In Cold Blood - Truman Capote [61]
in Acapulco, a thief had stolen the Gibson guitar - absconded with it from a waterfront cafe" where he, Otto, Dick, and the Cowboy had been bidding one another a highly alcoholic goodbye. And Perry was bitter about it. He felt, he later said, "real mean and low," explaining, "You have a guitar long enough, like I had that one, wax and shine it, fit your voice to it, treat it like it was a girl you really had some use for - well, it gets to be kind of holy." But while the purloined guitar presented no ownership problem, his remaining property did. As he and Dick would now be traveling by foot or thumb, they clearly could not carry with them more than a few shirts and socks. The rest of their clothing would have to be shipped - and, indeed, Perry had already filled a cardboard carton (putting into it - along with some bits of unlaundered laundry - two pairs of boots, one pair with soles that left a Cat's Paw print, the other pair with diamond-pattern soles) and addressed it to himself, care of General Delivery, Las Vegas, Nevada. But the big question, and source of heartache, was what to do with his much-loved memorabilia - the two huge boxes heavy with books and maps, yellowing letters, song lyrics, poems, and unusual souvenirs (suspenders and a belt fabricated from the skins of Nevada rattlers he himself had slain; an erotic netsuke bought in Kyoto; a petrified dwarf tree, also from Japan; the foot of an Alaskan bear). Probably the best solution - at least, the best Perry could devise - was to leave the stuff with "Jesus." The "Jesus" he had in mind tended bar in a cafe across the street from the hotel, and was, Perry thought, muy simpatico, definitely someone he could trust to return the boxes on demand. (He intended to send for them as soon as he had a "fixed address.") Still, there were some things too precious to chance losing, and while the lovers drowsed and time dawdled on toward 2:00 p.m., Perry looked through old letters, photographs, clippings, and selected from them those mementos he meant to take with him. Among them was a badly typed composition entitled "A History of My Boy's Life." The author of this manuscript was Perry's father, who in an effort to help his son obtain a parole from Kansas State Penitentiary, had written it the previous December and mailed it to the Kansas State Parole Board. It was a document that Perry had read at least a hundred times, never with indifference: Childhood - Be glad to tell you, as I see it, both good and bad. Yes, Perry birth was normal. Healthy - yes. Yea, I was able to care for him properly until my wife turned out to be a disgraceful drunkard when my children were at school age. Happy disposition - yes and no, very serious if mistreated he never forgets. I also keep my promises and make him do so. My wife was different. We lived in the country. We are all truly outdoor people. I taught my children the Golden Rule. Live & let live and in many cases my children would tell on each other when doing wrong and the guilty one would always admit, and come forward, willing for a spanking. And promise to be good, and always done their work quickly and willing so they could be free to play. Always wash themselves first thing in the morning, dress in clean clothes, I was very strict about that, and wrong doings to others, and if wrong was done to them by other kids I made them quit playing with them. Our children were no trouble to us as long as we were together. It all started when my wife wanted to go to the City and live a wild life - and ran away to do so. I let her go and said goodbye as she took the car and left me behind (this was during depression). My children all cryed at the top of their voices. She only cussed them saying they would run away to come to me later. She got mad and then said she would turn the children to hate me, which she did, all but Perry. For the love of my children after several months I went to find them, located them in San Francisco, my wife not knowing. I tryed to see them in school. My wife had given orders to the teacher not to let me see them.