Johnny Get Your Gun

12

As the bus rolled smoothly down the Santa Ana Freeway, Johnny McGuire sat staring out of the window. He had escaped now from Pasadena, but he knew that within a matter of hours he would have to go back. He was on his way to see the Angels in person and meet Tom Satriano face-to-face, but he was also moving farther and farther away from his mother and father who offered the only real shelter, protection, and love that he had ever known.

The vehicle he was riding in was taking him to Disneyland, an almost unbelievable place of enchantment, but so deep was his preoccupation with his troubles, he was hardly aware of that fact. Instead he saw before him, repeated like the rotating patterns of early moving picture devices, the fearful image of the boy he had shot. He saw him standing there; he felt the gun go off in his hand. Then with terrible clarity he saw the boy fold his arms across his abdomen and slump to the ground.

He, Johnny, had done that terrible thing with his father’s gun. And what was the worst part, he could not say that he was sorry and help the boy to get up again. A horrible, ice-cold chill seized him as he realized once again the paralyzing fact that the boy was dead. His mother had told him so-he had killed the nigger boy.

His chest began to tighten and he wanted to cry. If he could have done so, he would have gotten off the bus right then and started back to Pasadena, back to his mother who would shelter him. He was ready to face the punishment he knew he would have to accept, from the cops for killing the boy and from his father for breaking his radio and then running away. The radio part was not too bad, his mother had told him that his father knew that it had not been his fault. But he had taken his radio to school and he knew that that had been wrong. It had started the whole thing.

The bus edged into the right hand lane, went up an exit ramp, and turned right onto a main surface artery. Towering before him he saw the mighty form of the Matterhorn. Presently the slim outline of a rocket poised on its pad came into view and he knew that this was indeed the magic kingdom, the fabulous Disneyland. But even more than that, it meant that he was in Anaheim!

The gas station man had told him that the Angels baseball stadium was less than a mile away. Excitement began to build up within him. This might be his last day before he would have to go to prison, but this one precious day would be the greatest one of his life.

The bus turned off the highway into the immense Disneyland parking lot. Overhead a helicopter was just settling down onto the pad provided for air travelers. Up on an embankment an enthralling, old-fashioned steam engine was slowly pulling a string of cars into a station. The bus drove up before the main ticket gates and stopped.

Johnny tried hard to think, to decide what he should do. He did not have a watch, but he knew that it was still midmorning and that the baseball park would not yet be open. He would have been content just to go there and sit, looking at the stadium, but that would invite notice and he knew that he must keep himself concealed in the crowd.

There was only one thing to do, to go into Disneyland and wait there until the ball park would be open. There were a great many cars already on the parking lot; that meant there would be a lot of people inside and he would not be conspicuous.

The others on the bus were already on their feet, eager to be out and on their way through the gates. Johnny joined them, his shoe box tucked under his arm, his hand in his pocket to make sure that his precious money was still safe. At that moment the thought came to him that there would probably be a clock in Disneyland which he could watch to see when he should leave.

While waiting in line at the ticket window, he considered the various combinations offered. His first thought was to buy admission only, but his protective instinct told him that that would be an unnatural thing to do-it would be noticed. The more elaborate offerings were out of the question, he would not have the time and they cost far too much. He decided on the lowest-priced combination ticket as a logical purchase and one which would conserve his resources as much as he dared. When it was his turn he pushed four dollars under the window and received his book of coupons. His shoe box got in the way as he tried to pick up his change and the tickets at the same time; at last he succeeded and made his way to the entrance turnstile. He passed inside without further trouble, walked through the tunnel under the railroad tracks, and found himself in nineteenth century America.

Then he began to worry about his gun. He did not dare to hide it anywhere, someone might find it, but if he carried it with him, then sooner or later it might fall out of its box if he were riding on something. The town hall on his left attracted him; he walked toward it until he saw the small, coin-operated lockers where packages and purchases could be stored. His heart leaped a little; he would have to spend some more money, but his gun would be safe and away from suspicious eyes. Carefully he pushed his shoe box into one of the cubicles, deposited a quarter, and withdrew the key. Now his problem was solved, he was free for the first time in eighteen hours from the burden of his accursed gun, now he could safely explore the wonders of Disneyland.

With his book of tickets in his hand he began to walk up the main street toward the great central plaza where Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, and all the other miracles awaited him. He was just a boy now, exactly like thousands of other boys who already were spread out across the great amusement park. He would have been almost as hard to find as a single ripening ear in a vast cornfield, but it made no difference because in that place, at that time, no one had as yet heard of Johnny McGuire.

During the next two hours he had one of the greatest times of his life. He spent one of his precious E tickets on the Pirates of the Caribbean and was overwhelmed by the adventure. After that great experience he wandered around for the next few minutes, just seeing all of the things about him. Then with one of his lower value tickets he rode the huge merry-go-round and as he did so wished fervently that he could be free to return to this wonderful place over and over again with his father and mother so that they could ride the merry-go-round too.

Because he knew that he would never be coming back again, at least not until after he had spent his time in prison, he used up all of his limited supply of tickets. The submarine he rode revealed to him a totally new and unbelievable world. He wanted to ride the bobsleds on the Matterhorn, but he had no ticket left that would admit him to that high-priced attraction.

In his last few minutes he went back to Frontierland to drink in all of its wonders and to look once again at the mighty Mississippi River steamboat which arrived and departed with grandeur every few minutes. He had no ticket to ride it, but it was a wonderful spectacle just to see. After he had watched it sail once more he turned and began to walk down the wooden plank sidewalk toward the central plaza. As he passed by the Western store he paused and studied the many things it had to offer, for each one of them reminded him of Gene Autry, the greatest cowboy who had ever lived, and who had once held out his hand to Johnny McGuire.

The wide door was open and the steady flow of traffic in and out encouraged him to venture inside. He surveyed the merchandise with the utmost care, automatically rejecting those items which cost many dollars, and studying those which cost little. He had no real intention of buying, but there might possibly be some little thing which could actually be his….

He found his heart’s desire when he saw what appeared to be a real cowboy hat and which was only two dollars. It was not as large or as fine as many of the others in the store, but it was a real Western hat and white, just like the one Gene Autry wore. He thought about the hat, about how he would love to own it, and about the modest supply of funds he still had in his possession. He had already spent more than a dollar for food and almost two dollars to get to Anaheim, that meant that he had thirteen dollars now. Then, suddenly, he remembered two more things-the money he had spent to get into Disneyland and the fare that he would have to pay to get back home. That cut his resources down to about seven dollars. He completely forgot about the money he had put into the pay telephone and the coin locker where he had concealed his gun.

He guessed that it would cost two dollars to get into the baseball stadium; if he allowed himself one more dollar for food, then he had four dollars left. The hat would cost half that.

“Can I help you, son?”

It was unexpected and for a moment Johnny was badly startled; then he looked up at the man who had spoken to him and saw that he was a cowboy all dressed in his Western clothes. “I was looking at the hat,” he said.

With a flourish the clerk took the treasure off the peg, creased it in the proper Western style and carefully fitted it onto Johnny’s head. “Now go look at yourself in the mirror,” he invited.

Johnny did as he was told and saw himself in a wonderful new light. The boys would never laugh at him at school if he wore this superb hat which marked him as a real cowboy; even Billy Hotchkiss would be impressed and at last treat him as an equal. After the cowboy salesman had creased it for him and put it on his head it would have to be his; he could not possibly tell a man like that that it was beyond his means.

“How do you like it?” the clerk asked.

“It’s wonderful,” Johnny admitted.

“Would you like to buy it?”

It was a fair question with no hint of pressure behind it. Johnny drew breath to announce his important decision when he looked into the case before him and saw a gun belt. He stared at it so hard that the clerk obligingly removed it and squatting down fitted it around Johnny’s waist. “There,” he said. “Now you’re a real cowboy and no mistake.”

“How much is it?” Johnny said.

“Two-fifty complete with the gun. It’s a regular six shooter, see.” The clerk removed the cap pistol and for a fascinating few seconds twirled it expertly in his fingers.

“I’ve got a gun,” Johnny said.

The clerk looked at him. “Then you’ve got a belt too, haven’t you?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you like one?”

“How much does it cost?” Johnny asked.

The clerk surveyed him carefully, looked at his shoes, at the worn knees of his pants, and then thought for a second. “Well, the belts and guns come together as a set. But it just happens that I have a belt left over, somebody swiped the gun when I wasn’t looking. If you buy the hat, I’ll give you the belt for fifty cents.”

Johnny could not believe his wonderful luck; it came to him that this was a real cowboy and that was why he was being so generous and good to him. “I’ll take it,” he said quickly, before the offer could be revoked.

“All right, son, fine, that will be two-sixty-three with the tax.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnny said. Almost holding his breath he dug into his pocket and pulled out his little stock of bills. He carefully parted with two paper dollars and from his change counted out sixty-five cents. The clerk rang the register and gave him a receipt together with two cents change. “All right, son, have a good time.”

In his splendid new regalia Johnny hurried out of the store, for the moment so proud that the horror of the night before was banished from his mind. Then he looked at a clock and saw that it was past eleven; it was time to go to the baseball park.

As fast as he dared he hurried down the main street, past all of the wonderfully inviting stores, and to the town hall lockers where he had left his shoe box. Mercifully, no one else was there at the moment. With some labor he fished out the locker key, inserted it, and swung the small steel door open. There was his precious cache, just as he had left it.

He looked carefully both ways-no one seemed to be paying him the least attention. With a coolness that a professional gambler would have admired, Johnny opened the box, took out his gun, and fitted it experimentally into the holster he had just purchased. The neat little Chief’s Special snuggled into the pocket as though they had been designed for each other; it was an almost perfect fit. Greatly relieved that the problem of the awkward shoe box had been solved, Johnny pushed the box well down into a trash receptacle only a few feet away. With a sense of freedom, and feeling vastly uplifted by his wonderful new possessions, he walked through the tunnel and toward the exit gate, confident now that, somehow, he would find an answer to all of his troubles.

He was halfway through the exit when a man barked at him, “Hey, kid!”

Johnny did not dare to ignore the challenge; his right hand stole toward the butt of his gun as he turned to see what was the matter. “Come here,” he directed.

Cautiously Johnny obeyed. He was properly armed now and if there was to be trouble, he knew what to do. As he came closer the man reached out. “Give me your hand,” he said.

With his eyes narrowed and worried Johnny carefully offered his left hand, his right resting on the butt of his reliable weapon.

The man took a stamp and pressed it against Johnny’s flesh. “There,” he explained. “That’ll let you back in again. Be sure to come to this gate.” Still holding Johnny’s hand he moved it under an ultraviolet light; immediately the pattern of the stamp became visible in a pale glowing tint.

As the shadow of danger passed, Johnny made a quick decision. “Do you know where the ball park is?” he asked.

“Sure.” The man pointed. “Right over there, cross the freeway and you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s all right. Have a nice time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Johnny walked away from the gate at a carefully controlled pace; within a minute he was able to slip through the first of the solid rows of parked cars and out of sight of people who might wonder why he was leaving so soon. It was a long way to the gate where the bus had driven in, but when he reached it there was no problem. He walked out calmly and was not challenged. Turning left as he had been directed, he began his hike to the baseball park.

Ten minutes later the Disneyland security office received the first word to be on the alert for an unaccompanied nine-year-old boy who would be carrying a shoe box. When the situation was made clear word was spread quickly to the gatekeepers and to all of the members of the protective force. Very shortly after Disneyland had been notified the police stationed in and around the Anaheim stadium received the same message; within minutes all of the ticket sellers, gate-men, and ushers were cautioned and forewarned.

In the bright sun of the warm day Johnny McGuire walked along the side of the highway feeling just a little lonely, but so proud of his comfortable new hat that he was able to put certain other worrisome thoughts out of his mind. He managed to forget that his stock of money, which had seemed so ample when he had started out, was melting away with distressing speed. His next purchase would be a ticket to get into the baseball park, then he planned to buy himself a hot dog for lunch. Beyond that point he did not attempt to go.

A car slowed beside him and the driver leaned over. “Where are you headed, cowboy?” he asked.

“I’m going to the ball game,” Johnny answered truthfully.

“Hop in, I’ll give you a lift.”

Johnny’s mother had cautioned him about accepting rides from strangers, but that had been under different circumstances. Without hesitation Johnny accepted the offered hospitality; he ducked so that his new hat would not be knocked off and carefully shut the door when he was inside.

“Are you an Angel fan?” the driver asked.

“Yes, sir!” Johnny declared.

“Who’s your favorite player?”

“Tom Satriano, I think he’s great.”

“He’s a very good catcher. Do you go to the game often?”

Johnny thought very fast before he answered that one. “No, sir, this is the first time that my dad has let me go.”

The driver did not comment; it is doubtful if Johnny would have heard him had he done so, because at that moment the car was crossing over the freeway and there before him Johnny saw the great curved shape of the Anaheim stadium.

They drove down a wide roadway, then turned right into another and there, almost at once, were the gates to the parking lot. Johnny was startled that it cost a whole dollar just to drive in; he even felt a certain sense of guilt as though he had somehow brought it about. The driver did not seem to mind: he continued down through the parking lot to a vacant location reasonably close to the main entrance and then stopped the car.

“Thank you very much,” Johnny said.

“You’re welcome. It’s nice to meet a boy who has been trained to be polite. What’s your name?”

“Johnny.” He said it before he stopped to think.

“Enjoy the game, Johnny. Have you money for your ticket?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He got out of the car intent on making his escape because now the man knew his name. He was not sure where he should go, but as he walked closer to the huge stadium he was certain that he would somehow find out how to buy a ticket and get inside. He had been to baseball games once or twice before, but that had been in small wooden grandstands which did not compare with what was before him now.

Keeping his eyes open he watched for the pattern of traffic. It was still early and not too many people had as yet arrived. Although he knew that he was now in Anaheim, far from Pasadena where the police were looking for him, he was also dangerously far from home. If some guard were to notice that he was alone, he might ask some very bad questions. It would be safest, therefore, to do as he had been doing and keep in the crowd as much as possible.

He began to walk around the perimeter to the right, he could sense that there was more activity in that direction. Ticket windows came into view and Johnny discovered that, as in Disneyland, there were different prices. The first sign he saw was $3.50 and his heart quickened; that was far more than he could afford. Then he saw some windows marked $2.50 and felt that he had saved a whole dollar already. He walked on, anxious to see everything before he invested his money in a possible mistake.

Presently he saw a scattering of boys. As he continued to walk around the sweeping curvature of the stadium he found that there was a large gathering of boys, and some girls too, many older than himself and some of his own age. He knew immediately that here was where he belonged. He hurried to join the crowd which, he saw, was being slowly filtered through two gates into the ball park. Most of the others had small cards in their hands. By looking at two or three of them which were being held in different ways he was able to make out the words “Junior Angels.” He did not have a card, of course, but he slowly worked his way up to the entrance just the same. He had his money and in some way he hoped that he could get in.

Then he was funneled into a single line, the boy ahead of him went through, and it was his turn. “Got your pass?” The gateman asked.

Johnny turned a properly stricken face up to him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he explained, “I forgot to bring it.”

For a moment the man hesitated, then he waved him through. Immensely grateful for this wonderful and unexpected blessing from heaven, Johnny passed inside and walked toward the ramp to which an usher was directing the traffic. He turned, looked, and saw the playing field, the perfectly kept base paths, the many vast tiers of seats, and the whole spectacle of the great baseball park. Towering over it all was the gigantic A-frame with the halo on top, the symbol of the stadium he had seen pictured so many times. An almost violent thrill of fulfillment took hold of him, he had never known such a sensation. On the field players in gray uniforms were casually warming up; the first real big league players he had ever seen.

Confident now that once he was in this wonderful place nothing wrong could happen to him he pulled out his little plastic wallet, extracted the well-worn letter that it contained, and with it in his hand approached the usher. “I’ve got a letter from Tom Satriano,” he announced proudly. “He says that I can come and see him.”

Indulgently the stadium man read the brief communication. “All right son, you’ll have to go around to the other side,” he directed. “The home team clubhouse is over by third base. Go downstairs, through the tunnel, and then ask the guard to direct you from there.”

The talisman had worked! With surging anticipation Johnny hurried down the ramp into the concrete interior of the stadium. The tunnel was long and grim, but he knew that it was taking him in the right direction. Twice he became confused and had to orient himself, but at last he stood before the door of the clubhouse, facing the guard who was posted there, ready for his moment of destiny.

He held out the letter. “Please, sir, I’d like to see Tom Satriano.”

The guard read the letter, said, “Just a minute,” and disappeared inside.

Desperate, anxious moments passed; Johnny hardly dared to breathe for fear that in some way he would upset the delicate balance of the greatly privileged position he was in. As the seconds passed and nothing whatever happened, he could have screamed from sheer inner tension.

Then the door opened and the guard reappeared. Behind him there was a tall, breathtaking figure in a white baseball uniform. As the man turned to close the door behind him Johnny read the electric number 2 and knew that this was absolutely and truly Tom Satriano himself. When his idol turned toward him, he was so overwhelmed he found that he had lost the power of speech.

And then Tom Satriano held out his hand. Silently Johnny took it; as he felt the strong firm fingers he knew a sudden complete revitalization. Here was the man to whom he could give his complete trust.

“Hello there, cowboy.”

His voice was just wonderful; his hero was everything that Johnny had so wanted him to be.

“Hello, sir,” Johnny managed. “Can I talk to you for just a little bit?”

“I’d like to very much, but I’ve got to get out onto the field. I tell you what-you come back here after the game and I’ll see what I can do. OK?”

“Yes, sir!” Johnny answered.

He knew that no power on earth could hold him from keeping that appointment. He would be there to talk to his wonderful friend, and to ask his advice, even if the stadium itself were to fall down. And if anybody tried to stop him-well, they wouldn’t stop him for long, not while he had his gun ready if he needed it.