Wilson Vocational High School - Columns Yearbook (Jamaica, NY)

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Then a loud voice boomed out. Attention all prisoners! All heads pivoted towards the voice. It has been brought to my attention that bread crumbs have been found under the tables. With this, I started for the door. I painstakingly opened it so that not a sound would be made. All was clear, I ascended the stairs in leaps and bounds. I reached the first floor unseen. A cold, damp sweat bathed my body. Unseen, I had reached the last obstacle, the front door. According to my plan, the guard would not be there yet, but there was a miscalculation. The guard was sitting on a chair reading The Road to Insanity or Going My Way? I had read that a month ago for a book report. Perhaps we had something in common. Maybe I could persuade him to let me out, but then again, there might be no bargaining with the law. Violent emotions rose within me, and I suddenly felt an urge to turn back, but there was no retreating. I would have to fight my way out. A feeling of calm spread over me as I clutched the door. The guard sud- denly became aware of my presence. He spoke, Where are you going, bub? Trying to restrain myself, I answered, Why just outside. Have you a parole card? This was my chance. I answered, Why sure, right here. My hand reached back for my weapon, but apparently he caught sight of it, for his water pistol spoke first. I could hear the steps of Warden Weiss echoing down the corridor. I-Ie was coming to take me to the cooking room where I would be forced to taste one of everything. It was extremely clear that no matter how strong my con- stitution, I could not withstand such punishment. The steps were getting closer now. Then-!! I will close with a thought that you, the youth of America, will heed. Remember, Crime does not pay. ED VERMILYEA i i' 'k 'k if i' OTHER CRIMINALS IN LITERATURE Remember O. Henry's charming crook, Iimmy Valentine, gentleman and locker picker? . . . or, lean Valjean, Victor Hugo's great hero, who stole a loaf of bread and was hounded all his life for it? . . . or, The two unfortunate kidnappers in The Ransom of Red Chief who were finally willing to pay the brat's father if he would take his son back? Seven

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SAQFACL .y0!l'Yle5 af ,MA 50l'l Even Egghead Murphy, fresh from a successful career of breaking the law at P.S. 37, couldn't get past Warden Weiss and his assistants. Crime at Woodrow Wilson definitely does not pay. k 'A' k it 1' 'k I-IE Judge spoke: Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your ver- dict? Yes, your honor, we have, answered the foreman. I recognized the last speaker. I-le was the shop teacher at P.S. 37 against whom I had committed many atrocities. For a while I was lost in the past. I remembered the astonished look on his face when he had found the frog I had planted in his desk. I remembered the agonized scream that had rent the air when his body met the tack I had planted on his seat. Now he was facing me. We find the defendant, Egghead Murphy, guilty of having learned noth- ing in ten years at P.S. 37. The courtroom buzzed loudly, but the continuous rapping of the judge's gavel soon brought silence. Will the defendant please rise? asked the judge. With a smirk on my face, I rose and faced the jury. The judge began, his voice sounded like the knell of doom. Egghead, you have heard the verdictg I hereby sentence you to four years hard labor at Woodrow Wilson Prison. Woodrow Wilson Prison! These words echoed and re-echoed in my head. I had hoped for Alcatraz or even Sing Sing, but Woodrow Wilson was more than a nightmare. I had seen morons go in there, still in their youth, to come out experienced, hardened idiots. Soon enough, I began to miss the matinees at the Valencia and the games of chance in the lots on l37th Avenue. There could be only one way out- escape. It would take months of careful planning and studying. For a time I did nothing but watch and observe. I knew when guards changed their posts and when the trusties returned to their cells. I prepared to go through with a well-organized plan. They herded us into the cafeteria like cattle. I wisely maneuvered myself about to the last table adjacent to the door. I hardly touched my bread and water, but instead gazed intently all about me. At last a guard went to adjust the loud speaker situated in the center of the cafeteria. I checked to see that all was ready. My weapon was tucked away in my back pocket. Six

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Eight OLD' Cdriey af fke af Baseball is true democracy It's practiced every day, And each time it is practiced lt's done the American way, It matters not whatever your creed Nor the color of your skin- lt you can hit, or field, or pitch, Then, brother, you are in, There's a Rosen, a Robinson, a Rizzuto, lt matters not the name, The only thing that matters to us ls the Way they play the game, No Wonder we love baseball For it has always shown Us how to love our neighbor Tho our cheers be all he own, Baseball keeps away the clouds of hate So there's always sunny weather, Be like players on a ball team Always live and work together, For the Ways ot baseball are examples For the Whole wide world to see, lust follow these examples And be on the side of democracy. LEE HAUSCHILD and LYNN BROOKS i' 'A' 'k 'k 'k 'k BASEBALL IN LITERATURE Have you read . . . ? Iackie Robinson's life story loe DiMaggio's Lucky To Be A Yankee The Babe Ruth Story Any of the fine books about Lou Gehrig Bill Stern's Baseball Stories