I come by my disdain for governance and regulation naturally, and I think any readers will agree that my disdain is justified...you see, governance, undeserved control, and "regulation" caused my first-ever business venture to fail...put me out of business when I was five years old...that's right...at five years old, in Tucson, Arizona, at a "cabin court" occupied by itinerant laborers' and their families, and our own itinerant family I was forcibly and abruptly "regulated" out of business...my first effort at for-profit entrepreneurship...and, I've never forgotten or forgiven that event, nor am I even about to cooperate with those who would deign to govern me now!
The times were bleak for my family, but I was blissfully unaware of those post-WWII social and financial realities. Five-year olds have few issues which keep them awake at night, or invade their dreams, particularly boys. At the time in 1949 we lived in a residential cabin court in the city of Tucson on Oracle Road...residential in the sense that no self-respecting tourist would have even stopped to look in one of the screened openings, much less stayed there overnight. The court was just at the point where a curving exit ran off to the West, forming a road called "The Miracle Mile." I don't know why it was called The Miracle Mile...I doubt the fact that several dozen resort motels were jammed into the mile or so between Oracle Road and U.S. Highway 30 was any sort of supernatural consequence. Maybe the "miracle" was that it being there, and called that name made us feel better about our social plight; it felt more special to say we lived near the Miracle Mile on Oracle Road, though the facts were that we lived in a two-room cinder-block cabin, on a concrete slab floor, with screens instead of glass in the window openings. My sister (8 years my senior) and I slept in the same, narrow, twin-sized bed in the large entry-room which formed the living room and kitchen; the other room was my parents bedroom, and I believe there may have been an inside toilet in our unit. The sleeping arrangement did not favor my sister, because I wet the bed regularly, at least once a night, and sometimes twice.
The times were bleak for my family, but I was blissfully unaware of those post-WWII social and financial realities. Five-year olds have few issues which keep them awake at night, or invade their dreams, particularly boys. At the time in 1949 we lived in a residential cabin court in the city of Tucson on Oracle Road...residential in the sense that no self-respecting tourist would have even stopped to look in one of the screened openings, much less stayed there overnight. The court was just at the point where a curving exit ran off to the West, forming a road called "The Miracle Mile." I don't know why it was called The Miracle Mile...I doubt the fact that several dozen resort motels were jammed into the mile or so between Oracle Road and U.S. Highway 30 was any sort of supernatural consequence. Maybe the "miracle" was that it being there, and called that name made us feel better about our social plight; it felt more special to say we lived near the Miracle Mile on Oracle Road, though the facts were that we lived in a two-room cinder-block cabin, on a concrete slab floor, with screens instead of glass in the window openings. My sister (8 years my senior) and I slept in the same, narrow, twin-sized bed in the large entry-room which formed the living room and kitchen; the other room was my parents bedroom, and I believe there may have been an inside toilet in our unit. The sleeping arrangement did not favor my sister, because I wet the bed regularly, at least once a night, and sometimes twice.
I don't specifically remember what my Dad did for a living at that time, but likely he was painting some sort of structures in and around Tucson. Many of the cabin-court's other occupants worked in agriculture, including the citrus groves on Oracle Road to the North and the grounds of the large cemetery also North of us on Oracle; the "real" jobs were occupied by the veteran-heroes of WWII who had returned from their military duties to displace the women, 4F's, and Conscientious Objectors who had taken over employment during the war; these temporary workers, including William L. senior slid back down the social and economic ladder a rung or two. It didn't matter whether the returning vet had been employed before the war or not -- he returned, for the most part, to full employment at the will of a grateful nation. Even the German POW's at the Mount Lemmon U.S. Forest Service work camp had more reliable "employment" and better living quarters than we did, except we were "free." Still, we had several things going for us, among them: We didn't know we were "homeless" victims of a failed dream; we didn't know someone else was to blame; and we didn't know that hard, honest work would never truly pay off.
Of course, at five years old I was oblivious to the employment concerns of my elders. As long as we had fried chicken and mashed potatoes every Sunday, Spam, Kraft macaroni & cheese, "oleo marginarine" and evaporated canned milk it was all good. It should be said though, I was on the outlook for my own opportunities to earn, find, or even steal money, especially secret money; Secret money opened the door to a certain amount of liberty because it required no explanation; no adult could regulate your soda, candy, or ice-cream intake, so long as the presence and source of the money remained confidential. At five years old, I had already learned to never...and, I mean NEVER...let any adult know you had found money, because it would immediately go into what passed for a piggy-bank, and out of your control, and even worse, they might require you to look for the person who lost it and return your loot. It should be said at this point that I've never been one to work unnecessarily hard for my money. My best work was always done when someone was watching, but if you were looking for someone to work less, work easier, and expect more, then I was your guy! Not much has changed in ensuing 65 years; it isn't as simple as me being lazy; it's that I pride myself on finding the optimal path...that is, the highest payoff for the least effort.
So it occurred, in my ceaseless vigilance for "easy money" that an opportunity presented itself in the form of an old nicotine-stained, "alcoholic" neighbor. This neighbor, whose name I don't remember, put me unexpectedly in the alcohol transportation and delivery business...let's call him Mr. Jones, just for the ease of telling the story: My family was not crazy about the presence of Mr. Jones as a neighbor, because Mr. Jones was not "saved!" Judging from his lifestyle he had never invited Jesus to be his personal savior, nor had he confessed his sins, and it was abundantly clear that he likely never would. He was in fact the kind of person whose past life and present behavior offered up a cautionary object-lesson, thereby making Godly adults like my own parents thankful for his existence, but uncomfortable that he was so near-by. ("You don't want to end up like Mr. Jones, do you? Well then get ready for Sunday School!")
So Mr. Jones functioned as an object-lesson, but I was told to stay far away from him, because he was, and I quote, "As mean as a snake, a drunk, and who knows what else!" You see, Mr. Jones would come home Saturday after working 6-days (10 or 12 hour days) in the citrus groves, and he would be thirsty...I mean THIRSTY...as only an old sun-soaked, bone-thin, nicotine-stained drunk can be...so he would sit outside his sweltering concrete-block cabin, roll his cigarettes, his perpetually shaky hands spilling Bull Durham on his thighs, and drink his beer...and when he drank his beer the old demons of his futile life, lost loves, and missed opportunities would come out to play; he was, as they said, "a mean drunk!"
Soon after walking the mile and a half home from the citrus groves and arriving at his cabin, Mr. Jones would walk further down Oracle Road to the tavern carrying his own metal beer-bucket, probably less than a 100-yards, to where the tavern owner, who was almost always there, or his bar-man when it was busy, would fill the bucket to the brim with draft-beer. I don't know what it cost then for a half-gallon of beer...maybe twenty cents or a quarter, but draft beer was the preference of working-men who were just trying to get by in an otherwise difficult life, and do a little harmless self-medication to help their sore-muscles sleep through the night.
Once his bucket was filled with that amber nectar, Jones would walk his bucket back to his cabin, during which time the "head" on the beer would settle, and once seated in his chair outside his one-room "single-man's cabin" he would quickly consume the entire bucket...nearly a full half-gallon of beer even with the head settled...and because of his sparse-diet, age, physiology, and a life-time of drinking , he would become immediately and substantially drunk, physically and emotionally unstable...ahhhh! But, in his weakness lay my opportunity...demand and supply are wondrous partners! He needed strong mobile legs, and I had them...I needed money and he had some, a little bit...at least enough to take care of my 5-year-old sense of avarice.
When I saw him walk by our slightly larger "family" cabin, returning from the tavern with his first bucket of beer on Saturday afternoons, and some weekday evenings when he was sent home early from work, I would leave the area around our cabin, not quite following, and hang around...not hover...but, just "play" within earshot of his place, knowing that his call was certain to come out; sooner or later he would yell, "Billy! Get over here!" (Yessir!) Take this quarter and get me a bucket of beer! If you don't spill any I'll give you a nickle when you get back!" Ahhh! Music to my young capitalist ears...a whole nickle just for walking 200 yards round trip! I was going to run around and cover that much ground doing nothing anyway; but he wanted to pay me to do what I naturally did...he would pay me just to move! It was almost too simple...had I known the euphemism "candy from a baby" I'd have likely used it. But, lest I make it sound too easy, I want to say that as with every endeavor, commercial or otherwise, there were possible pitfalls and like every worthwhile venture, there were present risks to be managed; not the least of which was my parents and my nosy, intrusive older sister...who I guess I should talk about now.
My sister is 8-years older than I am. At the time, I was five years old and she was thirteen. She was charged with looking out for me. Assuring that I was protected from myself, as well as being safe from my "environment" -- which in that place, day, and age was not entirely wholesome and safe. In fact, some time around the time of this particular story, I had been "molested" by a group of older boys out in a vacant lot behind the cabin court. Lois hunted down the ring-leader, well known because of his crew-cut red-hair, picked him up by his hair, and dribbled him on the pavement like a basketball. Needless to say, having his ass whipped by a girl was daunting enough, but having it done in front of me and his cronies was even more humiliating. So it should be said that while she was nosy and intrusive, her protection was at times useful.
To understand the social risk I was taking by helping Mr. Jones, and myself, you would need to understand "alcohol" in the context of a Pentecostal holiness family; let's just say that the only alcohol which was ever tolerated was for medicinal purposes, and even then it had better be in cough-syrup or some such concoction, blessed by a real company with an appropriately serious looking label, and the disease it was treating had better be life-threatening! Purposely drinking alcohol, for enjoyment or relaxation, or even entering into a "beer joint" was not acceptable...even in an emergency. I had witnessed that my mother would rather wet herself trying to get to a more distant restroom then go through the door of a nearby tavern to use its restroom...I'm saying "we" didn't go in there, even when it would have been expedient to do so...I mean, what if the Lord returned to Earth and you were in there? (I always assumed He being "the Lord" would know that I was there just because I had to pee...or in this case, make an honest nickle! God knew that I would not have even risked licking my finger if some of Mr. Jones' beer slopped up on it, being certain that I would be struck dead then and there!)
But, I digress...being discovered was one of the risks I had to manage; it was a simple logistical issue, resolved by exiting and entering the cabin-court, which had no gates, walls or fences, on the south side of the store which was positioned between our cabin and the tavern, due to the store's orientation more toward the street...walking by our cabin with a full or empty beer-bucket would have resulted in certain and sudden death...hence the longer, yet less visible route in and out. Problem solved!
Another risk was that of "sloppy" bar-tending; sometimes the owner or his assistant bar-man would hurry the filling of the bucket, causing a much thicker head on the surface of the beer, which would settle on my walk back to Mr. Jones' cabin, and even if I had not spilled a drop Mr. Jones would growl, "I ain't payin' you no nickle for half-a-bucket of beer, Billy!" This financial risk meant I had to learn to engage an adult, the owner or barman, on their own terms in order to gain their cooperation, "Mr. Jones won't pay me my nickle if the bucket isn't full!" Working people in the late 1940's understood entirely that the guy with the money had all the power; hence the sympathetic barman, or even the owner, would top off the bucket before I set back out. They knew what it was like to be refused pay by an exacting and watchful boss.
And, there were many other risks, but sometimes the risk was that Mr. Jones just wouldn't pay! He didn't have a nickle, or, he'd go in the house to get a nickle...forget why he was in there and leave me waiting until my sister or parents yelled that it was dinner or bedtime...and, by the next time we saw each other he would have forgotten (conveniently I thought) that he owed me a nickle; I understood the risks, and I did my best to manage them, but how could I have known about the risk that would put me out of business...how could a 5-year-old comprehend that a "city" could put you out of business? Why that would have just been crazy-talk!
Whoever said that bad things ALWAYS happen in three's didn't know what they're talking about. Sometimes bad things happen in two's and sometimes those two's happen simultaneously. At five years old, I didn't ponder whether two-bad things happening at once counted as one bad event or two, but the first "bad" thing happened at the tavern one sweltering Saturday afternoon or evening; I showed up as usual before the sun had set to the West over the Tucson Mountains; I know this because I wasn't allowed out of the yard after the street-lights came on, and on Saturday nights we kids would sit on the concrete steps of the cabin-court's store and watch the movie at the drive-in across Oracle Road. We were not allowed to go to a theater to see a movie, because that was somehow sinful, but we could watch the movie from 1/4 mile away, and that was OK...probably because we couldn't make out the sound from all the window-speakers on the cars. Anyway, I showed up at the tavern...bucket and quarter in hand, a respectful and expectant smile on my face, like I'd done many times before...BUT, THE BARMAN WOULD NOT GIVE ME THE BEER!
I had no fall-back plan for this! I was dumbfounded...less concerned about the loss of my nickle, than I was about what would happen to me when I showed back up with an empty bucket to face the already intoxicated Mr. Jones. With all respect to working men and women everywhere and of every era...Mr. Jones like many rough men who toiled with his hands...was angry and frustrated...and that was on his best days. At his worst, he was physical and violent...and, I was pretty sure that showing up without his beer would cause a premature death, probably mine...and I was familiar with death. I had first-hand witnessed the drowning death of a peer not long before this up in Idaho, so I knew kids could die, and I didn't want to die by Jones! Add to this the fact that he might be quite loud in his displeasure, and with our cabins less than 50-feet apart, he might draw the attention of my parents, or even worse, my nosy, intrusive sister who had a habit of embellishing things entirely out of any known resemblance to reality!
I don't remember my exact words but I do know I went to my standby strategy of groveling and begging...possibly crying, though tears have never come easily for me. The barman went in back and got the owner, who came out and told me to the effect, "Billy...someone complained about you buying beer and got me in trouble with the City!" (I wasn't even aware that you could get in trouble with "a city" -- that was more confusing adult-speak...a city was a bunch of houses, business, and streets on land! How can you get in trouble with a city? Besides, anyone with even a partial brain knew that the bucket I brought in belonged to Mr. Jones! But I let it pass...instead begging, groveling, and explaining how I wouldn't get paid, and I might even get my "ass whipped!" (I was unaware about the prophetic nature of my words, "get my ass whipped" nor was I predisposed to know that my "ass whipping" when it occurred, would not come from Mr. Jones.)
The owner said in essence, "OK this is the last time! Take this bucket to Jones and don't come in here again! I don't want to lose my license!" (More adult-speak! What did selling beer in a tavern have to do with driving?) I took the beer and fled...but, I never made it to Mr. Jones' cabin...my father was waiting on the path alongside Oracle Road outside the tavern door, and I was summarily relieved of my bucket duties...marched back to our cabin, shoved through the door to my tearful mother (and my beaming, triumphant sister who had witnessed my earlier departure with the bucket), while my father took Jones' bucket to him.
I wasn't there, but I can only guess that my Dad read Jones the "riot act" for sending "a mere innocent child" to do the Devil's work like that. When he returned to our cabin I got to dance with his leather work-belt, while my mother cried and turned away, likely wondering how she could have failed so badly as to be punished this way! My sister, of course, hung as close-by as she could, short of attracting my Dad's attention, relishing every landing of the leather strap on my legs and bottom, and every scream from my little chest as I danced around my Dad in circles, trying to outrun the strap. (It should be noted that I had learned to wail as though death was imminent, because in the face of stoic acceptance the strapping became harsher, faster, and lasted longer...hence, I felt compelled to vigorously voice a near-death experience at the maximum output of my small lungs!)
So there it is! The City of Tucson (which I now understand to be more than a collection of land, streets, and houses) and my parents (with the information from my conniving sister and the authority of Jehova-God) put me out of business...ending my brief, though highly successful and relatively lucrative, foray into the world of beverage distribution.
I never knew how Mr. Jones got his second (and sometimes third) bucket of beer after I was regulated out of business...I wasn't allowed to go near his cabin, or even talk to him again. My guess is he was threatened with "official action" and like many, if not most single men in those cabin-courts, would not have fared well after being discovered and identified by the police. I do know that I didn't immediately find an easy way to replace that weekly nickle (and sometimes two) from my over-regulated beverage distribution business, and my parents became more astute about looking for any "hidden income" sources, and any hidden savings.
Who knows where I could have ended up had I only been allowed to further develop my beverage ventures? Could I have expanded the business into a beverage bottling and distribution empire with my name on it? We'll never know, because my spirit was broken. My next worthwhile venture (selling the Coos Bay "World" newspaper on Central Docks) would not occur for five and a half years...half of my life by then spent on "the dole" performing family slave-labor for little pay. Looking back and pondering that oppressive event, its a wonder I developed any initiative whatsoever after that.
I'm sure you can now understand and sympathize, perhaps even agree with me, that my hatred for regulation specifically, and governance in general is reasonable.
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Post Script: Though the account above is fundamentally true in fact, I have "sewn a suit on a button." The fact is my beer carrying last a short while, possibly only once, before my dad was informed by my sister of what I was doing. You have to admit all of the adult embellishment makes a good story better, - BK
