Bayou City History
A boy named Joe
By J.R. Gonzales on June 4, 2008 at 12:01 AM
From top, Houston Post, Houston Press, Houston Chronicle headlines, January 1964
Shortly before 9 p.m. on Jan. 17, 1964, a 13-year-old boy named Joe walked inside the Sears store off Harrisburg and Wayside.
For a while, the teen hid from employees and customers. Once the store had cleared out, Joe helped himself to a couple of Masonic rings, some luggage, clothes and a cigarette lighter.
What Joe didn't realize was that when these stores close, they're pretty much locked from the inside, too. In an attempt to break out of the store, he loaded some .22-caliber revolvers and fired at the plate glass windows, triggering a burglar alarm.
This is the part where HPD — and a few German shepherds — get involved.
"With an infantry-style rush, the officers and dogs crashed into the store and arrested the two-gun terror — a skinny, dark-eyed 13-year-old boy, who surrendered meekly," the Houston Chronicle reported.
Joe told police he wanted to steal some clothes and give it away, but he later admitted that was a lie.
"He's a smooth little cookie," said juvenile officer E.R. McElroy, as quoted in the Houston Press. "Half of what he tells you is a snow job. He's a real con artist. First he tries to make you feel sorry for him because he's neglected, and then he tells you how much he thinks of his parents."
The damage from Joe's shooting spree totaled $3,000 ($20,000 in today's dollars). For the crime, Joe spent some time in juvenile custody.
Looking back at the newspaper coverage reveals three sides to this story.
The Houston Press described him as a con artist.
The Houston Post called him a "pint-sized Robin Hood."
The Houston Chronicle called him a "2-gun terror."
But you know what?
I called him Uncle Joe.
Bayou City History has been a part of the Chronicle now for one year, two years overall. And over the last couple of months I was thinking how I could mark the occasion.
I've shared dozens of stories of Houstonians who have long since faded away. But I wanted — just this one time — to share with you a story that's just as much a part of Houston history as any other story you've read on this blog.
Unfortunately, it wasn't the last time Uncle Joe made the news. In 1983, a bullet fired by an HPD officer pierced his neck, leaving him a quadriplegic. Was my uncle somewhere he shouldn't have been? Yes. Was my uncle to blame for the shooting incident? Probably.
Sometimes we judge people by their actions toward others and sometimes we judge people by their actions toward us. I can say that Uncle Joe treated me like I was his favorite nephew.
Joseph Anthony Gonzales, August 1976
As a kid, I remember the time he let me control his motorized wheelchair as we made our way across the Main Street bridge to check out the University of Houston-Downtown, where he was attending classes. Back then, he stayed at the school's University Center, which was located across Commerce if I recall correctly.
To be honest, I can't remember how I felt seeing him in that wheelchair, his voice radically changed, his hands locked in a frozen grip. But, yet, later that day, after we returned to the University Center, I remember feeling disappointed for him when he couldn't reach the controls to play a video game in a recreation room.
Months later, he gave me his computer, a Commodore 64, which helped stoke my interest in computers that continues to this day.
I remember visiting him in what seemed like an endless string of nursing homes. The conversations we had back then are getting harder to remember now, but I do recall him being very proud of my grade-school achievements. He even showed up at my first Little League baseball game.
I regret not visiting him more often as I entered my teens. Adolescent boys don't seem to realize the value of spending time with older relatives. We never think about the day when we'll never see them alive again.
That day has already come and gone. His medical problems mounting, Joseph Anthony Gonzales — rapscallion, merchant mariner, UH student and my uncle — died in a Houston hospice in 1995.
I've shared a story from my family. Now let me ask you: Did you — or a relative — ever make the local news?
J.R. Gonzales