Blood, Sweat and Tears Read online

  Fred worked as a constable on the Willowdale police force for a while, but that didn’t last long. Rumour had it that he couldn’t control his temper and was let go for beating prisoners. He bounced from job to job until he settled on a lifetime career with North York Hydro as a lineman. He hated the job. Standing on his spurs on a hydro pole in a sub-zero blizzard repairing downed power lines was not what he expected from life. He stayed there for forty years, just for the retirement benefits. He was a bitter, angry man who felt the world had betrayed him. After coming back from seven years of war, twice wounded and a highly decorated veteran, he thought he would return home a national hero, but when wars are over heroes are forgotten, and he was relegated to blue-collar jobs commensurate with his grade-school education. He worked long, hard hours for his money and he let us know it at every opportunity. We weren’t poor—he made decent money at Hydro and my mother worked full-time as a secretary at the township offices—but Fred was born of the Great Depression, and it had left him almost pathologically frugal. He sent his boys to school in bargain-basement clothes and hand-me-downs … not exactly the way to build self-esteem in the peeroriented world of young people.

  Fred would count candies, fruit, cookies and the contents of the fridge before he went to work in the morning. When he came home, if anything was missing, it was down to the basement, where John and I would be alternately whipped until one of us confessed to the unspeakable crime of stealing a slice of pie. Fred and Freda both worked until 5:00 p.m., so John and I would be home alone for a few hours after school every day. Leaving two boys alone in the house with cookies and candies was just too much temptation for a kid. So we would take turns confessing—“I took the whipping yesterday, it’s your turn today.” We were never allowed to feel that it was our home and that it was okay to have a piece of pie after school. It was Fred Thomsett’s house—everything in it belonged to him and nothing happened without his permission. Fred ruled his world like a master sergeant, barking orders enforced by slaps and insults—never a word of approval, never a hint of affection. Fred Thomsett’s word was law and God help anyone who didn’t snap to and obey him instantly. That may have worked in the army but it’s not what a kid needs from his father. I hated every minute I was forced to spend with him.

  Fred was a hunter and kept a large kennel of dogs in the backyard—blueticks, redbones, black and tans, a big, rugged hunting pack. Fred’s dogs were his pride and joy. I inherited from him a lifelong love of dogs but I didn’t share his love of hunting. Lying in wait in the bush, shivering in the cold morning air under the always critical eye of my father, waiting for the dogs to drive a beautiful animal up the ravine so you could kill it was not my idea of a good time.

  My best friend in those days was Bill Pugliese. He lived a few doors away on McKee Avenue, and from grade six on we had a special friendship. Bill’s dad ran a two-chair barbershop in Willowdale and was well liked by everyone. Sam Pugliese was a kindly Italian immigrant with a thick accent. He and his wife were always good to me. Bill and I walked to school together every day and we hit it off right away. When something funny happened in class and no one else seemed to notice, I knew if I caught Bill’s eye there would be a twinkle that said “I get it.” We shared the same sense of humour and we loved the same kind of music. In our early teens we would sit up in his room late at night listening to the R&B stations from Buffalo on his portable radio. Little Richard, Fats Domino and Bo Diddley—the best R&B was played on a late-night Buffalo station by a DJ called the Hound: “Round sounds from the Hound, awooooo … The Hound’s around.” Country music was king in Canada but Bill and I only listened to “black music.”

  The Pugliese home became a refuge for me. When the beatings and abuse became too much at my house I could always escape to the warmth and kindness of Bill’s place. My habit of running to Bill’s house when I had problems would last for the rest of my life. In later years, when he had become a very wealthy man, there was always a room at Bill’s place that the family laughingly referred to as “David’s room.” Whenever I needed help—for marital problems, business concerns—or when I just needed to get away for a few days, I could call Bill and, without question, my room was made ready.

  Marlon Brando was our hero from the first time we saw The Wild One. We wanted to be rebel bikers just like Brando and had to have motorcycles to impress the local girls. As soon as we were old enough Bill and I had Harleys, cast-off cop bikes with a three-speed shifter on the tank and a suicide clutch, which we bought cheap at police auctions and stripped down for the street. We wore black leather jackets with chrome studs, greasy blue jeans and motorcycle boots, our hair slicked back with Brylcreem. We’d roar around Willowdale on our straight-piped Harleys and cruise the local drive-in for chicks.

  I began running away from home at an early age. I remember once when I was no more than twelve I hitchhiked to Niagara Falls and tried to cross the border into the States. The border guards took one look at this kid with no luggage, no identification, and detained me until I told them where I lived. My father drove down to the border and took me home, bitching and complaining all the way that he had to lose time from work to come down and pick up his useless no-good son. It never occurred to him to wonder why a twelve-year-old was so terrified of going home that he was trying to jump the border to get away. This was all just an embarrassing inconvenience to him and I knew when he got me home I was really going to get it.

  Over the next three years things got worse at home. I found out in later years that Fred had developed a serious drinking problem around that time. His temper was out of control and his rebellious son wasn’t helping matters. Of course the fact that he was drinking didn’t really register with a young teenager. All I knew was that home was not a pleasant place to be and I tried to run away several more times. Each time, the cops picked me up and brought me back for yet another beating. Now I was getting big enough to be a physical challenge to my father. Our battles got more violent. When we clashed it was serious. Furniture got broken. My mother was afraid one of us was going to kill the other. Finally, there was an incident that brought the hostilities to an explosion.

  When I was about fifteen I had an adolescent crush on a girl named Diane. She came from a nice middle-class neighbourhood. Her dad was an accountant. They were a kind and loving family and made me feel welcome in their home. Diane, for some reason, really liked this scruffy working-class kid and one evening she invited me to have dinner with her family. I was painfully aware of my shabby clothes and tattered, smelly old sneakers so I took a chance. I decided to “borrow” a pair of my father’s shoes, hoping I could bring them back before he discovered they were missing. They were three sizes too big, but at least I would have neat, clean shoes for my dinner with Diane’s family. Halfway through dinner there was a commotion at the front door. It was my father in a rage because his shoes were missing. He stormed into the house and dragged me by the scruff of the neck into their backyard, where he beat the hell out of me. Fists and boots, karate chops—the works. Fred was a trained killer and he knew how to fight. He ripped the shoes off and tore the clothes from my back, leaving me bloody and naked on the lawn except for my underpants. Diane’s parents were powerless to stop this big raging brute of a man and called the police. Most of the Willowdale cops had worked with my dad in his police days and were drinking buddies of his. Basically, they told Diane’s father that I was a bad kid and probably deserved everything I was getting. At this point in my life I really believed I was “a bad kid.” I must be. My father told me constantly how “useless” I was and I had come to accept this as a fact.

  I crept away in shame, unable to face Diane and her family. Barefoot and half-naked, I walked several miles to the Puglieses’ house, where they took me in, cleaned me up and fed me. By this time they were used to seeing me appear at their home battered and bloody. No one wanted to face my father’s rage and calling the police did no good—they would just take me back to my father for another beating
. I was so ashamed that I couldn’t even face the Puglieses so the next morning I borrowed some clothes from Bill and left. I would never go back home again.

  I Can’t Complain

  I’m standin’ on the corner, cryin’ in the pourin’ rain

  I’m standin’ on the corner, cryin’ in the pourin’ rain

  I’m out here waitin’ for my baby, but you know me, I can’t complain

  My daughter stays out all night, and my son has joined a gang

  My daughter stays out all night, and my son has joined a gang

  And all the things I told them, just don’t seem to mean a thing

  I’m standin’ on the corner in the pourin’ rain

  Bought myself a ticket, but I missed the train

  I’m downtown, knocked down, broke again

  But you know me, pal, I can’t complain

  I paid my parkin’ tickets, now I can’t afford a car

  I paid my parkin’ tickets, now I can’t afford a car

  Ah, but that don’t bother me, pal, you know I wasn’t goin’ too far

  Lyrics by David Clayton-Thomas. Copyright © Clayton-Thomas Music Publishing Inc., 2007.

  2

  GUELPH REFORMATORY

  Iwas now a street kid in Toronto, and street kids need to develop some basic survival techniques. I found that the bakery trucks came around with their deliveries at 5:00 a.m. and I could grab a box of doughnuts before the restaurants opened. That was breakfast. Honest Ed’s retail store downtown had racks of clothing hanging outside on the sidewalk and the security guards were usually retirees who couldn’t possibly outrun a fast fifteen-year-old. Office buildings usually locked up around 9:00 p.m. after the maintenance crews were finished, and if I crept into the basement by 8:00, I could sleep in the furnace room till dawn. At night I would prowl the empty offices, where there was usually spare change in the desk drawers, and that would get me through the next day. I seldom slept in the same place twice.

  I discovered that the used car lots didn’t always lock the cars at night and I could sleep in the back seats. That began my life of crime. It wasn’t long before I figured that since I was sleeping in the car anyway, maybe I could figure out how to hot-wire it and have my own ride, maybe even pick up a girl at the local drive-in. Of course I got caught. At first I got probation, but after a couple of arrests for vagrancy, joyriding and probation violations, the magistrate, at the recommendation of my father, sent me up to the reformatory at Guelph, Ontario, to “make a man of me.” And thus a criminal is born. I was sixteen. In retrospect I believe I wanted to be caught. Being homeless during the winter in Canada is not a pleasant prospect. At least in the reformatory I didn’t have to worry about where my next meal was coming from and I would have a roof over my head.

  Introduction to the reformatory was a deliberately demoralizing experience. It was all very military. Most of the guards were ex-servicemen and “the joint” was governed by military rules. Incoming inmates were stripped, showered and had their heads shaved. They were issued prison denims, boots, a towel and blanket, toothbrush and comb. Then they were paraded double-time through the cellblock in their underwear, carrying their prison issue while the entire inmate population hooted and hollered at the new “fish.” It was a process designed to cut down to size any young smartass who thought he was a tough guy.

  At Guelph Reformatory I learned a whole new set of rules. The first thing you learn is that the guards lock and unlock the gates, tell you when to sleep and eat and where you will work. Other than that, the inmates run the joint. If you break the guards’ rules you may get a few days in “the hole.” Break the inmate code and you can get killed. An elaborate code governs the joint. Inmates have their own pecking order. At the top of the food chain are the “Wheels.” These are the coolest and the most deadly of the prisoners. Their denims are always neatly pressed and they are rich in prison currency, called “bales,” packs of tobacco that can buy almost anything in jail—extra food, dope, booze, sex, whatever can be smuggled in. Many of the guards were on the take and almost anything was available. In the insulated society of the joint, the Wheels ruled. Even the guards treated them with respect. The institution used these guys to keep a lid on the place. The Wheels ran crap games, took bets on sports and were not to be crossed. Retribution was swift and brutal and the “screws” were usually looking the other way.

  The majority of the inmates were solid guys who didn’t want to play joint politics. They just wanted to stay out of trouble, build up some “good time” and get the hell out of there. At the bottom of the food chain were the “goofs” and “rats.” Goofs were just harmless misfits who could be victimized at will. They got bullied and punched around occasionally but it was never that serious. They would give up their bales and their desserts to pay off anyone who threatened them, and they endured the slaps and the insults without protest. These guys didn’t really belong there. They did hard time but they survived. Anyone labelled a “rat” was in deadly peril. He didn’t have to actually inform on anyone. A rumour could get you killed. If the screws found out that a guy was being called a rat, he would be taken out of the general population and locked in isolation for his own protection for the rest of his “bit.” Suicide attempts were not uncommon in isolation. It’s a hard, lonely way to do time.

  I was only at Guelph a few months when a guy who was labelled a rat was given what was considered to be a safe job. He ran the elevator in the tower, the central control area in the joint, accessible only to guards and trustees. One morning the rat was found beaten to death, his skull crushed. The weapon used was the detachable steel handle from the elevator mechanism. To the best of my knowledge no one was ever prosecuted for the murder. The wall of silence closed around the perpetrator and the prison officials were none too eager to start pulling guys out of the yard to start a major investigation. That would fire up another round of rat rumours and there would be more violence. No one rats, so the investigation fizzles. They make their own rules in the joint.

  The main work detail at Guelph was the Bull Gang at the rock quarry. The “buggy line” on the Bull Gang was a line of perhaps fifty wheelbarrows that went up the hill empty and brought the crushed rock down the hill to trucks that took it out to the highway, where it was used in provincial road projects. The buggy line was ruled by an absolute order. The first buggy was always the top Wheel in the joint. He was followed by his henchmen, who were usually the biggest guys on the gang—iron pumpers with huge biceps, small brains and vicious tempers. The top Wheel seldom fought. He was too cool and never got his neatly pressed denims dirty. He had enforcers to take care of his problems.

  The Bull Gang was ruled by a sergeant called “the Dick,” a nickname he got because his chiselled profile resembled that of the comic-book character Dick Tracy. He was an ex–Royal Marine commando and the toughest man I ever knew. No one crossed the Dick. He seldom brought troublemakers up on charges—he dealt with them personally. He was a trained killing machine and would take on the toughest inmates who dared challenge him. A fight with the Dick was over in seconds and usually ended with the inmate in the hospital. The Dick ran the Bull Gang with an iron fist and a system of buggy-line protocol. The Wheels were allowed to associate with the Dick and they kept everyone else in their place in the line.

  All disputes were settled twice a day at “smoke-up,” two fifteen-minute smoke breaks, morning and afternoon, under the supervision of the Dick. The men would form a circle in the pit of the quarry, bales would be wagered and the two guys would have it out bare-knuckled. The smoke-up fights had basic rules: fists only, no boots, no gouging. The fight lasted until one guy quit or was so badly beaten that the Dick had to step in and end it. The winner then took his place in the buggy line. It worked and in a strange way kept the violence to a minimum because if you were called out at smoke-up, no retaliation was allowed. You had it out then and there and it was over. If a loser tried to ambush the other guy later in the yard or in the cellblock, this was a
serious violation of the code and he would be attacked by the other inmates. Fighting every day to determine in what order I pushed a wheelbarrow up the hill seemed like an idiotic exercise to me. I didn’t really give a damn about the pecking order on the buggy line, so I volunteered for the hammer-and-shovel crew, breaking big rocks into little ones to be loaded into the buggies. It was tough, heavy work but usually the buggy-line guys left you alone. The hammer crew was made up of heavily muscled guys who didn’t care about the politics of the buggy line. They just didn’t want to be fucked with.

  I signed up for the prison boxing squad. We had the dubious honour of having the Canadian middleweight champion, Brian Kelly, at Guelph Reformatory. He was in on an assault beef and the superintendent allowed him to put together and train a boxing team to stage fights every Saturday. The idea was that this would provide a relief for the simmering tension always present in the joint and would in its own way control violence. If you got called out you could always say, “Okay, motherfucker, in the ring on Saturday.” Then the inmate code required that the guy fight you, Marquess of Queensberry rules, in the gym on Saturday afternoon. It beat the hell out of going at it with shanks in the yard. The code ruled that if a guy lost a fight in the ring and later attacked you in the yard, he had broken the rules, and retaliation by the other inmates was brutal. Not only did they want to see the boxing matches on the weekend, but there was heavy wagering by inmates and guards alike on the fights, so the combatants were protected by the code.

  Brian Kelly took a liking to me and I got a lot of personal attention in my training. The boxing team trained three nights a week and fought on Saturday afternoons. Any time spent out of lockdown was good time in the joint. I was a big, strong middleweight, heavily muscled from swinging a ten-pound hammer all day and no stranger to slipping punches, thanks to a childhood spent as a punching bag for my father. I had a huge reserve of pent-up rage and soon got a reputation as a pretty capable fighter. Reputation is everything in the joint and after a few knockouts no one bothered me anymore. That’s the best situation you can hope for in the joint, to be left alone. The guys band together in small groups for protection and friendship, but people come and go in the joint, so most friendships are brief. The place is full of predators, hustlers and con men, always on the prowl, looking for any edge. It’s not a place to inspire trust in your fellow man. And at the end of the day you are in your cell … alone.