Feb. 14, 1958

My very able assistant, name of Charlie, actually isn’t very able.

In fact, at times, he’s rather unable. But it doesn’t really bother me.
First, because the kid listens attentively every time I explain his
mistakes to him. He’s eager to learn. What he lacks in ability and
common sense, he makes up for in heart.

And second, Charlie works cheap.

What does bother me is that he repeatedly finds it necessary to draw me into his personal problems.

Charlie, if you’ll recall, is an ex-Mirror News reporter who had a
habit of wandering off to Mexico every time he found a few extra bucks
in his pocket–and staying there for periods of from one to two years.

The last time he came back to Los Angeles, about a year ago, he brought
along a wife and infant son. She was a sweet, simple girl from a small
south Mexico village, completely unindoctrinated in the sly, devious
ways of American women.

And it’s been Charlie’s problem ever since to keep her out of earshot
of neighboring, more worldly women and yet to shower enough personal
attentions on her to keep her contented with her hermit existence.

And that’s where I come in. Being a man of broad background, I’m
constantly being sought out by Charlie to make his personal decisions
for him.

Like yesterday. Charlie approached me with a revolutionary idea.

"I’m going to buy my wife a valentine," he told me.

I congratulated him on the decision. "Women," I told him, "are always
impressed by sentiments like that, Charlie. I’m proud of you for
thinking of it."

He thanked me and I thought that was the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

About an hour later, he interrupted me while I was interviewing a skid
row fry cook. "If I do buy her a valentine, don’t you think I’ll spoil
her?" Charlie wanted to know.

"No," I promised, calmly.

"But it’ll set a precedent," he argued. "I’ll have to do it every year. She’ll expect it."

"Charlie," I answered firmly. "You can catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than you can with 20 casks of vinegar."

Sufficiently confused, Charlie departed and I returned to my conversation with the fry cook.

And I’d estimate that it was two hours before I saw Charlie again. In
one of my hand-me-down trench coats and felt hats, he walked dejectedly
into my office.

"You been out on a story, boy?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I been out looking at valentines."

"And?"

"Nothing. Not one that expresses my love like I feel it."

It took me only a moment to come up with the idea.

"Charlie," I said, "go back to your desk and sit down and write one yourself. And give it heart, lad."

Charlie broke into a smile. "Great. Great idea! The personal touch–and on company time, too."

Again, he was gone. But shortly, he was back.

"I did it," he exclaimed. "You want to hear it?"

"Do I?" I said. "I wouldn’t miss it for anything."

Charlie fidgeted for a moment. Then he stood at attention, holding a piece of paper nervously in front of him. He began:

"Because I love you dear, I gotta

  "Have you for my enchilada."

 

   
   
There was a long and painful silence, which I finally had to break.
"That’s it? That’s the loving valentine message you’re going to give
your wonderful wife?"

"You don’t like it?" he asked. You could see he was hurt.

"Charlie," I said. "It not only doesn’t make sense but it’s terrible."

But like I mentioned earlier, Charlie can take criticism. He bounces back. It takes him a little while but he does.

In this particular instance, it took about 45 minutes before he
returned. He pushed a card into my hands. On it was a picture of a
poinsettia. I opened it and read the message.

"Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

"How’s that for luck?" he asked. "It’s been in my desk all this time and my wife really loves flowers."

"But Charlie," I started.

"She’ll love it," he interrupted. "She can’t read English."

Feb. 12, 1958

Graduation is supposed to be a pretty happy time.

But for the father of one graduate in this town, matters aren’t too cheerful at the moment.

The man is of above-average income, and he and his wife have done their
level best to bring their boy up to the point where he’d be able to
face the world on his own with a little intelligence and responsibility.

But somewhere along the line, the father admitted to me yesterday, they
had failed. And when their son walked down the aisle of his high school
auditorium last week, the tears in his mother’s eyes weren’t tears of
pride.

They were of fear.

What actually happened in the last few years, neither of the parents
is exactly sure. All they know is that their boy has gone wrong and
that it’s reached a point today where verbal communication between
parents and child have ceased.

The man came to me yesterday to show me another attempt at a solution.
It was a letter–a letter which he planned to leave on the pillow of
his son’s bed last night on the off-chance that the boy would come to
home to sleep.

It read:

"Dear Son:

"It’s probably foolish of me to write you this note, but it’s the only way I can talk to you.

"Why did you lie to me this morning about that car? Has it reached the point where you can’t tell the truth?

"Son, this is very hard for me to say, but it looks as though you’re
going to begin your life as a man in prison. I’ve tried to warn you,
even paid your traffic fines to keep you out of jail, but it looks as
though it’s all been wasted time.

"Maybe you think we don’t love you. If that was true, why would we go through all this hell?

"You’re gradually pushing us right out of your life and we don’t know why.

"Is it because we haven’t told the police about the things you’ve
stolen from us? Is it because we haven’t told them about that ’57
Mercury you’re driving? Or the other cars?

"Sometimes I think you want to be caught, you want us to turn you in.

"And sometimes, I wish I had the courage to do it.

"Son, you still have a chance to do something about it, I think. I want
very much to talk it over with you. But only on one condition.

"You must be fair and honest with me.

"If you are, I’ll do everything in my power to help you make a man of yourself.

"Although sometimes we can’t understand you, we do love you.

"There’s nothing more I can do or say. The rest is up to you.

"All we ask is that you return just a little of our love and that you be happy 24 hours a day.

"We’re offering you this love out in the open, but if you keep up your
present pace, you’ll only be able to enjoy it during visiting hours.

"Think it over, son. You’re the man now. It’s your move."

The note was signed, "Love, Dad."

It’s a note, I’m afraid, not too dissimilar from the kind which many parents feel the need to write at one time or another.

But which few do.