Days and Nights in Juvenile Hall.

My grandparents were the directors of the Juvenile Hall for the County of Stanislaus. The building was located at the corner of Scenic Rd. and Old Oakdale Highway in Modesto. The job not only provided my grandparents with a salary, but living quarters on the site. It was a 24 hours a day job. Of course, they had time off and functioned like normal grandparents. From the time I was nine years old until I was twelve, I spent many a night in Juvenile Hall... with my grandparents.

When I turned 16, that almost changed.

Shortly after my 16th birthday, I was given my parents’ 56 Buick Roadmaster to go out on the town. I picked up two buddies, Dennis and Big Steve (Big Steve wouldn't have come, but his girlfriend had trench mouth and so his main reason for being with her was out.). We cruised. Big Steve brought along a bottle into which he had poured a not so small sample from each of his dad’s liquor bottles. Big Steve kept sampling from the bottle and finally offered Dennis and I a sip. Neither of us were strangers to the taste of alcohol, but that was the worst concoction I tasted to that time or since. Castor oil was the nectar of the gods compared to Steve’s concoction. But Steve kept drinking it and shortly he was exceptionally drunk.

From a mysterious source, Big Steve produced car wax in the handy spray bottle. As we cruised McHenry and the 10th Street drag, Big Steve thought it fun to spray wax on cars traveling in the opposite direction. Being 16, I thought it was car wax and wouldn’t hurt anything. Finally, the car wax bottle emptied, Big Steve went to sleep and Dennis and I decided it was time to take Big Steve home and that for the two of us, not much fun was out there. We agreed it was time to go home, which we did.

All was well, until Sunday night. Mom answered the phone and I heard her reply to questions. Yes, we have teen agers, yes, that is our car, yes, yes, yes. It was the cops!

When my Mom came back into the living room, her face was beet red and tears were flowing. We had visitors who were quickly excused. As she interrogated me, I figured it was time to come clean and not to hide anything (except that alcohol was involved). Dad was trying not to laugh, but finally almost giggled, “That sounds like something I’d have done in high school.” Mom pounced on those words, “So you are justifying what he did?” While I was trying to figure out what justifying meant, Dad replied, “No, not at all, I’m just saying it’s something I might have done, not that it’s right.” I think Dad was secretly proud of me for doing something wrong as I was a reasonably good and quiet kid.

As it turned out, I was to report to the Modesto Police Department the next Tuesday morning. On Monday morning, my Mom, who didn’t sleep much that night, called my Grandma who also burst into tears. I was told that If I’d have been stopped that night I’d have gone straight to Juvenile Hall and if the police decided on Tuesday, I could still go.

My Grandpa was one tough bird. He had been in the military as a young man and had chased Pancho Villa into Mexico during the Perching Expedition. I knew if Grandpa could take on Pancho Villa that I was not match for him. I had seen him take down tough guys at the juvie. I heard stories about how he used to take the razor strap to my Mom when she was a girl. I knew Grandpa would beat me down one side of the hallway and up the other. I would probably be on starvation diet for a week. These were the thoughts I had as I anticipated the appointment at the police station.

Upon leaving Downey High School for the police department, I wondered when I would ever see my school again and what kind of shape I’d be in if I returned.

The police interrogated me in every detail. Again, I didn’t mention alcohol. I assumed I’d have the bright light shining in my eyes that I’d seen in all the detective movies, but, to my relief, there was no bright light. Of course I had spilled the beans and told them Dennis and Steve were with me. Big Steve came in right after I did and he looked absolutely miserable. Short of sending me to the juvie, the police officers did the worst thing they could have done. They said, “Come back next week and we’ll tell you what we’ll do with you.” 

Oh, a week before the Pancho Villa chaser got a hold of me. Millions of possible consequences flowed through my mind in those seven days. I didn’t want talk to my grandparents and didn’t for the entire week. The thought of death at the hands of Grandpa passed through my mind many times. I had seen those halls at juvie as well as the cells. It was no place I wanted to be.

That weekend, my Mom scowled at me and said, “Don’t even think about going out.” Actually, I hadn’t been thinking about it. I even did some homework.

The week of torture came to an end and I contritely returned to the police station. The visit with the officers was very brief. “If you promise not to get in trouble again, we’ll let you go, but if you’re ever back here, we’ll throw the book at you. You are free to go.”

The world looked bright. Spring had come several weeks earlier, but I just noticed how great things looked as I left the police station that morning.

Then, an amazing thing happened. On Thursday, two days after my appointment at the police station Dad looked at me and said, “Take the car this weekend if you want.” I was shocked. Those few words sent one of the best messages of my youth. I made a mistake, but they trusted me. That was a great feeling. 

No one drove slower than I did to go cruising that weekend. Dennis, Big Steve and I stayed friends. I never carried drunks with me again. And I never stayed another night in Juvenile Hall, even in my grandparents’ quarters. And I always drove carefully while cruising (Except once sliding the car down the street sideways.).