Back in the day High School was a bit like the old west. Fist fights were very common. Even girl fights were not an odd occurrence. Consequently reputations were built and maintained as who was the badest dude in school and you got to know who you didn't want to fuck with or avoid altogether. Of course all of this was, I'm sure, was influenced by movie and television westerns but was at the root macho teenage violence and socioeconomic depravation.
A lot of the badest dudes were either black or essa (Chicano). As the lower end of the economic scale they were naturally tough and had to fight their way to and from school from kindergarten on. About the badest black dude in Samohi was George Highberry. In the 10 grade George was about six foot two, lean (not skinny) and physically hard as a rock. Long arms, big hands and an attitude of defiance. Word had it that even among the Black dudes nobody fucked with Highberry. So in the second semester of the 10th grade I took an elective class called Physical Science. It was taught by a young, bright, nerdy guy who wore his Phi Beta Kappa key on his suit lapel. Well on the first day of class who comes in and sits down right behind meÖ but George Highberry.
I thought, Oh shit, this guy is gonna fuck with me all semester.
Physical Science was sort of an introductory class to the world of science. Since grade school I had always liked science and I had read a lot on chemistry, physics, paleontology and other scientific disciplines. Not that I was a nerd by any stretch but I read a lot of different things. So none of the things we studied in the class were unfamiliar to me. In fact I did pretty well there. George was remarkably quiet in class and not the asshole I thought he was. He would lounge back in his desk (which was way too small for him) arms and legs sprawling out over the aisles. He actually looked like he was paying attention and he read the chapters.
About a quarter of the way through the semester we were studying chemistry, atoms and molecules.
George taps me on the shoulder and says," man you seem to understand this shit but I'm not getting it."
So I turned around and started to try and help him. As I soon realized George wasn't dumb at all these were new concepts to him and the book and teacher were not connecting with him. So I helped him understand what we were studying. He never tried to intimidate me or make me do his homework.
He just said, "Thanks man,"
And that was it. George passed the class to everyone's surprise. To everyone except me, I knew he wasn't a dumbshit. Later when we passed in the halls he never acknowledged me but, of course he was black and I was white.
The main trouble with the Delivering the Evening Outlook newspaper was that near the first of the month Bruce, the distributor, would drop off this long rectangular book like thing with the papers. In it was a card for every customer on the route. It had hard thick front and back cover and bound by two metal split rings. It was called the, "Collection Book." This meant that you had to go up and knock on the door of every address that you threw the newspaper to and ask them to pay their monthly bill. Some would pay by check but most would pay cash. Some would give a sob story and say they would pay on their payday which was usually the end of the week, most did. So on collection days I would have close to three hundred dollars in my possession. In 1960 that was a lot of money.
If Santa Monica had a bad part of town it would have been, Between Pico and Olympic boulevards on the north and south, about five blocks, and Lincoln and Cloverfield boulevards from west to east, about eighteen blocks. It was the home of mostly middle to low income black and hispanic folks. A lot of them homeowners and some renters. So, naturally it was referred to by us white people as, "Ghost Town"
Of course when they built the I-10 freeway ,opening in 1966, three guesses which part of town they ran it throughÖ
As I soon discovered, most folk who lived there were normal, good natured people with families, neat yards, and worked for a living just like my dad did.
This area was precisely my paper route. When I signed up it was the only route available. Most times I would try to get a friend to go along with me on collection days, buy them a soda and a candy bar for the help. And I always carried an U.S. Army surplus machete in my paper bags on my bike.
It was the first day of June, 1960 I received my collection book and set off to deliver the papers and collect for the previous month. I was alone as all my friends were either on vacation with their families or at the beach or elsewhere.
Everything was going smoothly and most customers were paying cash. I had well over three hundred and twenty five bucks in my pockets and in my paper bags along with my machete. I turned the corner off of Delaware Ave. on to nineteenth street when I saw two Black guys, about my age, walking up behind me and two more in front of me. I stopped and got off my bike and then there were more guys moving to both my flanks. I knew I was in deep shit. The guys stopped and were all smiling at me.
One of the guys in front of me said, "What you doing up here, white boy?"
"I'm delivering my papers like I always do," I answered. A crowd of other people had started to gather around.
"This is the first of the month I'll bet you are just loaded down with money you been collecting," the leader said.
I reached my hand into my paper bags and wrapped it around the handle of my machete. I didn't say a thing. They all started to move in a little closer, I was scared shitless. I don't think I would really hack anyone with it but maybe I would scare them into leaving me alone.
"Hold it motherfuckers!" came a voice from the crowd. Then George Highberry stepped out into the circle and walked up next to me.
He said, "This is a friend of mineÖ anybody want to fuck with him has got to fuck with me first."
The faces of the guys surrounding me and George changed quickly. The one who had done all the talking said,
"Shit George, we didn't know he was your friend, we cool."
"You best be cool motherfucker, and if I hear of anyone fucking with himÖever, I will fuck them up." George said in a very calm confident tone.
Then George turned to me and smiled a little and said to me quietly, "this would be a good time for you to get the fuck out of here for now."
I said, "Thanks George, I'm gone."
He smiled and said, "Glad I could help."
I saw George many years later in the early seventies he had a job at a factory in town and had a family. We laughed at the way high school was and the times. And I thanked him again for saving my ass.
It is odd to think of how things were at that time. I wonder without all that racial shit George and I could have been openly friends. We were friends but just couldn't show it. Just plain useless bullshit.