Post by Radrook Admin on Feb 18, 2023 23:18:23 GMT -5
My Father, conversation, and arrest.
All human beings have things that others do that cause them distress. One of my father's was having to endure listening to long conversations. Now if the subject was about women, then he was never annoyed, and listened attentively. However, if the subject was religion, government conspiracies', old age and death, then he would feel like leaving and if he couldn't then he'd begin to fall asleep.
Well, it just so happened, that one day, my mom and I were having this very long conversation about subjects which caused him stupor. No, we were not trying to bother him. It was merely a conversation. Then suddenly he appeared with a very serious expression on his face as if he had been subjected to some kind of harassment.
"You know? I have been listening and counting the hours that you two have been talking now, and you know how long it has been?" he asked somberly
"No I don't, because I don't keep time of how long a conversation is taking. Why do you?" my mom responded.
"It has been exactamente [exactly] two hours now. As soon as I think you are going to stop, and thank God for it, you start again. Hay virgen! Don't you two ever get tired of talking?"
“Just because you don’t like to converse doesn’t mean others don’t like to converse about interesting things, Hipolito!" my mother responded.
“Well since I can't take it anymore, I am going out to get some fresh air. I imagine that the conversation will be over when I get back in about an hour-right?"
Well, the problem was that he didn’t get back in an hour, two or three or four. It was nine O'clock at night, and he still had not returned and we began to worry about him. We went to his brother Peyos apartment in the adjacent apartment building and they had not seen him. Then we went to my aunt Julia's apartment in the nearby projects complex, and he wasn’t there.
"Where can he possibly be?" my mother asked her sister Julia, who considered my dad a kind of comical figure and was already smiling as if expecting the whole thing to be something that he had brought upon himself as usual.
“Well, maybe he is in las tumbas." Julia replied mischievously waiting for my mom’s confused response due to unfamiliarity with the local term.
"Las Tumbas?"my mom asked, with a horrified look on her face. El Cementerio? The cemetery?"
Whereupon my aunt burst out laughing in her usual robust manner that seemed to require a lot of lung power.
"No! No, Chica! Las tumbas, Jail. That’s what we call jail here in New York. Las Tumbas."
"What would Hipolito be doing in jail?"
Once more my aunt laughed at what she considered my mom’s ingenuousness in reference to NYC life.
“Muchacha! here in NYC, they throw people in jail just to watch them flail around."
"But Hipolito said that he was just leaving to get some fresh air."
"He plays La Bolita [the numbers]-right?"
"Si! Yes, he plays the numbers sometimes."
"Then they probably caught him playing the numbers and put him in Las Tumbas."
Well, my mom called the place they called Las Tumbas, and it was just as my aunt had said. He had been arrested because he was found playing the numbers. They didn’t need much. He had been standing with a notebook on a corner writing down a list of numbers he intended to play, a police officer had seen him scribbling, tagged him as a suspicious character, had taken a look at the piece of paper, and placed him under arrest. The trial had been set for the next day, and he had been assigned a lawyer by the state.
“You are going to defend me right?” he rhetorically asked the lawyer, after the lawyer had introduced himself as his attorney, and taken a seat beside him.
“Yes, I am assigned to defend you Mr. Diaz. However, listen, I think that it’s best that you plead guilty."
After staring at him opened mouthed incredulously for a while, my father asked:
“You want me to say what?"
“I want you to plead guilty in order to lower the chances of a more severe sentence Mr. Diaz. It's the smart thing to do. Trust me!"
At that point my father lowered his head and raised his hand straight out in something that resembled a Nazi salute. It was a gesture he always very energetically deployed whenever he was determined not to do as he was being told.
“That's the way ju defend me? Hah? By telling me to say I am guilty?"
“It’s really for the best, Mr. Diaz, otherwise the charges could be very severe.” the attorney whispered as the judge took his seat and the proceedings were on their way.
“That's defending me? No! No! No! You are not defending me. You are sinking me!
“But Mr. Diaz!"
“I defend myself! Me myself!" and he slid over as far from the lawyer as possible.
Well, the arresting officer was there and very confidently gave his testimony. He also produced a list of numbers far in excess of what my father had written in order to impress the judge.
Then it was my father’s turn. He rose to his feet and began:
“Your honor. I swear to tell the tru, the whole tru, and nothing but the tru.” this caused a burst of laughter from the people there. But of course he was trying to be dead serious.
"You see, your honor, from here to here." he continued, pointing to the list of numbers on the paper with his index finger. “Me!" he pounded his chest with the palm of his other hand for emphasis. But from here to here, your honor?" he said guiding index his finger down the long list of number that the officer had added. Not me! HE!" he turned and pointed at the Anglo American officer sitting at the opposite side of the courtroom.
“Well Mr. Diaz, what do you want me to do?" the judge responded, "Do you want me to reach a decision now, or in a few days after Christmas?"
“Now your honor! Sentence me now!"
Not Guilty the judge said.
"Hipolito, why did you tell him to sentence you now and not after Christmas?" my mother asked him later at home.
"What do you think I am, a bobo. If tell him to sentence me after after las navidades, Christmas, without his Christmas spirit, then he would sink me, de cabezas, head-first in jail!”
We also found out that the most disagreeable part about the arrest was not the arrest itself but the person he had been handcuffed to. To his consternation, it had been this fellow who was also arrested for playing the numbers, and who kept weeping.
"Que te pasa a ti. Eh? What is your problem? Huh?" my father said he kept asking him.
The fellow went into more weeping and sobbing on what was to happen to him now.
"Chico! Ten Verguenza! Have some shame!" my father kept telling him.
"They are going to think, that you are del otro lau," meaning effeminate.
Since the man was inconsolable, my father requested to be handcuffed with someone else for fear that he might be mistaken to be affiliated intimately with the fellow, but was refused, and had to endure his incessant weeping all the way to Las Tumbas.
"I am not with him!" he kept telling everyone in the Paddy wagon.
Well, it just so happened, that one day, my mom and I were having this very long conversation about subjects which caused him stupor. No, we were not trying to bother him. It was merely a conversation. Then suddenly he appeared with a very serious expression on his face as if he had been subjected to some kind of harassment.
"You know? I have been listening and counting the hours that you two have been talking now, and you know how long it has been?" he asked somberly
"No I don't, because I don't keep time of how long a conversation is taking. Why do you?" my mom responded.
"It has been exactamente [exactly] two hours now. As soon as I think you are going to stop, and thank God for it, you start again. Hay virgen! Don't you two ever get tired of talking?"
“Just because you don’t like to converse doesn’t mean others don’t like to converse about interesting things, Hipolito!" my mother responded.
“Well since I can't take it anymore, I am going out to get some fresh air. I imagine that the conversation will be over when I get back in about an hour-right?"
Well, the problem was that he didn’t get back in an hour, two or three or four. It was nine O'clock at night, and he still had not returned and we began to worry about him. We went to his brother Peyos apartment in the adjacent apartment building and they had not seen him. Then we went to my aunt Julia's apartment in the nearby projects complex, and he wasn’t there.
"Where can he possibly be?" my mother asked her sister Julia, who considered my dad a kind of comical figure and was already smiling as if expecting the whole thing to be something that he had brought upon himself as usual.
“Well, maybe he is in las tumbas." Julia replied mischievously waiting for my mom’s confused response due to unfamiliarity with the local term.
"Las Tumbas?"my mom asked, with a horrified look on her face. El Cementerio? The cemetery?"
Whereupon my aunt burst out laughing in her usual robust manner that seemed to require a lot of lung power.
"No! No, Chica! Las tumbas, Jail. That’s what we call jail here in New York. Las Tumbas."
"What would Hipolito be doing in jail?"
Once more my aunt laughed at what she considered my mom’s ingenuousness in reference to NYC life.
“Muchacha! here in NYC, they throw people in jail just to watch them flail around."
"But Hipolito said that he was just leaving to get some fresh air."
"He plays La Bolita [the numbers]-right?"
"Si! Yes, he plays the numbers sometimes."
"Then they probably caught him playing the numbers and put him in Las Tumbas."
Well, my mom called the place they called Las Tumbas, and it was just as my aunt had said. He had been arrested because he was found playing the numbers. They didn’t need much. He had been standing with a notebook on a corner writing down a list of numbers he intended to play, a police officer had seen him scribbling, tagged him as a suspicious character, had taken a look at the piece of paper, and placed him under arrest. The trial had been set for the next day, and he had been assigned a lawyer by the state.
“You are going to defend me right?” he rhetorically asked the lawyer, after the lawyer had introduced himself as his attorney, and taken a seat beside him.
“Yes, I am assigned to defend you Mr. Diaz. However, listen, I think that it’s best that you plead guilty."
After staring at him opened mouthed incredulously for a while, my father asked:
“You want me to say what?"
“I want you to plead guilty in order to lower the chances of a more severe sentence Mr. Diaz. It's the smart thing to do. Trust me!"
At that point my father lowered his head and raised his hand straight out in something that resembled a Nazi salute. It was a gesture he always very energetically deployed whenever he was determined not to do as he was being told.
“That's the way ju defend me? Hah? By telling me to say I am guilty?"
“It’s really for the best, Mr. Diaz, otherwise the charges could be very severe.” the attorney whispered as the judge took his seat and the proceedings were on their way.
“That's defending me? No! No! No! You are not defending me. You are sinking me!
“But Mr. Diaz!"
“I defend myself! Me myself!" and he slid over as far from the lawyer as possible.
Well, the arresting officer was there and very confidently gave his testimony. He also produced a list of numbers far in excess of what my father had written in order to impress the judge.
Then it was my father’s turn. He rose to his feet and began:
“Your honor. I swear to tell the tru, the whole tru, and nothing but the tru.” this caused a burst of laughter from the people there. But of course he was trying to be dead serious.
"You see, your honor, from here to here." he continued, pointing to the list of numbers on the paper with his index finger. “Me!" he pounded his chest with the palm of his other hand for emphasis. But from here to here, your honor?" he said guiding index his finger down the long list of number that the officer had added. Not me! HE!" he turned and pointed at the Anglo American officer sitting at the opposite side of the courtroom.
“Well Mr. Diaz, what do you want me to do?" the judge responded, "Do you want me to reach a decision now, or in a few days after Christmas?"
“Now your honor! Sentence me now!"
Not Guilty the judge said.
"Hipolito, why did you tell him to sentence you now and not after Christmas?" my mother asked him later at home.
"What do you think I am, a bobo. If tell him to sentence me after after las navidades, Christmas, without his Christmas spirit, then he would sink me, de cabezas, head-first in jail!”
We also found out that the most disagreeable part about the arrest was not the arrest itself but the person he had been handcuffed to. To his consternation, it had been this fellow who was also arrested for playing the numbers, and who kept weeping.
"Que te pasa a ti. Eh? What is your problem? Huh?" my father said he kept asking him.
The fellow went into more weeping and sobbing on what was to happen to him now.
"Chico! Ten Verguenza! Have some shame!" my father kept telling him.
"They are going to think, that you are del otro lau," meaning effeminate.
Since the man was inconsolable, my father requested to be handcuffed with someone else for fear that he might be mistaken to be affiliated intimately with the fellow, but was refused, and had to endure his incessant weeping all the way to Las Tumbas.
"I am not with him!" he kept telling everyone in the Paddy wagon.