University Motel

My father was "forced to retire" (translated "f----- -- ---ire") from the Warwick Laundry in the summer of 1962 because he couldn't walk anymore.  At age 68, after battling rheumatoid arthritis for 10 years, he was finally rendered incapable of climbing the one flight of stairs leading up to the dry cleaning department.  The freight elevator had prolonged his career at least a year, but now he could no longer stand for hours spotting clothes in 100 degree heat.  This afforded the disgusting manager an opportunity to harass him mercilessly, which he did. After the SOB dismissed my father, he claimed Dad was ineligible for unemployment because the termination was for wrongful conduct, probably because dad threatened to kick his ass if he didn't leave him alone, which he didn't.  However, this ruling was overturned after legal assistance was provided by close family friend, Mr. James King (more on that later).  Anyway, because of dad's debilitating arthritis and other health issues, Mom became concerned about him driving the family car, a 1952 Buick Roadmaster.  And having just received my Learner's Permit at age 16, I began taking him places like doctor appointments, cigarette and Coke runs (the drinkable one), and the Warwick Hotel barbershop.  His barber was Willie Smith who, along with Louis Knight, had come over from Haskin's shop on West Ave.  One Saturday morning Dad decided he needed a haircut, so I gathered him into the car and took off for downtown, crossing the familiar 34th street bridge which spanned the C&O railroad.  As we approached the hotel located at the end of Washington Ave, 25th St and West Ave, near the Victory Arch, it became apparent there was no place to park.  I pulled the car over slowly, and stopped in front of the barbershop.  Being an inexperienced driver, I left the engine running as I jumped out and ran around to the passenger side to help him out.  Then from out of nowhere, a Newport News Police cruiser zoomed up behind us and stopped with lights flashing.  Yelling angrily as he approached, the officer proceeded to write me a ticket for “double parking” and operating a vehicle in an unsafe manner.  Unable to contain himself, Willie burst out of the barbershop and began pleading with the officer to go easy on a poor young kid just trying to help his invalid father get a haircut.  The cop suddenly became enraged and threatened to arrest Willie on the spot for (1) being a nigger, and (2) interfering in police matters.  Willie quickly retreated back into the hotel licking his wounds, and no doubt lamenting the fact that it was still the early 60's in Virginia.  Meanwhile, I pocketed my expensive ticket, loaded dad back into the car, and went home to give Mom the good news.  She immediately called Mr. King who, as a US Customs agent in Newport News, was very well connected.  Several weeks later, and accompanied by one of Mr. King's lawyer friends, I was standing with mom in front of a Judge.  He waived the ticket (which mom couldn't pay anyway) and then severely reprimanded me for double parking on a busy street while leaving the engine running.  I acknowledged my mistakes and went on with life as a 16 year-old high school football player, and other assorted foolishness.  Funny how, as we age, many memories fade, but others remain crystal clear.  Right after I got the ticket, I distinctly recall missing several blocks during football practice the following week that would have prevented quarterback Dale Mueller from getting creamed by onrushing defensive linemen.  Backfield Coach C.C. Duff was quick to find fault with my slack attitude, and pounded my helmet in disgust.  His words were something like “What the hell is wrong with you son?”  He didn't really wanna know.