Chapter Twenty-Eight

Here’s the next Chapter of Lost and Found.

I want to say how delighted I am to hear your comments about this book. On some of those days when the aging process makes staying motivated an issue, your comments pick me right back up and make the effort seem worthwhile. So thank you — your words do mean a lot. I truly value them.

There is a pretty good group of regular readers now and hopefully we’ll see the list continue to grow. Don’t hesitate to encourage others to join us.

We have been experiencing some snowy weather here in Southwest Ohio — we actually have about 10 or 12 inches of snow here at my place right now. Makes me think of my “real home”, Vermont. Wish I could still cross-country ski or snowshoe. I’d be out there in a minute.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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Chapter Twenty-Eight

It seemed as though after I turned ten years old, the beatings became worse and more frequent. I don’t know if it was because he wasn’t getting the satisfaction he needed, or whatever it was made him do this just wasn’t working as well for him. I did know they were certainly getting more violent. Something was definitely making him angrier.

Perhaps it was the fact I would no longer cry when he hit me. Or maybe it was the fact I was getting bigger, stronger and harder to hurt. I taught myself to lock my eyes with his and give him cold, hard stares while he was hitting me. I wouldn’t allow myself to let out a sound during these sessions. Also, thanks to the steady teaching from Billy, I was getting more proficient at moving away from his punches so he couldn’t connect with as great a force as before. I wanted to fight him but something kept me from taking the chance.

As much as I wanted to get away from this existence forever, I only managed to run away once during my tenth year. I tried to avoid all the mistakes I had made during the past two years, but the police caught me again after only four days—and not because of any of my past reasons. This time I was caught completely off guard.

It was my fourth day without getting caught. I had finished a good day at the track where I made almost five dollars. I left Hazel Park at about three-thirty in the afternoon and, since Billy told me I could, rode my bike over to Billy’s house and parked it in his garage. Then I got on a bus and headed towards Hamtramck. I got off the bus at Holbrook and Mt. Elliott and started walking along Holbrook towards a diner I had been in once before. There were mostly apartment buildings and stores along both sides of the street. As I walked I could see the sign for the diner up ahead —Marty’s Diner—Eats—Good Food.

I was particularly grungy that day. It was my fourth day out and I hadn’t managed to find a way to get cleaned up at all. I guess when you’re ten years old you don’t even notice you might smell pretty bad to the people around you. I had enough money on me to buy some soup and a hot sandwich so I walked into the diner and sat down at one of the stools by the counter and looked at the menu posted on the wall. I knew what I wanted to order, but checked out the list anyway—Salisbury steak w/Onions—Liver and Onions—Red Hot Kielbasa w/Mashed Potatoes—Hot Turkey Sandwich w/Mashed Potatoes, etc.

The same guy who was in there the last time I came in was standing over by the window to the kitchen. He was about six feet tall with a large, bald head and a huge belly. His face was so red he looked like he was blushing. The red face contrasted with his thick dark brown and bushy mustache. His apron was filthy and covered with the greasy smears where he had wiped his hands on his mountainous belly.

He walked over to where I was sitting, stopped, looked at me kind of funny, and said, “What’ll it be, sonny?”

“I want a tomato soup, a hot turkey sandwich and a glass of milk.”

The guy added a few more grease stains as he wiped his hands on his apron. He leaned over the counter, looked me up and down and in a husky voice with what I assumed was a polish accent, asked, “You live around here?”

“Nope,” I answered. “I live over on the east side.”

“You got enough money to pay for the food?”

“Sure, see?”

I knew what I had ordered would cost a dollar-thirty-five, so I pulled out two one-dollar bills, set them on the counter and said, “I might want to get a piece of pie for dessert.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I can’t let you eat it in here, kid. You smell really bad and I don’t want my other customers to get up and leave because of the way you stink. So, why don’t you wait outside? I’ll make your food and put it in some containers so you can take it with you. Oh, and don’t come back in here any more unless you’re cleaned up better, you hear?”

I looked up at him and tried to think of something to say back to him, but no words found their way into my brain. I knew he was right, so I went outside and sat on the steps by the front door.

A few minutes later the guy came out and handed me a paper bag with the containers of food inside along with my change. I felt awkward about how dirty I was. I didn’t want to get the guy angry with me, so I walked a short way down the street, sat on some steps in front of an apartment building, opened the containers and started to eat. I could still see the front of the diner from where I was sitting.

After a few minutes I saw a cop car pull up in front of the diner. Two cops got out of the car and went inside. I didn’t think too much about it and just kept eating.

After a couple more minutes, the cops came back out and one of them got into the cruiser, and the other one started walking down the sidewalk in my direction. The cruiser slowly started to move towards me. I was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to run, but the cop who was walking was too close to me.

The first thing I noticed was how big this cop was—he must have been five or six inches taller than six feet because he would have towered over my father. Not only was he tall, he was big – not fat – just big. He walked up to me, put his foot on the steps next to me, leaned his elbow on his knee and in a friendly voice asked, “Hey kid, how’s the food?”

“It’s good,” I said and went on eating.

I could hear the leather of his belt and boots creak as he leaned on the step. Even the smell of the leather was noticeable. I didn’t look up at him at all but kept my eyes down and focused on my food. I could see the holster and gun out of the corner of my eye.

By now the cruiser had pulled up at the curb in front of me. The other cop was getting out of the car and coming to join his partner. Although he wasn’t quite as big as his partner, he still looked plenty big to me. He moved up to the steps and put his foot on one of the steps on the other side of me. His leather creaked and smelled the same as the other cop.

I was fast realizing I was about to get caught again, but I couldn’t figure out how these guys knew. They weren’t Detroit cops; they were Hamtramck cops. I wondered if this meant all the cops exchanged information with each other about runaway kids.

“What’s your name, kid?” the cop on my right asked.

“Roland,” I answered.

“Well, Roland, where do you live?” the other cop asked.

“Over by the State Fair Grounds,” I said as I kept my eyes down and just stared at my food.

Then the first cop asked, “What’re you doing in this part of town?”

“Just getting something to eat.”

The cops continued to ask questions until the one on my left said, “The owner of the diner called us because he said there was a real dirty, smelly kid ordering something to eat. He thought maybe you might be lost or something, so he gave us a call. Are you lost, Roland?”

I just kept my eyes down and said, “Nope.”

I already knew what was coming but I wasn’t ready to make it easy for them. I was surprised I wasn’t frightened. Instead, I found I was angry with myself for getting caught again so soon. I was angry because it was already late in the summer, so I probably wouldn’t get another chance to take off before the weather started to turn cold. I was angry because I realized I didn’t know how to keep from getting caught. I was angry because I knew I would have to endure the beatings at least until next spring or summer.

“Well, Roland,” the big cop said, “I think you better come with us while we figure out what a stinky kid from the east side is doing over here.” He had a smirk on his face as he winked at his partner.

The cops put me in the cruiser and took me to the police station. They made some phone calls and soon the Detroit cops came to get me. I was back home before dark that night.

I added, “Try to stay cleaner” to my mental list of things to do to keep from getting caught.
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