The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (9 page)
“No, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir. I’m sorry for not smiling when I seen you, Mr. Hatton, sir.”
So, this time, as I neared his location, I put on as big a smile on my face as possible, a smile so large, in fact, that my jaw was beginning to hurt.
“You wipe that little shit eat’n grin off your goddamn face before I knock it off. Do you understand me, boy?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir.”
“You get your little ass over to my office, and you have a seat and wait until I get there. You’re going down, Kiser.”
I stood there shaking, my mind racing in a state of total fear and confusion.
I can’t smile, I can’t not smile. What then do I do with my face?
I never did “go down” for that episode. I went to Hatton’s office and waited before someone finally told me I could go. I went back to the cottage and waited for someone to come get me. Then I waited in my bed for someone to snatch me up during the night. I waited in terror. This time, it didn’t come.
Mr. Hatton’s office building, 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
Because Mr. Hatton was so unpredictable, this building actually put more fear in me than the White House did. This man almost single-handedly made me afraid to smile, and in fact, I suffered through many failed relationships due to my inability to share a genuine smile with the people I loved.
I
t was the start of boxing season, and word was sent down from the main office that everyone had to report to the gymnasium. We Cleveland cottage boys lined up as instructed and marched to the large building. Within the hour, all the boys from all twelve cottages were seated around a boxing ring, fidgeting in anticipation.
I watched Dr. Wexler and Nurse Womack set up the first-aid station. About twenty minutes later, an announcement was made that the matches would be starting.
Two names were called out. The boys got up and walked to the boxing ring. While they tied on their boxing gloves, the coaches told them some of the basic rules.
The boys entered the ring and faced each other.
DONG!
went the bell, signaling them to start boxing.
They charged for each other and began to slug it out as hard as they could. Arms were flying in every direction. Several seconds later, the fight was over.
Out of breath, the boys hugged each other to show that there were no hard feelings, then removed their gloves and climbed through the ropes to take their seat in the stands.
This happened several times, until it was my turn, a turn I wasn’t expecting with so many boys in the gymnasium, not to mention the fact that I had never signed up for boxing. Football, yes, boxing no.
When I heard my name over the loudspeaker, my eyes widened.
“I ain’t gonna do no boxing,” I said, looking over at Mr. Sealander. “I didn’t sign up for no boxing.”
Mr. Sealander just looked at me and pointed to the boxing ring. And that was enough to get me moving.
I got up from my seat and began walking toward the ring. The hundreds of boys in the stands were shouting and yelling with excitement, but I was shaking and scared. My stomach was churning up my breakfast, and I just knew I was going to throw up, right there in front of everyone.
Please, dear God. Please, don’t let me get sick in front of everybody,
I prayed.
Once in the ring, the coach on my side said, “No kicking, shoving, or pushing.”
I stood there in a daze as he tied on my boxing gloves. The next thing I knew, the bell had rung.
My opponent came rushing toward me as fast as he could. Time seemed to slow down as I watched his gloved fist hit my face with full force, knocking me to the mat.
The referee checked if I was okay. I nodded, and started getting up. I was dazed, but I could see and hear the boys in the gymnasium laughing at me. My face turned bright red. My opponent was laughing too.
That’s when I charged at him and started hitting him as hard as I could. I hit him at least twenty or thirty times before he finally fell to the mat. I stood over him, watching his motionless body.
“My God, boy! I ain’t never seen no one hit like that!” shouted the coach excitedly. “You must have hit him twenty times for every time that he hit you!”
Still dazed, I looked into the crowd. The boys were hooting and hollering for me now, but I couldn’t hear them. Everything was silent.
For the next ten weeks, despite the fact that I didn’t want to box, that I hated boxing, I had to take on another opponent. Every week I somehow managed to win the match. Every day of those ten weeks, I felt sick to my stomach and could barely keep my food down. It didn’t matter if I was in the ring or not, I was just plain scared.
On the night of the boxing championships, I heard I was going to have to fight a boy named Wayne. Hearing that news almost pushed me over the edge. Wayne was much larger and taller than I was, and he was mean. In the dining hall one day, I had seen him beat another boy with a metal tray without blinking an eye.
I went into Mr. Sealander’s office several hours before the fight. I told him I did not feel good and that he should send me to the infirmary to be checked, but Mr. Sealander only sent me back to my bunk to rest.
So, there I was, lying on my bed, listening to the music coming from the speaker. Hot tears were running down my face, and I kept watch on the doorway to make sure none of the other boys would come in and see me crying.
“Roger, time to get ready,” said Mr. Sealander, shaking me awake from the brief sleep I’d fallen into.
Next I know, there I am, standing in my corner, watching and waiting for Wayne. When he approached the ring, the coach shouted to me, “Look at him. Look him directly in the eye!”
Slowly, I raised my head and stared directly at my opponent. He looked at me for a second, then turned away, but I kept my eyes on him.
My legs began to shake, my chest began to flutter, and I was about to throw up. Still, when Wayne looked over at me, my line of sight hadn’t been broken.
“Now, slap your gloves together,” the coach told me. “Show him that ‘killer instinct’ you have.”
“What makes you say I have killer instinct?” I asked the coach, alarmed.
Matron Mother Winters from the orphanage had said the very same thing about me to the judge.
“This boy has the ‘killer instinct,’” she’d said. “He poured ink into the aquarium and killed all the goldfish.”
It wasn’t true, and the matron knew that. By this time, I learned there was no use in defending myself, that what I had to say meant nothing to anyone, so I said nothing.
I did as the coach said and slapped my gloves together several times, then dropped my hands to my sides.
Meanwhile, in the other corner, Wayne and his coach were arguing. Then, I watched in total surprise and relief as the coach began to untie Wayne’s gloves. When the first glove was removed, it was thrown into the ring. The boys in the gym clapped and hollered.
“The Golden Gloves champion is Roger Dean Kiser from Cleveland cottage!” sounded the voice from the loudspeakers.
I fell to my knees, placing my gloves on each side of my face. Then I fell forward onto the mat crying. By no means were they tears of joy. I was crying because I was glad it was finally over. I was tired of feeling sick and being scared. I did not move from that position until the entire gym had been cleared and become silent.
“Come on, champ. Here’s your trophy,” said Mr. Sealander, grabbing hold of my arm to lift me up.
Slowly, I got to my feet, and I looked around the large arena. I reached down and began to untie the strings on my gloves using my teeth.
“I am very proud of you,” he said, and placed his hand on my shoulder. I jerked it away.
Mr. Sealander drove me back to the cottage in his Roadster. It was a small, green English sports car that no boy had ever had the privilege of riding in before.
As we drove, the glow from the streetlights flashed off of the golden trophy, but all that kept replaying in my mind was that troubling statement, “You have the killer instinct.”
I slipped the trophy behind the driver’s seat. I didn’t want to see it, and, in fact, I never did see it again. I wanted no part of something that would make people think I had the “killer instinct.”
I
had been assigned to work in the dry-cleaning department, which was attached to the left side of the laundry building. One afternoon, I was on the right-hand press when I heard a commotion outside on the large cement walkway. Turning to look, I did not see the supervisor, so I walked to the double doorway and peeked outside. Boys were running in every direction.
Not knowing if something was about to blow up, I called out, “What happened?!”
“He’s dead, and he’s in the tumble dryer!” cried a boy.
At that moment, I saw the supervisor walking toward me, so I ran over to the press and began working on the uniforms.
When he entered the room, I turned to him and asked, “Who’s dead?”
“Another one of you little fuckers just bit the dust,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Just shut up and get back to work,” he snapped.
About ten minutes later he got up from his desk and walked outside as several cars pulled up to the walkway. Lines of boys were marching away, two abreast down the roadway. As the supervisor walked down the ramp, I ran over to the large window and peered outside. Unable to see down the ramp, I went to the door and stuck my head out.
Within ten minutes, the area was completely cleared of boys. Then, several men came out of the laundry building carrying what appeared to be a body covered in a white blanket or sheet. The bundle was thrown into the backseat of one of the cars and fell to the floorboard. The doors were closed and the car sped away.
I ran back to my work station and turned off the steam valves and prepared myself to go back to my cottage. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, our supervisor returned and told us to go back to our cottages.
On the way back to the cottage, I heard that the boy who was killed was a black boy; someone else said it was a white boy. (It always confused me why the white boys and black boys were kept separate.)
I heard that the boy, who may have been there to deliver dirty laundry, had got right up into the face of the laundry supervisor and began cursing him. The supervisor told several of the boys to put him in the tumble dryer, and they obeyed. Days later, word was going around that some boys overheard the cottage housefathers saying that the dead boy’s body was taken out into the woods and dumped in a shallow grave.
Who would be next?
I wondered.
