A BUCKET OF BLOOD
By
LINCOLN (Dirty Red) WILEY
A
brilliantly original ‘down and dirty’ chronicle of the Los Angeles
WATT’S area before and after the infamous riots of 1965. The author is not only an outstanding
storyteller; he was a member of the community, as well as a participant. Every social worker would be well advised to
read this racially explicit account about everyday lives of the economically
helpless, and how the bottom feeders of our society exploit them. It’s wonderful. Read it!
Lincoln
(Dirty Red) WILEY writes from the
gut. Beginning in the cotton fields of
e-BOOK
LINCOLN
(Dirty Red)
WILEY
Life In The
Before And After The WATT’S Riots
e-Book 2005
www.mittymax.com
Copyright 2005
Copyright 2005
e-Book
Maverick Publishing
Early Recollections 1.
The Ghetto: ‘nothing down can come up’ 12.
The Ghetto People 41.
Welfare 54.
Violence 69.
The Hustler 76.
Black Humor 104.
Different Beliefs 117.
Ghetto Youth 131.
Reflections 199.
QUOTATION
Any man, or any group
of men that remain at the bottom socially and economically for a period exceeding twenty
years, or either wants to be
there or deserves to be there...
LINCOLN (Dirty Red)
WILEY
QUOTATION
I would have to be insane to want to
integrate into an insane institution…
LINCOLN (Dirty Red) WILEY
Dedicated to my sainted
mother, the wife of an ordained minister who never set foot in a tavern,
nightclub or bar. She
would never dignify them by the names such as “The Duck Inn: or “The Dew Drop
Inn” or the “Casino,” she simply called them all:
“BUCKETS OF BLOOD”
She honestly believed that if she talked to
me enough, prayed to me enough, and beat my ass enough, I would remain in my
home town of
LINCOLN (Dirty Red)
WILEY
This book was started thirty-five years ago
so you can make up your own mind as to the progress my Era has made if any,
since the Watts Riots.
Each year thousands of people migrate to the
large cities seeking a better life or seeking an escape from their past. With
no income and no job skills they find it necessary to relocate into the ghetto
area. Then they proceed to occupy the places left behind by the people born
there. The people before them either made good of their escape, went to prison,
or died there trying to escape. Once a job is found and financial stability is
obtained, ninety per cent move away to the suburbs. The remaining ten per cent
would not dreams of leaving, because here they have found the very core of
their existence. Any attempt to change or elevate the mode of living for this
ten per cent is considered a mistake. In this book I will try to re-travel my
road to the ghetto.
I could never have imagined myself as a
writer; rather I like to think of myself as a storyteller. I like to think, had
I been left the hell alone, I would still be in Mother Africa, telling my
stories to a group of wide-eyed African kids. Stories such as, “How the leopard
got his spots.” “Why the camel has a hump.”
“Why the hippo has wrinkly skin.” I would have had five wives, twenty
kids and a damn good life, had it not been for that lying, cheating, damn
Christian missionary that…that oops… excuse me.
Some times I get carried away.
LINCOLN (Dirty Red)
WILEY
WHY WAS I
BORN?
The reason for my living, I have often wondered why the part in life, I
am to play before I die.
Could my existence be worthwhile?
Or was it mere coincidence. I’ve go to know the answer, to relieve me of this suspense.
I bade my time and looked around up to the age of seventeen then I
traveled around the world for an answer to my dream.
But nowhere could I find, for what I now search must I spent my life
forever, dependent on a crutch?
Was my future planned, even before this earth I came or was I a tool
just to bear my Father’s name
Mysterious and fantastic all this to me seem.
Or could I possible be asleep and this is just a dream?
We have doctors, lawyers, novelists and professions renowned, why was I
born, what is the purpose of my sticking around, maybe someone can tell me for
I do not know my aim, am I destined to be a symbol of failure, to hang my head
in shame?
Was I born to be rich with a palace on a hill or born to play god
inflicting my every will?
Was I born to be a success and settle for nothing less?
Or take life, as it is, just do my very best.
Was I born to be a martyr, for all men to admire or born to be a lover
for all women to desire?
Was I born a disciple of God, to save you from sin?
Or born to be a coward, desperate to all men?
Should I see a fortuneteller, to have my fortune told, or become a
roving adventurer, dashing and bold?
Should I become a pilot, and fly away into the skies or should I live as
a fake, is life a foundation of lies?
I’ve searched and searched, but nowhere could I find the answer to my
problem to give me peace of mind, a vision may some day soon appear in my sight
to give the subject why I was born a little more light.
Is death life and life death or could I be wrong? Or must I spend my
life, a question most desperate and long? There are some people who know why?
Why is why? I only want to know my purpose here before I die.
LINCOLN (Dirty Red)
WILEY
CHAPTER ONE
EARLY
RECOLLECTIONS
My childhood was a very happy one. I had a
wonderful family, and poverty was only a word. We were poor, but everyone else was
too, so nobody noticed. Although there were eight of us no one ever went hungry
and I can remember how everyone smiled all the time. My Mother would cry a
little and pray a lot, but that was all too complicated for me so I went on my
way enjoying boyhood. My older brothers would all leave one by one never to
return and I just couldn’t understand this. Didn’t they like the tall trees;
the clear lakes open fields and the Sunday dinners? An old lady taught me how
to catch catfish with a cane pole. When I was not in school I was usually in
the fields or woods of
My father was an ordained Baptist minister.
He died when I was only three. My mother was forced to return to her former profession
as an elementary school teacher. To make ends meet, she worked after school at
a nearby honky-tonk called, “The Casino.” It was there I first became aware
there was something wrong with the land of my childhood. I was not old enough
to understand the problem, but I could sense that it was a terrible thing. My
mother, being a true daughter of the south, would not discuss it with me.
Each Sunday I would go to church and listen
to a preacher in a black suit shout, jump, holler and dance in the act of delivering
his religious message. However it seemed funny to me that he never talked about
his hidden problem.
My teachers in school could answer any
questions that we asked. If we made any comments about the fear in their eyes,
they would promptly change the subject. I realized that I was small child, but
if they would only discuss it with me maybe I could help. After all it must
concern me, must have something to do with the fact that everyone was preparing
me to leave home, when all I wanted to do was stay. I thought to myself that if
ever I have to leave, it certainly would not be like the others that didn’t
return. Very often I would take long walks among the trees. Nobody worried
about me in the woods after dark, I was professedly safe. The sound of a
bullfrog croaking and the sight of a firefly flittering in the warm night made
me cry just thinking of leaving. Life to me was skipping a flat rock on a creek
three times or catching a five-pound catfish or turning a snapping turtle over
his back. I just couldn’t understand what those silly grown ups were afraid of
in this “Garden of Eden.” Then I would joke with myself and say; if they are
afraid, why the hell don’t they leave and let me stay?
When I helped my mother at the honky-tonk, it
was easy to notice that she was not at ease with herself as she was at home.
Also, she was not as aggressive at work ether. This struck me as being strange
and when I asked questions she either told me to shut up or else she changed
the subject. I never liked nor disliked the old cracker bastard who ran the
honky-tonk, but the place fascinated me. I learned all I could from him. He was
a foul mouth, two-fisted whiskey-drinking cuss ass, whom after a good night,
never failed to get drunk. I would help him up the stairs to bed and take my
usual five dollars from his roll. He
never said anything about it. He knew I was clipping him but he refused to
admit it to himself. The following morning he would ask me, “Boy, do you
steal?” And I would never fail to answer, “Who me?”
Even though I still didn’t know what dreadful
disease had infected the people of my hometown, I was convinced that all the
young people whom left did so to try and find a solution. This made me loose
faith in my mother’s prayers. Why couldn’t our preacher ask God to solve this
problem whatever it was and then I wouldn’t have to leave? My mother knocked me
down a couple of times for asking too many questions, so I quit asking.
Our teachers would insist that we try a
little harder at math and English because we would need these qualifications in
With the end of World War II the defense
plant, which supported the small town, closed. The honky-tonk was folding fast
and this southern town was beginning to show the effects of no revenue of its
own. The older kids were in college or away in the service and my mother who
had been reinstated as a teacher returned to the classroom. I had been
accustomed to carrying five dollars to school and now there was only enough for
lunch money. Having only fifteen cents a day made me loose all interest in a
school. The environment at the club had taught me numerous ways to hustle
money, but now, there was no money in town. After my older brother enlisted in
the Air Force, I became the man of the house.
At the age fifteen I was drawn to the red
light district of town, which was known nationwide as the toughest, meanest
corner in town. My time was usually spent at a club called “Skeletons Trail.”
The owner was a small ordinary tough guy who had the reputation of carrying two
guns on him at all times. Once he owned the entire black section of the red light
district, bit the boom.
The good years were over and most of the
property was mortgaged to “Joe the Greek.” I married his niece, and after he
lost his entire fortune, he joined us in
During my junior years in high school we had
beaten every team m our state conference and were invited to play a post-season
game in
After the fight, I drove the bus and caught
up with the regular bus driver and told him to get his white ass in or else we
would leave him. He was so frightened he was reluctant to enter the bus and
asked, “Are you niggers through fighting?”
We returned home knowing the coach was going
to tell my mother. On my way home I
fabricated the grand daddy of all lies. It was so convincing that the next day
when he knocked on our door, my big sister told him to get away from our house.
When the football season was ended so did my
interest in school. My teachers continued to pass me from the tenth through the
twelfth grade because of my good family name…
I never owned a book. I was razor sharp in
the streets, but I couldn’t tell you what seven times a number was. All night
long you could find me at the corner of Third and State. Then at
The story goes that he once sharecropped
cotton for a white man all year, only to be told that his share was a half of
an acre. He killed the white man and half a dozen black men during the next
five years, which earned him the reputation of having absolutely no fear of
anything or anyone. I was terrified of the man, but to prove this was not true
there had to be a fight. Now that may not make much sense to some people who
have led a sheltered life, but when a group of people have no material thing in
life, they can very easily fall in love with a reputation. With no family or
job and no belief with nothing to loose, I’ve known men who killed one another
over a hamburger.
Each night Half Acre and a group of no goods
would shoot craps on the banks of the
He
took the gun out of my hand and then snatched the money from my other. Then he
calmly proceeded to gamble again as I stood there for two hours with my foot
bleeding.
The game ended with half acre winning all the
money. He stepped in front of me as he counts his loose change and I know he
was trying to decide what to do with me. Then something exploded in side my
skull. One of the other guys who had lost knocked me three yards into the
River. After they left, I crawled ashore and passed out.
The next morning I hobbled to class and was
trying to figure out a way to get home without my mother knowing about my foot.
When the teacher asked for my homework and my reply to that was “Go flick yourself.”
The next day the Principal called me in and
after telling me that Rev. Wiley would turn over in his grave if he could see
me. Then he informed me that I didn’t have enough of a grade point to graduate
with my class. He asked me what my plans were? I said my intention was to join the Air Force
on my seventeenth birthday. He then made a remark that haunts me to this day.
He said, “Son if that’s what you want go, but you are running to far more than
you are running from.” This made no sense to me then, but I have since been
able to understand the meaning of those words.
CHAPTER TWO
A MILITARY
EXPERIENCE
The next major step in my life was to head
straight for the Air Force recruiting office and I was quite surprised to find
that the test was easy enough for me to pass. A war had just broken out in some
distant place called
On
On the first day of drill class I realized
that I did not like the military and would quit at the first opportunity. I
picked up my belongings and started home having absolutely no knowledge of
military procedures. The only thing that stopped me from going AWOL was getting
lost without leaving the based and ending up right back in my tent. My
education in the streets had taught me that any time you felt insecure you
should put the opponent on the defensive. Since I was there only Negro in the
squadron along with a few Jews from
The hillbilly music and the discipline
sickened me, but deep within I wanted the carefree existence, which was
associated with the atmosphere of nightclubs. Later in life I developed a deep
appreciation for country and western music. My cultural background outside of
my home was a steady diet of blues and hillbilly. Anything was a welcome relief
from the mournful sadness of gospels and parietal music. Which
in my way of thinking was nothing more than a crutch for the Christian.
The white boys honestly tried to be friends
with me but that wasn’t enough for me. I never accepted their invitation to go
downtown with them. I always found some excuse if they asked to visit the
ghetto with me. The color of their skin
was only part of the problem. The things these seventeen and eighteen year old
kids enjoyed doing seemed like kid stuff to me on or near any military base.
It’s very easy to spot the guys on their
first leave. They always traveled in small clusters. The newness of the uniform
and the cameras with cases made them stand out like sore thumbs. Local
merchants invariably took advantages of their inexperience and charged them
twice as much for merchandise they bought.
Having been in the streets in my earlier
years taught me if you really wanted to catch, you had to go alone.
Consequently, it was to my advantage to avoid the other recruits. I was sent to
bases mainly away from black people and I sent home the first of each month’s
pay allotment. Whenever I could afford it, I would hitch hike to any place with
an all black nightclub. There I could learn the latest dance steps and the new
slang phases, we used to communicate among ourselves.
I remember a particular phase spoken at a bar in
-8-
CHAPTER THREE
THE
GHETTO
My first look at a
bona-fide ghetto thrilled me to no end. It was love a first sight. Streets
lined with nightclubs, the smell of bar-b-que ribs
and fried fish. The hip talk on the streets, the un-inhibited talk and dress of
both the girls and guys had me hooked.
At night the main drag
can only be described as a continuous parade of joyous smiling colorful
peacocks displaying their plumes. The pimps, con artists, prostitutes and
flashy cars had all combined to blow my mind. This made returning to the base
where everyone smelled of new uniforms and had the same very dull conversations
indeed. I tried everything I could possible think of to get out of the service
from playing insane to pissing in bed. Finally, after three years and eight
month of goofing off there was freedom staring me in the face but this was with
the condition that I would return to school.
After leaving George Air
Force Base in
At this point in my life I decided to marry
my childhood sweetheart and made an honest attempt to be a good husband. Her
Uncle had been the owner of nightclubs back in our hometown and the marriage
had every indication of being a success. Our backgrounds were very much alike
and proper parents had raised us both in a very proper manner. We started
fighting on our honeymoon and didn’t stop for five years. In between baffles we
managed to have six children. They were all single births and that’s a feat
that stills leaves me breathless.
My choice of a wife was such that I don’t
believe I could have someone any worse reaching in a grab bag for the first
thing that came up. If this should happen again, a computer will select the
right girl for marriage, because my judgment of women has proven to be very
poor.
During the course of our marriage the
neighbors called the police so often that one of the officers called me said
and had mandate. He had noticed how combative we both were so he told me “Son,”
one of theses days one of you will kill the other. One you will be dead and the other will be in
prison. Then what will become of your children? He was trying hard to tell me
to leave before things got too serious but I couldn’t see it. To leave the home
we were buying, the trees planted with such care, and to give up the children was
asking too much. So we continued to live together and continued to do battle
until one night her Uncle who had influenced me greatly in my earlier years,
told me the same thing. After giving it
much thought I elected to leave. I took the kids into a room and told to them
for the last time. I looked at the home we were buying and the trees I had
planted and said to myself “flick it.” When my darling wife realized what my
intentions were. She said “Nigger” I prefer being on welfare like my other
friends than being married to you. I had heard that statement so many times in
the past that it created a burning hatred in me for the entire county welfare
program. This included the aid to needy children the social worker and the
recipient. The political aspirant who used this as a sure fire election
platform. This hated developed intensely in later years, inconsequently a
section has been reserved in this book discuss it further.
During the time I was married, my one burning
desire was to own a nightclub. I had slowly accumulated a garage fill of bar
fixtures, but when I returned for them, Ms know-it-all
had sold them for a lousy twenty-five dollars. The only piece of equipment left
was an old juke box, so I picked it up and hit her over the head with it. It
would have been better to break her legs or arms because you just couldn’t hurt
her head. Now there was complete freedom at last.
My time in the service was over with, and my
marriage held no memories. So I pulled the old water faucet act. This is a
trick that everyman in the street learns sooner or late. It’s the ability to
close off your mind to the past. You completely blot out every bad memory. To
be able to concentrate in the streets, you must have a free mind. To run a
successful game, bluff a poker game, tap a till or utilize third dice, you must
be able to concentrate twice as hard as your opponent, and if you have marital
or other problems, you won’t stand a chance. This faucet act includes shutting
off your mind to all past experiences that you found unpleasant, and only a
professional hustler can do this and retain his sanity. When I arrived in
The next day when
the owner arrived, he found me standing at the front door ready for work. My
willingness and anxiety were due mainly to the fact that at the age of
twenty-three, this was the first day of my life that I was going to do a days
work of my own choosing. At this stage in life, I had lost my schoolboy smile
and my bashfulness and I was ready to take on the whole flicking would. Since
there was no mention of any payment or salary, it was understood this was going
to be my first night club. I had cut my first tooth in a beer bar, so there was
no need for me to ask the owner any questions. The old man let me have my way,
so the first thing I did toward improving business was to eliminate serving food,
which allowed more space for seating. I had no desire to feed a bunch of
niggers; I only wanted to make them drunk.
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