Denham Fuckin' Springs

It is Easter morning on Huntington Beach California 1969. I had spent the night sleeping under a lifeguard stand. The sun was not quite up yet, but I had been up for an hour or so. What woke me was a girl coming into my little sanctuary. Now back then I was very shy around the opposite sex. Therefore, as we sat there and talked while awaiting the sun, there was no thought, at least on my part, of any hanky panky, but I don’t know what she had in mind. At that stage of my life even if she had jumped on me and asked me to make mad passionate love to her, I would have run away. You don’t think so, well that very scenario had already happened to me a few times, and every goddamn time I ran. It was my fuckin’ Catholic upbringing. Those goddamn nuns sure fucked it up for a few girls who only wanted to get laid.

I only mention the locale because it is pertinent to the story, in a round about way. I was in Huntington Beach that Easter morning because of food. Well, not good food, but food of any sort is good food when one is hungry. There was a storefront church right off the beach that every evening would serve us God and sandwiches. They way it worked was, they would go around during the day and collect day old sandwiches from stores in the vicinity to use as a lure to get the hungry into their place of “worship”. It worked pretty well, the joint was always packed. However, you had to have the God before they would give you the stale cheese sandwiches. We also received little, miniature Bibles. Well not the whole Bible, these little red books had a verse or two. I can remember them clearly. They were an inch high, an inch wide and about an eighth of an inch thick. And that cover, I will never forget that red cover. They come into the story later.

So, I’m tired of going hungry and sleeping on the beach, I think I’ll take a fast trip back east and visit the folks. You know, sleep in a bed for a change, and eat a square meal once and a while. But before I left, at my last night at the Sandwich Church, I grabbed a handful of the little “Bibles” and stuffed them into my suitcase. Yes, back then I traveled with an old fashion suitcase. Three feet long, two feet high, and twelve inches wide; and solid, I could put it on its end and sit on it. That case must have done about 50,000 miles with me.

With my little “Bibles” and a stale cheese sandwich, I headed east. I had it down to a science by now. Three days from the California boarder to Miami. You couldn’t drive it in that time. You’d need to stop to sleep. But when you’re hitchhiking, you can sleep while the person who gave you the ride was driving. So goin’ back home for a visit for me was like most of you driving to the grocery store, even from 3000 miles away.

Anyway, I made it as far as Louisiana. At that time there was no Interstate system. If you were going east to west, or west to east on the southern route you took Highway 90. Case fuckin’ closed. Going from west to east highway 90 split at Baton Rouge, you could either go south into New Orleans, or continue east toward Lake Pontchartrain. On this fateful trip, I did not go into New Orleans. No, I went straight ahead because the truck in which I was riding was going that way.

I was let off outside a little town by the name of Denham Springs. Denham Springs, I can still see the water tower with the words Denham Springs emblazoned across it. Later, well into the 70’s there was a cliché of a southern sheriff. He was fat, stupid, mean, he wore mirrored sunglasses, and he was very, very dangerous. He was, after all, the law, the only law you were ever going to see in his town. If you were an outsider, and he didn’t need your vote to get re-elected, then chances were good that if your paths crossed, you, and not him, were going to be the worse for it. That cliché had to come from somewhere, and I know where. It came from the sheriff of Denham Springs Louisiana.

As the truck stopped, and I started to climb down from the cab, a note of warning I heard, “That town up ahead, Denham Springs, has the meanest son-of-a-bitch for a sheriff. Do not hitchhike through there. Just walk through town and start hitchin’ on the other side. Now, not many people remember the way things were in America in the late 60’s. There was a class war on. I don’t mean rich vs. poor. No, I mean young vs. old. Hippie vs. working man. I was young, the man who had given me the warning was both older, and a working man. So for him to betray his people in order to warn me, made quite an impression on my young soul. I took his words to heart; I did not hitch through Denham Springs Louisiana.

No, I proceeded to walk through that godforsaken town like the good citizen I was. I was half way through when a police car pulled up beside me, and the “officer,” who was fat, mean, and wore the prescribed mirrored shades, told me to get in the back of his car. When a cop puts in the back seat, you’re goin’ to jail. Or at least that‘s what I thought. It seems this joker was in no hurry to do anything. He just drove around town sayin’ hello to other troglodytes like himself. This whole time I said not a word. Remember I was just walking down the street minding my own business when I was accosted by this ass-hole. But as I’ve said, I kept my big mouth shut while he drove all over creation with me in the back seat of his police car, and no handles on the inside of the doors, in case I did not want to avail myself of his hospitality any longer.

Finally, after about a half hour of this shit I said, “Excuse me sir, but what’s going on?” He replied, “Shut up boy you’re under arrest.” So I shut up, sat back, and tried to enjoy the ride. After about an hour of driving around that hellhole of a town we pulled up in front of the police station. This cliché of a cop got out, told me to grab my case, and come with him. Only one thing though, the stupid fuck forgot that I could not open the damn door from the inside. He was half way to the cop shop before he turned and saw his mistake. Now some people, when they make a small error can laugh it off, even if it’s done in front of others. Then there are those who, when embarrassed take it out on whoever witnessed their humiliation. Our fat friend was the second type. He knew that if he wanted me in his jail he was going to have to walk back to the car and open the door for me. There was no way around it. The way he hesitated, I thought he might just leave me there overnight so as not have to admit his mistake. But in the end, I think he decided that he couldn’t torture me if I was in his car. So he came back and opened the door for me. I was tempted to take my time getting out, and make him wait there holding the door like a valet parking attendant. But my better sense said, “You might still make it out of here in one piece, so don’t piss the fucker off.”

After getting out of the car we made our way to his little kingdom. And it was there that I met Barney. Barney wasn’t his real name; in fact I never did learn his name. But he was the deputy to Fat Boy. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he was dependant on Fatso for his job, so he meekly went about carrying out the orders handed down by the sheriff. I called him Barney because he reminded me in looks and manner of the Don Knots character from the Andy Griffith Show.

Then the inspection and interrogation began. My pal sat behind his desk, Barney standing to his right and me in the position of defendant before the bar. The first thing he does is open my suitcase and go through the contents. You never know, I might have been carrying explosives for the Weathermen, the underground organization fighting to stop the Viet Nam War. No, no explosives found, but a ha! I was carrying little Bibles. That had to mean something! So I was questioned, and questioned quite thoroughly, if someone with an IQ of 76 can be said to know what a question is, let alone ask one.

“What are these?” “Little Bibles sir.” “What are you some kind of Jesus freak?” No sir, I just believe in the word of God.” God, hell, I just thought if I played goodie two shoes I might get back on the road before too long. Boy was I mistaken. My piety did not impress him, so I thought, “What next?” At that point I though I’d just play the innocent and see what developed.

The next insidious thing found in my case was the infamous Carnation Instant Breakfast packages. There were about five or six of the goddamn things. Do you remember them? They were just a powder of some sort that one was to mix in milk in lieu of a healthy breakfast. They were factory sealed and when Fats asked me what they were I just stared at him. I mean, it was printed on the package he was holding what the shit was. But Sherlock Holmes wasn’t going to be fooled by a snot nosed kid. No sir, no fuckin’ way. This ass-hole was to too sharp for the likes of me. Thinking there were hidden drugs concealed in these factory-sealed packages, he tears one open, wets the tip of his finger, and sticks it into the package. He then pulls out a fat finger with Carnation Instant Breakfast stuck to it. He brings it up to his mouth and starts to lick his finger with the “drugs” sticking to it. But, no, wait, this guy is sharp. He stops in mid lick, pulls his finger away from his mouth. He then turned to Barney and held up his finger. The command was unspoken, “Hey you, ass-hole come here and lick this poison off my finger.” And you got to hand it to old Barney, he did his duty. I don’t know who was more surprised that Barney did not keel over dead, Barney, or Fatso. However after a few minutes when it was evident that my Carnation Instant Breakfast was not laced with LSD the interrogation stalled.

It was at this point I thought I’d try my second gambit. The Holy Roller shit didn’t work, so let’s try motherhood. While the sheriff (I wish I knew his name, I went online to see if they had an honor roll of past ass-holes, but no such luck. I even called the city hall not too long ago. Of course I got no answer. It’s good to know that nothing has changed in Denham Springs. It’s still the shit hole that I remember.)

So where was I? O yeah, I’m going to try to out smart my captors. This is what I tried. “Sir may I make a phone call?” “Why, do you think you deserve one?” “No sir, it’s just that my mother is dying back in Florida, and I was on my way back to see her, and if I’m not going to get back there any time soon, I’d just like to say good-by to her over the phone.” I got to admit I almost had him. I had Barney no problem. I think I even saw him wipe a tear from his eye. But at the last minute Fats says, “You know we had a hippie in here last week, shaved his head, and sent him out to the work gang. He’s now helpin’ build us a nice road over on the north side of town. How’d ya’ like to join him?” “Okay, I thought you got me, but I’m keeping my eyes wide the fuck open for you to make the littlest mistake, then it’s swish … I’m outta’ here. “

Without further ado, I was told that in the morning I would have my hair shaved, and then sent out to the work gang for six months. “What,” I thought, “no trail, no habeas corpus ,” … no shit Sherlock!

It was now time to put me away for the night. At first I thought Fats was going to have Barney do the honors all by himself. But no, Fats was enjoying himself too much, he wanted in on all the fun until the last possible moment. It was as they were leading up the stairs to the cell that the idea came to me. For it to work they’d both have to be in close proximity to my cell as I was incarcerated. As I walked slowly up the dark, dank stairs, I prayed for just one good break. That was all I needed, only one. The rest of the shit I could handle for myself.

We reached the landing that housed the three cells that comprised the Denham Springs correctional system. The door to the nearest cell was standing open and there didn’t seem to be any other inhabitants about. Thing were looking up.

My plan was simple. I just had to antagonize Fats into physical violence. That shouldn’t be too hard. All afternoon I could see he was just itchin’ to give me a good one across the mouth. So, let’s see what you’re made of Fatso! When we stepped in front of the opened door, he grabbed me my left arm at the bicep and walked me into the cell. “Great” thought I, “This is the moment of truth,” I yanked my arm out of his grip, spun around ,and spit in his face. Well, that wasn’t so hard. He turned beet red and let a haymaker go in the general direction of my jaw. Of course, I was expecting it, so I went with the flow. As soon as his fist connected with my jaw, I went in the same direction his arm was moving in; his punch had very little effect on me. But that’s not how I played it.

But a moment to digress. When I say the cell door was wide open, and neither Fats, nor Barney with a key between them, that’s when I knew I had a fighting chance. No key, that was my ace in the hole. You see it had been my experience that one needs a key to open a jail cell door, but not to lock it. At least things worked that way in 1969.

Okay back to the drama. When I feigned taking his best blow, I grabbed my chest in the area of my heart, and said, “My heart.” What else? I then fell to the floor of the cell, did a spasm or two, coupled with a little shaking and pretended to pass out. As I lay there with my eyes closed I couldn’t tell what was going through Fats’ mind, but I heard Barney exclaim, “Great, now you killed him.”

Fats was already in the cell, but my plan depended on both of them being in there with me. So as Fats bent over me and shook me, trying to elicit a response I bided my time until I heard Barney enter the cell. When I was sure he, Barney, was far enough through the door, and I had to do this all by sound, I jumped up, pushing them into one another so they, as one, crashed to the floor. I got out of that damn cell and clanged the door shut before any of us knew what was happening.

Now Fats still had his gun, and even though he was on the floor entwined with Barney, I didn’t stick around to enjoy my victory. I was down the stairs and out the door before either one of them got to his feet. Two blocks away I hit it lucky, I got a ride with a Peterbuilt that was going all the way to Georgia.

Well that’s it folks. The only other thing of interest is that about eight months later I was hitchin’ through to the west coast and once again let out near Denham Springs. And you know what the guy said as I left his car, “Don’t go through Denham Springs, they got them a real mean sheriff there.” The only answer I could give to his kind advice was, “Yes, I know”