railroad yards."

  "Never heard them before," I assured him.

  "Well, they all mean the same thing: caboose. You know what a caboose is?" he quizzed, handing me a match to relight my cigarette.

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Good. Almost every railroad line has its own lingo. For instance, you get up around Colorado, you hear railroad men call a locomotive `the hog.' In the South it's `the pig.' In the East it could be `the kettle,' or maybe `the jack,' or even `the smoker.' You see, all different names for the same thing."

  I handed him back the matches.

  "How about whistles?" was his next question. "How many do you know?"

  "I know two long toots; that means highball . . . opening it up wide, full ahead," was my answer.

  "Is that all?"

  "Yeah."

  "You mean you been riding these rattlers for two weeks and you only know one whistle signal?"

  I settled back; he was getting ready to tell me plenty.

  "Now," he continued, "the one you hear all the time is two long, one short and one long--tells you the engineer's coming close to a highway crossing. If it was only one long blast, that would mean approaching a railroad station or another rail junction."

  "Oh," I put in, trying to sound smart.

  "Suppose it was two long and one short. That's the engine getting ready to pull over to a side track. That signal's used when approaching a meeting place for trains, or a waiting point."

  I kept nodding wisely.

  "Another one to remember," he went on, "comes after the train has left or is about to leave. Yeah, you better remember this one if you don't want to be left behind. It's either four or five long, and it's the engineer calling back the crew. If you drift any distance from a car, always keep in mind that whistle signal; it could save your life."