Maturity, Part One
by George Zidbeck
Presenting the chronology of my eighty-three
years for your consideration, I'd fail if I tried to claim that the
first quarter of my lifetime behavior warrants your approval. Part
of my 'miracle' in 'growing up' flowed not from what I did at what
age, but how I meandered through episodic tom-fooleries and criminal
acts, yet emerged unscathed without court sanctions.
While still pre-school, I recall walking about my home where a long
building held garage/storage units. One unit had a brass lock
opened, left dangling from the hasp. No adult stood close. I saw the
item worthy of taking home as a prize of my solitary expedition.
Either the owner saw me, or somebody told him I had taken the lock.
I have the vague recollection of a grown man confronting my mother
at our back door, and faulting me for stealing his possession. My
mother did not spank me, but explained the basics of property
ownership. Her advice carried me for at least the next seven or
eight years.
At age twelve, I set aside the above lesson and teamed up with two
neighborhood pals to roam nearby unlighted streets after dark and
rifle thru the glove compartments of parked cars. The majority of
the autos of that time (circa 1943) had running boards, sat high off
the ground, and did not have interior ceiling lights triggered by
opening a door. Not that we found much of value, but we were up to
no good.
One night, emboldened, we entered the YMCA
and ordered a soft drink, but when they were delivered we quickly
grabbed them and ran outside without paying – reckless behavior in
derring-do and not mentioned now with any measure of pride or
braggadocio. We were out and out delinquent miscreants – immature by
any definition or perspective.
My next delinquency – a notch above a peccadillo – took place when I
had turned thirteen in 1944, but a few months shy of graduating from
the eighth grade.
With two of my co-conspirators, re: rifling glove compartments, we
had decided to run away from the Canal Zone and head for the U.S.
Undertaking such a trek bespoke our idiocy. We decided to depart at
night to provide us a head start. Further, we heisted a cot and
blankets from air raid shelters – available in every neighborhood.
Next, we broke into the Balboa Gymnasium through a roof vent and
equipped ourselves with bows (of low poundage) and target (not
hunting) arrows. Thus, two valid acts of burglary.
It amazes me to this day that the ferry operators did not alert the
police when we boarded the ferry taking cars and passengers across
the canal entranceway. I was told later that the ramp operator
thought we were Boy Scouts on an outing even though we were not
uniformed. Fortunately, we were discovered the next day, and hours
later my father applied his most serious belt lashing, my mother
leaving it to him to impose punishment.
Ironic in retrospect, I made it to the U.S. next year (1944) when my
mother took her children to California to live with a sister and
brother-in-law in Riverside County, where I continued testing
limits. In retrospect, my mother had to have questioned what manner
of child she brought forth into the world.
My next serious and most egregious act took place six years later
when I was in the U.S. Army, stationed at Fort Sam Houston, Texas.
At age 19, returning from a thirty-day leave to visit my family in
California, I had twenty-four hours of grace before reporting back
to duty. On a mid-Friday afternoon in early July, I visited The
Victory Bar in "Snake Hill" just off the southern edge of Fort Sam
Houston. Only two customers occupied the drinking (beer only)
establishment, one of whom soon came to my table asking if he could
join me.
"Hi! My name is Sam. It's my birthday," he said. "I'm all by myself
and I'd like to share the day with somebody. You mind? I'll pay for
the beer. I'm a civil servant at Fort Sam just up the street." I
nodded in recognition when he named the building.
Not eager to sign in at my headquarters, even if a month's pay
awaited, and not having enough funds to pay for more than a few
beers, I answered, "Yeah, sure, take a seat." Not that he bored me,
but he was not the kind of guy who talked around my interests. For
the freebie beer, I abided his inanities. It soon became clear that
the guy did not hold his liquor well. By his third beer, my not
knowing how many he might have consumed before joining me, I asked,
"You know, I've some buddies at the office where I work, and maybe
they could join us and make it more of a party. You think you could
buy them a couple of beers?" "Sure. The more the merrier. Give 'em a
call."
I went to Caesar, the owner manager, and
asked if I could use his phone to call some friends and have them
come to the Victory Bar. How could he ignore the possibility of
attracting more customers?
Not only did three buddies soon enter the
Victory Bar, we had to have drunk at least four more beers courtesy
of Sam. By then, my birthday guy suggested going to another bar
where they had a western band. Within ten minutes, a taxi took we
five celebrants to our new dimly lighted 'watering hole' that had
wall-to-wall patrons drinking and dancing, whooping and hollering.
An hour later, slurring his words, he said,
"Okay you guys, I'm partied out. I'm gonna call a taxi, and it can
drop you guys off before driving me to my place. He waved a waitress
to the table and asked her to call a cab. By then, the bar/dance
hall had become even more raucous to where we barely heard a man
shouting "Taxi" at the door, about ten minutes later.
My army buddies headed out first, and I
followed the intoxicated civilian. We had to struggle past chairs
and tables buttressing one another. It struck me that I had a golden
opportunity to lift the man's billfold. And I did. When we exited
the bar, my buddies already seated in the rear of the cab, the man
stopped. "I don't have my wallet," he said.
"It must have dropped out of your pocket back
at the table. Go back and check. We'll wait."
When he dutifully stepped back into the bar,
I hurried to the taxi, stepped into the front passenger side and
told the driver, "Fort Sam."
The car had gone maybe a mile when a radio
intercom speaker announced, "Pull over immediately and give your
location. A police unit will arrive shortly."
Allow me to by-pass the minutiae of details
that included my arrest, my booking, my subsequent confession, and
therein taking full blame for the crime. Stealing that guy's wallet
made me a thief of a high order, and my having drunk close to a
dozen beers does not mitigate nor explain my motivation.
Moreover, you should not countenance any
attempt on my part to rationalize my committing such a serious
felony. If my being handcuffed and booked and put into a cell with
iron cots and thence fed but two meals daily: oatmeal without butter
and sugar plus watery coffee in the A.M. and then beans and a slice
of unbuttered bread in the PM were proven crime stoppers, recidivism
as a word would soon turn extinct. By the next morning, full sober,
the whole affair reviewed and analyzed, I knew I would never/ever
for the remainder of my days be a thief or burglar for my personal
gain.
I also knew that any subsequent imprisonment
would not enhance the self flagellation and castigation I had
already imposed on myself. (More on this point in Part 2.)
Therefore, after making and signing my confession to two detectives
the next morning, I made my one permitted phone call to the military
office I worked at and spoke to a dear friend: "Edgar, could you
talk to (I gave him the name and military office where that civilian
victim worked) and see if he'll drop the charges. I will pay him for
his loss...." I said more, but nothing that will enlighten the
reader to a more heightened awareness of the circumstance.
In addition to Edgar, I had a junior warrant
officer on my side, and he accompanied my friend to the office where
the victim worked. Their mission proved successful. Before noon, I
was released from custody without further action taken.
In addition, Commanding Officer, Major
Hesford, told me when I reported in: "Because the civilian
authorities are not going to take any action, I will not press the
matter of your being AWOL for two days. But, Private First Class
George Zidbeck, you had better make sure that you do not appear
before me again for any major violation. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir; thank you Sir."
From Major Hesford's desk to my work-station,
I had to walk about sixty yards without any sensation of my feet
hitting solid ground.
Does the tale now end? Not really. Confession
is one thing. Genuine contrition another. Next month, I will give
you the close of this episode, but keeping the telling within the
theme of maturity. Until then . . .
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