Modern Screen (Feb-Dec 1959)

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Falling off the road into the valley below can be fatal. That's when it happened— that morning in the rain. A secondhand beige Buick, all scarred and battered, zig-zagged its way through that early going-to-work traihe. The motor was hopped up; you could tell from its growling sound. Whizzing between the cars, the Buick carelessly passed one car after another at the breakneck speed of about eighty miles an hour. At the crest of a grade, it pulled out to pass and nearly collided into an oncoming car from ahead. The driver of that car, trying to avoid the crash, turned his steering wheel sharply. His car swerved toward the wooden fence, broke through it and went tumbling down the steep canyon wall. All this happened in no more than a minute's time, right before my eyes. My first impulse was to stop and look oyer the canyon. But two other motorists stopped before me; and, thinking quickly, I decided to let them see what they could do to help while I chased after the speed demon. . , __ . , By the time I caught up with him, the police had caught up with me, and the three of us were, all of a sudden, m a huddle with some tall explaining to do. The speed demon? He was a young gangly guy, no more than sixteen or seventeen His reddish brown hair was mussed, and he had a long, pointed face with squintmg brown eyes. I wgp mad, so mad I almost swung at him. BUt the two policemen grabbed me. "Thislguy," I yelled — my voice shaking with anger as the police held my arms— "this guy over here just killed a man. The boy snorted. "Big deal." he said. Killer I tried to tell the two policemen what had happened. As I talked, with the relentless rain falling on us, I got a little calmer, and I began to realize that the speed demon just didn't care. He just stood there, all six feet of him, and he leered at us, the policemen and me, as if we were fools. . It wouldn't be fair to tell you his real name, so let's call him Jojo. Now Jojo didn't resist any of the questioning. He answered all of the policemen's demands for information, sullen and sneering. We drove back to the scene of the accident m the police car. There was a long line of parked automobiles and a crowd already gathered. , The two policemen edged their way through the onlookers with Jojo and me at their sides. Another policeman was investigating the accident. "Where is the driver? we asked. "They've just taken him," the investigator said, pointing to the wreckage below, "to the hospital. Unconscious. After a series of routine questions and answers for the accident report, we drove back to our own cars. Then we all went to police headquarters and waited for the officer-in-charge. Sitting next to Jojo on a long, worn, wooden bench in that green-painted room while the oppressive rain still tapped against the windows, I started up a conversation with him. I was more controlled now, and I wondered what made Jojo tick. "Where do you come from?" I said. "Oh, around . . ." he said evasively, those dark eyes of his wandering from wall to wall. Somebody in Mexico asked Dolores Del Rio how she stays so beautiful. "Simple." the lady replied. "Plenty of exercise, sleep a lot. and fall in love regularly." Paul Sann in the New York Post "This part of the country?" I persisted. "Mister," he said derisively, "what difference does it make?" That stopped me for a moment. What I mean," I said, "is ... do your parents live here?" "Ha!" he said and made a sour face I waited a minute. If I wasn't careful with my questioning, he might clam up altogether. Finally, he spoke up. "Mister, he said, "if you're talking about my mother and father, they're way, way out there — swinging hard!" "What?" , , *■ "Out there, Mister, he repeated. Out there in no-man's-ville." "Where's no-man's-ville? I wanted to know. , , "Brother." he said, "you are a cube! No-man's-ville is lush-land where all the boozehounds meet." I nodded to let him know I understood. His parents were alcoholics! > "So, Mister," he added, "now that you re tuned in, what else do you want to know? ' After a couple of other questions, he told me his parents were once small players in the films who never quite made it They got mixed up with a bunch ot has-beens, a crowd of no-goodnik boozehounds. From the way he talked about both of them, I could tell he was ashamed and disgusted, and I thought Why do people have children ij they don t care for them, if they don't love them? ■ He had quit school, taken odd jobs here and there for spending money. He lived with them still. "But they're busy drinking half the night with their friends, so I go out and roam around and see what 1 can scare up!" He paused, then added, "The thing I live for is to get the wild man going!" "Wild man going?" I repeated. Despite his defiance, there was something pathetic about this strange, uncaring kid. "Yeah," he blurted back quickly. When you get the wild man going, man, you re alive!" Getting the wild man gomg, he explained condescendingly, was being daring. He'd take a girl out on a date and drive her out to some dark spot in the country and he'd tell her he was out ot gas while she sat there for an hour, shivering and screaming. Or he'd go rapping on doors at night and running oft. Ur SPiewasSrepuised. "You know," I told him,