Milwaukee Bound [1967--Fall]
3
Milwaukee Bound
- 1967 [Fall]
Chris didn’t know it, but the following decade would be one of intolerance: and some growing pains. They lived in the same old neighborhood both Jerry Hines and Chris Wright, only two blocks west and down a block on Jackson Street from one another—this was Jerry’s and Betty’s house, just a hop-skip-and-jump one might say to each other’s abode. Across the street from Jerry’s house was Oakland Cemetery. Chris was twenty-years old and Jerry about twenty-nine—back then. Jerry being several years older than Chris Wright was available and usable in the sense of travel—something that was stronger than most anything else in his life for some peculiar reason, something that would stay with him all his life most variably; and so in the summer of l967, Jerry got into a dividing-harsh fight with his girlfriend Betty. Having told Chris about this, they both decided to go to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And this is where the story begins.
—Chris had a l960-Plymouth-Valiant [white], it didn’t run all that good but they, He and Jerry figured it would make it to Milwaukee, and so in the middle of the summer of ‘67, hot as a volcano, they loaded his car, when Betty was gone [Betty being his live-in girlfriend at the time], each grabbed what money they had, Chris having about $125.00 and Jerry about $250, and off they went.
As the miles went by on their way to Milwaukee, one right after the other, they kept drinking cans of beer, smoking cigarettes—chain smoking for the most part, as the Valiant strolled along the black asphalt interstate [s], making stops along the roadside to go to the bathroom, buying more beer at the nearest gas station, or roadside stop, drinking more beer, making more stops to take a leak: kind of a circular motion to these ongoing events. Matter of fact, they were making so many stops, they both got tired of stopping and started pissing into cans, and whomever was not driving would throw the cans out of window into the fields along the thruway; sometimes just barley missing cars if a good upper wind got hold of it. It was party time all the way, and for the most part, all the time for them two.
Now with loose conversations, the heat coming through the windshield, the breeze hitting their hands as they flopped out the window going down the highway, a bird wasn’t any freer. They lit cigarette after cigarette, talked, laughed, drank and sang. They didn’t do a lot of planning, but enough, --barely enough, but enough, their plan was: they’d sleep in the car until they found an apartment, then get a job, and stay in Milwaukee for a few months, then they could figure on what to do next—not a big plan or even an elaborate one by any means, but then the world and life was simply for them, and again I say, at least they had a shred of a plan, like a slice from a piece of pie. Their quest, their goal, if you could call it that, was to chum around, that’s what they’d do, and just chum around is what they were doing. Life’s responsibilities or demands were irrelevant, if not cumbersome, and if ever one was caught in a vortex of remoteness, Jerry was, he had enough for the moment of everything in life, yes, and in a way he was running away, as Chris was not. Chris was simply running to escape a city he saw too much of, he got the travel bug early in life; he was running to run. No one really knowing where they’d end up, at the end of it all to be exact, and no one putting anymore thought into it past the planning I had already explained: Chris again, was simply available, usable, along with willing, and had an ardent desire to see how far he could go, travel, and the farther the better.
Milwaukee
[The beginning of fall] It was a chilled night, as black as dark-ink, the moon was one-quarter lit, and if there was such things as ghosts, they seem to have been running back and forth across the moon’s light with a grayish robe of a mist. It was a little past midnight when they caught a glimpse of the highway sign that read:
Milwaukee to the Right, ‘…turn-off 2-miles,”’ and so Jerry, whom was driving did just that, took the turned-off where the arrow was pointing, whereby, we were on a one-way that lead us directly to the downtown area of Milwaukee. Chris’ face flashed with undeniable excitement, it was as if he was being reborn, his blood was regenerated, there was no logic or reason to it, it was a high: a desire filled, a craving to the top, like an empty cigarette package replenish, akin to getting drunk, a destination-high, a quest, all that and more: save for the fact that the boredom from driving helped turn the moment into a rage of excitement.
“Oh boy, I get to see the city,” he said with anxiety of not being there at that very moment. Jerry gave Chris a more mature chuckle to the fact they had made it. Specifically, about to make it into the city limits their destination.
“Just hang on, we’ll be there in a moment,” said Jerry, turning the wheel a bit to the left, as he was turning onto the entrance to the city: then straightening them out to go directly ahead you could not see lights appearing in the distance, an illumination of dotted-lights. They both smiled, they had almost or nearly gotten to their destination—it was getting closer by the second. Just down and around a bridge or two now.
The one thing they did not take into consideration was the times: it was the 60’s, and neither Chris nor Jerry, could bridge, or even conceive the white and black dilemma that was sweeping the country; for the most part, they were isolated from it. Oh yes it was on TV all the time, but until you are in the mouth of the whale, one never can conceive the depth of the situation, or should I say, the depth of the stomach of the whale. There had been some café, store, and tenant-building damage in the black areas of the City of St. Paul, but not much, not in comparison to the rest of the country. Back in those days, every city had its riots, its racial issues. It was like a plague; but St. Paul, being the conservative city of the Midwest, the City of Culture as it has been called, was almost naive to it. They also lived in a neighborhood that didn’t read books or newspapers all that much or watch the news, it wasn’t a big deal for or to them, only one black family lived in the neighborhood someplace—no one even knew when he had moved in but a few years back might be adequate: the black man had befriended Chris’ grandfather, and therefore was left alone. But no one ever saw a black man in the neighborhood before this, much less deal with riots.
No one came to the Cayuga Street area—or walked through the area without good reason, unless they lived there; for there was a gang of some twenty-two guys and gals that hung out on the church steps. It wasn’t called Donkeyland for nothing; for at one time it was the highest crime related area in St. Paul, and they boasted of that, and the police even tried to avoid them [them being, the whole area—the gang of sorts]; matter of fact, they nick-named it Donkeyland because there were so many hard-heads there: and yes, it suited them. They beat the police up if they chased them up Indians Hill, which was in the middle of Cayuga Street, right next to Chris’ house. But as I was about to say, as they rode down the turnoff, and on-into the city center, a white, a huge white car was following them. Chris first noticed it—a ting after they entered the outer rim of the center.
“Something wrong Chris?” said sleepy-eyed Jerry, driving.
Chris turned about for the third time to examine the white car, again seeing the car following them…then all of a sudden said Chris with a crisis voice, a voice trembling, a decadence to his face:
“Oh shit, look, look at what they just pushed out the damn car window, the white car—they’re…” almost along side of them now,
“…looks—J-j-Jerry, a damn shot gun…”
Jerry looked quickly, “What is going on?”
Then out of another window of the car, came a voice from a loud speaker coming right from the white car, you couldn’t make out what exactly was being said though—so they continued on, Jerry driving closer to the center of the downtown area now, looking at a gathering of people on two differed corners—in a four or five square block area; if anything, it looked like a protest, if not some combat zone; --the voice over the speaker now, indubitably said—[even louder than before]:
“Move out of the city’s area, immediately, or we’ll shoot!”
Chris looked at Jerry, “Where’s the way out Chris,” asked Jerry [the word shoot sticking in both their minds like a spider to a fly caught in a web,
“To the right, to the right, over there man…” Chris pointing toward a half lit up bridge: without hesitation, and responsive to his tone of voice, Jerry immediately turned the car southwest, and out they went as fast as that six-cylinder car would go.
In short, both Jerry and Chris’ temperamentally was shock, disbelief, and spellbound, but somehow they must had caught a sign that said, Madison, Wisconsin, for that is where they headed; and sometime down the highway they had stopped to check the map, and talk about Madison to see if both agreed of the new destination, prior to this stop it would seem they were both ill-balanced.
When they both arrived in Madison, not being able to find a job, they both would end up in Omaha, Nebraska, whereupon, just across the boarder was Counsel Bluffs, where Chris would find a job working for Howard Johnson’s as a dishwasher, and three weeks later Jerry’s girlfriend would show up, and that would be the end of the adventure. She’d stay until the end of the month, and they’d all return back together to Minnesota. It was for Chris the first of many adventures—antiquarian pursuits, and the first real racial confrontation.
Milwaukee Bound
- 1967 [Fall]
Chris didn’t know it, but the following decade would be one of intolerance: and some growing pains. They lived in the same old neighborhood both Jerry Hines and Chris Wright, only two blocks west and down a block on Jackson Street from one another—this was Jerry’s and Betty’s house, just a hop-skip-and-jump one might say to each other’s abode. Across the street from Jerry’s house was Oakland Cemetery. Chris was twenty-years old and Jerry about twenty-nine—back then. Jerry being several years older than Chris Wright was available and usable in the sense of travel—something that was stronger than most anything else in his life for some peculiar reason, something that would stay with him all his life most variably; and so in the summer of l967, Jerry got into a dividing-harsh fight with his girlfriend Betty. Having told Chris about this, they both decided to go to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And this is where the story begins.
—Chris had a l960-Plymouth-Valiant [white], it didn’t run all that good but they, He and Jerry figured it would make it to Milwaukee, and so in the middle of the summer of ‘67, hot as a volcano, they loaded his car, when Betty was gone [Betty being his live-in girlfriend at the time], each grabbed what money they had, Chris having about $125.00 and Jerry about $250, and off they went.
As the miles went by on their way to Milwaukee, one right after the other, they kept drinking cans of beer, smoking cigarettes—chain smoking for the most part, as the Valiant strolled along the black asphalt interstate [s], making stops along the roadside to go to the bathroom, buying more beer at the nearest gas station, or roadside stop, drinking more beer, making more stops to take a leak: kind of a circular motion to these ongoing events. Matter of fact, they were making so many stops, they both got tired of stopping and started pissing into cans, and whomever was not driving would throw the cans out of window into the fields along the thruway; sometimes just barley missing cars if a good upper wind got hold of it. It was party time all the way, and for the most part, all the time for them two.
Now with loose conversations, the heat coming through the windshield, the breeze hitting their hands as they flopped out the window going down the highway, a bird wasn’t any freer. They lit cigarette after cigarette, talked, laughed, drank and sang. They didn’t do a lot of planning, but enough, --barely enough, but enough, their plan was: they’d sleep in the car until they found an apartment, then get a job, and stay in Milwaukee for a few months, then they could figure on what to do next—not a big plan or even an elaborate one by any means, but then the world and life was simply for them, and again I say, at least they had a shred of a plan, like a slice from a piece of pie. Their quest, their goal, if you could call it that, was to chum around, that’s what they’d do, and just chum around is what they were doing. Life’s responsibilities or demands were irrelevant, if not cumbersome, and if ever one was caught in a vortex of remoteness, Jerry was, he had enough for the moment of everything in life, yes, and in a way he was running away, as Chris was not. Chris was simply running to escape a city he saw too much of, he got the travel bug early in life; he was running to run. No one really knowing where they’d end up, at the end of it all to be exact, and no one putting anymore thought into it past the planning I had already explained: Chris again, was simply available, usable, along with willing, and had an ardent desire to see how far he could go, travel, and the farther the better.
Milwaukee
[The beginning of fall] It was a chilled night, as black as dark-ink, the moon was one-quarter lit, and if there was such things as ghosts, they seem to have been running back and forth across the moon’s light with a grayish robe of a mist. It was a little past midnight when they caught a glimpse of the highway sign that read:
Milwaukee to the Right, ‘…turn-off 2-miles,”’ and so Jerry, whom was driving did just that, took the turned-off where the arrow was pointing, whereby, we were on a one-way that lead us directly to the downtown area of Milwaukee. Chris’ face flashed with undeniable excitement, it was as if he was being reborn, his blood was regenerated, there was no logic or reason to it, it was a high: a desire filled, a craving to the top, like an empty cigarette package replenish, akin to getting drunk, a destination-high, a quest, all that and more: save for the fact that the boredom from driving helped turn the moment into a rage of excitement.
“Oh boy, I get to see the city,” he said with anxiety of not being there at that very moment. Jerry gave Chris a more mature chuckle to the fact they had made it. Specifically, about to make it into the city limits their destination.
“Just hang on, we’ll be there in a moment,” said Jerry, turning the wheel a bit to the left, as he was turning onto the entrance to the city: then straightening them out to go directly ahead you could not see lights appearing in the distance, an illumination of dotted-lights. They both smiled, they had almost or nearly gotten to their destination—it was getting closer by the second. Just down and around a bridge or two now.
The one thing they did not take into consideration was the times: it was the 60’s, and neither Chris nor Jerry, could bridge, or even conceive the white and black dilemma that was sweeping the country; for the most part, they were isolated from it. Oh yes it was on TV all the time, but until you are in the mouth of the whale, one never can conceive the depth of the situation, or should I say, the depth of the stomach of the whale. There had been some café, store, and tenant-building damage in the black areas of the City of St. Paul, but not much, not in comparison to the rest of the country. Back in those days, every city had its riots, its racial issues. It was like a plague; but St. Paul, being the conservative city of the Midwest, the City of Culture as it has been called, was almost naive to it. They also lived in a neighborhood that didn’t read books or newspapers all that much or watch the news, it wasn’t a big deal for or to them, only one black family lived in the neighborhood someplace—no one even knew when he had moved in but a few years back might be adequate: the black man had befriended Chris’ grandfather, and therefore was left alone. But no one ever saw a black man in the neighborhood before this, much less deal with riots.
No one came to the Cayuga Street area—or walked through the area without good reason, unless they lived there; for there was a gang of some twenty-two guys and gals that hung out on the church steps. It wasn’t called Donkeyland for nothing; for at one time it was the highest crime related area in St. Paul, and they boasted of that, and the police even tried to avoid them [them being, the whole area—the gang of sorts]; matter of fact, they nick-named it Donkeyland because there were so many hard-heads there: and yes, it suited them. They beat the police up if they chased them up Indians Hill, which was in the middle of Cayuga Street, right next to Chris’ house. But as I was about to say, as they rode down the turnoff, and on-into the city center, a white, a huge white car was following them. Chris first noticed it—a ting after they entered the outer rim of the center.
“Something wrong Chris?” said sleepy-eyed Jerry, driving.
Chris turned about for the third time to examine the white car, again seeing the car following them…then all of a sudden said Chris with a crisis voice, a voice trembling, a decadence to his face:
“Oh shit, look, look at what they just pushed out the damn car window, the white car—they’re…” almost along side of them now,
“…looks—J-j-Jerry, a damn shot gun…”
Jerry looked quickly, “What is going on?”
Then out of another window of the car, came a voice from a loud speaker coming right from the white car, you couldn’t make out what exactly was being said though—so they continued on, Jerry driving closer to the center of the downtown area now, looking at a gathering of people on two differed corners—in a four or five square block area; if anything, it looked like a protest, if not some combat zone; --the voice over the speaker now, indubitably said—[even louder than before]:
“Move out of the city’s area, immediately, or we’ll shoot!”
Chris looked at Jerry, “Where’s the way out Chris,” asked Jerry [the word shoot sticking in both their minds like a spider to a fly caught in a web,
“To the right, to the right, over there man…” Chris pointing toward a half lit up bridge: without hesitation, and responsive to his tone of voice, Jerry immediately turned the car southwest, and out they went as fast as that six-cylinder car would go.
In short, both Jerry and Chris’ temperamentally was shock, disbelief, and spellbound, but somehow they must had caught a sign that said, Madison, Wisconsin, for that is where they headed; and sometime down the highway they had stopped to check the map, and talk about Madison to see if both agreed of the new destination, prior to this stop it would seem they were both ill-balanced.
When they both arrived in Madison, not being able to find a job, they both would end up in Omaha, Nebraska, whereupon, just across the boarder was Counsel Bluffs, where Chris would find a job working for Howard Johnson’s as a dishwasher, and three weeks later Jerry’s girlfriend would show up, and that would be the end of the adventure. She’d stay until the end of the month, and they’d all return back together to Minnesota. It was for Chris the first of many adventures—antiquarian pursuits, and the first real racial confrontation.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 5:08 PM
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