My Descent Into a Life of Crime

I suspect that even the most hardened life-long serial criminal looks back and regrets some choices that they made, people that they hurt and costs that they incurred.  Maybe they think about the circumstances that led them to commit their first crime.  Did it happen by accident or intent?    Were there social, economic, educational, parental or peer influences driving them?  What about drugs and alcohol?  Were they simply fated to live outside of the law? 

It was different for me. 

None of those things drove me to commit my first of many crimes.  Had I been born a century earlier criminologists of the time might have struggled to understand my behaviors.  How was it that this semi wholesome-looking freckled-face boy with a normal sized head with right-sized jaw and ears had been compelled to such behaviors.  It’s true that I was small for my age and, given nothing else to go on, they might have been left with that to explain my miscreant tendencies.  But there was something else.

I don’t think that anybody ever figured it out, but I could have told them if they had asked because I can clearly remember the exact moment when I formed the intent of transforming myself into a lawbreaking malefactor and menace to society.  Overnight I became a juvenile delinquent with a determination to break the law, inconvenience, disappoint and hurt loved ones, be a bad influence on friends and lose the respect of peers.  I became “that kid” that parents warned their children to stay away from.  I became known to the Seattle Police Department who seemingly watched for me to commit my next crime.

Chapter 1 - alert today–alive tomorrow 

On the morning of November 11, 1957 I had a lot on my mind.  The Russians were going to drop atomic bombs on us and that hung me up.  I mean, my Mom was a Civil Defense Block Mother so we had a sign on the front of our house announcing the fact that we were on top of the Red Threat and in charge of organizing survival efforts when things broke bad.  Air raid sirens were tested every Wednesday at noon and we practiced “Duck and Cover” drills at school.  During these drills there was no laughing or having fun because we were all scared shitless that we were going to die.  Living in Wichita we knew that the Boeing plant placed us in the crosshairs of a planned Soviet nuclear attack, and we had all learned to tell the difference between the silhouettes of death-dealing Russian TU-16 bomber and a B-47 or B-52.  

My buddy, Mike Masters, and I practiced the doctrine of “Alert Today-Alive Tomorrow”.  We were unofficial but full-on Ground Observer Corps members with a pretty good plan for watching the skies and reporting on intruding Soviet “bogies”.  We lived on opposite ends of the block but from the roofs of our respective chicken coops we had a clear view from one end of the block to the other.  

We were both equipped with “Rin Tin Tin Seven-in-One Wondascopes” which represented the absolute zenith of mid-1950’s technology.  By using the binocular function of our Wondascopes we could closely observe every aircraft overhead and determine its course of flight with the directional compass function.  Mike was responsible for watching the south and west quadrants while my job was to guard the north and the east.  If either one of us identified a Soviet bomber overhead we would use the signal mirror function to alert the other.  We both knew S-O-S in Morse code and if I sent that message to Mike, he would determine the time of day using the Solar Time Clock function which was important because, to this day, I have never been able to figure that one out.   He would then phone Civil Defense authorities.  That was his responsibility because my family was on a party line but Mike’s family had paid extra to have their own dedicated phone line.  With him making the calls the fate of the nation wouldn’t get hung up on me having to convince Beulah and Mildred that I needed to cut their call short for national security reasons.  

When not watching, identifying airplanes and practicing communications we still found the Microscope function very useful.  Though we never had the opportunity to “examine diamonds for flaws” we did find that they lived up to the promise of “locating wood splinters instantly” and an unheralded function was its ability to fry Red Ants as quickly as it could locate splinters.   

Chapter 2 - Commies

One time during recess at Jesse Chisolm Elementary School a military paratrooper landed on the playground.  It was very mysterious as he didn’t speak to any of us kids who gathered around him.  In spite of the fact that our school was only 2.5 miles from McConnell Air Force Base Mike and I were sure that he was a Russian on a reconnaissance mission of some sort.  We felt that with a concerted effort our chances were good at beating him up and taking him prisoner and he must have sensed that he was in danger as the crowd of suspicious kids gathered around him wielding baseball bats  and wooden tetherball paddles while whispering “Commie, Commie, Commie”. 

 Once we moved to Seattle we were an even higher priority target for those commie bastards and Khrushchev had proven himself to be full-on-bat-shit-crazy.  The Wednesday sirens continued as did the “Duck and Cover” drills but now at night we could look up into the sky and see the Soviet technology superiority on full display as Sputnik passed overhead and the local radio stations played the sound of its monotone beeping.  It was clear to me that we were totally screwed and that I probably wouldn’t live to see the 6^th grade.  

Chapter 3 - The Seed of Crime

Like I said, I had a lot on mind so when the headline of the cover story of My Weekly Reader blared “Jaywalkers Are Bad News”. I was like, “What?  Are you shitting me!  We are going to die any day now in a nuclear holocaust and My Weekly Reader is wasting my time with Jaywalking?”

The article read: “This Fall, many cities are making drives against jaywalking.  Policemen are working to make people safer on the streets.  They are teaching people better walking habits.

Jaywalkers are careless people.  They cross streets in a hurry.  They do not cross streets in the right places.  They walk out between parked cars.  Jaywalking is dangerous.  It causes accidents.

People should never take chances with cars on the streets.  People must learn better walking habits.  They must learn to obey traffice (sic) signs.  They must learn to walk between painted lines on the street.

Policemen are helping people learn better walking habits.  They want people to use their heads, not just their feet.  Better walking habits will make good news in many cities.”

What the hell?  Here we were knocking on death’s atomic door and My Weekly Reader was blathering on about the critical nature of developing “Better walking habits”!  Where were our national priorities?  How about My Weekly Reader developing better spelling and editing skills?  I mean, I just lost it in class and blurted out “Shit”, which was the very worst word that I knew at the time and it was at that very moment that I made the decision that I would dedicate the short time I had remaining to pursuing a life of crime.  That’s right, in defiance of My Weekly Reader and all of the other public school ostrich twits, I would become a criminal and I vowed to start just as soon as I was released from the principal’s office for being a disturbance in class. 

Chapter 4 – Defiance

 

Now what My Weekly Reader didn’t say was that jaywalking had been illegal since sometime in the 1930’s so developing “Better Walking Habits” wasn’t a new concept and wasn’t just about staying safe.  It was about staying out of jail and since I was going to die soon in a nuclear attack, I intended to defy the criminal justice system and jaywalk as often as possible.  If I was arrested, so be it.  

Chapter 5 – My First Crime

And so, I embarked on my criminal enterprise and started jaywalking every chance I had.  You have to understand that prior to this I was very squared away on my walking habits and only crossed at street corners and would look all four ways before stepping into the street.  I only lived a block from the school and had to cross just one street but now I chose to illegally cross it three times going to and coming from class.  I jaywalked every chance I had but just couldn’t seem to get caught.  Becoming a criminal mastermind wasn’t as easy as I had anticipated.    

I matriculated to Meany Junior High with a clean police record.  I seldom reflected on the impetus of my poor walking habits anymore, I just had them and displayed, nay, flaunted them every chance I had.   One day I was on my way to Gary’s Den, a barber shop in the U-District, where the owner knew exactly how to make my bleached white hair look sharp.  I jaywalked across University Ave. right in front of a police car and that was the day that I met Officer Cox.

He didn’t turn on his siren or lights but just pointed to a spot where he could pull over.  My stomach erupted in butterflies with the realization that I was a criminal at last.  Officer Cox reached across the seat and opened the passenger door signifying that I was to get in beside him.  The inside of the car smelled of old, dirty leather and felt dangerous.  He told me that I had jaywalked and that it was against the law.  My mind was racing as I wondered what the consequences of my craven act would be.  He went on to say that he had seen me jaywalk before but let me go, however, jaywalking right in front of him was too much and he was going to have to ticket me.  I was excited that I had finally struck back against My Weekly Reader and that my reckless walking habits were being recognized. 

Chapter 6 – Failed Rehabilitation

Between that first glorious ticket and my eighteenth birthday I amassed an impressive number of “awards” for my distain of our education system’s inability to correctly prioritize national security and walking habits.  Since I was under eighteen there was no monetary fine levied but after a few tickets I had to go downtown to the Public Safety Building with a parent to attend Jaywalking School.  There, I was thrown into genpop and a much more hardened criminal element that included hitchhikers.   I found them truly inspiring as they showed me a whole new wrinkle to apply to my life of crime. 

Jaywalking / Hitchhiking class turned out to be nothing more than an inconvenient joke.  It took place in a small room with folding chairs, a blackboard and some Joe Friday-type posters with words like “danger” and “criminal”.  There would be 15-20 kids with their parents crowded in there while one police officer would lecture to us about how irresponsible our actions were and how much danger we posed to society.  Then he ran the movie ‘Signal 30” which was a black and white film of car wreck aftermath showing dead and dismembered victims.  It had nothing to do with jaywalking or hitchhiking but after seeing it once I had seen it one too many times.  My Mom told me not to jaywalk anymore.  She was done.

Chapter 7 – Hitchhiking and Signal 30

Inspired by the criminal hitchhikers I started saving bus fare by hitchhiking every chance I got.  Through Junior High and most of High School I hitchhiked to and from school which saved me a whopping $0.30 per day.  I got to know Officer Cox pretty well and we would greet each other whenever we passed.  If I saw him sitting in his car I would make it a point to stop and chat.  He was a super nice guy and respected by all of the kids he encountered.

In the middle of my senior year of High School Office Cox wrote me my last hitchhiking ticket.  He busted Ray, Crutch and I while hitchhiking down to First Avenue.  All three of us had been to the Public Safety Building for re-education classes before but my Mom and Ray’s Mom refused to waste another day watching Signal 30.  They told us to “figure it out” and deal with the consequences.  Tough love for my criminal enterprise. 

courtesy of Robert Huffstutter

Crutch’s Mom, who we all called Hootcher, took time off from her waitressing job at the El Gaucho to represent the parental element and met us at the jail.  By that time, I had achieved the dubious notoriety with law enforcement that I had sought so the Court Class Cop knew me and my Mom and recognized that Ray and I were there without our parents.  He called us out on it in front of the class and before I could think of anything to say Ray blurted out that Hootcher had adopted us and was now our legal Mom.  She didn’t see that coming and sputtered something before being drowned out by the roomful of reprobates who burst into hoots of laughter.  The parents of said reprobates mostly just nodded recognizing their way out for the next time their kid got a ticket.  The Class Cop just shook his head and launched into his presentation covering walking habits and transportation choices.  Hootcher sat quietly through her forth viewing of Signal 30. 

 Chapter 8 – Redemption

Fast forward to my senior year at Garfield.  I was hanging out with Bill and Teddy at Herfy’s in the U-District.  I saw Officer Cox pull into the parking lot and went over to say “Hi”.  He cleared stuff from the front seat and motioned to me to get in.  I sat down and we shared some small talk.  Then he said “Jon, your 18^th birthday is coming up soon.  Mid-March, right?”

I nodded and smiled, pleased that he had written me so many tickets he remembered my birthday.

“You know, Jon, when you turn 18 these tickets start costing you money.  No more Jaywalking School.  Hard cash and each one gets more expensive.  Don’t you think it’s time you stop this silly shit?”
 

Courtesy Michael Kelly

That realization was a harsh toke.  My minimum wage job pumping gas after school barely filled the tank on my Lambretta 160.  Escalating ticket fines would hurt.  Scared straight and motivated by money, I never got another jaywalking ticket.  I confess that I continued to hitchhike but only when necessary but was never again ticketed.  Officer Cox gave me the chance that most master criminals don’t get.  He allowed me to turn it all around and retire from my life of crime with a clean slate and without ever serving hard time.  

BTW………I still have that copy of My Weekly Reader that started it all.  

Happy Birthday - Epilogue:

I didn’t see officer Cox for a quite a while and the final time we crossed paths was a real surprise.  It was during a period of Seattle’s history when the streets of the U-District were packed with kids hanging out, seeing and being seen, selling and taking, laughing and making love.  It was an interesting scene.  It was a time when off-duty Seattle cops walked around with billy clubs up their sleeves and clubbed long-haired kids they came across intent on cleansing the city of its corrupted youth.  A conservative local minister named Dick Christiansen railed against the U-District youth from his Sunday pulpit and went on ride alongs with SPD at night.  The police felt that since they had God on their side, they could do no wrong.   

One night while seeing and being seen my friend Berry and I were swept up in their mission-for-God.  It was weird.  One moment we were moseying down the street and the next a multitude of cop cars with lights flashing and spotlights blazing converged on us followed by a flurry of blue uniforms that pushed us down on the ground.  As the right reverend Dick Christiansen ran around cheering them on, high-ranking police officers dressed in decorated uniforms that couldn’t hide their fat bellies barked orders to their massive blue crew that fought for their chance to subdue us.  We were pulled from the ground and roughly pushed face first against a wall with hands behind our heads.  Our pockets were turned inside out revealing that I was in possession of a pack of L&M’s, a book of matches. a wallet and a comb.  Berry was guilty of possessing a pack of Marlboros, a Zippo, a wallet and a penknife.  A newspaper photographer’s camera flashed away to capture the moment when the evangelical right and Seattle’s Finest teamed up to lay waste to the hippy problem on the Ave and end my career of crime for good.

We were taken downtown to the Public Safety Building where we expected to be booked and locked away for life.  Placed in an interview room, we waited and wondered who was watching from the other side of the glass mirror.  Finally the door opened and in walked Officer Cox.  We were relieved to see that it was him.  He held two manila envelopes with our belongings. He sat down and dumped the contents onto the metal table.  Picking up Berry’s penknife he turned it over in his hands and examined it closely.  Opening the largest blade he saw that 1/3 of it was broken off.  With a hint of a smirk he said “You guys must be into some heavy shit to be carrying this level of protection.  What are you doing here?”

I started to launch into the whole story but he interrupted me and said: “No.  Stop.  Why are you still here?  Those guys are assholes.  Go home”.  He stood and started for the door, then turned to me and said: “Happy birthday, Jon”.