All posts by jesswaid

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About jesswaid

Currently, I write police procedural novels with the stories taking place in Hollywood during the early 1960s; a period when I was a street cop there. I've moved to Mexico to be closer to my hobby of studying Mexican history. My friend and fellow author, Professor Michael Hogan, is my mentor. I am planning to write a three-part epic story that takes place in the mid-nineteenth century. What has inspired me was hearing about Los Ninos Heroes, martyrs of the Battle of Chapultepec. Also, my father was born in Concordia, Mexico and knowing his family history is an added incentive.

Learning good manners, Mexican-style

Mexico, , ,
Mexico — Viva la differencia!

Preparing for our move to Mexico, Barbara and I have read and reread Judy King’s article she published in the Lake Chapala Review in February of this year.

It contains valuable information that I am copying and offering to those of you planning to visit Mexico.

Judy’s advice is to start by learning her list of “basic etiquette tips and customs.” She says not to be discouraged, as it might take time to automatically respond correctly, and stop saying “Good bye,” when you think you mean “Hello.”

OK, here we go.

Adios: Whenever driving and you want to shout a cheery greeting to those you are passing, or when you meet someone on the sidewalk, but can’t take time to stop and visit, the correct greeting is “Adios.” The only time you say “Buenos dias,” (Good day), is when you have time to stop and chat. Coming or going, you are blessing those you meet by saying, “Adios.” In effect, you are placing the person in God’s hands.

Eye contact: I was taught to look one in the eyes when speaking to them. In Mexico, holding one’s gaze is deemed aggressive or flirtatious behavior. So, look at or near the other person’s eyes. With the opposite sex, intent eye contact can be considered a come-on. In some rural areas, looking intently at a baby can be interpreted as an attempt to cast the “evil eye.” You can show your good intentions and release the parents’ concern by reaching out and softly touching the baby’s hand or foot.

Introductions: When you meet someone new, be the first to respond vocally to the formal introduction. That way you can be the one to say, “Con mucho gusto” (with much pleasure). Your new acquaintance will then respond with one of the several more difficult phrases.

Handshaking: Men always shake hands at a first introduction, and at the next several meetings. Just a gentle squeeze, pr favor, as a bone-crushing grip is considered aggressive and invasive. Men’s handshakes evolve into a traditional abrazo (hug), where the handshake is used to move in closer as the men exchange a hearty hug, and three warm pats on the upper back. Women must initiate all handshakes. More often the handshake between a man and a lady or between two ladies is just a soft touching of right hands, and a kiss near the right cheek. Even the tiniest toddlers are taught to offer their hands for the saludos (greetings), often before they learn to talk. All girls and many little boys are accustomed to giving each adult un besito (a little kiss) when they arrive and as they prepare to depart.

Tossing and throwing: Never, ever toss something to a Mexican, even a close friend. The simple act of lofting a pencil or a key ring across a room is viewed as a harsh insult and can cause an immediate hurt and an angry reaction.

Physical contact: It might take you some time to learn to cope with being bumped, jostled, and touched in crowded situations. My cop street-wise side likely would have me immediately reaching for my wallet, thinking I was surrounded by pick pockets. In large crowds, as at fiestas, street markets, parades, and sporting events, I noted that when I paused to clear a space and waited for others to pass, those coming toward me never exchanged the courtesy, and often nudged me out of the way. When I realized that the constant contact was a normal situation, I wondered if they were being deliberately inconsiderate? My attitude changed, however, when I realized that many Mexicans grow up with whole families, including three or four children, sleeping in a single room. With the extended family living in a single dwelling, the inevitable and constant physical contact at home gave bumping and touching on the street a different context. Studies show that North Americans reflect their need for space by communicating most comfortably at a distance of 36-48 inches. Hispanics, on the other hand, move in closer to about 18 inches.

The shopkeeper: Try to remember to say “Buenos dias” or “Buenos tardes”  (Good afternoon) as you enter a business, even if the owner or clerk is not in sight. We’re accustomed to not “bothering” the clerk until we need help. Delaying that first greeting is considered not only unfriendly, but also dismissive to Mexican employees.

Put the money into the hand: OK, a small detail, but an important one. At the grocery store, the taco stand, even when paying the housekeeper each week, put the money directly into their hand. Placing it on the counter or tabletop for them to pick up is considered a snub—an indication that you don’t want to make direct contact with them.

The (even slightly) bad words and smutty jokes: Don’t learn to swear in Spanish (too late for me!), leave the Spanish words for pirates and parrots. That way you won’t be tempted to disgrace yourself, or even let a bad word slip accidentally. Today’s Mexico, even among the rich and famous, is more like it was north of the border in my grandma’s day—at least where language is concerned. Yes, you might hear workmen drop a string of expletives. So be it. While slightly off-color jokes and double entendres often are bandied about when the men and the women are in separate groups, it is extremely disrespectful in the presence of the opposite sex or in front of children.

Remember. Mexico is not North America. Viva la differencia!

Homeless vendors sell beer on the streets — and dodge police!

Cop Stories, ,
Being a cop in L.A. isn’t always glamorous (photo courtesy of Barbara Davidson/ LA Times)

 

Being a cop can be a hugely rewarding profession. Then there are times when it can be a real drag.

A recent court ruling has made it difficult for patrolmen in Los Angeles to crack down on street people selling beer and drugs on the sidewalks. Here’s a fascinating (and well-written) article on the subject by Sam Allen in today’s Los Angeles Times. Enjoy.

 

 

 

The lady singer at Sardi’s in Hollywood

Memories, , , , , ,

 

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in fall. My army buddy and I were on leave before being shipped out to our next outfits. I would be heading for New Rochelle, New York, to attend the Army Information School. My friend was going elsewhere. We’d just completed three months of boot camp in Fort Ord, and had flown to L.A. from Monterey the day before.

We were wearing our “greens,” the brand new dress uniform that replaced the OD, olive-drab, dress wear and the old Ike jacket.

Every once in a while, as we strolled down Hollywood Boulevard, servicemen from other branches, seeing us, saluted as they passed by. Being courteous guys, we returned the greetings, and then laughed our asses off each time, once we were out of earshot. It was obvious that the enlisted men from the other armed forces branches were unaware of the Army’s new uniform. To them we looked like officers in our saucer-shaped hats.

As we strolled by Sardi’s, we heard cool jazz music wafting out. Neither of us were twenty-one, the legal age for consuming alcohol, but we tacitly decided to see if we could get served. We were relying on our uniforms to avoid being carded by the cocktail waitress.

Inside the dimly lit lounge, we were shown to a seat in the rear. We ordered beers. After the waitress went to fill our drink orders, we winked at each other, our faces beaming.     We had passed the test.

On the low stage a woman began singing some scat jazz. She was good, and her style had me grooving. I was already into jazz, having been hooked by Johnny Hodges’ tenor sax while attending city college a year earlier.

After our beers were served, we relaxed and settled into our seats to suck up the suds and the soulful sounds.

At one point, while the lady on the stage sang, the cocktail waitress, carrying a tray of drinks, walked right in front of the singer to serve a front row table. Since the stage was low, the waitress blocked our view.

It was apparent the singer didn’t appreciate the interruption. Her frowning expression displayed that; still, obviously a pro, she continued singing.

When the music set ended, the singer stepped off the stage and came around the room heading toward the rear. Her route took her by our four-person table.

As she passed by, I called out, “Great voice, ma’am. That wasn’t very polite of the barmaid.”

The singer paused, studied us momentarily, and smiling, stepped closer.

I quickly stood. “Please, join us,” I said, nudging my friend to get to his feet. He did.

She said, “Don’t mind if I do.” She drew up a chair and sat across from me.

The waitress immediately stopped at our table.

The singer ordered a soda water with lime, then looking at me, she asked, “So, you boys enjoying the music?”

For the rest of her twenty-minute break we chit chatted.

When she got up to go back to the stage, I scrambled to my feet. “I love your voice,” I said. I’ll be buying your albums.

She looked back. “You boys are sweet—do enjoy the show.”

To this day I will never forget my afternoon sitting with Lady Jane, the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald.

The Polar Palace

Uncategorized
The interior of the Polar Palace

 

Saturday mornings on occasion found me at the Polar Palace, a block south of Melrose Avenue at the corner of Van Ness Avenue and Clinton Street. I was a teenager, no longer riding the red car from the San Fernando Valley into Hollywood. When I was fourteen, Mother decided I was old enough to take care of myself while she was at work.

So the Polar Palace it was, with its painted mountain scenes on the end walls, a neat place to meet girls. It was the largest indoor ice surface in the world—110 by 230 feet. It cost 75 cents to enter, 25 cents as a spectator. A lady named Gracie sat at the cashier’s booth. She’d been a Mack Sennett bathing beauty years before.

One Saturday when I was there, the pretty blonde actress, Vera-Ellen, was skating at the rink. She was practicing for her upcoming film, White Christmas. She played the role of Judy Haynes. Rosemary Clooney played her sister, Betty. Bing Crosby as Bob, and Danny Kaye as Phil, pursued them.

In the finale, Bob and Betty declare their love, as do Phil and Judy. The background of the set is removed to show the snow falling in Pine Tree, Vermont. Everyone raises a glass, toasting, “May your days be merry and bright; and may all your Christmases be white.”

That reminds me. Christmastime found my mother meticulously decorating a silvertip pine with tons of tinsel. My wife, Barbara, says I inherited Mother’s idiosyncrasy. She laughs whenever I walk through the kitchen and can’t resist straightening items on the counter, or the times I walk through the garden and have to pull a weed or two.

Anyway, the Polar Palace with its hanging incandescent lights was a fun place, but it wasn’t insulated, so a sort of fog misted inside. I dressed for the cold conditions. Oftentimes, in the summer, as much as four inches of water accumulated on the surface. I recall little lumps of ice that formed from condensation caused by an overhead pipe that dripped rusty water. The pipes held the lights. At least the rust stains alerted skaters to the crusty deposits that were hazardous.

The Polar Palace, a huge wooden structure, burned down in 1963. The cause: faulty wiring in the coffee shop. After the fire, it was discovered that permafrost went as deep as forty feet into the ground. For many years the property was not suitable to build upon.

The coffee shop was where all the non-skating action occurred, where I flirted with the pretty girls. They made hot and cold sandwiches, including a great hot meatloaf sandwich, but my favorite was a bear-claw heated on the grill in sizzling butter.

What I called the professional skaters, paid 50 cents a month for personal lockers.

The guards, a guy named Dick and several others, resurfaced the ice (this was pre-Zamboni) with hand scrapers and a device that looked like a ten-gallon drum with a wide strip of chamois hanging from it. The drum contained water and fed the top of the chamois, which laid a smooth surface on the ice. The corners used to have a big buildup of ice from the hoses.

Cliff Oddson was manager of the skate shop, and was one of the best sharpeners in town. He’d skated in Sonja Henie’s shows and a couple of her movies. He had a great collection of antique skates which all went in the fire. A guy named Bob also worked there.

In 1954, the U.S. Nationals were held there. Tenley Albright was crowned national champion for her second women’s singles title.

I have wonderful memories from those Saturdays—the music, the smell, the cold, the sounds of skaters whizzing past me. The Polar Palace seemed so huge back then.

Out my window…

On Writing, , , , , , , , , , , ,
The view out my window.

 

I am gazing out my office window at the Pacific.  It’s four o’clock and the sun finally has burned through. Whitecaps glisten about five miles offshore. The wind has yet to reach the beach, a normal occurrence along the southern Oregon coast. It’s a pleasant Sunday; the nip of fall is in the air, to be expected. It’s Labor Day weekend.

Quiet times like this I thoroughly enjoy life. It is a time to relax, to put worrisome thoughts out of my mind. Tomorrow, although a holiday, will start a new week and bring new challenges, hopefully easily surmountable.

My Sundays have not always been so idyllic. For too many years, actually decades, I dreaded this hour on Sunday afternoons, because it meant being taken away from my mother’s arms and being delivered to a foster home over the hills, far away.

Being a working, single parent, Mother had little choice but to have me cared for on weekdays. I never fully understood being “farmed out” until I became a dad.

In my novels, Mike Montego shares that difficult part of my life. Some of what I experienced in those days is revealed in my fiction. Still, Mike is not Jess Waid.

As a young boy, like so many kids, I read a lot of books suitable for my age: Bambi, Call of the Wild, Robinson Crusoe, Smokey, White Fang, Zane Grey’s many westerns, any story that would take me away from reality. As a result, I dreamed about being a writer who told stories that transported the reader away from his or her current circumstances, especially if they felt lonely and/or unhappy.

When I took up writing, rather late in life, it was as a hobby. I soon found it gave me a means to fantasize and reshape earlier parts of my life to my liking; not my police career, even though I write police procedurals, but other experiences where I had either screwed up, or had not taken full advantage of whatever life threw at me.

Writing allows me to recapture those fleeting moments. For me, writing is a discrete form of daydreaming . . . something I did way too much in my pre-college days, mostly because I was bored in school.

Three years in the armed forces, however, changed that. I had to perform

After boot camp I was sent east to the Army Information School on an island in the Sound just off New Rochelle, New York. Then I shipped out to West Germany, where I was sent to the Seventh Army’s NCO Academy in Munich. The training in both schools was academically intense, with very little physical exertion.

The best part of the NCO Academy was the three-day weekend break we got. It occurred during the Oktoberfest. Munich had turned 800 years old that year. That’s a story in itself. As is the marriage that ensued.

Mike shares a bit of that time in my life in that he, too, gets married, but literary license allows me to modify what I experienced and have fun reshaping the scenarios Mike Montego lives.

At writing seminars one constantly hears, “Write about what you know.” I can’t disagree, but for young people with a desire to become authors, I suggest this: do not wait to write. Take notes. Write about what you’ve encountered in your young life, it might bring about an appreciation you otherwise might miss. Everything that happens to you is a memory, sometimes a pleasant one, sometimes not. Write about them.

It’s those events that often make great stories. Besides, it’s fun to fantasize about them.

Thinking back…

Cop Stories, , , , , , ,

I’ve drawn on personal experiences as a child in the course of crafting the Mike Montego series. I’ve done so to give the books’ main character a realistic past. But what Mike experienced is not exactly the same as what I experienced. I’ve judiciously added to his background, and given him martial arts abilities that I could only dream of as a kid—not that I haven’t practiced some of it in my later years.

When I began writing off-and-on some twenty years ago, it was a hobby. I like to think it still is, although I spend many more hours at my desk today than I did back then. Writing has kept me young in some ways, at least mentally, as I relive memories of my law enforcement days on the streets of Los Angeles.

Plotting my stories takes me back, so far back that I have to pause and ask myself, was that really the way it happened?! Today’s law enforcement officer has so much more at his/her fingertips than we did back in the ‘60s — things  my partners and I could scarcely have fantasized about. I’m not sure we ever considered Dick Tracy’s 2-way wristwatch would ever become reality, and now, technology has blown by it!

On patrol when making a stop back in the day, we seldom knew what we would be facing. I’m sure that’s still true, but today’s patrol officers have more information at their disposal, and get it quicker, much of it in real time, thanks to on-board computers.

I also know patrol officers don’t wait as long these days for returns on their wants and warrants checks. Boy, do I remember those too-long minutes ticking by as I hovered by the radio receiver, wanting to be within earshot of the radio when the response to my request finally came in.

When a Code Six Charles came over the air, meaning I had stopped a wanted felon, I instantly wondered: am I vulnerable? After cuffing the suspect and breathing more easily, I would run through every step I’d taken from the vehicle stop to the moment of receiving the information.
Too often I second-guessed myself . . . but I obviously survived.

And now I write about it. What a wonderful world.