Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-12-25 / 49. szám
12. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ Thursday, Dec. 25. 1986. JÓCSÁK AND SON BY JOHN F. GOJACK VII. While being finger-printed and mugged (in those days "mugged" meant having your photo taken at the police station), I asked the arresting officer to explain the nature of my crime. As expected, it had to do with defrauding the government by forging cousin Louie's name on checks made out to him, and cashing those paychecks myself. "I'll bet this is the first time anyone has been jailed for working." "I'm not interested and you'd better save your story for the judge," said the officer in a voice colder than ice. Being a minor they put me in a private cell. Seeing two or three people in cells nearby gave me a sense of importance. Jail was not a strange or unpleasant experience for me. I had slept in many across the country, some neat and clean and others not fit for dirty hogs. The baloney .sandwiches, soups, stews and at times unidentifiable food had kept me on the road. In larger cities, the Salvation Army, Mission or Transient Relief Bureau (funded by the federal government to help cities handle the enormous problem of many thousands of people on the road) were a notch above jails for hotel accommodation. But not always, and in jail you did not have to pray and sing for supper and bed as you did in the mission. I found asking the local police or sheriff for overnight privileges was less difficult than begging the mission preachers. "Being locked up for working is a strange crime," I told the prisoner in the next cell. "Most of us are innocent," he said. I gave up on conversation with the other jail-birds. It was hard for me to understand that my government could be so heartless. It violated my sense of fairness that they would not discuss it with me first. Rich people charged with crimes are always let out to discuss it with their lawyers. The thought of my grandfather being put in jail for six years for protecting his employer's horses from highwaymen kept coming back. It is now clear that my grandfather's experience of injustice and my being jailed for working gave me a sense of suspicion and mistrust of government. With magazines and newspapers to read, the next three days went by swiftly. When the jailer opened my cell door and told me to be ready to face the judge, I felt lousy. With no fresh clothing or toilet articles, I felt like a vagrant off the streets. I did snap a brisk "I do" to the oath "to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God." After the clerk read the charges on this horrible crime of working, I heard a familiar voice cry out loudly. "In the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how can you put a boy in jail for working?" It was my eldest sister, Bessie, standing in the back of the courtroom shouting her protest. Her booming voice halted the proceeding. She ignored the judge's order to wait until it was time for her to speak as a witness. When the judge repeated his request, Bessie's voice grew even louder. "In the name of the Mother of God," she yelled, "what is this city coming to when a sixteen-year-old tries to help his family with honest labor and then is punished with prison?" The judge's efforts to hush her up were like trying to stop Niagara Falls. Finally, he resorted to a threat. "If you do not take a seat and be quiet, I will find you in contempt of this court." "I'm already in contempt of this court, in contempt of the officer who arrested Johnny, in contempt of the people who jailed him, and in contempt of the corrupt politicians who can offer jobs in church." She repeated loudly, "Offering government work in church, that's the crime!" After sitting in jail for three days, wondering how many years I would be spending in federal prison, my sister's fight gave me strength and encouragement. I was proud of Bessie and her verbal battle against injustice and political corruption. When they asked me in jail if I had a lawyer, I said "no". Little did I know then that I had brilliant representation coming to defend me. The arresting government agent went to the judge's bench and whispered to him. Meanwhile, the judge realized he was dealing with no ordinary lawyer when Bessie cited the rotten system that allowed government jobs to be passed out in church. He said he was ready for an announcement to settle the case. "There is no case against the defendant in this court in view of the fact that he is a minor. And the government prosecuting witness informs me that instead of going to juvenile court, he is willing to drop all charges against this young man." "Praise God, the only crime here is what happened in church. Thank you, your Honor," Bessie said more quietly. The matter was not yet ended. Bessie, with only a few years' schooling and no training in law, acted more wisely than many lawyers would have done. When the next case was called up, she interrupted to Droceeding again. "This case is not finished yet!" she declared. "This case is closed. Would you please leave the courtroom?" insisted the judge. "Not until they bring me Johnny's fingerprints and police photos, so I can tear them up. My brother is not going to have any criminal records hanging over his head," she screamed. We were taken to another office where my fingerprints and mug shots were taken out of the files. Bessie tore them up into bits of confetti. That was a brilliant move by my sister. Years later, when I was involved in the labor movement, those police records might have been used against me by some corporation or competing union. Desperate for more dues payers, some unions used outrageous lies against me. Except for Bessie's action, I can predict some of their leaflets would have read: "Gojack, UE General Vice President, charged by the government with fraud and forgery concerning federal job." Sure wish Bessie could have gained a law degree. I needed her help many times as the years went by. ONE-DOLLAR-A-WEEK NURSE With summer coming on, it seemed that an ambitious sixteen-year-old boy should have better work than carrying golf clubs for uncertain pay. With no real jobs available in Dayton, the rumors of high wages paid to harvest crews, fruit pickers and stoop labor out West seemed hopeful. Sitting on our front steps, I spotted Vic on his porch across the street. Six years older, he was discharged from the Navy and could not find work. I dashed over to see him. "Hi, Vic, see you're still looking for a job. I thought General Motors would fall over backwards to take on an ex-Navy man." "Shit, they wouldn't hire an admiral to clean the toilets," Vic grunted. He was not given to chatter, or even much talk. "I have an idea how to make some big money and see the country. Last two summers Joe and I rode the rails and learned where the jobs are." "And you didn't make a pot to piss in, from what I heard," Vic said. "They told us to come back when we were older, and could handle full-time picking jobs. That's where the real money is, if you learn to pick fast." Vic was handsome and most of the girls in the neighborhood had eyes for him. Months later I learned he had just broken off with his true love. "Hell, there's not much going on here. It's worth a try. When do we shove off?" Vic asked. "Soon as I say goodbye to Pop." I found him dozing on the back porch swing and kissed him goodbye, despite his rough whiskers. "Take care of yourself, Johnny, and here's something for you." He was unemployed at the time, so the twenty-dollar bill he pressed in my hand was a warm expression of love. So was his bear hug and a hefty slap on the back. "So long, Pop," as I jumped off the porch and wiped some tears on my sleeve. "I'll miss you." And I did. We walked across town toward the freight yards, not dreaming it would be almost a year before we'd see home again. "What kind of train are we looking for?" Vic asked. "That one. They're adding cars to it now and it's almost made up. See, the engine's heading west. I'll tell you when to hop on. "How do we hang on?" Vic asked. "Just lie on your belly, pass you*1 belt through the middle board, fasten it securely to the buckle, and your bed is made. You don't want to be tossed out of your bed by a sudden jolt of the car, or fall asleep and roll off, so double-check that your belt is tight. The rocking and bouncing motion of the car is like a cradle and will put you to sleep fast." We slept on top of a box car most of the night. There were robbers of the poor on trains, so we put our kitty of green money in our shoes. We were enjoying a holiday trip. Every few days we found a place to wash and shave, and sometimes do a bit of laundry. The scenery was beautiful. Along highways, the billboard people took much of that away. With no billboards along the railroad right-of-ways, train crews enjoy sights never seen from, highways. Hoboes like us, not having to shovel coal or do other work in the engine cab, had it even better. On this trip, blessed with perfect weather, I made a solemn vow. Having been a caddy for years, fibbing about my age at the start, I learned to love golf. Travel was another passion. The gorgeous sights of the Rockies and Northwest helped me reach my first life plan: Get a good job, save all money possible, and retire early to play golf all the time, interrupted only by trips all over the world.
