The Rejected Writer's Journal

Tell me a story ...

2012-01-29T14:32:00.000-08:00

THE LESSON

Senior year, fall semester: Nick walked up the broad ramp that led to the second story of the main building. He found the room designated for the class—U.S. History—and took a desk in the middle of the room. The instructor would be Mr. Sauer and he had the reputation of being a tough taskmaster.

Earl entered the room and took the desk next to Nick. They’d had a few classes together and, though they weren’t close friends, they’d always gotten along well. They chatted casually as the room filled, waiting for the instructor to arrive.

The bell rang and Mr. Sauer made his entrance. Nick had seen him around campus, with his tweed jackets, his horned-rim glasses, and an expression on his face that suggested chronic indigestion. He dropped a stack of books on the desk and then took his stance behind the old wooden lectern. He proceeded to call roll, constructing a seating chart in the process. When he finished, he wrote rapidly for a minute, ripped a piece of paper from his pad, and then walked down the aisle to Earl’s desk.

“You are not in this class.” He dropped the folded piece of paper. “Take this note to your counselor and get reassigned.” He turned and walked away.

Nick was shocked. It seemed like Mr. Sauer was angry, as though Earl had done something to offend him.

Earl looked at Nick and grinned. “See ya around, Nick.” He picked up his books and headed for the door.

Nick looked around at his classmates. Earl’s departure left the class lily white; not a black face in the room.

Mr. Sauer began his opening lecture. We are going to study U.S. History, from the founding of the nation until the present. You will be issued a textbook. There will be supplemental texts. Do your reading. Come prepared. Participate in class. Turn in your work on time. From the expression on his face and the tone of his voice, Nick could tell that this was serious business.

“What form of government do we have in the United States?” Sauer launched into a classic Socratic discussion, using his seating chart to call out names and shine the spotlight in their eyes. He let the discussion roll on for a few minutes. “Okay. Good. What we have …,” he paused for effect and everyone got ready to make a note, “is a republic. Or a representative democracy, if you will. Let’s take that word ‘democracy.’ What does that mean?”

Again, he worked his way through the seating chart, letting students offer definitions. “Okay. Good. What democracy means to me is this…,” pencils poised again, “the recognition of the worth and dignity of every individual.”

It was an electric moment for Nick, one of those ideas that clicks in your brain. He wrote it down and he would remember it for the rest of his life. In Nick’s mind, every ideal that we believe and pursue in this country flows from that definition. Equal rights under the law. One man, one vote. Civil rights. Women’s rights. Freedom of speech. The right to assemble peacefully. The list goes on, but it all comes from that idea.

Earl went on to have a fine career as an educator, rising to be an administrator at the community college level. Nick never asked him why old man Sauer had summarily booted him out of the class. But he never forgot either one of them, or the lesson he learned that day about the worth and dignity of every individual.

_____

PEACE WITH HONOR

Martin sat in his wheelchair watching the images on the television screen: desperate men, women, and children scrambling up the staircase on the roof of the U.S. embassy in Saigon, attempting to board the helicopter, their last chance to escape. How many would make it? How many would be left behind, and what would happen to them? Martin wanted to scream, to throw something at the screen, but there was nothing within reach.

His physical therapist entered the room, come to take him for his daily regimen of learning to walk again. Allison was a fine professional: strong, knowledgeable, compassionate, dedicated. She looked at Martin’s face, then at the television screen. She found the remote and turned it off. It was quiet then, for a moment.

“Look, that’s not your concern. It’s over. It’s done. Listen to me—”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not your life anymore, Lieutenant. Are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s done with. Nothing more you can do. Okay?”

“Right.”

“You did your job. You did the best you could. True?

“Yeah.”

“Now your job is to get well. To get well and walk out of here. Got it?”

“Sure.”

She took control of his chair and wheeled him through the door and into the hall. “All right then. Let’s get this show on the road. Got a tough day’s work ahead.”

Martin didn’t answer. He knew she was right. This was his life now: to work, to learn, to get stronger every day, and as she said, to walk out of this damn VA hospital. Vietnam wasn’t his problem anymore. The dead and the wounded weren’t his problem either. How many dead? Was it fifty thousand? How many wounded? He couldn’t remember. This place was full of them, kids mostly. Some would recover, live fairly normal lives. Some would not. Some would swallow a gun, or shoot poison in their veins. Some would drink themselves to death. And for what? Don’t think about that. What was accomplished? Don’t even go there. Why were we there? Just forget about it. You went where they sent you and you did your job. Let it go. It’s not your life anymore, Martin. Now it’s done and it’s not part of you, not ever again.

None of it.

Not one friggin’ goddamn bit.

_____

Okay, new round...

2012-01-07T09:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers:

Here we go: write the opening sentence, 25 words or less, for a story based on the picture below. My top four possible submissions are as follows:

"Wait, Mr. Buffet, your wallet," Eddie cried, oblivious to the Prius bearing down on that very spot.

It was the old Charlie Brown football trick, and Ralphie was totally unsuspecting as he reached for the wallet.

Buddy reached eagerly for the fat wallet, unaware of Ashton's film crew waiting to shout "You've been Punked!"

Michael Anthony reached for the wallet, all those years ago, unaware that the rightful owner was none other than John Beresford Tipton. (Note: you have to be of a certain age to appreciate this one.)

So, vote for your favorite, or submit an entry of your own. Can't wait to hear from you: cspiggidy2@hotmail.com.

Wahoo!

2012-01-06T11:32:00.000-08:00

Wahoo, is right! I won a contest! The challenge was to write the opening sentence, twenty-five words or less, to a story based on the picture below. My winning entry was the following:

Larry pondered the nurse's instructions to strip to his undershorts, which seemed odd for an eye exam.

And the prize? Two "atta boys" and my name published in Writer's Digest. Ha! There is a new contest, deadline February 10, which I'll share with you shortly. We can select our favorite entry. Oh what fun!
_____

Seems to me ...

2011-12-29T12:31:00.000-08:00

GRAPES REVISITED

There is a chapter in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath where the Joad family pulls into a government-run camp. After weeks on the road, spending the nights in Hoovervilles—under bridges, alongside ditches and streams, anywhere with a water source—they find themselves in an organized camp. There are designated campsites, fresh water faucets, and—wonder of wonders—a building that houses restrooms, showers, and laundry facilities. There is a chain-link fence around the place to keep the residents secure, and a manager who watches the gate and collects a nominal fee. But the camp is essentially run by a committee of the residents. All residents must do their part to keep the place safe and clean.

This abrupt change is a bit a shock. The Joads have become accustomed to living in the dirt, seeing police raids swoop down and break up whatever Hooverville they found themselves in. This government camp polices itself. Break the rules and you are asked to leave.
What’s the point, Chuck?

There was a report on television news last night, and an article in the paper this morning, about the Sacramento Police breaking up a tent city of about 150 illegal campers along the American River. These homeless folks were told on Wednesday that if they are not gone by Thursday, their tents will be torn down and their belongings confiscated.

All of this is taking place within a stone’s throw of the site where we propose to build a $400 million sports and entertainment center. City leaders are working hard to find sources of funding—parking revenue, a tax on hotel rooms and rental cars, cash from the Maloof family and the NBA, an investment from the AEG corporation—to make this dream a reality. This project could be a wonderful boon to the city.

And the construction workers and the illegal campers will be able to keep an eye on one another.

Yes, the city is right to break up the camp. Yes, these campers pose a sanitation and health hazard that can’t be tolerated. Yes, many of them are there due to bad choices about drugs and alcohol, not to mention mental illness. Yes, there are a growing number of children among them, because they chose bad parents. And yes, even if you offered warm, dry shelter, many of them would not accept. All this is true.

But I keep coming back to Steinbeck’s depiction of the government camp, and I ask myself if there isn’t a better way. The simple truth is this: The Grapes of Wrath is a classic for good reason. The faces change, the context changes, but we have never finished trampling out the vintage.
_____

Tell me a story...

2011-12-01T10:50:00.000-08:00

THE LAWNMOWER

My brother Rich and I were on a mission, him behind the wheel of our mom’s old gray Chevy Nova and me riding shotgun. We were heading north on the highway that cuts through the rich farmland of the Sacramento Valley, determined to find our friends Hugh and Jean Quinn, collect the lawnmower, and make it home before dark. It was late morning on a hot August day and the sun beat down on the bone-dry fields that lined the road. Now and then, we’d pass irrigated land where the row crops were nearing end of season. Looking up the highway, we strained our eyes to filter out the false vision of water covering the road, anticipating a grain elevator or a church steeple that would announce the town of Valley Vista. On Main Street, we were to look for a watering hole called Sunny’s, then turn left and head west out of town up into the low foothills. Hugh and Jean had marked the entrance to their property with red and white balloons tied to a fence post. “You can’t miss it,” were their last words.

The town materialized out of the valley heat, we found Sunny’s corner and headed west. We were out into rolling country now, populated by small herds of cattle grazing on the hillsides.

“Hey, Nick …” Rich was smiling, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “Remember when Brent’s old man told you that these cattle were a special breed called Sidehill Gougers? With longer legs on one side so they could graze the hillsides?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. “Yeah, I guess you’ll believe anything when you’re a kid.”

The road began to twist and turn now as we wound through a stand of scrub oak that followed a dry creek bed. Suddenly, there were the promised balloons, bobbing about in the warm breeze. Rich turned right and began to climb a gravel road that curved gently up the hill. We topped a rise onto a flat, graded area and there were the Quinns, standing in front of their doublewide trailer, waving and smiling broadly.

I looked around as we got out of the car and was impressed by the setting. The trailer was situated facing east, looking out across the valley toward the Sierras. The valley itself looked like a brown and green quilt stretching into the distance. To the west, behind the trailer, the knob of the hill and a large valley oak promised afternoon shade, a welcome respite from the brutal August sun. Just outside the door to the trailer, there was a broad concrete patio, covered by a ribbed metal roof on a redwood frame. It was obvious that Hugh had been busy with these improvements to the site, and it was clear that he intended to stay. A little wooden sign that read “Dun Movin’” was nailed to one of the patio posts.

There were hugs and handshakes all around. After a quick tour of the doublewide, we settled into padded chairs on the patio and Jean handed each of us an ice-cold Coors. She made it clear that from that point on, we’d have to help ourselves.

We’d known the Quinns for about a dozen years, dating back to the time when Jean ran the neighborhood hamburger shack in our hometown. Hugh was a long-distance truck driver and was on the road much of the time. The little restaurant—called Alice’s Place, in honor of the former owner—was initially intended to keep Jean busy while Hugh was away. It turned out to be a successful little business. The burgers and sandwiches were first rate, the Cokes, Nehis and Squirts were always ice-cold, and the juke box was loaded with the best music Tin Pan Alley had to offer, from Glen Miller’s “In The Mood” to Frankie Lane’s “The Kid’s Last Fight.”

Rich was the local news carrier in those days, delivering the morning and evening papers to the surrounding neighborhood. He would make Alice’s Place his last stop every morning and every evening, and Jean Quinn came to love him like a son. As the “little brother,” nine years younger than Rich, I would tag along every chance I got. As far as I was concerned, happiness was a pocketful of nickels to feed the jukebox and enjoy a Nehi Orange. As the old marketing pitch proclaimed, “A nickel for Nehi. How much for a dime?”

We relaxed on the patio now, catching up on what was going on in everyone’s life. Hugh had finally retired from the trucking business, at least for the time being. He and Jean both knew that sooner or later, he’d run out of projects around their property. When that happened, she’d have to find something for him to do; either that or let him drive her nuts. Rich filled them in on recent happenings in his career with the State of California. I played the part of the good listener: the Quinns had always been Rich’s “family,” and I was fine with that.

The beer was very cold, coming directly from a large ice chest next to Hugh’s chair, and that was a good thing, because the temperature continued to rise, sure to hit triple digits by early afternoon.

There was one Quinn family member that had been left out of the conversation and I couldn’t help but wonder why. The Quinns’ daughter Roslyn, who must be in her mid-twenties now, was conspicuous by her absence, and I was waiting for the right time to raise the question. Roslyn was, and quite likely always will be, the substance of my fantasies. I would describe her as Elizabeth Taylor with brown eyes, and few people would argue with me. I first became aware of her when I was about 13 and she was 17 and a senior in high school. I was totally smitten, a fact which manifested itself by my inability to speak a coherent sentence whenever she was around. All she had to do was make eye contact and smile and I would be reduced to pile of warm Jell-O. While I carried that heavy torch, it turned out that Roslyn had eyes for Rich, a fact that I couldn’t help but hold against my brother.

Rich, who was 22 at that time and well past his news carrier days, did his best to resist. But in the end, it became obvious to anyone with eyes that there was something going on between them. Jean, being a protective mother, found herself torn. She loved Rich, thought of him as the kind of man she’d want her daughter to bring home, as long as it happened later. Much later.

And then life intervened as it is inclined to do. Rich went off to serve in the Army and Roslyn moved on with her life, never lacking for attention from male suitors. All of this left me with a fantasy woman who crept into my dreams from time to time, with her beautiful brown eyes, her gleaming white smile, and a figure that could keep you awake at night.

Hugh took Rich around to the back of the trailer to a shed where the lawnmower was stored, leaving me to chat with Jean. I filled her in on my attempts to work and go to school, determined to earn my degree. Jean brought me up to date on their most recent move, from a home in Quincy to this notch in the hillside overlooking the valley. The Quincy house had an expansive lawn, hence the lawnmower; it was clear that Hugh had no plans to do any lawn mowing here. It just so happened that we were in the market for a reliable mower to tend the lawns at our mother’s place.

I finally found an opening in the conversation to ask how Roslyn was doing. As Jean was about to answer, we heard the mower start up in back of the trailer, coughing a little at first, then running strong and smooth as advertised.

“Roslyn is doing fine, Nick. She lives near here, so I get to see her a lot. But …” She looked away across the valley and it was several seconds before she continued. “Hugh and Roslyn had a falling out. She hasn’t spoken to him for nearly two years now.” She went on to explain that it was a dispute that centered on Roslyn’s husband, a guy that Hugh could not stand. She started to say more, but then caught herself. Finally she added: “He’s just not a very nice person, Nick. He doesn’t treat her well.”

This caused my imagination to run amok and I felt my cheeks flush with hatred for the rotten bastard of a husband. Who could possibly mistreat Roslyn? Just then Rich called me to help load the mower into the car. We folded the handle in half and lifted the nearly new machine into the trunk. We blocked the wheels with wood scraps and lashed the trunk lid down with some rope that Hugh had handy. This effort out in the mid-day sun renewed our thirst and called for another ice-cold beer.

“Okay guys, finish your beers and then were heading down to Sunny’s. It’s too damn hot to sit up here, even in the shade.” Jean got no argument on this point. A little air conditioning would be much appreciated.

Sunny’s fancied itself to be a cowboy bar. The décor was classic western bunkhouse, with lariats and spurs, horseshoes and branding irons, and even an old saddle hung on the wall; this in addition to two large oil paintings behind the bar that depicted life on the range. Sunny herself dressed the part, looking like a sixty-something Dale Evans after a hard day’s work. The jukebox was loaded with great tunes, as long as you adopted the house view that there are only two kinds of music: Country and Western. There was a nice crowd for a Sunday afternoon and Sunny was busy keeping everyone’s glass full.

Hugh and Jean had donned their cowboy hats and fit right in with rest of the crowd. Rich and me—in our polo shirts, khaki shorts and tennis shoes—were the odd men out. None of that mattered as the Quinns introduced us to friends who stopped by to say hello and buy a round. Before long, I noticed that I had two beers waiting on the bar for my attention, in addition to the one in my hand. Rich, to his credit, had switched to club soda, anticipating the drive home.

The circle around Jean and Hugh expanded and contracted as friends came and went. They sat with their backs resting against the padded rail, as though holding court. Jean gave me a handful of quarters for the jukebox with instructions to play some Patsy Cline, or Tammy Wynette, or Johnny Cash. I selected “I Fall to Pieces,” and “Crazy,” and watched as several couples slow-danced on the small dance floor. I punched the numbers for “A Boy Named Sue” and smiled, wondering what kind of reaction it would bring. When I rejoined the group at the bar, a guy who’d been introduced as Dudley entered the circle behind me.

“Hey, Hugh.” He said it loud enough to cut through the general chatter. “Roslyn is here, down at the end of the bar.” And just like that, all conversation stopped as everyone turned to Hugh.

Hugh was quiet for a moment. “Is he with her?”

“No. She’s here with some friends.”

He took a long pull from his beer, looking very uncomfortable in this sudden spotlight. “Well … tell her we’re right here … if she wants to say hello.”

Dudley blinked a couple of times, then turned and headed back down the bar, honored to play the designated shuttle diplomat. It was quiet for a second and then the suspended conversations resumed and Tammy Wynette sang “Stand By Your Man.” I looked around and tried to spot Roslyn, but the place was too crowed now. Jean got up and walked away, heading toward her daughter’s end of the bar.

Five minutes later, Dudley was back, and again, all conversation halted. “Roslyn says she’s right there if you’d like to say ‘Hi.’” Dudley glanced around the circle, clearly growing less comfortable with his role.

I watched Hugh’s face and saw a range of emotions come and go, probably somewhere between Damn stubborn kid, just like her mother, and Aw shit, life is too short for this! He cleared his throat and said, “Tell her I hope she’s well … and that everything’s okay at home.”

Dudley smiled now and headed quickly away with this message. It wasn’t long before he was back. “She says ‘thanks, same to you.’” He paused a moment and then added, “They’re gettin’ ready to leave.”

Hugh fixed Dudley with a steady gaze. “Tell her to take care. And tell her I said ‘I love you.’”

The background noise continued and Johnny Cash sang “I Walk The Line,” but you could hear a quarter drop in the circle around Hugh Quinn as Dudley hurried away. I shuffled my feet and stared at my sneakers. A few seconds later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white streak fly by. It was a girl in a cowboy hat and she ran into Hugh’s arms so hard that her hat was knocked to the floor. I knew it was Roslyn. She wrapped her arms around Hugh’s neck and he held her close for a long, long time. We were all quiet, except for Dudley who kept saying, “Ah, now that’s the ticket …that’s the ticket.”

Roslyn let go of Hugh for a second and turned to me. “Nick! It’s great to see you!” She gave me a quick hug and a peck on the check, and I instantly became Mr. Jell-O. I managed to say, “Hi, Roslyn. Great to see you too.” I had picked up her hat and I handed it to her now. She was wearing a white western-style shirt and jeans, with a wide leather belt and a big silver buckle. If anything, she was prettier than I remembered.

Then she turned to my brother and gave him a full-body hug, one that went on a little too long for my taste. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but my brother was grinning an embarrassed little grin. She turned back to Hugh, grabbed his hand and led him to a booth off across the dance floor for a private conversation. As she walked away in those wonderful fitted jeans, I could see that time had certainly been good to her. Dudley kept saying, “Now that’s the ticket,” and his eyes were shining with pride over his role in all of this.

Merle Haggard sang “Okie from Muskogee” and the whole bar joined in the chorus; that is except for Roslyn and Hugh. And then it was time for us say goodbye to the Quinns and all of our new friends at Sunny’s. We’d stayed longer than planned and the sun was about to duck behind the hills to the west as we headed down the highway, talking and laughing about the events of the day. But I had some questions for my brother, and after a while, I just couldn’t hold back.

“So … Roslyn really looks great, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she still with that guy?”

“As far as I know.”

“Ya know, I had a huge crush on her … when I was a kid.”

“Everybody knows that, Nick.”

I was a little surprised at first, but I knew it made sense. “That was some hug she gave you!”

Rich didn’t reply.

“So … you guys kinda had a thing, you know, way back in the day?”

He was quiet for a few seconds, and then he spoke to me in his best big-brother voice. “Nick, give it up. I’m not gonna talk about it.”

And that was my brother. A gentleman. Never kiss and tell. Not ever. I looked at him with a bag full of mixed feelings—curiosity, admiration, jealousy, love, frustration—but mostly love.

I leaned back in the seat and looked out the window to the west. We were cruising through the hills between Vacaville and Fairfield and I watched a herd of those famous Sidehill Gougers moving along the steep hillside, heading home, wherever home might be. I let my mind wander a little and conjured up a daydream in which Roslyn came over to our mom’s house and mowed the lawns, wearing those painted-on jeans.

My brother looked at me suspiciously. “What the hell are smiling about?”

It was an easy shot, too easy really, but I took it anyway. “Rich, give it up. I’m not gonna talk about it.”

Rich cracked up laughing and I joined him. I could always make him laugh. We must have looked pretty silly, two guys rolling down the road, laughing our asses off, in a little gray Chevy with a lawnmower stuffed in the trunk. Just like those Sidehill Gougers—finding our way home.

_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-10-25T15:32:00.000-07:00

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to everyone who hung in there through all thirty-five chapters of ’68 – A Novel. It was a long journey and we probably took some casualties along the way, but that is to be expected. Of course, there are a few special people that I must acknowledge.

First, I am blessed with two wonderful friends, Carolyn Vecchio Brown and Tom Campbell, who are always willing to act as my first readers. Both of them read an early version of ’68 and their comments were invaluable. In addition, they are the world’s greatest cheerleaders, always pushing me forward with their generous remarks.

It was a great comfort to know that each week my son Matt would read my postings and leave an encouraging comment or two, and provide editing and content advice upon request. My sister-in-law Linda Yassinger was also a loyal reader. My week was never complete until I heard from Matt and Linda.

Linda Etheridge Rich, who has authored three novels of her own – and is hard at work on a fourth – read an early version of ‘68 and provided suggestions that made it a much better product. The chapter about the loss of the USS Scorpion grew out of an exchange of messages with Linda. She also saved my bacon by noting a serious flaw in my timeline, and even provided suggestions for the fix.

Finally, there is Harry Diavatis, publisher of the Monday Update, a newsletter distributed electronically to about 1,000 readers. I published ’68 simultaneously in my Blog and the MU. Harry, thanks for giving me the soapbox and the megaphone.

So now it’s back to the keyboard. I am working on things old and new, jazzy and blue. For me, writing is a compulsion, but having an audience is truly a blessing.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-10-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 34: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24

Skip took the phone call in his office where he was busy writing out checks, paying all the bills that were due.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Skip, this is Aaron at the janitorial service.”

“Hi, Aaron. What’s up?”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news…”

“Yeah?”

“Remember Thaddeus Brown? He used to be on your account, with Bobbie Washington.”

“Yeah, of course. He was drafted into the Army. Great kid, and a hard worker.”

“Right, Skip. Here’s the thing: we got word today that Thad was killed in Vietnam.” Aaron waited several seconds for Skip to respond. “Skip?”

“I heard you, Aaron.” Skip was thinking back to that night in March when LBJ said he would not run for re-election, remembering Thad’s words: Where does that leave the rest of us?

“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that Bobbie won’t be in tonight. You know she and Thad were related – cousins I think. I’m trying to line up someone to fill in for her.” There was another long pause. “Skip?”

“Yeah, okay… Look, Aaron, let’s just cancel the service for tonight. I think we’ll close up early. Everybody wants to be home with family tonight anyway. We’ll pick it up on Thursday, after Christmas. Okay?”

“Okay, Skip. We’ll have our crew there on Thursday night. Thanks.” With that, he hung up.

Skip sat looking at the phone. Where does that leave the rest of us? The words played over in his head. Well… now Thaddeus Brown had his answer.
_____

The lights were burning brightly in the Browns’ home, a small wood frame bungalow in a predominantly black neighborhood. The Washington family came through the front door to wails of grief from Thad’s parents and siblings. They hugged and cried and tried to console the family, and just as calm was being restored, a new set of friends or relatives would come through the door and the heartbreaking scene would be repeated.

A beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in the front window. No one could bear to turn on the lights that had been strung so lovingly, and the tree stood there as a sad reminder of the season, brightly wrapped packages arrayed around the base.

Bobbie Washington was devastated. She loved Thad and had always looked up to him, as though he were an older and wiser brother. She could not accept the fact that he was dead, his life blown away in some God forsaken jungle half way around the world. She thought of all the time they had spent together growing up. She could still see him as that mischievous little boy, teasing her, making her laugh so hard that her sides hurt. And she remembered the way he comforted her on the night Dr. King was assassinated. It was almost more than she could bear.

They had been at the Browns’ for nearly an hour and the house was packed now with family and friends. Bobbie began to think about Johnny Harris. She longed to have him wrap her in his arms, to hold her and tell her she would come through this, that in time her heart would heal, to feel his love for her one more time. She knew it would not be fair, that she had done the right thing by breaking up with him, setting him free to move on with the life he was intended to live. And yet, she could not help herself. She could almost feel his arms around her. All it would take was a simple phone call, just seven little digits. If she reached out to him, she knew he would come to her. She went to the phone sitting on the little table in the hall, picked up the receiver and began to dial.

Just then, her brother Lucas came down the hall on his way to the bathroom. “Hey, what’s goin’ on? Who are you calling?” Their eyes locked for a moment and he knew the answer. “Don’t, Bobbie… don’t do it… leave him be… you did the right thing, don’t mess it up now.” He saw her face begin to crumble and he took the receiver from her gently and placed it back on the cradle, at the same time gathering her into his arms. She buried her head against his chest and began to cry.
_____

Ellamae Brown had taken over the kitchen as soon as she arrived. Friends and family came bearing heaping plates of food – fried chicken, sliced ham, meatloaf, cookies, cakes and pies of every flavor – and she took it all in hand, organizing the dishes, placing the food on the dining room table where people could help themselves. She latched on to volunteers and sent them about collecting dirty dishes and utensils, set others to washing and drying them, then back to the table to be used again. It was her strength. And it protected her from her grief. Busy hands were her best defense.

As things began to settle down, she put down her dishtowel and her apron and started down the hall toward the bathroom. She saw Lucas and Bobbie standing near the phone, Lucas attempting to console his sister as she sobbed against his chest. Ellamae stopped to offer her own words of comfort.

“There now, child… that’s it… just let it go… let it all out. Sweet Jesus, comfort this child.” Then she added: “Amen.”
_____

Across town, the Harrises were holding their traditional Christmas Eve open house. The lights of the tree burned brightly in the front window, inviting all to come inside where it was warm. The dining room table was loaded with treats and Big John Harris had whipped up a batch of his famous Tom ‘n Jerry batter. As people arrived at the door, Martha would greet them warmly and take their coats and John would hand them a frothy, steaming T&J. The aroma of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg – not to mention the rum and brandy – hung in the air as John delivered his standard warning: “Watch out, cause this is a man’s drink, a real man’s drink!”

Most of the guests had seen, heard and tasted this all before, but the Hashimotos, being new to the neighborhood, were first-timers. Kenji took a sip of the potent drink and raised his eyebrows. “Wow! It’s a good thing we don’t have to drive home.” Tami decided that Big John was right: it was a man’s drink and she could do without it, except perhaps to warm her hands.

Eric looked around for John Jr., asked Mrs. Harris where to find him, and was directed to his bedroom, just down the hall. He knocked firmly on the door and heard Johnny say, “Come on in.” Eric looked around the room as he entered: a full-size bed, a dresser, a bedside table, a desk and a chair, all neatly arranged to maximize the space. The walls were adorned with posters of John’s favorite athletes: Bart Starr, Willie Mays, Bill Russell and Jim Otto. John turned to face him and Eric saw that he was wearing khaki pants and a navy blue sweatshirt with “UCLA.” in large gold letters across the front.

“Hey, Eric. Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you, Johnny. Nice sweatshirt, man.”

“Yeah, my dad insisted that I wear it. Go Bruins!”

It registered with Eric that John’s words were slurred. He looked to the bedside table and saw the cream colored mug with the gold-leaf lettering that read “Tom ‘n Jerry.” He wondered how many John had consumed. John came across the room toward Eric now and wrapped him in a back-slapping bear hug. Eric could smell the alcohol on his breath. They each took a step back, but John continued to grip Eric’s shirt at the shoulders, as though he was afraid to let go.

“Doing some celebrating tonight, eh?”

“Yeah, I had a couple. You should try one. My dad loves making them.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. Hey, John, you okay?”

“Yeah…”

“You sure? You look like hell.” Eric was being blunt, and honest.

“I’m okay…” John was still gripping his shirt, staring directly into his eyes, and Eric could see that he was tearing up. “Ah shit, Eric… shit… it’s no good, man… it’s no damn good.”

“What, Johnny? What is it?”

“It’s no good without her, man… no damn good… nothing’s worth a shit without her.”

Eric had no idea what John was talking about. No good without her? Who the hell is she? He didn’t know that John was involved with anyone. He eased John back a couple of steps so that he could sit down on the bed where he promptly planted his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, sniffling loudly every so often. Eric stood in front of him, embarrassed and confused. He caught his reflection in the mirrored doors of the closet and saw a look of mild panic on his face. He glanced toward the door and felt the urge to make a run for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He thought back to his first days at Vallejo High when he’d felt so totally alone and lost. Then John Harris was there, showing him around the sprawling campus, introducing him to his friends, sitting with him in the cafeteria, making sure he was included. Eric knew he couldn’t walk away now. It was time to step up, time to be a friend. He reached for the chair in front of the desk and pulled it over. He sat in front of John and gripped his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. A pathetic little trickle of snot ran down John’s upper lip. Eric reached for a tissue from the box on the bedside table and handed it to John who blew his nose loudly.

“Okay,” he said. “Talk to me, man. It’s no good without who?”
_____

Skip and Marty sat on the couch in the front room of their home, watching the images flicker on the television screen. It felt a little strange to be home so early, to close up the bar on a night when business was generally pretty good. But they knew it was the right decision. Neither one of them had the heart to soldier on with the news of Thaddeus Brown’s death weighing them down.

They were watching a special broadcast from space, the Apollo 8 astronauts beaming back words and images from lunar orbit. The pictures of the Moon’s surface were stark and amazing, but it was the view of the Earth, a shinning blue and white marble set in the blackness of space that was awe inspiring. Then the astronauts took turns speaking:

William Anders:
“For all the people on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send to you:

‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light; and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness.'"

Jim Lovell:
"‘And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and it divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament; and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.'"

Frank Borman:
"‘And God said, Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear; and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he the Seas; and God saw that it was good.’

Borman closed the broadcast: “And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you – all of you on the good Earth.”

Skip and Marty looked at one another, tears streaming down their faces, and reached out to join hands. They cried for the beauty of the words from Genesis, sacred to Jews and Christians all around the world. They cried for Thad Brown, like a thousand other young soldiers, making his way home in a flag-draped coffin. They cried for Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, and everything else that had happened in this rotten bull-bitch of a year, 1968. Thank God it was finally coming to a close.
_____

CHAPTER 35: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31

They gathered around the television screen, watching the ball drop in Times Square. “Five – four – three – two – one. Happy New Year!” Once again, the lucky ones turned to that special someone and shared a kiss.

“Happy New Year. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I wonder what this year will bring? All good things, I hope.”

“Hey, you said that last year and look what happened.”

“Ouch! You got that right. Let’s hope for a quiet year, one we can all forget.”

“God knows we need a break. And you know what? This party is a bore. You know what I’d like to do?”

“What’s that?”

“Go home, take off our clothes…”

“…and get in a pile. Great idea! We’ll make it a New Years tradition.”

“I’ll get our coats and we’ll say goodbye.”
_____

No question about it, 1968 delivered more than its share of Significant Emotional Events, enough to impact every family in our story. But did these events leave any lasting changes? Were any lenses altered?

Let’s consider Kenji Hashimoto. More than twenty years after the end of World War II, a war in which he served with distinction, he is turned away from a barbershop because “…we remember Pearl Harbor.” In spite of a budding friendship with John Harris, how does Kenji see the curly-haired, round-eyed population that dominates his world?

Then there is Isaac Washington, a man who worked hard to achieve his dream of becoming a Registered Nurse. And yet he still must deal with being stopped by the police for DWB (driving while black). Did his view of white folks change in the course of this year?

And finally, there is John Harris, Sr., a man with definite views about certain people. Were his beliefs about Japanese-Americans changed in any way by getting to know Kenji Hashimoto? When Isaac Washington caused that little section of hot dog to be dislodged from Jenny’s throat, did it change the way John viewed African-Americans? And even if John’s lens was changed forever, what would he see if John Jr. and Bobbie stood before him, holding hands?

Maybe all we can say for sure is this: that it is a long way from where we are to where we should be; that the American dream we share is greater than the bigotry we’ve learned; that – like it or not – we’re all in this together; and that we all look at the world through an imperfect lens, a work in progress for a lifetime.

As Ellamae Brown might add: God, watch over these good people and keep them from harm.

And let us all say Amen!

THE END

_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-10-16T08:05:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 31: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5

A small Tuesday night crowd gathered at Skip’s, watching the election returns trickle in, waiting for one of the three major networks to declare a winner. After a while, they grew bored with the coverage and Skip switched to a channel showing “I Love Lucy” reruns; that is, at least until the polls closed in California. Then it was back to Skip’s favorite network, CBS, where he expected to hear the straight scoop from the veteran team anchored by Walter Cronkite. Little did Skip and his customers know that they’d have to wait until Wednesday morning for a winner to be declared.

“I can’t believe it’s this close. Humphrey was so far behind coming out of Chicago in August, I didn’t think it was possible for him to make up the ground.”

“Yeah, but he waited too long to break with Johnson and come out for an end to the bombing. He should have done that right off the bat.”

“And what about Nixon? Losing to Kennedy in ’60. Losing for governor in ’62. I thought he was dead. What a comeback!”

“You know, I think he’ll be a pretty good president.”

The lone woman sitting at the bar spoke up then, her voice heavy with emotion. “Ah, they’re all a bunch of crooks… a bunch of lousy crooks, every damn one of ‘em.”

“Come on, Alice, why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Look what they do: stage some phony Gulf of Tonkin incident so they can bomb North Vietnam. Send 500,000 of our kids to prop up those crooks in Saigon. And then, at the last minute, a week before the election, Johnson declares a halt to the bombing and says a peace agreement is close, just to try to throw the election to Humphrey.”

“Well, hell…”

“Do you think LBJ cares about the kids that are dying while he plays politics with their lives? He doesn’t give a rat’s ass! All they care about is power. They’ll do anything to get it, and they’ll do anything to keep it.”

“Hey, calm down, Alice. Come on…”

She was crying openly now. “My best friend just lost her son. He’s coming home in a box. And for what? Half the country is against the damn war. They’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Well, Nixon says he’s got a secret plan to end the war.”

“And you believe that crap? If he’s got a plan, why doesn’t he tell us what it is? And what about Humphrey? He didn’t come out for a bombing halt until he saw he was getting his ass kicked in the polls. They’re a bunch of damn crooks.”

“You know, Alice may be right. Remember that Orson Welles film, where his character Harry Lime is way up in a Ferris wheel or something, and he says to Joseph Cotton, ‘See those people down there, all those little black dots? If one of those dots stopped moving forever, would you really care?’ That’s our politicians, up there in that Ferris wheel, looking down at all of us little black dots on the ground.”

“Well, listen to you, Mr. Philosopher. Since when did you get so intellectual? Orson Welles, my ass…”

Their attention returned to the election results.

“Hey, how ‘bout George Wallace? Looks like he is going to carry about five states: Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas.”

“Geez, Humphrey could really use those electoral votes.”

“Hell, those votes were never going to Humphrey. They would have gone to Nixon. The old ‘solid South’ hates the Democrats now, because of the civil rights laws.”

“Wallace was never going to win the election. What was trying to do?”

“He wanted to keep Humphrey and Nixon from getting 270 electoral votes, throw the election into the House of Representatives.”

“How the hell does that work anyway? Since they’re mostly Democrats, wouldn’t they just vote for Humphrey?”

“Damned if I know. I’m sure if it looks like it’s going that way, Uncle Walter will explain it to us.”

And so it went as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Alice’s friends took her home. Skip resisted the temptation to switch channels in search of something to laugh about. And eventually, Walter Cronkite advised his viewers that it was all coming down to Ohio, Illinois and California – all three states too close to call. Nixon would wind up carrying those three states and the country would wake up to the news that he, Richard M. Nixon, would become the 37th President of the United States, winning 301 votes in the Electoral College. The true election wonks noticed right away that if Humphrey had carried California, George Wallace would have achieved his goal.

Nixon’s secret plan took another seven years to bear fruit. In the meantime, many more sons and daughters came home in flag-draped coffins, black dots on the ground that simply stopped moving forever.
_____

CHAPTER 32: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11

City Park and the surrounding streets were packed. Everyone who would participate in the Veteran’s Day parade was gathered, milling around, waiting to be organized. The parade committee was busy, walking through the noisy throng, making check marks on their ubiquitous clipboards, making sure all the elements were present and accounted for.

John Harris scanned the crowd and ran his own mental checklist. There were two high school bands, one from Vallejo and one from Armijo High in Fairfield. There was a mounted patrol on beautiful golden palominos. A dozen Shriners were present, each wearing a fez and driving one of those tiny cars. John saw the Navy color guard from Mare Island, carrying the Stars and Stripes, the Navy ensign and the California Bear Flag. On the street, several convertibles were lined up, ready to transport the Grand Marshall, the mayor, and several pretty girls wearing sashes to proclaim their titles. And finally, there were the veterans who would march in loose formation behind the band from Vallejo High, some wearing their faded service uniforms and others, like John, in their VFW caps and jackets.

The parade route would take them south on Marin Street to Georgia, then west on Georgia Street through the main shopping district, and finally to Waterfront Park. There a platform had been erected and a sound system installed so that the mayor and other distinguished guests could say a few words. In between speakers, the two bands would trade numbers, each determined to outperform the other. It was a good plan and the committee was determined that it would be executed to perfection.

John saw a group of friends from the VFW post gathered in a circle, laughing and cutting up, and he wandered over to join them. One of the men was about to launch into a story and all eyes and ears were focused on the storyteller. As he started to speak, John saw Kenji Hashimoto and Isaac Washington standing together, just outside the circle, both of them wearing their old Army uniforms.

“So I have this buddy who runs a business,” the storyteller began, “and he’s got a couple of schvartzes – that’s what he calls colored guys – working for him. So he sends the schvartzes out to make a delivery. It’s about an hour there and an hour back and he figures they’ll be gone two, maybe two and half hours. So they’re gone a couple of hours and he gets a phone call. It’s one of the schvartzes. He says, ‘Mistuh Bernie, we went like you tol us, but we cain’t find dat address. We dun drove up ‘n down ‘n round, and we is lost, Mistuh Bernie, we is jes flat lost.’ And Bernie says, ‘Hold the phone, Willie, hold the phone. Where are you?’ Willie says, ‘I’s in a phone booth at dis big inner-secshun. They’s cars flying by ever which way.’ Bernie says, ‘Okay, Willie, I want you look outside for the street signs. Tell me what the street signs say.’ So the line goes quiet for a minute, then Willie comes back on. ‘You’s right, Mistuh Bernie, I dun seen the street signs.’ Bernie says, ‘Okay, Willie, that’s great. What do the street signs say?’ Willie says, ‘They say Walk and Don’t Walk. We is at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk!’”

The men gathered in the circle threw their heads back and howled with laughter; that is except for John Harris. John was looking at Isaac Washington’s face, and now he felt a little sick to his stomach. He pushed through the group and made his way to where Isaac and Kenji were standing.

“What’s the matter, Big John? You’re not laughing. ‘The corner of Walk and Don’t Walk’? Now that’s funny!” Isaac had a wry smile on his face.

Kenji picked up on the sarcasm. “Yeah, those darn schvartzes! Always good for a laugh.”

“Ah, don’t listen to that guy. He’s a jerk. Say fellas, I have a proposition for you. I would be honored to march with you in the parade. And if you so honor me, I will buy you both a drink at Skip’s Place when we get to the waterfront. Whataya say?”

Kenji and Isaac looked at each other and shrugged. “Hey, if Big John is opening his wallet, I’m not saying no.” Isaac nodded in agreement.

“You think they’ll serve a mixed trio like us, John? They might just throw us out on our cans.” Isaac was into the spirit of it now.

“Who, Skip? Nah, Skip’s a good guy. He takes all comers.”

Just then, the head of the parade committee clicked on her bullhorn and began to bark directions. The lead elements of the parade fell into place out in the street – the banner carriers, the cars carrying the Grand Marshall and the local dignitaries, and the band from Armijo High. John saw a float roll past, a replica of the USS California, and he felt a large lump in his throat. There was nothing like the excitement that filled the air just before a parade stepped off. Then came a shrill blast from a whistle, a rousing drum roll, and the Armijo band broke into “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The parade was underway, rolling up Marin Street.

The director clicked on her bullhorn again and ordered the veterans to queue up behind the Vallejo High band in their Apache red uniforms. The drum major split the air with a blast from his whistle and the corps of drummers went into a rousing eight bars that kicked off “Anchors Aweigh,” and they began to march. John heard Navy veterans around him singing along with the band and he lent his booming voice to the chorus…

Anchors aweigh, my boys
Anchors aweigh…

The people who lined the street smiled and waved little flags as they marched past, and John could see that they were singing along as well; after all, this was a Navy town and damn proud of it. Then another whistle blast, another eight bars from the drummers, and now it was the Army’s time to sing…

Over hill, over dale, we will hit the dusty trail
As those caissons go rolling along…

John looked at Isaac and Kenji, their heads held high, singing at the top of their lungs, calling out their numbers loud and strong. Along the street, they saw fathers with their children on their shoulders, mothers clutching their babies, and old men in wheelchairs, wearing their VFW caps and saluting as they marched past. Then another drum break and it was the flyboys turn…

Off we go, into the wild blue yonder
Flying high, into the sun…

The final break came and the Marines were more than ready, determined to be the boldest yet…

From the halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli…

John, Kenji and Isaac looked at each other and grinned, their eyes wet with the pure emotion that filled the cool November air. Black, white, oriental – suddenly it didn’t matter a whit. They were just three proud Americans, veterans and survivors of the bloodiest war in history, charter members of what would come to be known as The Greatest Generation.
_____

CHAPTER 33: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 22

Ruth Lev sat at her dining room table, preparing to light the candles on her menorah. This was the seventh night of Chanukah, and so she took eight of the small candles from the box – one for each day and one for the shamas – and placed them in their respective holders. She struck a match and lit the shamas, then used it to light the other candles in sequence. Finally, she replaced the shamas and began to recite the Hebrew blessings:

“Barukh attah Adonai
Eloheinu melekh ha’olam
Asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav
V’tzivanu l’hal’lik ner
Shel Chanukah (Amein)

Barukh atah Adonai
Eloheinu melekh ha’olam
She’asah nisim la’avoteinu
Bayamim haheim
Baziman hazeh (Amein)”

She watched quietly as the little candles burned, noting the colored wax that had dripped onto the menorah. Perhaps it was time to give it a good cleaning. And yet the thought of removing these remnants of Chanukah past repelled her. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Ruth had purchased this menorah at a Judaica shop in San Francisco shortly after arriving in the U.S. from Germany. She selected it because it was the closest she could find to the design of the one her parents had owned, the menorah she remembered from her childhood. It was nothing elaborate or expensive. It simply reminded her of home.

She watched the candles burn to the very end, the last piece of wick consuming the last bit of wax, a little puff of smoke rising from each candle to signal the end. Then Ruth did something unusual. She removed one more candle from the box, struck a match and lit it, and then placed in one of the holders. As she did this, she said a silent prayer for Milton Jacob Lev, her grandson. She tried her best to picture him somewhere up in the snowy plains north of Toronto. She prayed that he was warm and happy. She prayed that God would watch over him and keep him safe. She prayed that He would bring peace to Milton’s troubled mind, and that one day soon he would come home safely. And again, she watched the candle burn until the tiny puff of smoke rose into the air.

Ruth wondered if this was kosher, if God would hear this prayer? She wasn’t certain and there was no one to ask such a question. She believed one thing for sure: God owed her a few answers.
_____

In North Korea, it was another day: December 23 to be exact. Captain Lloyd Bucher and the crew of the USS Pueblo were loaded onto buses and driven to the Demilitarized Zone that separates the two Koreas. There they were told to march south across the Bridge of No Return. Captain Bucher led the way, 82 men walking in single file, with Executive Officer Lieutenant Ed Murphy the last man to cross over to freedom.

This should have been the end of the ordeal for the men of the Pueblo, an ordeal marked by beatings, torture, mock firing squads and public humiliation. It was also marked by defiance, such as Bucher’s “confession” in which he professed to “paean” (pee on) the North Koreans, such as the photograph of the crew with raised middle fingers, which they described to their captors as the “Hawaiian good luck salute.” This defiance earned them even more intense beatings.

The U.S. Navy, in its infinite wisdom, convened a court of inquiry, which recommended that the senior officers of the Pueblo face a court martial. In a rare display of compassion, Secretary of the Navy John Chafee rejected the recommendation, saying “They have suffered enough.” And still, POW medals were not awarded the crew until 1990, 22 years later.

All things considered, one would have hoped for a mea culpa or two from the very top of the leadership ranks – the Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of Defense, or the Commander in Chief himself. Something like this:

I made a mistake. I sent the USS Pueblo into hostile waters, loaded with sensitive material and equipment, virtually unarmed and unprotected, with no contingency plan in the event of an attack. This mistake came at a horrendous cost to the crew, their families, and the security of our nation as a whole. For this, I offer my sincere and most profound apology.

Of course, no such statement has ever been forthcoming. Whatever happened to The Buck Stops Here? Where are men like Harry Truman when we really need them?
_____

Next: Christmas Eve and New Years Eve. The story ends where it began.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-10-09T07:19:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 29: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 25

The crowd milled around outside the stadium, gathered in groups, talking and laughing, beginning to line up and file past the ticket booths. Corbus Field would be packed tonight for the game against Sir Francis Drake High, one of those upscale Marin schools. Friday night football always drew a great crowd – parents, faculty and students – to see the Vallejo High Apaches play. Inside the stadium, the band was warming up with a rousing rendition of the theme from “Peter Gunn.”

John Harris loved the Friday night football scene. It was a great way to end the week and the glow of a victory always carried through the weekend. His wife Martha and daughter Jenny were with him, bundled up in several layers of clothing against the cool October night, carrying blankets to spread on the hard wooden bench seats. John and Martha would sit with the other team parents, in a section right below the press box. Jenny would be off with her friends, here there and everywhere around the massive concrete grandstand.

They made their way up the steep steps toward the press box, pausing to chat with friends along the way. Near the top, John saw Kenji and Tami Hashimoto seated next to Isaac and Millie Washington and he gave them a wave. Lucas Washington was the starting tailback and a fine runner, Eric Hashimoto the starting center. John Harris, Jr. was a linebacker, anchoring a solid defensive unit. They found an open space next to Hashimotos and spread their blankets.

The Drake squad was already on the field going through its warm-up routine. Out across the field, where the buildings of the campus were clustered on a rise behind the stadium, they saw the Vallejo team file out of Bottari Gym, heading in a long line toward the gate on the east side of the stadium. At a signal from across the field, the bass drummer in the band took up the tom-tom beat: BOOM boom boom boom / BOOM boom boom boom – and the Apaches ran onto the field in single file, led by their captains. The team arrayed into a grid at the north end of the field to begin their warm-ups as the band went into the “Indian War Chant.” Finally, with the warm-up drills well underway, the band segued into a spirited version of “Cherokee.” This little ritual always sent chills up John Harris’s spine, and he was sure he wasn’t the only one.

Now as it neared time for the kick-off, the Vallejo cheerleaders mounted the platform in front of the student section to lead the “Hello” yell.

Oh, Drake has got a battleship
They’ve also got a bell
But Vallejo’s got a submarine
To blow ‘em all to
Hell-O, Dra-ake!

Vallejo kicked off to Drake and the game was underway, the rolling baritone voice of Lou Sanders on the PA system, calling the plays: “Smith the ball carrier, brought down by Harris. Gain of three yards. Second down.” The crowd settled in for the long battle, joining the cheerleaders in all the familiar yells: “We’ve got a T-E-A-M, it’s on the B-E-A-M.” Or, “Victory, victory, that’s our cry. V-I-C-T-O-R-Y…”

Drake marched down the field, scored a touchdown, but missed the extra point. Vallejo answered with a drive of its own, Lucas Washington breaking off a 19 yard run for the touchdown. The extra point was good and the band went into the Vallejo fight song:

Onward Apaches, fight fight fight
Lead us to victory, men
We’re on the warpath, scalping to win
Ring up the score again, Vallejo…

After that, the game settled into a defensive struggle, and when the gun sounded for the end of the first half, Vallejo led 7 to 6. John Harris headed for the snack bar located under the grandstand, daughter Jenny pulling him along, insisting that a hot dog and a Coke were all that stood between her and starvation. Holding the cups of coffee he’d purchased for himself and Martha, he stopped to visit with friends while Jenny bounded up the steps to enjoy her hotdog and watch the cheerleaders perform their half time routines.

Suddenly, John felt someone tugging at his sleeve. “Mr. Harris, you’d better come quick. Something’s wrong with Jenny.”

Without stopping to think, John tossed the cups of coffee into a nearby trashcan and hurried up the steps to the grandstand. He glanced up to the section below the press box and saw a small crowd gathered there. He ran up the aisle, taking the steps two at a time, gasping for breath. He burst into the group surrounding Martha and Jenny, and what he saw terrified him. His daughter’s face was turning purple, her hands clutching her throat, her eyes wide with terror as she struggled to breathe. Behind her, Isaac Washington held her with one arm and slapped her back hard with the flat of his hand.

“Ike, what are you doing?” John could barely get the words out.

“Wait, let me try this.”

Isaac wrapped both arms around Jenny from behind, made a fist just below her rib cage, and pulled in hard. Nothing happened. He pulled hard again, and this time a small, round projectile shot from Jenny’s mouth, landing on the bench three feet away. Jenny gasped as her lungs began to function again, air rushing in and out. Isaac let her go and she fell into her mother’s arms, sobbing, her head buried against Martha’s shoulder, her normal color coming back swiftly.

Isaac picked up the projectile that Jenny had spit out, a perfectly round section of hot dog. “See here? The perfect plug. The abdominal compressions did the trick, thank God.”

A doctor who’d been sitting nearby came into their circle and spent a few minutes examining Jenny. He said she seemed fine, but he suggested that they take her home and keep an eye on her, perhaps call their family doctor and hear his advice. The Hashimotos offered to give John Jr. a ride home after the game, and with that, the Harrises headed for the exit. The second half was just underway as they reached the parking lot.
_____

John opened the kitchen cupboard and reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the upper shelf. He took down two water glasses and poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into each of them. Martha entered the kitchen and John offered her a drink, which she promptly accepted.

“She’s sound asleep, like nothing ever happened.” Martha took the glass from John and swirled the whiskey around the bottom of the glass. She looked at John, standing a few feet away, leaning against the countertop, and then her composure crumbled, the tears streaming down her face. John took her in his arms and held her close, her body racked with sobs. “We almost lost her, John. We almost lost her.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said quietly, rocking her gently in his arms. “Thank God Ike Washington was there.”
_____

CHAPTER 30: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3

“So, how was the trip? Did you like the campus?”

“Yeah, it was nice… beautiful actually. And the training facilities are amazing...” John’s voice on the phone was flat, hesitant, not at all what Bobbie expected.

“Uh huh… what else, Johnny? Did you meet some of the guys on the team?”

“Yeah, I met a bunch of the guys… they seem real nice…”

“Come on, Johnny, you don’t sound very excited. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Bobbie… I mean it’s a great offer – basically a full ride scholarship for football. And I can walk on to tryout for the baseball team if I want…”

“It sounds perfect, Johnny! Why aren’t you happy about this?”

John had just returned from an official recruiting visit to UCLA. He and his father had spent the weekend touring the campus, meeting prospective teammates and talking to the coaching staff. The scholarship offer was on the table now. All he had to do was sign the Letter of Intent and he would be on his way to a future that had no limits.

“I don’t know, Bobbie… I’m not sure I want to be in L.A., 400 miles away, and you back here in Vallejo. I mean, I could go to the JC and play football there, and baseball too… At least we could see each other, be together. Ya know?”

A sudden hollow feeling gripped Bobbie’s stomach. This was not good. She had to do something, and do it fast.

“Okay, look Johnny, we need to talk face-to-face. Can you meet me somewhere? How about Scotty’s? We really need to talk.”
____

Bobbie drove across town, heading for the corner of Tennessee and Tuolumne, the site of Scotty’s Doughnuts, a Vallejo institution. She was thinking hard and fast, trying to sort out her feelings. She and John had fallen back into their relationship following the pregnancy scare, taking pains to be more careful than ever before. Bobbie saw a physician and obtained a prescription for the pill.

There was no question that they were in love, and yet she knew she was holding something back, never quite letting go. She’d known all along that this day was coming. Now she would have to find a way to convince him, even if she had to hurt him in the process. She could not let him walk away from his future.

Bobbie thought about the letter she had received from her cousin Thad, serving in Vietnam. What was the acronym he had used to describe the situation there? FUBAR – Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. She knew she had to prevent their situation from going FUBAR.

They met at Scotty’s, but wound up sitting in John’s car in the parking lot rather than going into the shop. Bobbie wasted no time getting directly to the issue.

“Listen to me, Johnny. You’ve got to sign that Letter of Intent, you’ve got to accept the scholarship.”

“I don’t know, Bobbie. What I really want is to be here with you…”

“I know, baby, I know… but listen to me. We both have to move on with our lives. Remember I told you I wanted to go back to school when I saved some money? Well, I’ve decided to go back to Sacramento. I can live with my old roommate, and there’s a nursing program I can get into up there. I want to be a nurse and do what my daddy’s doing.”

She was lying through her teeth now. Not that nursing was a bad idea. In fact, it was a move she’d been thinking about for some time, though the plan was not nearly as well formed as she was presenting it.

She went on: “I can start the program in January, Johnny. I’m going to give notice at my job soon. So you see, baby, I won’t be here. There’s no point in you staying in Vallejo, ‘cause I’ll be gone.”

“Geez, Bobbie, I didn’t know you were thinking about going back…”

“Look, Johnny…” Her voice caught in her throat now. She was going to be brutally honest with him. “You’ve just started your senior year in high school. You’ve got the best year of your life ahead of you: all the big dances, the Prom, the senior picnic, graduation, the all-night party, all of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. And I can’t share any of that with you. We need to move on with our lives. You need to go to UCLA. UCLA, Johnny! Do you know what it means to get a degree from the University of California? And I need to get on with my life. I have dreams, too, baby.”

She went on, making her case, knowing that her argument was bulletproof. Before long they were both in tears. Plain and simple, she was breaking up with him, urging him to embrace the life of a normal high school senior, and at the same time to commit for next fall to a university located 400 miles away. Bobbie knew she was winning this debate; at the same time, she was losing the boy she loved. Then again, she’d known from the very beginning that it would end this way.

Finally, she left his car and headed for her own, tears clouding her vision. She knew without question that she’d done the right thing. Why then did it feel so FUBAR?
_____

Next week: It’s election night in America – Humphrey vs. Nixon vs. Wallace. And then it’s time for a Veterans Day parade.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-10-02T07:23:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 27: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6

Ellamae hurried into the little church, pausing to say hello to friends as she passed, heading toward her customary seat near the front of the sanctuary. She loved sitting up front where she could enjoy the choir and see their expressions change as the music moved them. And she didn’t want to miss a word of the sermon delivered by Rev. Booker T. Redman, affectionately known as “Boomer” among his congregants. Boomer Redman was blessed with a magnificent voice, a rolling basso profundo that could rattle the stained glass windows and carry out into the parking lot. When he spoke the word of God, no one dozed off.

Isaac Washington and his family – Millie, Bobbie and Lucas – greeted Ellamae warmly, making room for her in the well-worn oak pew. She looked around for her son Julian and his wife Angie and saw them approaching from the center aisle to envelop her with hugs. They chatted for a few minutes, waiting for the service to begin. The sanctuary was packed as usual, the ushers moving about, encouraging people to squeeze closer together, making room for new arrivals.

And then a hush fell over the congregation as the Rev. Redman appeared at the back of the room, his simple black robe like a tent around his ample body, his Bible tucked firmly under his right arm, the choir in their bright gold robes queued up behind him. He sounded the call to worship in that wonderful voice and led the procession down the center isle as the choir began the hymn “Shall We Gather At The River.” Ellamae felt a little chill go up her spine. This scene, witnessed so many times, never failed to move her. God, bless this house and all within.

The service proceeded as usual: several hymns, a scripture lesson, a rousing performance by the choir, announcements from the current president of the congregation, and finally, it was time for the sermon.

Rev. Redman stepped to the pulpit and it was clear that he was a troubled man this day. His brow was furrowed, his lips pinched together tightly, as though someone or some thing had hit him in the gut. He adjusted the microphone, though he probably didn’t need it, raised his eyes to look out upon his flock, and began:

“'Where have all the flowers gone? / Long time passing…'

"So goes the folk song popular a few years ago. The song teaches us the answer: Young girls pick the flowers. The young girls go to young men. The young men go to soldiers. Soldiers go to graveyards. Graveyards go to flowers. And so, the cycle is completed, only to begin again… and again.

"We are left with the haunting question: 'When will they ever learn?'

"Just a simple little song. Or is it? We look around our community today and we see the story set in motion: Young men taken from among us, caught in the draft, or enlisting to avoid it, and then – gone to soldiers, every one.

"Are these young men the children of the Upper Class? Are they the children of the prosperous Middle Class? Or, my brothers and sisters, are they primarily the children of the working poor? In other words, our children!

"Young men from the barrios and ghettos of our cities, sons of coal miners in rural Appalachia and sharecroppers in the Deep South, black and brown – and yes – white. Our young men, our children. Gone to soldiers, every one.

"With money and influence, there are options to consider: college deferment; conscientious objector status; a rare spot in the Reserve or National Guard. And if all else fails, leave the country. Head north to the bosom of our friends in Canada.

"The recruiters flock to our neighborhoods. Enlist, they say, and you can learn a useful skill. Enlist and there will be money for college when you get out. Never mind that your school system left you reading at a fourth grade level. Enlist for the promise of a brighter future.

"When you come home, we’ll take care of you. The VA will see to your needs. We won’t leave you to the streets, with alcohol on your breath and needle tracks on your arms. We won’t leave you to be spat upon and called 'baby killer.' Trust us. Sign here.

"Brothers and sisters, look around you. Look at the young men sent home with broken minds and bodies, fending for themselves out on the streets, the only useful skill they’ve been taught: to kill or be killed.

"I say to you it is time for the cycle to end, time for our young men to soldier no more, time to end the perpetuation of the Warrior Class culled from the families of the working poor, cannon fodder for the war machine.

"It is time to say, ‘Hell no, we won’t go.’ Time to answer the age-old question: 'When will they ever learn?'

"Amen."

This was not a typical sermon for Rev. Redman. He generally stayed close to home, basing his message on the day’s scripture lesson as it applied to life in the 20th century. His preference was to leave politics to the politicians. His message this day caught the congregation off guard. Of course, there had been the customary cries of “Amen” during the sermon, offered up to punctuate the traditional call-and-response style. But Boomer Redman had been oddly subdued in his delivery, raising his voice only to punctuate “our children” and “Hell no, we won’t go.” His final line – “When will they ever learn?” – was delivered just above a whisper. The overall impact was stunning: his message had been driven home with the intensity of a sledgehammer.

Outside the church, the people lingered on the lawn and in the parking lot, visiting and laughing, making plans for the coming week, sharing thoughts and opinions. Not everyone agreed with the Reverend’s message. After all, this was a town that depended on the military, and several men in the congregation had served proudly in World War II and in Korea. They tended to see Vietnam as the responsibility of the current generation. It was time for the young folks to step up and do their part. And yet, Rev. Redman had given them something to think about.

Isaac Washington stood quietly with his family, mulling over several phrases that stuck in his mind. Warrior Class… cannon fodder… war machine. Is that what the old, gray men who made decisions about war and peace were doing? Creating a self-perpetuating Warrior Class? Isaac shuddered involuntarily. He looked at his son Lucas, standing just a few feet away. One year… just one year from now he’ll have to register for the draft.

Bobbie was thinking about John Harris, Jr. He was likely to receive an athletic scholarship, and with it, the coveted student deferment. That was good. But what about Lucas? And what about Thaddeus Brown? She knew Thad had finished basic training, and then combat training, but she wasn’t sure about his next posting. She looked for Thad’s father Julian and saw him standing across the lawn with his mother. She saw that Ellamae was dabbing her eyes, clinging tightly to her son, and she could sense it was not the right time to ask about Thad.

Ellamae stood with her right arm wrapped around Julian’s waist. His left arm was around her shoulders, holding her close. There was nothing much to say, and Ellamae could not stop the tears from falling. They stood there in the bright sunshine, dealing quietly with the latest news: Thaddeus was on his way to Vietnam, to a place called Da Nang. Dear Lord, watch over that child and keep him from harm.
_____

CHAPTER 28: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 16

They stood on the podium at the Olympic Stadium in Mexico City, the three medal winners in the 200-meter dash: Tommy Smith and John Carlos of the United States with the gold and bronze medals respectively, Peter Norman of Australia with the silver. As the Star Spangled Banner began to play and the flags rose slowly over the stadium, Smith and Carlos each raised a black-gloved fist high in the air – Smith his right, Carlos his left – and they closed their eyes and bowed their heads.

To the north, in cities all across America, cries of shock and outrage were directed at television screens as the message hit home. These two young black men were making a statement, and using the biggest stage in the world to deliver it.

The regulars down at Skip’s Place reacted in typical fashion, which is to say with a mixed bag of anger and – perhaps surprisingly – grudging support.

“Did you see that? What the hell was that?”

“Some sort of black power salute, or something.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned! We send these kids down there, pay their way, feed ‘em, house ‘em, provide the best coaches in the world, and what do they do? They spit in our faces!”

“They ought to kick their asses off the team, and make ‘em pay their own way home, the sonsabitches. What gives them the right?”

“What gives them the right? They’re American citizens, for God’s sake. It’s called free speech.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. It’s the wrong place and the wrong time. This is crap. And what do these guys have to protest anyway?”

“Hey, we still got a long way to go, man. In jobs and housing especially. Tell me this: could a black man buy a house in your neighborhood? Could he belong to your union?”

“Ah, you friggin’ liberals give me a pain. They’ve got every opportunity in this country. Let them do just like the Irish and the Italians and the Jews did: get out there and work for it.”

“It’s that damn Harry Edwards down there at Cal that got ‘em all worked up. You know he wanted all black athletes to boycott the games?”

“Let’s face it: we wouldn’t have much of a team without them. Hell, Smith set a new world record.”

“Did you hear that? They just said Avery Brundage suspended them from the team and he wants them out of the Olympic Village.”

“Serves ‘em right.”

“Brundage says political statements have no place in the Olympics.”

“Oh really? Where was he in 1936 in Berlin? No political statements, my ass! If it isn’t political, then why do they play national anthems?”

The reporters covering the Olympic Games were digging hard now, trying to get out in front of the story. Before long, the details came pouring out, fueling the controversy. Tommy Smith said his black-gloved fist represented black power, while John Carlos’s represented black unity. Both men stood on the podium in black sox – and no shoes – to represent black poverty in racist America. All three athletes, including Peter Norman, wore badges representing Harry Edwards’s Olympic Project for Civil Rights.

No one – neither reporters nor athletes nor fans – could anticipate the shit storm that would rain down on these three young men, or the impact that it would have on the rest of their lives.
_____

Next week: Friday night lights at Corbus Field, and Bobbie and John Jr. come to a fork in the road.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-09-25T14:28:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 24: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 28

The small crowd at the bar sat mesmerized as they gazed at the images on the television screen, alternating between shots of the activities inside the convention hall and rioting in the streets of Chicago. In front of the Hilton Hotel, the police in their light blue shirts and helmets were charging into the demonstrators, nightsticks flying, while the demonstrators heaved rocks and bottles and bags of urine in the direction of the police.

Inside the convention center, Senator Abraham Ribicoff was at the podium, nominating George McGovern for president, using the national stage to denounce “…Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago.” The Illinois delegation, seated right down front and led by Mayor Richard Daley, shouted back at Ribicoff, inviting him to go home – or go something.

Back in front of the Hilton, the demonstrators were chanting, “The whole world is watching.” They were right. And to the world – including the regulars at Skip’s Place – it seemed that America had gone crazy.

“Can you believe that shit? I say ‘go police,’ bust some heads. Who the hell are these people?”

“Did you see Daley? Did he just say ‘fuck you’ to Ribicoff?”

“Damn, I think you’re right.”

“Well, the Democrats just gave the damn election to the GOP. Humphrey hasn’t got a chance now.”

“Hey, you never know. A lot can happen between now and November.”

“Are you kidding me? Nixon will eat this up. He’ll beat ‘em over the head with ‘law and order’ and they’ll run these film clips over and over again.”

“I feel for old Hubert. He’s not such a bad guy.”

“Oh, gimme a break. He’s a dinosaur from the New Deal days. A bleeding heart liberal. All he wants to do is take your money and give it out to a bunch of welfare queens.”

“He’s not that bad. He had some good ideas – like the Peace Corps. Wasn’t that his brainchild?”

“Big deal. Anyway, Nixon is gonna kick his ass, you wait and see.”

“Shoot, I thought Nixon was dead back in ’62. Remember his speech? ‘You won’t have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore.’”

“You can’t keep a good man down. Besides, nobody understands politics in this country better than Dick Nixon.”

“Ah… I don’t trust a guy that wants it that bad.”

“I think he’ll be a good president. And I like this guy Agnew, too.”

“That sonofabitch? I think he bites the heads off of puppies.” (laughter)

Back in the streets, the whole world continued to watch as the police cracked heads with wild enthusiasm. For every demonstrator who dared to stand his ground, there seemed to be two cops ready to whack him – or her. And somewhere out there, Richard Milhous Nixon was watching and waiting.
_____

CHAPTER 25: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 7

John Harris rinsed his coffee mug and left it in the kitchen sink. He went looking for Martha to tell her he was leaving, heading down the street and around the corner for a haircut. He found his wife folding clothes in the bedroom.

“Okay, hon, I’m gonna go get a haircut. Should be back in an hour or so.” He gave Martha a quick kiss on the cheek and headed for the front door.

John knew there would be a wait on a Saturday morning, but that was okay. He enjoyed the chance to sit and shoot the bull in the neighborhood barbershop. It was a beautiful September morning, clear and sunny, a real Indian summer day. He took his time strolling down the block, checking his neighbor’s houses and yards as he went, looking for changes in landscaping or paint, perhaps a new car parked in a driveway. He was pleased with what he saw: the neighborhood was holding up pretty well. He rounded the corner on Georgia Street and headed for Barney’s Barber Shop, situated in the collection of small storefronts anchored by a mom-and-pop market.

As John approached the shop, he saw the door swing open and a short compact figure burst out onto the walkway, closing the door with a bang. He recognized Kenji Hashimoto and started to call out to him. Kenji turned sharply and marched away, head down, eyes fixed on the pavement, clearly upset about something.

John opened the door and stepped into the shop. The two chairs were occupied and three customers were waiting. The lively conversation slowed just a bit as John came in.

“Hey, Big John! Time to get your ears lowered?” It was Barney with his usual greeting.

“Yeah, sure…” John was still puzzled by Kenji’s rapid exit.

“Well, you missed all the excitement. We just had a Jap in here, looking for a haircut. I told him we don’t serve Japs, that we remember Pearl Harbor. Right, guys?” This drew a murmur of approval from the other men.

“You mean Ken… I mean Kenji Hashimoto? Hell, he’s my neighbor.”

“The hell you say? Your neighbor? Since when do we have Japs in this neighborhood?”

John ignored the question. He exchanged hellos with the waiting customers, picked up a magazine and took a seat. The conversation moved to other topics – sports, politics, pretty women – and Kenji Hashimoto was forgotten for the time being, by all except John. He felt a sense of unease that he couldn’t explain. Time passed, the chairs turned over, customers paid and left, calling their goodbyes on the way out the door.

Suddenly the door swung open, the bell attached to the door jam ringing brightly. Kenji stepped into the shop and approached Barney’s chair, glaring up at the slightly taller man. John could see that he was wearing an Army uniform jacket, and he could see a military medal pinned to the breast; he recognized it as a Purple Heart.

“See this?” Kenji pointed to the medal. “Ever see one of these? I got mine in Italy, 1945, fighting for Uncle Sam. Where were you during the war, asshole? So you remember Pearl Harbor? I’ll tell you what I remember: Monte Cassino in Italy, Biffontaine in France. That’s what I remember.”

The shop went dead silent. Barney stared at the medal, then looked at Kenji. The silence continued for several seconds. Finally, Barney spoke up. “Look, friend, I made a mistake. I didn’t know. If you want to take a seat, I’ll be glad to cut your hair.”

Kenji moved closer, inches from Barney’s face, as though he were ready to take a bite out of the man. “I wouldn’t let you cut my hair if it was free – for life.” He turned and walked out of the shop, closing the door hard as he went.

“Well, I’ll be…” Barney could think of nothing more to say. John dropped the magazine on the table and headed toward the door. “Hey, John, you’re not staying? You’ll be up soon.”

“Nah, Barney. Not today. Maybe later.” He left the shop and headed for home.
_____

John opened the front door and went straight to the kitchen. He had a pretty good idea where he’d find Kenji Hashimoto. He looked out the kitchen window, across the low picket fence at the back of the property, and sure enough, there was Kenji sitting on the stone bench by his rock garden. John opened the refrigerator, took out a couple of bottles of Falstaff and headed for the backyard.

“Hey, Kenji, mind if I join you?” Kenji looked up and thought seriously about building a taller fence. He motioned for John to come over. John approached the bench and held out one of the bottles. “I don’t have any of that good Jap beer, but at least it’s cold.”

Kenji looked up, saw the half-smile on John’s face and knew he was being messed with. He accepted the beer. He moved over and patted the bench for John to sit down.

“So, you served in Italy and France? How did that happen?”

“I was with the 442 Regimental Combat Team. All Japanese, mostly from Hawaii, but about 800 of us from the U.S. internment camps. They came around at Rohwer and asked for volunteers.”

John had heard of the 442 RCT, the “Go For Broke” regiment, the most decorated unit in the Army. “And you signed up? I heard of lot of guys refused, even renounced their citizenship.”

“There was a lot of anger, John. Some guys renounced. Others said they’d volunteer if their families were released and their full rights were restored.”

“But you volunteered. Why? Your family was locked up. You were moved across the country. Why volunteer, for God’s sake?”

Kenji glared at John, a look of pure defiance and pride. “Because this is my country too. My parents are Nisei; they were born here. I was born here. I’m every bit as American as Franklin Delano Roosevelt, or Earl Warren, or General John Fucking DeWitt!” He looked away, fighting for composure. More than 20 years and it was still an open wound.

“I saw the Purple Heart. Where did you get hit?”

Kenji rubbed his right leg. Thinking about it always seemed to make it hurt. “I took some shrapnel in my right leg. Nothing too serious. Just bad enough to get me shipped home. The 442nd was back in Italy, 1945. The fighting was almost over anyway.”

John looked at Kenji and pondered everything he’d learned about the Hashimoto family and what the war had done to them. “Damn,” he said, “and now my friend Barney doesn’t want to cut your hair. Well, Mr. Hashimoto, you and I are going to have to find a new barber shop.”

Kenji laughed in spite of himself. He and Big John clinked bottles and drank deeply of the fine American beer.
_____

CHAPTER 26: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

Bobbie pulled her car into the space next to John’s, killed the engine and turned out the lights. John was standing next to the railing that ran along the walkway overlooking the Mare Island Strait, the lights of the shipyard burning brightly across the water, the balmy fall air filled with the clank and bang of steel being transformed into warships. Bobbie joined him at the railing where they exchanged a quick hug and a kiss.

“Thanks for coming, Johnny. I wanted to talk to you in person…”

“You look great, Bobbie. Is that a new shirt?” She always looked great to John, but especially tonight, wearing a new dashiki, tight fitting jeans and tall leather boots. The clothes, the jewelry, the regal bearing – it all came together to stir John’s feelings for her.

“I want to tell you right away, Johnny, I’m not pregnant. I got my period this morning, just out of the blue. I would have told you earlier but I didn’t want to do it on the phone.”

“Geez, Bobbie, I don’t know what to say. I mean, that’s good, right? You’re okay? Heck, we’re okay!”

He put his arms around her and held her close for a minute or so. A great feeling of relief washed over him. They stepped away from the rail, holding hands, and began to walk south along the waterfront.

Just then, a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot and drove toward them, the headlights glaring brightly in their eyes. The vehicle came to a stop and they could hear the crackle of the two-way radio inside the car. The doors opened and the officers stepped out of the car; the driver approached, giving them a quick nod of his head.

“What’s your business here, folks?”

“We’re just talking, officer…” John wasn’t sure what more to say.

“Are these your vehicles?”

“Yes, sir…”

“Okay, I want the two of you to return to your vehicles. I’ll need to see license and registration.” The first officer, the one who had been driving, went with Bobbie while the second officer approached John. Two very different conversations ensued. While John produced his license and registration, Bobbie was having a different experience.

“Where is your license, miss?”

“In the car… in my purse.”

“Bring the purse out here where I can see it. Do you have any weapons, anything sharp in there?”

“No…”

“Okay, open it so I can see inside.” He pointed a long flashlight into the large, floppy handbag and scanned the contents. “Whoa, what is that?”

“What? Oh, that’s a comb… a hair pick… for my hair.”

“Nothing sharp, eh? Okay, take it out and set it on the hood.” She did as he asked. “Now your drivers license.” She opened her wallet and retrieved the license. “And registration.” She pulled the small holder containing the document from the sun visor and handed it to him. “Is this your vehicle?”

“It’s my father’s.”

“Name and address?” She provided the information and the officer seemed satisfied. “Again, what’s your business here? Is this your regular stroll?”

It dawned on Bobbie then that she’d been pegged as a prostitute. Of course! A black girl walking the waterfront with a white boy: a new generation of the world’s oldest profession.

“There’s no business… we’re just talking… he’s my boyfriend.”

“I’ll bet he is.”

“Look, I’m not a hooker...” She was beginning to see red now.

“Don’t give me attitude, miss. This is a high crime area. More prostitutes than we can count. So no attitude, got it! Stay here while we check you out.” With that he walked back to the patrol car to confer with his partner.

“What do you think?”

“Hell, I think they’re just lovebirds. Salt ‘n Pepper style. Let’s turn ‘em loose and move on.”

“What’s a nice white boy want with a soul sister, anyway?”

“Hey, did you get a look at her? She’s a fox. Hell, I’d do her.”

“Hell, you’d do anything female. That’s why your daddy won’t let you around the sheep anymore.”

“Screw you, too. I’m just saying, I’d like to pat her down. She’s got a nice lookin’ ass.”

“Shit, just give ‘em back their IDs and let’s get out of here.”
____

The patrol car pulled away, leaving them in a state of shock, and in Bobbie’s case, rage.

“So that’s it, Johnny. If you’re a black girl in this part of town with a white boy, you must be a whore. Right?”

“Bobbie, calm down… they’re gone now… it’s okay.”

“Sure it’s okay. This is where we live, Johnny. The land of the free and the home of the brave. Where all men are created equal. America the beautiful.”

“Okay… okay… I know you’re upset…”

“Go home, Johnny.” She opened her car door and got in. “Go on home to your neighborhood and I’ll go home to mine.” She was choking back tears now. “And just be damn happy that you’re not going to be the father of a little brown baby.”

The tires screeched as she backed away from the curb, then again as she sped away, leaving John to feel like a hapless piece of shit.
_____

Next week: Ellamae goes to church for an interesting sermon, and Skip’s customers watch the Olympic Games from Mexico City.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-09-19T17:38:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 22: THURSDAY, JULY 4

John made his way across the lawn, weaving his way through the crowd gathered at Waterfront Park. He carried a blanket, two folding beach chairs, and a small cooler containing a variety of soft drinks. He was looking for the perfect spot to spread the blanket, park the chairs and wait for the fireworks to begin. Bobbie would be meeting him near the bandstand; she was working that evening, but had a two-hour break between clients, enough time to enjoy the finale to the 4th of July celebration.

There was a good crowd gathering, anticipating the fireworks show. The celebration had gone on most of the day, beginning with a parade through town that included bands, a mounted posse, floats with lots of pretty girls, and the usual cadre of politicians and dignitaries. A parade of boats, red white and blue lights strung from the rigging, was making its way up the Mare Island Strait, heading for the Vallejo Yacht Club. On a barge anchored out in the strait, the fireworks technicians were making their final preparations. The clock was ticking down to 9:30 pm, the time promised for the start of the show, and parents all through the crowd were pleading with their children to be patient for just a few more minutes.

John found an open patch of grass, dropped the chairs and the cooler and spread the blanket neatly. He began to scan the crowd, looking for Bobbie. He didn’t want her to miss the start of the show. Then he saw her through the crowd, making her way toward him. She was wearing her work clothes, the dark gray pants and lighter gray shirt with the patch on the left breast that read “Aaron’s Janitorial.” John smiled at her, amazed at the way she made ordinary work clothes look regal. He took her hand as she approached.

“Hi, babe. Come on over here. I’ve got a good spot.” He was happy to see her, as always, and didn’t notice that she did not return his smile. He didn’t see the concern etched in her face. John opened the beach chairs and they sat down. “Want a Coke?” he asked, indicating the little cooler. She accepted and took a sip of the ice cold drink just as the first volley of fireworks went off.

Suddenly the sky above them was exploding with successive bursts of white light. The crowd let out a collective gasp, followed by a rousing cheer. This pattern continued with each round launched from the barge, the brilliant display in reds and blues and whites blending in the night sky.

Bobbie was looking at John, watching his smiling face, seeing the colors reflected in his eyes.

“Johnny,” she said, leaning close to his ear, “I’m late.”

“What? No, you weren’t late. I was only here a few minutes…”

“No, Johnny, I mean I’m late…”

“What? I don’t know…”

A great splash of color filled the sky and the crowd erupted again.

“I mean I’m late.” She said it louder this time. “I missed my period.”

Another starburst exploded, followed by another cheer, but they were no longer watching. Realization was dawning across John’s face, and Bobbie watched closely for his reaction. He smiled and then looked away, back toward the canvas being painted above them, and as he did this, he took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. And Bobbie felt the tears welling in her eyes.

They watched in silence until, nearly an hour later, the grand finale lit the sky, bringing the loudest response yet from the crowd. Then they gathered their things and headed out of the park. As throngs of people hurried by, they stood together next to Bobbie’s car, talking quietly, trying to sort out their situation.

“Geez, I wonder how this happened? I mean, we tried to be so careful, using rubbers all the time…”

She corrected him. “Most of the time.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Nothing’s certain yet. I mean, I haven’t been to a doctor or anything…”

“Maybe you should go… maybe we should go…”

“Yeah… I’ll make an appointment… soon. But I’ve got to go to work now. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

She kissed him quickly on the lips and started to pull away, but John held her hands and pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms, her head against his chest. They stood that way for a minute, people streaming past on the sidewalk, shooting disapproving glances in their direction.

“I love you,” he said. “We’ll get through this. We’ll be okay…”

Bobbie pulled away and fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock the car door, her eyes clouded with tears. “I love you too, Johnny.” She started to add but it’s not enough, then bit her tongue.

She got in and he closed the door behind her. When she looked up at him, his fingers touching the window, for the very first time she saw fear in his eyes.
_____

CHAPTER 23: TUESDAY, JULY 16

Isaac drove across town, a little smile dancing across his face. He was listening to the boys jabbering away brightly about anything and everything – baseball, someone’s birthday, a party that’s coming up – just normal stuff that teenagers could talk about in front of a parent. Isaac’s son Lucas rode in the front seat, his friends John Harris and Eric Hashimoto in the back, heading home from baseball practice at Wilson Park. The boys were teammates, first in high school and now on the American Legion team. But more than that, they were friends. Isaac marveled at how easy they made it look. It was way beyond his experience: growing up in the segregated South, serving in a segregated army unit during the war, living now in a de facto segregated neighborhood. Times were changing and these kids were going to lead the way, making their own decisions, choosing their friends, their associates – even their neighbors – for reasons that didn’t involve color. He wondered if he could ever catch up. He turned left onto Cedar Street, then a quick left again into the Hashimotos’ driveway.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Washington.” Eric said a quick goodbye to his buddies and headed for the front door.

Isaac backed out of the driveway onto Cedar, made a right at the corner and pulled up in front of the Harris’s home. There was another “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Washington,” and John Harris was waving goodbye.

Mr. Washington… Mr. Isaac Washington, R.N. He was having a hard time getting used to it. He had aced the exam, and even found a job at Vallejo General Hospital. Things were definitely looking up. He pulled away from the curb and started down the street, wondering what Millie had on the stove for dinner. Then he looked up at the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of the police cruiser behind him. He pulled over to the curb and stopped.

“Dad? Did you do something wrong?” Lucas looked back at the police car, then at his father.

“No… I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll handle it.” Isaac tried to sound confident. In his rearview mirror, he could see the officers sitting in the patrol car, one of them talking into a radio handset. After several minutes, the driver opened the door and Isaac saw him walking toward his vehicle, his image growing larger in the mirror. He rolled down the window and waited.

“License and registration, please.” The officer stooped slightly, his eyes scanning the inside of the car.

Isaac reached for his wallet in his back pocket. As he did this he saw the officer place his right hand on the gun in its holster. He took the license out of his wallet, removed the registration holder clipped to the sun visor, and handed them to the officer.

“Mr. Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Is this your vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Remain in the vehicle. And keep your hands on the wheel where we can see them.” The officer turned and walked back toward the cruiser.

“Dad, what’s going on? Why are they doing this?”

“Just be cool, son. Be cool.” He said it, but with very little conviction. Isaac Washington could feel his blood beginning to boil.
_____

John Harris stepped off the bus, turned and stood at the curb until it pulled away, then started across the street toward his house, the second from the corner. He looked up to see the police cruiser, lights flashing, one officer standing a few feet away from the vehicle, covering the second officer who was in the process of patting down a tall, slender black man. The suspect’s legs were spread apart, pulled back, hands out against the vehicle. A second black man, younger, possibly late teens, also stood with his hands on the vehicle, waiting his turn to be frisked. John recognized the young man: it was Lucas Washington. And the older man was his father, Isaac. John also recognized the police officer covering his partner: it was Tom Wolf, the son of a man John worked with on the shipyard. All of this was happening a few yards down the block from the Harris’ home. John reached the walk leading to his front door and called to the young officer.

“Tommy… hey, Tommy.” The officer looked around and nodded in recognition. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Hey, Mr. Harris. Not much. Just a routine stop.”

“A routine stop for what?”

“Well, we’ve had some break-ins in the neighborhood and this guy fits the description.”

“Break-ins? I haven’t heard of any break-ins.”

“Well, let’s just say they’re a little out of place here.” He turned and winked at John.

“Goddamn, Tommy, I know this man. That’s Ike Washington. Our kids play ball together.”

John Jr. came out of the house and stood next to his father. “Dad, why are they stopping Mr. Washington? He just dropped me off from practice.”

“Hear that, Tommy? Ike just gave my kid a ride home from ball practice.”

The officer named Tom looked annoyed, but called out to his partner who was finished patting down Isaac Washington. The second officer approached his partner and they had a quick, animated conversation.

“Okay, Mr. Harris, we’re going to let ‘em go, based on you vouched for ‘em.” Tom addressed Big John while his partner returned Isaac’s license and registration. “You know, we would’ve turned ‘em loose earlier, but he copped an attitude with us.”

A few seconds later, the police cruiser swung around Isaac’s car and hurried away, as if another urgent call had come in. John walked toward Isaac who was leaning back against his car, fighting to control his rage.

“Geez, Ike, sorry about that. You’d think they’d have something better to do.”

“Oh… not a fucking problem, Big John. Matter of fact, I’m getting used to it, starting to enjoy the damn pat-downs. Know what I mean? What the hell did you say to ‘em?”

“Just that I know you, that you were dropping off my kid, that I could vouch for you.”

“Vouch for me? Vouch for me, so that I can drive down the goddamn street? I did not know that I needed to be vouched for to drive in this neighborhood. Well… thank you Mr. John Harris.” Isaac could feel the blood pulsing at his temples, feel his fists clenched tightly against the side of the car.

John felt awful. He knew there was nothing he could do to salvage the situation. Still, he had to try. “Ike, why don’t you come on in and have a cold beer with me, let yourself calm down a little?”

Isaac looked at John Harris for a moment, and then burst into laughter. It was just too damn funny. A beer? Come on in and have a beer? I’ll bet that would be a first: the first nigger to set foot in that household – except for a maid. And then he saw that John was dead serious. He stifled a new burst of laughter, and he felt his anger begin to subside.

“Well, I’ll be… Thanks, John… But Millie’s got dinner on the stove. I think Lucas and I better head for home.”

He called to his son who had wandered off to talk to John Jr. A minute later, they were on their way home, back to their neighborhood, safe among their own kind.
_____

Next week: The Democrats meet in Chicago, John and Kenji go to the barber shop, and Bobbie has news for John Jr.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-09-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 20: TUESDAY, JUNE 4

It was just before midnight and Skip’s Place was busy, a good crowd for a Tuesday night. Marty was behind the bar, helping Skip keep pace with the orders. She had a definite bounce in her step tonight. It was primary election night in California and her candidate had been declared the winner by all three networks. She listened casually to the chatter at the bar, refusing to be drawn into any of the debates. She and Skip had an unwritten rule: never discuss politics or religion with the customers; it was bad for business. They did not need to know that she had worked tirelessly for the campaign, making phone calls, stuffing envelopes, walking the precincts and leaving door-hangers on every knob. It was hard not to respond to some of the comments, but she bit her lip and moved on. He won! We won! There’s hope! She said it over and over as she worked the bar; it was all that really mattered.

And now, just after midnight, all eyes at the bar focused on the television screen, the scene from the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, where Robert F. Kennedy was about to make his victory speech. It was short and to the point: praise for staff and special friends, punctuated with humor, acknowledging that this was just one battle in the war with many more to come.

Marty watched all of this with pride, her smile barely suppressed, wishing that she could just have a few minutes with the Senator from New York to take a pair of scissors to that unruly shock of hair, trimming it just enough to keep it out of his eyes. She wondered how many women were out there, watching this scene, thinking the same thing.

And now his entourage was turning, leaving the podium, heading off the back through a service kitchen. Look – there goes Rafer Johnson, and big Rosie Greer, and Jesse “Big Daddy” Unruh, and of course, Bobby’s wife Ethel. Marty turned back to the bar where several patrons were signaling for refills.

And then suddenly the screen was filled with chaos. Shots had been fired. Reporters were shouting into live microphones. The crowd at the Ambassador that had been cheering and laughing just moments ago was gasping, screaming, on the verge of panic. How many shots? Six? Eight? Get him! Grab him! Get the gun! Break his arm if you have to! Grab him! I want him alive! We don’t want another Oswald! The Senator is down! He’s been hit! He’s been hit in the head! Get back! Get back! Give him air! Is there a doctor here? A doctor, quickly! A jacket tucked under his head. A rosary placed in his hands… Is there a priest here? We need a priest…
_____

Marty shut the door to the small office that was situated just off the end of the bar. She leaned back against the desk, her arms wrapped around her body, doing her best to stop the shaking. She felt the hot, bitter tears rolling down her cheeks and she looked around the desk and found a box of tissues.

Never again. Never ever again. I’ll never let myself get sucked into it again. First with Jack Kennedy, and now with Bobby. You let yourself care, you let yourself hope, you let yourself believe, and then some idiot out there sits in front of his goddamn TV screen and says, “Oh, I could be famous. I could be somebody! Where did I put my gun?” Well, they can all go straight to hell, and they can do it without me. Never ever again. Making the phone calls. Walking door to door. “Can we count on your vote for Senator Kennedy?” Doors slammed in your face. Dogs barking, baring their fangs. And for what? To be a part of this great democratic process, the magnificent, peaceful transfer of power? Peaceful, my ass! Democracy, my ass! It’s democracy from a gun barrel. Well, fuck ‘em all, unto the hundredth generation. They can all go fuck themselves. Why? Why did I let myself care? Why did I let myself believe?

Skip stuck his head in the door. “Hey, are you okay?”

Marty glared at him, fire in her eyes. Hell no, she wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even on the same planet as okay. But… he was a good man, her Skip, a damn good man. It wasn’t his fault. No need to take it out on him.

She smiled at him weakly. “I’ll be okay. What’s the latest?”

“He was shot in the head, at close range. They’ve taken him to a hospital. As far as anyone knows, he’s still alive. The guy that shot him – I think they said he’s from Jordan – his name is Sirhan Sirhan. That’s about all.” Skip walked over to where Marty was leaning against the desk.

“Okay. Gimme a minute and I’ll be out to help you.”

“No hurry, babe. The place is emptying out. Take all the time you need.” Skip wrapped her in his arms and they held each other for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. He kissed her forehead and then turned and headed back to the bar.

Marty’s thoughts were tumbling now, looking for a place to land. Alive? He’s still alive? There’s hope. I should be hopeful. I should… pray. She closed her eyes and tried to pray for Bobby Kennedy’s life, but she couldn’t make herself believe. Instead, she prayed for his family – another son, brother, husband, father taken too soon. And she prayed for his mortal soul.
_____

Skip called goodnight to the last group of customers as they headed out the door. The janitors were already busy with the restrooms and it was time to begin closing out the cash register. He was surprised to look up and see a lone customer sitting at the corner of the bar. It was one of his regulars, Ben… something. He couldn’t remember his last name. He knew Ben was a civilian administrator of some sort at the nuclear power school at Mare Island.

“Ben, what’s up buddy? We’re closing up now. Time to head for the barn.”

Ben raised his glass and gave Skip a shaky salute. Skip was immediately concerned. Oh man, how many drinks has he had? I served him. I guess Marty did too. I lost count. God, look at him. He’s blitzed!

“Mr. Marks, my good friend…” Ben was speaking very slowly, deliberately, trying not to slur his words. “I would appreciate it if you would call a cab for me. I do not wish to drive home in this condition.”

“Sure, Ben, happy to do it.” He was glad the man’s good sense wasn’t totally impaired. He placed a quick call to the cab dispatcher.

Ben continued: “I shall be away indefinitely, Skip. Heading east tomorrow. Norfolk, Virginia. I trust you’ll hold down the fort in my absence?”

“You bet. What’s up, Ben? A new assignment?”

“Temporary duty… of indefinite duration. I shall serve on the staff of the court of inquiry on the loss of the USS Scorpion.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah, indeed. You’ll see it in the news shortly: the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Moorer, will announce that the Scorpion is presumed lost. He has already convened a court of inquiry to determine the cause.”

“What do you think happened, Ben?”

“That, my friend, is what we need to determine. I shall say no more.” With that, he made a zipping motion across his lips.

The front door swung open and a man stepped part way inside. “Cab?” he said with a tired voice. Skip came around the bar and helped Ben off the stool, then toward the door held open by the driver.

“You know, Skip, two of the crew attended nuclear power training here at Mare Island. I looked it up. Christiansen and Huber.”

“Geez, Ben, did you know them?”

“No, they were before my time. But their records show they were good men. They were all good men. Ninety-nine good men.” Ben’s voice was choked with emotion now.

Skip helped him into the cab, closed the door and watched it drive away.

“Damn!” he said. “What a night.”
_____

CHAPTER 21: FRIDAY, JUNE 14

The coffeemaker perked rapidly on the counter and Ellamae could tell from the aroma that it was nearly done. She placed the pretty serving bowls on the silver tray, filled with tuna salad, egg salad, sliced onions and tomatoes. She added the matching plate stacked high with dark rye bread. Coffee and fresh-baked shortbread cookies would follow the luncheon spread. Ruth’s stepson Bradley was home for lunch and Ellamae would serve them at the dining room table. She slid the pocket door open and carried the tray into room.

“Oh, Ellie, that looks lovely. Bradley, come and sit down.” Ruth was always happy to have Brad come to call, but she seemed to be in a somber mood today.

“Ellie, I think you’ve outdone yourself.” Brad smiled at her and took a seat at the table.

Ellie laughed off the compliments. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.” She hurried back to prepare the coffee and cookies. As she worked in the kitchen, she could not help but hear their conversation through the open door.

“We tried our best to get Milton into a Navy Reserve unit, to keep him stateside for the duration of the war…”

“And?”

“We weren’t able to pull it off. We just don’t know the right people there.” Brad sounded disappointed, almost apologetic.

“So, he’s lost his student deferment, and we can’t get him into the Reserve. What other options do we have? I will not see my grandson, even if he’s not my blood, in this terrible war, Bradley. Our family has lost more than its share to war. I will not see it happen again.”

“I know, Mom. Here’s what we can do. We have friends in Canada. They have a country place a couple of hours outside of Toronto. Milton can live on the estate – I understand there is a carriage house of some sort. He’ll be part of the staff that maintains the place – grounds keeping in the warm months, and whatever is needed the rest of the year. We’ll see that he receives a stipend. It’s good, honest work and he can stay there until… well, until it’s over.”

“And how long is that likely to be?”

“There’s no way to know, but I don’t think it will be long, now that LBJ has decided to step aside.”

Ellamae listened as the discussion continued, torn between closing the door and her amazement at the plans that were being made.

“We’re making all the arrangements now,” Brad continued. “He’ll fly to Toronto, our friends will meet him there. No passport required. He’ll have to go through customs, but that’s no problem.”

“And when will we see him again?” Ruth’s voice was shaking now.

“I don’t know, Mom. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

“In the meantime, he’ll be safe?”

“Yes, as long as he doesn’t go into Toronto or some other town and get into trouble, get himself arrested or something.”

“Make sure he understands the consequences.”

“I have, Mom, but with Milton, you never know…”

Brad stopped speaking as Ellamae brought the coffee and cookies into the room and placed them on the table. Neither he nor Ruth looked up, their eyes downcast, their expressions grim. It did not happen often, but Ellamae hesitated, unsure of her prayer. Lord, give these folks… wisdom… and peace.
_____

She sat in the kitchen of the little wood frame house on Florida Street, her purse resting in her lap. Ellamae had been home for several minutes now but made it only as far as her kitchen table. Her work for Ruth Lev was finished for the week. She had prepared meals, wrapped and stored in the refrigerator, so that all Ruth would have to do is pop them in the oven. She knew that come Monday, she’d find most of that food untouched. But that was Ruth – not one to sit down and eat when she was alone. Hopefully, Bradley or her nephew Skip would stop by to spend some time with her, get her out of the house for a few hours, perhaps take her to services on Saturday morning.

Ellamae could not pull her thoughts away from the conversation she’d overheard that afternoon. So, young Milton Lev would avoid the war by going to Canada? And this was after other options had been explored and set aside.

She understood Ruth’s feelings, having seen her family nearly wiped from the face of the earth during World War II. But what about Ellamae’s grandson, Thaddeus Brown, drafted into the Army, finished now with basic training, waiting for deployment? What were his options? Where was his trip to Canada? She had wanted run into the dining room and ask if Thad could accompany Milton. He was a hard worker and he would be a fine addition to the staff on that country place. But she knew it was too late.

Dear Lord, what about Thaddeus? What about my Thad? Ellamae watched as the sunlight faded and dusk began to gather, a lovely orange sunset lighting the sky to the west. She did not move from the kitchen table. Perhaps if she kept perfectly still, God would provide an answer.
_____

Next week: It’s July 4th – time to celebrate. Or is it? Plus, when is a traffic stop not a traffic stop?
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-09-04T07:08:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 18: TUESDAY, MAY 28

“Did you hear about the Scorpion?”

Skip had heard the question so many times during the day that he’d lost count and could not remember the first person who had asked. The news had spread out across the country in successive shock waves from the epicenter, the Norfolk Navy Base at Hampton Roads, Virginia. It began with a news bulletin broadcast by the CBS television affiliate in Norfolk on May 27 at around 6:00 pm local time: the USS Scorpion was overdue in port and the Navy had declared a SubMiss (submarine missing) alert. The crew of 99 officers and enlisted men were drawn from 33 of the 50 states and long distance phone lines lit up as families reached out to notify their loved ones.

The second wave came on Tuesday morning, May 28, when major Newspapers across the country reported the SubMiss alert and the fact that the Navy had launched a massive open-water search operation. In Norfolk, The Ledger-Star proclaimed, “No Trace of Sub Found as Navy Presses Search.” The headline in the New York Times read, “U.S. Nuclear Submarine with 99 Overdue.” Again, phone lines were jammed, reaching into every corner of the country, including Vallejo, California.

Vallejo, the home of Mare Island Naval Shipyard, was an integral part of the nuclear navy. Beginning with the USS Sargo in 1957 and extending to the USS Drum in 1970, Mare Island would contribute 17 ships to the nuclear submarine fleet, including seven “boomers” (the Navy’s nickname for ships armed with ballistic missiles) and 10 fast attack boats. Mare Island was also one of several sites for the Navy’s nuclear power school. Any tremor that affected a nuclear submarine would be felt in Vallejo.

With the five o’clock shift change on the shipyard, the crowd at Skip’s Place began to grow, larger than normal for a Tuesday evening. It seemed that the shipyard workers needed to come together, to talk about what they’d heard, and hopefully, hear some encouraging news about the fate of the Scorpion. Skip knew it was just a matter of time until someone would walk in with a story of connections to the ship and its crew. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Hey, Robbie. How’s it goin’?”

“Goin’ good. What’s up?”

“Did you hear about the Scorpion?”

“What about the Scorpion?”

“She’s missing. The Navy put out a SubMiss alert yesterday afternoon.”

“Damn! That’s my brother-in-law’s ship!”

All along the bar, eyes turned in Robbie’s direction. No one said a word. After several seconds, Robbie broke the silence. “Hey, Skip, I gotta call my sister in Norfolk…”

“Sure, Robbie.” Skip didn’t wait for him to finish. “Use the phone in the office.”

“Thanks, Skip.” Robbie hurried toward the door to the small office located off the end of the bar. “I’ll pay you for the call…”

“Can you believe that? His brother-in-law’s ship?”

“Anybody know what class it is?”

“Yeah, it’s a Skipjack. Built in Groton.”

“Did we build any Skipjacks?”

“Just one: the Scamp. Launched in 1960. It’s a good design – faster than hell. I hear it maneuvers like a sports car.”

“Yeah, a hundred guys crammed into a sports car. I tell you what: it’s no job for sissies.”

“You been on one, Jack?”

“Yeah. My last six years were in the submarine service… the last three on the USS Haddo. She’s Thresher class.”

Now all eyes turned to Jack with the respect due someone who knows.

“Yeah, no job for sissies. You have no idea what it’s like out there, underwater for weeks at a time, bored out of your skull, and then all of a sudden you’re in places you’re not supposed to be, under a Soviet destroyer or some other damn ship, and your heart’s pounding so hard you’d swear they could hear it on their sonar. I pissed myself more than once, and that’s no lie. Collisions and near-collisions, stuff you’ll never hear about, ‘cause the Navy doesn’t want you to know.”

Jack finished his beer and signaled to Skip for another.

“And you have no idea what it does to the wives, either. Killed my marriage, that’s for sure. She just couldn’t take it – the separations, the silence, the missions you couldn’t talk about. She was a good woman, too.”

Everyone felt bad for Jack. It was quiet again along the bar. He continued.

“You know, when you’re scheduled to go on patrol, they put it to you straight. Make sure your affairs are in order. Make sure your insurance premiums are paid up. Like I said, no job for sissies.”

Robbie emerged from the office and rejoined his friends. Skip slid a shot and beer in front of him and he threw back the shot.

“I can’t friggin’ believe it! My sister says she and the kids were down at the pier in Norfolk, waiting for the ship to come in. They got there at noon and she’s due in at 1:00 pm. There’s a Nor’easter blowing, the rain practically going sideways. They’re waiting in the car, trying to keep warm, stepping out every now and then to see if the ship’s coming. One o’clock comes and goes and they’re still waiting. Around 4:00, someone from Squadron comes down and tells them she’s been delayed and they should all go home. It’s easy to believe a delay, ‘cause of the lousy weather, so they go home. And on the six o’clock news, they break in with a report that the USS Scorpion is overdue and a sub missing alert has been issued. My eight year-old nephew hears this and runs into the kitchen to tell his mom. Can you believe that shit? No call from Squadron. They hear about it on TV.”

Robbie was quiet then. His friends bought him another round. Jack, the former submariner, spoke up.

“Hell, as my old man used to say, ‘There’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.’ I guess this is the Navy way.”

“Look, Robbie…” Skip felt the need to offer some hope. “Missing doesn’t mean lost. She may be out there in the storm somewhere, disabled, unable to radio in. They’re launching a search. They could find her… anytime now.”

“Yeah? Maybe you’re right, Skip.” He dropped his eyes and thought about it for a few seconds. “I’ll have to take some time off… check on flights to Norfolk… my sister’s gonna need some help.”

Robbie’s friends took his car keys and ordered another round for him. They’d see to it that he got home safely.
_____

In the days and weeks to come, the news would trickle out to the Scorpion families and the world at large. Around mid-day on May 27, Memorial Day, the Submarine Squadron 6 command became concerned and began a series of radio transmissions asking Scorpion to check in. Receiving no reply, Squadron transmitted alarm up the chain of command, and at 2:15 pm, COMSUBLANT (Commander, Atlantic Submarine Force) requested two reconnaissance aircraft to begin a search along the ship’s intended track. Finally, at 3:15 pm, the official SubMiss alert was broadcast to the Atlantic Fleet.

Years later, additional facts would become public knowledge. The last radio transmission from Scorpion was received shortly after midnight on May 22, when the skipper, Commander Francis Slattery, gave his current position and said he planned to be in port at 1:00 pm on May 27. Later that day, SOSUS, the then secret underwater acoustic monitoring system, recorded the explosion that sent Scorpion to the ocean floor under 11,000 feet of water, 400 miles southwest of the Azores. On May 23, Vice Admiral Arnold Schade, commander of the Atlantic Submarine Force, requested and received approval to launch a top secret search for the wreckage of the submarine.

Of course, the Scorpion families, waiting on Pier 22 in the middle of a howling storm on May 27, knew none of this. Not that it would have provided any comfort to know that their sailors were on eternal patrol.
_____

CHAPTER 19: SUNDAY, JUNE 2

Kenji finished pruning the bonsai tree and tending to the moss. He stepped back and admired his work for a moment, put the tools in his pocket and picked up the old wooden rake. He would use it to cover his tracks as he exited the rock garden, rearranging and recreating the flowing pattern in the sand and the stones. He thought about taking a break, resting for a few minutes on the stone bench at the edge of the garden. Then he looked up to see his neighbor, John Harris, approaching the back fence.

“Hey, neighbor. How ya doin’?”

“Hi, John.” Kenji could see no way to politely avoid this meeting, so he walked over to the fence.

“I gotta tell ya, Ken, that garden sure is pretty.”

“Call me Kenji. Thank you, John. My father always kept a rock garden. I guess I do it for him.”

“Well, it’s real nice.” John could see no earthly value in wasting a piece of ground that could yield vegetables. He was just being polite for a change. “Say, Ken… Kenji…” He caught himself and went on. “I noticed that your boy didn’t play for the Legion team the other day. Saw him on the bench, but not in uniform. He’s a fine catcher. Isn’t he going to play this summer?”

“Yeah well, we lost his birth certificate in the move and we’ve got to get an official copy before they can put him on the roster. It’s probably going to take a week or so to get it.”

“That long? I thought you people were from San Jose or Santa Clara, someplace down there in the Bay Area. Shouldn’t take that long.” John was puzzled. If it was his kid, he’d just drive down there and get it done.

Kenji bristled at the term you people, but he let it pass. “It has to come from Arkansas. Rohwer, Arkansas. It’s going to take a while.”

“Arkansas? Well… that’s my home state. I was born and raised near Junction City.” John paused to mull it over for a few seconds. “So, Eric was born in Rohwer, Arkansas? I thought you were from the Bay Area? What were you doing back there?” Japs in Arkansas: it was beyond John’s comprehension.

Kenji wasn’t sure he wanted to continue this conversation. Ah, what the hell, he said to himself. “My family lived in Santa Clara before the war. We were sent to an internment camp in Arkansas. That’s where Tami and I met and were married. Eric was born in Rohwer after the war, before we moved back to California.”

John looked stunned. He’d heard about the internment camps, but he’d never stood face to face with someone who had been sent to one, and in Arkansas to boot. Kenji heard the big man say, “Well… I’ll be damned.”

Now Kenji was amused. He had to stifle a laugh that was trying to break out. “John, come on over, let me show you something.” Big John did a neat scissor kick over the low picket fence. Kenji led him to the stone bench in front of the rock garden. “Sit right there for a minute. I’ll be right back.” He hurried into the house and returned shortly with two tall cans of Sapporo. He sat down next to John and handed him one of the cans of beer. “There you go. Now, John… have you ever meditated?”

John Harris looked at the can of Japanese beer in his hand, glanced at Kenji sitting next to him, and then looked out across the rock garden. The expression on his face said it all: he had landed on a planet in a strange galaxy, a million miles from home.
_____

“I saw you talking to John Harris today. That was nice.” Tami was busy in the kitchen as usual.

“Yeah… I was teaching him to meditate.” Kenji laughed out loud. “Actually, he was asking why Eric wasn’t in uniform for the Legion game the other day. I explained about the birth certificate.”

“Oh? What did he say about that?”

Kenji looked up and contemplated the question. “I’d say he was a little… surprised, maybe shocked. I don’t think he ever considered the possibility of our people living in Arkansas. You know, that’s where he’s from. I was gonna tell him that we are probably cousins, but I don’t think he was ready for it.”

“Oh, stop it! He’s not that bad. And Martha has been very nice since we moved in.”

“Yeah, well… maybe you’re right. At least he’s not marching outside with torches and pitchforks.”

Tami gave him an exasperated look, the one that always made him laugh, and went on about her business. “Did you tell him the rest?”

“No. No I didn’t.”

Kenji knew what she meant. Did he tell John how his family had been uprooted from Santa Clara? How his father insisted all along that he was an American citizen and citizens had rights to due process? How their home had been lost to foreclosure while they were interned in Arkansas? How his father’s business had been ruined, his heart broken, unable to start again after the war? No, Kenji had kept that to himself, a conversation for another day. Perhaps Big John would ask one day about the logo on the side of Kenji’s truck: “Hashimoto & Son.” Then he would tell him the rest of the story.
_____

Next week: It’s primary election night in California. Plus, Ruth and her son hatch a plan. Can you say Canada?
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-08-28T07:24:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 15: SUNDAY, MAY 5

John Harris stood on the sidewalk on the north side of N Street, taking in the well- maintained vista of Capitol Park in Sacramento. He took Martha’s hand as they started down the broad walkway that led past the east entrance to the Capitol Building. They came to a spot near an ancient magnolia tree and John came to a halt. Across the grass and through the trees, he could see the landscaped grotto that housed the monument.

“There it is, Martha.” John gestured toward the structure in the grotto.

“I see it, honey. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. Just give me a few minutes.”

He was there at his doctor’s suggestion, to confront his demons, to see if they could be beaten back, or at least controlled. If he could do this, then maybe the nightmares would subside. Maybe he could even sleep through the night. He continued north along the walk and then turned right onto a paved path named for former governor Hiram Johnson. And then he was standing in front of the monument to the USS California.

The California was John’s ship. He’d joined the crew in January of 1944 when she sailed from Bremerton, Washington. The Puget Sound Navy Yard had repaired the damage sustained at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and the California would go on to fight in battles all across the Pacific, exacting a heavy measure of revenge against the Japanese. Her great 14-inch guns became an important part of the battery that would be arrayed to pound each successive island before the Marines went ashore, firing shells the weight of a small car against the shoreline defenses.

Then came the day during the battle of Lingayen Gulf when a kamikaze came screaming out of the clouds, leveled off and roared into the California’s superstructure. That was January 6, 1945. Forty-four men died that day; more than 150 were wounded. Emergency repairs were made on the spot: ship and crew fought on. When the job was done and the battle won, more than two weeks later, she steamed back to Puget Sound for permanent repairs. John was reassigned and he finished the war out of harm’s way. But the California returned to service in the Pacific, first at Okinawa and, finally, supporting occupation forces in Japan.

For John Harris, it was only the beginning. He would relive January 6, 1945, over and over in his dreams. He would see himself frantically feeding ammunition to the anti-aircraft gun, see the kamikaze glide into a level path headed for the ship, see the gunner firing desperately at the plane, and watch helplessly as it sailed overhead to explode against the ship. In his dream, he could feel the heat from the fireball, and he could hear his shipmates scream in agony amid the flames.

Now he was standing in front of the monument. It was a simple structure: two square stone columns supporting a stone cap across the top with the inscription: U.S.S. CALIFORNIA. From the crosspiece hung the ship’s bell, its clapper removed. The California was sold for scrap in 1959 and this bell was all that remained of a once mighty warship. The carved legend on the left column read: ONLY BATTLESHIP BUILT ON THE PACIFIC COAST / LAUNCHED AT MARE ISLAND NAVY YARD NOV. 20, 1919 / SHIPS BELL DEDICATED AND RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME BY EARL WARREN OCT. 27, 1947. On the right column, the World War II battles were listed in order: PEARL HARBOR / MARIANAS / LEYTE GULF / SURIGAO / LINGAYEN GULF / OKINAWA / JAPAN.

John read the inscription on both columns, and then read it again. When he got to the line that said RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME, he felt his blood begin to boil. RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME… It should be rung every year on November 20, the day she was launched at Mare Island. RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME… It should be rung every December 7, once for each man who died at Pearl. RUNG FOR THE LAST TIME… It should be rung every January 6, for the men who died in the flames at Lingayen Gulf.

His chest was heaving now, his breath coming in great gasps. Sold for scrap in 1959. Sold for scrap? How do you sell steel for scrap when it has been washed in the blood of brave men? She should be afloat today, with a special berth at Mare Island, open to the public. Let people stand under those guns and imagine the roar and how they lit up the night sky. Let them stand on the spot where the bomb penetrated her hull at Pearl. Let them touch the scorched and twisted steel plate where the kamikaze hit. Let them see, and touch… and maybe even feel.

His breathing was returning to normal now. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket to mop his forehead and dab his eyes. He felt Martha touch his elbow gently.

“John… are you okay, honey?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine now.” He took two steps forward and placed the palm of his right hand against the surface of the bell. Finally, he stepped away. “Okay, Martha. Let’s go.”

She wrapped her right arm around his ample waist as they walked away, heading back to N Street and the entrance to the park.
_____

CHAPTER 16: FRIDAY, MAY 10

“I don’t get it. What exactly do they want?”

The regulars down at Skip’s looked up at the television, bearing witness to the rioting in the streets of Paris. After a week of protests all across the country, 10,000 students had marched through the streets and straight into the cordon of helmeted riot police. Tear gas hung in the air, concussion grenades were fired, and the police laid into anyone within reach with their hard rubber truncheons. The injured included 130 policemen and more that 440 civilians.

“I think what they want is to get rid of old General de Gaulle.”

“Yeah, but he’s their great war hero.”

“Ah hell, he thinks he is France. It’s time for him to let go.”

“Remember what Churchill called him? ‘The Cross of Lorraine.’”

“Well, he was something during the war. And after, too, when he cleaned out all those Vichy collaborators.”

“I hear that all the labor unions are going out on strike. They’re gonna shut down the whole country.”

“Well, the General’s gonna have to do something.”

“Yeah, like declare martial law.”

“I still don’t get it. What the hell do they want?”

“It’s just like all those kids at Columbia in New York City. Columbia, for God’s sake! Bunch of spoiled rich kids, occupying buildings, tearing down their daddy’s institution.”

“Hey, it’s more than that. They’ve got something to say, and we’re gonna have to listen, whether we like it or not.”

“Well, I still don’t know what the hell they want.”

They sipped their beer and watched the French students heaving stones in the direction of the police. They could tell from the awkward throwing motions that baseball was not the national pastime of France. But apparently the students’ aim was good: ten months later, Charles de Gaulle stepped down.
_____

CHAPTER 17: SATURDAY, MAY 18

They cuddled together spoon-fashion on John’s bed, his right arm around her, the fingers of his right hand interlocked with hers. Bobbie’s eyes were closed, her face a picture of contentment. Was she sleeping? John lifted his head a little, propped up by his left arm, so that he could look at her in the mirrored doors of the closet. His eyes scanned her long, lean, naked body from the top of her head to her feet, tangled in the rumpled bedding. She was wearing a gold necklace that fit closely around her neck, a matching gold bracelet and earrings. The contrast of the bright gold jewelry against her black skin was striking, and again John conjured up the image of Bobbie as a queen, the beloved monarch of some powerful nation. He continued to gaze at her image in the mirror and he felt a stirring in his loins. She felt it too and her eyes blinked open.

“Good Lord, Johnny, don’t you ever get enough?” She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled at him.

“No. Never. Not ever enough.”

“Oh my… you horny little devil.” She laughed and pressed her backside against him. “Are you sure your family is gone for the day? Wouldn’t be good if they walked in on this scene.”

“Yeah, they’re gone for the whole day. We have the house to ourselves.” He paused a moment, then continued: “Look at you. God, you are beautiful. I can’t believe you. You’re too beautiful to be real.”

She was quiet for a moment, studying their image in the mirror. Then slowly her face began to change, her lips trembled slightly, and tears began to fall from the corners of her eyes.

“God, Johnny, look at us. Who are we kidding? How can we do this? We can’t make this work…”

“Shhh… it’s okay… sure we can make it work. We love each other…”

“Your family can never accept us. Your father would kill you if he knew. My father would kill me…”

“That’s not true… my folks will love you when they get to know you…”

“Are you serious? Your daddy? From Junction City, Arkansas? My God, Johnny…”

“Shhh… it’s okay…”

“You know this could get me lynched… in several states… and get you tarred and feathered…”

“We don’t live there… we’re here, and I love you… we’re okay…”

“I love you too. I really do. But there isn’t a place in this world where we are okay.”

“Shhh… don’t cry… we’re here now and there’s nobody but the two of us.”

She looked in the mirror, struck again by the contrast in black and white, and then she couldn’t look any longer. She turned slightly in his arms, then turned again to face him, her head buried now against his chest.

“Hold me, Johnny… just hold me, and kiss me, kiss me about a thousand times.”

She tried her best to be like him, to live completely in this moment, no history to worry about, no consequences to fear, just this instant in time. He did as she asked and kissed her a thousand times, in places she’d never been kissed before, and they made the moment last for one unforgettable day.
_____

Next week: Remember the Scorpion? And what about Rohwer, Arkansas?
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-08-21T07:48:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 13: FRIDAY, APRIL 19

They were parked at Lovers’ Point in Benicia, looking out at Southampton Bay and the Carquinez Strait. The lights of the C&H sugar refinery and the bridges flickered off in the distance. It was another un-date, one of only a few since the King assassination. Bobbie had been withdrawn, conflicted, confused over her feelings for John, not at all certain she should let their relationship continue.

She sat apart from him now, her handbag on the seat between them, listening to him talk about the movie they’d seen that evening. He’d been nothing but supportive since that awful night of April 4, gentle and kind, giving her space when she asked for it, giving her his strong embrace when she needed it. He offered no words of advice or feigned wisdom about a situation he couldn’t fully comprehend. His only concern was for her well-being, her happiness, her peace of mind. She listened to him, not really hearing his words, lost in her own emotions, and she knew that her feelings for him were growing beyond control.

The movie that evening was a rather strange choice: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? Bobbie knew what the film was about and she really didn’t want to see it, but John had convinced her, citing the generally favorable reviews.

“I mean, I think it shows that an interracial couple can make it. Don’t you think?” He went on about the story line, pleading the obvious case.

“Sure, if everybody’s rich and you live in a mansion, and your dad is Spencer Tracy and your mom is Katharine Hepburn.” Bobbie hated to burst his bubble. He was so earnest. “Tell me something: what did you think of the scene where Sidney Poitier is kissing the girl as they drive away in the taxi? A black man kissing a pretty white girl. Tell me the truth: did that bother you?”

“What? No! I mean, they’re in love. Why should it matter who’s black and who’s white?”

“Come on, Johnny. It matters to a lot of folks. There are states in this country where that movie is never going to be seen.”

She wanted to add: A scene like that sends some folks looking for a rope. She held her tongue, seeing that he was a little hurt and deflated by her resistance to the movie’s message. Could he really be so naïve? She felt her heart go out to him. She moved her purse out of the way and slid across the seat to be close to him, her head resting on his shoulder. She turned toward him and kissed him full on the mouth, and she knew from that first kiss there would be no holding back tonight. In a matter of minutes, they had crossed Bobbie’s line in the sand and were far beyond where they’d ever been before. Soon her panties were a wet joke on the floor of the car and she heard herself saying, “I love you, Johnny… I love you… I love you…” as they came together. And then she was out of that proverbial plane, free-falling, the ground rushing up to meet her, and not a parachute in sight.
_____

CHAPTER 14: THURSDAY, APRIL 25

Ellamae was busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast when the phone rang. She let it ring, waiting for Ruth to answer. Realizing that Ruth was probably still in the shower, she reached for the wall-mounted phone.

“Lev residence. Can I help you?”

“Oh hi, Ellie. It’s Skip, Ruth’s nephew.”

“Skip! How are you, honey? It’s good to hear your voice.”

They exchanged small talk for a minute or two, and then Skip got straight to the point.

“Ellie, I’m glad you answered so that you can handle this with Aunt Ruth. I had a call from the bartender at Pharaoh’s. It’s a bar out at the end of Sacramento Street. He tells me that Milton has been out there most of the morning, drinking himself silly, and he refuses to leave. Milt is supposed to be working. The City truck is parked in back of the bar and his work partner is there, trying to reason with him, but he won’t listen.”

“Lord, have mercy. What’s gotten into that boy?”

“Anyway, I’d go out there and get him myself, but I’m alone here at my place and I can’t leave. I thought maybe… you know… maybe he’d listen to you.”

“Lord, Lord, Lord! Okay, honey, you let me handle it. I’ll see what I can do.”

They said their goodbyes and Ellamae put the handset back in its cradle. Ruth would be in for breakfast soon – a soft-boiled egg with wheat toast – and then Ellamae would make an excuse to leave the house to run an errand of some sort. She knew the bar Skip had mentioned by reputation, a broken down dive that ought to be closed for all the trouble that went on there. Would young Milton, Ruth’s grandson, listen to her? Could she drag him out of there and send him back to work? Or home to sleep it off? Well, if he knew what was good for him, he’d listen and do what he was told! Lord, watch over that dear lost child!
_____

Ellamae drove along Sacramento Street, careful to stay within the speed limit, wondering just what she would find at this bar called Pharaoh’s. Milton Lev had been a cause for concern in the Lev family for many years now, in and out of minor scrapes, dropping out of college, and lately moving through life as though hanging out in bars and consuming large quantities of alcohol constituted a career path. Ellamae first met him when he was an adorable nine year-old, full of mischief, always a little gleam in his eye, plotting his next adventure. He would visit Ruth on weekends and holidays and she would shower him with love and attention, and the latest toys that caught his fancy. Of course, when he got out of line, which was often, it fell to Ellamae to administer the appropriate discipline. She would take him by the ear and march him to the corner of the kitchen, sit him down on a little wooden footstool and make him stay there until he apologized for his latest misdeed. In spite of all that, Ellamae loved him almost as much as Ruth. He could be, and often was, the sweetest child in the world.

The family assumed that young Milton would eventually graduate from an acceptable university and join the family business. But Milton had little interest or aptitude for school, and even less interest in banking. Strings were pulled and favors called in to get him admitted to the University of California at Berkeley, but that lasted only until mid-term exams when it became clear that he was failing all of his classes. He left Berkeley and returned to Vallejo, eventually landing a job as a laborer with the City Street Department. And that is how the scion of a prominent and highly respected family came to be wielding a shovel on the streets of Vallejo.

Ellamae pulled into the parking lot in front of Pharaoh’s and killed the engine. She glanced at the building, little more than a rundown shack with neon beer signs in the windows. A young man wearing stained denim work clothes was standing near the front door and she assumed it was Milton’s partner. She gathered her purse and reached for the door handle. Lord, give me the strength to carry on.

“Hi,” the young man said tentatively as Ellamae approached the front door. “Are you Ellie? Skip called and said you were on your way.”

“And who is asking?” Ellamae fixed him with an icy stare.

“I’m Bill. I work with Milt. We’re partners, at least for today.”

“All right, Bill. Tell me what happened.”

Bill looked away from her withering gaze, feeling a little embarrassed, though he wasn’t sure why. “Well, we started out this morning, assigned to fill potholes. We drove up to Basalt and got a couple of yards of hot patch. Milt insisted on driving on the way back. He came here, went inside, parked his ass – excuse me – sat himself down on a barstool and started drinking. He won’t leave, and he won’t give me the keys to the truck. If he gets caught here drinking, he’ll lose his job for sure, and I’ll probably lose mine.” He paused for a minute. “So, that’s it.” He shrugged then and waited for Ellamae’s response.

She pushed past him and went into the bar, standing near the door while her eyes adjusted to the light. At the left end of the bar were two customers locked in earnest conversation with the bartender. Milton was sitting at the far right end, drinking beer from a long-necked bottle, an empty shot glass in front of him. He did not see Ellamae enter the room. She crossed the floor to the bar and stood at Milt’s right elbow. He glanced to his right and was startled to see her standing there.

“Ah geez, Ellie! Goddamn it, what the hell are you doing here?”

“You watch your mouth, Milton Jacob Lev! You do not speak that way to a lady!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He said it automatically. Old habits die hard. Then he shook his head and continued. “Who sent you, anyway? Why are you here?”

“That don’t matter one bit, young man. The question is what are you doing here, drinking your breakfast, putting your job and that young man Bill’s job up for grabs? What’s got into you?”

“It’s none of your business, Ellie. Just back off and leave me alone.” He signaled to the bartender for another round.

The man behind the bar approached, holding a piece of ledger paper in his hand.

“Look, Milt, it’s time to settle up your tab. You haven’t paid on this for about a month, man. I’m cutting you off until you make good on this. Okay?”

Milt started to protest, but Ellamae reached out and snatched the paper from the man’s hand. Her eyes widened as she looked at the bottom line number.

“Lord, Milton, you got nothing better to do than spend your all your money in this dump? Mercy me!”

“Hey, you callin’ my place a dump?” The man was clearly offended.

“If the shoe fits, Mr. Pharaoh! If the shoe fits!” Ellamae glared at him and watched as he took a step back from the bar.

“Look, just see that the tab gets paid, okay?” He knew she was right. It was a dump. He worked hard to keep it that way. His patrons preferred it that way. Well, let this black bitch say whatever she wants, as long as the tab gets paid. To hell with ‘em. He rapped his knuckles on the bar, then turned and walked away.

“Now you listen to me, Milton. You say this isn’t my business. It is every bit my business. You answer me right now! Why are you doing this?”

Milton Lev was no match for Ellamae Brown, never had been. “Okay, okay… I’m gonna be drafted. We have friends on the draft board and they told Dad that since I lost my student deferment, my number is coming up… soon.”

“And your answer to that is to get drunk and lose your job?”

“I can’t be a soldier, Ellie. I can’t do it. If they send me to Vietnam, I’m as good as dead. I just can’t do it.”

“Well, sittin’ on this barstool ain’t gonna fix anything. You come with me now. You’re either going back to work, or home to sleep it off. And that’s that.”

“And what if I won’t go?” Milton found a little bit of courage, though it wasn’t much.

“You’ll come with me right now, Milton Jacob!” And with that she reached out and grabbed his earlobe between her thumb and forefinger, pulling him relentlessly off the stool.

“Ow, Ellie, for God’s sake!” He stumbled off the stool to his right, following her powerful grip, abandoning any thought of resisting. “Okay, okay, just let go of my ear.” She released him and a few seconds later, they were out the door and into the bright sunlight.

Bill was incredulous and very grateful. “Oh man, thanks, Ellie. Thanks for getting him out of there.”

“What’s it gonna be, Milton? Are you going back to work with Just Plain Bill? Or do you want me to take you home?” Ellamae was laying down the law.

Suddenly, Milt took a few quick steps to his left, leaned over to grab his knees and vomited on the side of the building. When he was finally able to stand up, he reached in his pocket and handed the truck keys to Bill.

“Take me home, Ellie. I can’t work like this.”

“All right, honey. Now, Bill, you tell your bosses that Milton is sick. Something he ate. He’ll be okay tomorrow and he’ll be back on the job. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am. And thanks again. See ya, Milt.” Bill trotted away toward the back of the building where the large dump truck was parked.

Ellamae realized that she still had the bar tab in her hand. She folded it carefully and put it in the pocket of her coat. She’d discuss it with Ruth, sure that the Levs would not want unpaid bills around town bearing their name.

“Come on, child, let me get you home.” Ellamae took Milton’s arm and directed him toward the little gray Chevy Nova. He went quietly, no need to be led by the ear. Lord, help this poor lost child. Give him strength… and courage.
_____

Next week: John Sr. remembers the USS California, student unrest in Paris, and John Jr. and Bobbie – a day to remember.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-08-14T08:05:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 11: TUESDAY, APRIL 2

Isaac Washington shook the lawn chair open with his left hand and sat down. Under his right arm, he carried the books and notebooks that he intended to study. The ground was uneven and the chair rocked a little as he settled in. He was sitting just outside the center field fence at Wilson Park, his car parked behind him at the curb. He was determined to kill two birds with one stone. He was there to watch his son Lucas play baseball, but he was also coming down to the wire in his exam preparation and he needed the study time as well. He watched Lucas trot out to his position in the outfield and they exchanged nods. It was a sunny, breezy afternoon with a few puffy clouds sailing overhead. The grandstand behind home plate was about half full and in a minute or two, the game would be underway.

He ran down his study outline, cracked one of the books and began to review the underlined passages. The exam to become a registered nurse was just one short week away. He was determined to be ready, even if it meant cramming night and day for the next week. A lot depended on passing this test: a job he’d dreamed of for years; a career he could be proud of; a brighter future for his family. Those were not easy things to come by for a black man. If he failed to pass this exam, it would not be for lack of effort.

It had been a long hard pull to reach this crossroads. The two-year community college program had taken him four years to complete, given the demands of working and supporting a family. And when he passed the test, and by God he would pass it, he’d still have to go out and find a job. Nothing was certain except for the burning ambition that drove him to be something more.

Isaac worked as a janitor on the shipyard. It was good honest work and it paid the bills, or most of them anyway. He supplemented his pay by picking up part-time jobs with a couple of janitorial services in town. Yet he longed for the day when he would put his broom and mop aside for the last time. That day was coming.

The game and his studies progressed. He paused when Lucas came to bat and watched his son line a base hit to left field. He was about to return his attention to the book in his lap when he saw Big John Harris heading his way.

John Harris was a notorious pacer. He could not sit still in the grandstand when his son was on the field, especially when he was pitching. John would walk back and forth around the outfield fence, pausing occasionally to light a cigarette, and then moving on in a never-ending fidget.

Isaac saw John heading his way and braced himself for impact. Just what I need: this big honky comin’ out here to mess with me. Their sons had been teammates through several seasons and he was familiar with John’s larger-than-life persona: talking loud with his Southern drawl, as though the world was waiting eagerly to hear his opinion. Isaac looked around quickly, but there was no place to run. Study time was about to come to an end.

“Hey, Ike! What are you doin’ out here all by yourself?”

Isaac’s friends called him Ike. It irked him to hear it from John Harris. “Hey, Big John. How’s it goin’?”

“Say, that son of yours is a fine ballplayer. He can really swing the bat. Junior tells me he’s a good student too. A real credit…”

Isaac flinched a little. Oh, sweet Jesus! Was he going to say ‘a credit to his race’? And what race would that be? The human race? He bit his tongue. “Yeah thanks, John. Lucas has always done well in school.”

“So, that’s some pile of books you got there. What are you doin’?”

“I’m studying for an exam – the registered nurses exam. I have to take it next week.”

“Registered nurse? Well, I’ll be damned. I thought all them RNs were women?” John looked at Isaac with suspicion.

“Not all of ‘em, Big John. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

“Well… why in God’s name would you want that?”

Isaac closed his book with a thump that was a little too loud. “I was a medic in the Army during the war. I liked helping people. It’s just what I want to do.”

“The Army you say? Well, I’ll be… Where did you serve?”

“Italy, with the 92nd Infantry Division. The Buffalo Soldiers.”

John Harris was stunned. An Army medic. A fellow veteran of World War II. He didn’t know what to say.

A young girl came running along the fence, toward where the two men were conversing. It was John’s 12 year-old daughter Jenny, all legs and elbows, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she ran.

“Daddy, can I get a hot dog and a Coke? Mom said to get some money from you. Can I?” She grabbed her father’s hand, bouncing beside him, smiling up at his craggy face. “Hello, Mr. Washington.” She gave Isaac a smile and a little wave.

“Sure, darlin’. Come on, I’ll go with you. See ya’ later, Ike. Good luck with that exam.”

With that, they were gone, back along the outfield fence, heading for the snack bar. Isaac watched them walk away, holding hands and laughing. So, that old cracker has a soft heart after all. That little blondie is the apple of his eye.

He opened his book and tried to find where he’d left off.
_____

CHAPTER 12: THURSDAY, APRIL 4

A couple of guys walked into Skip’s Place, spied a friend and made their way over to the bar.

“Hey, did you hear about this?” The friend was indicating the television mounted above the bar where Walter Cronkite looked sternly into the camera, the fresh news copy held firmly with both hands. The voice-over introduction concluded and Cronkite began:

“Good evening. Dr. Martin Luther King, the apostle of non-violence in the civil rights movement, has been shot to death in Memphis, Tennessee…” He went on, the voice strong and unwavering, the nation’s trusted Uncle Walter, come once again to deliver tragic news. The mood at the bar was quiet and solemn as Cronkite finished his report.

“Oh boy, we’re in for it now. You watch – the cities will burn again.”

“And who’s going to step up now? King was already losing control. We’re gonna see a lot of guys like Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown.”

“What about Eldridge Cleaver and Huey Newton?”

“Well, I think Dr. Martin Lucifer Coon got what he was asking for.”

“Hey, watch it. The man’s dead. Have a little respect. At least he was for non-violence.”

“Yeah, well you know J. Edgar Hoover has a file on King. His organization is full of commies.”

“Ah, bullshit. Where do you get this stuff?”

“Everybody knows that! Just wait – it’ll come out in the news.”

“I say you’re full of shit. He helped a lot of people stand up for their rights.”

“The man could speak, and write too. Letter from a Birmingham Jail. I have a dream. He had some voice.”

“Hey, you can’t go down there in the South and tell those folks how to live. They were doin’ just fine without a bunch of do-gooders from up North stirring up all the nigras.”

“He wasn’t from ‘up North.’ He was from Georgia or Alabama or someplace. And listen to you: ‘nigras’ isn’t even a word. Why don’t you go ahead and say ‘nigger.’ That’s what you mean.”

Skip moved toward the group at the bar, determined to calm the debate. “Hey, look, let’s keep it down a little. I don’t want to hear the word ‘nigger’ in here. Nobody’s a nigger. Okay?”

“Well damn, Skip, I never took you for a nigger lover!”

Skip reached under the bar and gripped the Louisville Slugger mounted there on a rack. He wouldn’t hesitate to tap this guy if it came to that. “Look… see that door over there? Right outside across the strait is the shipyard. I get lots of folks in here, coming from the yard, ship fitters and boilermakers and sailors and marines – white, black, yellow, brown – they all come through that door. If they’ve got the price of a drink, they’re welcome. And nobody is gonna call ‘em names. Not in here. My place, my rules. Got it?”

The man scooped up his change, cursing under his breath, and headed for the door. Skip let go of the bat and moved down the bar to another customer. On the television screen, the photo of King’s closest associates, standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel and pointing to where the shot was fired, was being seared into the nation’s memory.
_____

Skip was finishing up behind the bar, nearly ready to turn out the lights. The front door was locked and the bar was empty, except for Thad and Bobbie who were wrapping up their cleaning duties for the night. Above the bar, the television was tuned to a station out of the Bay Area. The screen displayed a plain white background with the words, “In Memoriam / Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. / January 15, 1929 - April 4, 1968.” Gospel music played in the background. One song ended, and then the voice of Mahalia Jackson came on, slow and clear and strong, singing “Precious Lord”…

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I am tired, I am weary, I am worn…

Skip watched as Bobbie sat down hard on a chair out on the floor, her face in her hands, her body racked with sobs. He saw Thad go to her side and put his arm around her slender shoulders. And now he could hear her sobs, coming in great spasms with every breath. He braced himself against the counter in back of the bar, his chin dropped to his chest. Until that moment, his concerns had been for peace in the cities across the country, for who would step into the void left by King’s death, and whether the teachings of non-violence would be lost forever. He had not considered for one minute the wrenching personal loss that would be felt by black people everywhere, especially kids like Thad and Bobbie. He walked around the bar and across the room to where they were holding on to each other.

“Look, Thad, Bobbie, I can finish up here. Please, go on home and be with your families.”

They protested but he insisted, and finally, he walked them to the door to let them out. As they went into the cool morning air, their arms wrapped around one another, he called after them: “Thad… Bobbie… I’m sorry…”

He wished there was something more to say, but he knew he’d probably only make it worse.
_____

Next week: Bobbie takes the leap. Plus, Ellamae to the rescue.
_____

Editorial Comment...

2011-08-08T07:56:00.000-07:00

If you haven’t already read it, let me recommend Michael Lewis’s book The Big Short. It chronicles the sub-prime mortgage crisis that led to a near-collapse of the world financial markets and plunged us into the worst recession since the 1930s. Remember all that alphabet soup we came to know and loath: MBS (Mortgage Backed Securities), CDO (Collateralized Debt Obligations), and CDS (Credit Default Swaps)?

Among the key players in this fiasco, from which we are still trying to recover, were the rating agencies: Standard & Poor’s, Moody’s and Fitch. These agencies routinely gave AAA ratings to MBSs and CDOs that were thrown together by the major investment banks without investigating to find that the underlying mortgages were junk. Why would they do this? Because they were paid handsomely by the big investment banks. We have a good English word for this practice: prostitution.

So, now our friends at Standard & Poor’s come forward to say that they are lowering the rating on U.S. debt, from AAA to AA, causing a new round of consternation in the financial markets. And why should we listen to anything they have to say? Have they given up “the life,” disciplined their bad actors, made restitution for the billions that were lost, and regained their good name? Not to my knowledge.

Before the world lends any credibility to Standard & Poor’s ratings, perhaps we should have the answer to a simple question: Who is paying them now?
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-08-07T07:04:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 9: SATURDAY, MARCH 9

They sat in the loge seats of the El Rey theater, watching Benjamin Braddock fumble and stumble his way into the arms of Mrs. Robinson. They laughed out loud at Ben’s social blunders, rooted like crazy for Ben and Elaine, the star-crossed lovers, and marveled at how skillfully the music of Simon and Garfunkel was woven into the story. Somewhere between the Taft Hotel and Ben’s mad dash for Berkeley, John reached over and took Bobbie’s hand, their fingers interlocking comfortably. It was one of those sweet little things he did continually that tended to melt her resistance. She squeezed his hand quickly, and then began trying to rebuild her defenses.

This was another in a series of what they’d come to refer to as “un-dates.” They would meet inside the lobby of a theater, or just happen to show up at Scotty’s Doughnuts at the same time, or meet at the Miracle Bowl to roll a few lines. John didn’t like it, didn’t understand why they couldn’t date openly, but he accepted it because it meant he could be with Bobbie. Bobbie insisted on the un-date scenario, even though she knew they weren’t fooling anyone. Anyone, that is, except their parents. She had too much love and respect for her own parents to defy them openly, but it was getting harder and harder to maintain the charade.

After the movie, she knew they would wind up driving to some secluded spot, out of sight from the world, and then the kissing and touching would begin. She hungered for it as much as John did, but she had drawn a hard line beyond which she would not go. She pleaded with him to slow it down, telling him they’d come too far too fast, but then it would start again and the words would come tumbling out of his mouth: “I love you, Bobbie. I love you.”

Bobbie wanted to let go, to just let it be, to say “I love you too,” but she held on tight, afraid that if she crossed that line, it would be like jumping from a plane without a parachute. When she was alone and he wasn’t holding her and kissing her, she could tell herself that it was wrong and stupid. He was a junior in high school, for God’s sake! He barely had his driver’s license. She was almost two years older. Maybe that was it: she was his Mrs. Robinson. His black Mrs. Robinson. The idea made her laugh, and shake her head at the same time.

His simple directness charmed and confused her at first, but she finally figured it out. John had the ability to be completely in the moment, no concerns about the past, no fear of future consequences, totally and completely focused on the here and now. It was part of the reason that he was a fine athlete: he could strike out twice, for example, looking ridiculous, then line a shot off the wall in his next at bat. She came to see that it was his greatest strength, and his biggest weakness. Especially where she was concerned. Especially when they were alone together.

They walked out of the theater, talking and laughing over scenes from the movie, heading toward his car in the parking lot. He took her hand again and she didn’t resist. Bobbie thought of the closing scene, with Ben and Elaine riding away from the church in the back of the bus, Ben a picture of hope and happiness, and Elaine’s beautiful face suddenly struck with the question: Oh my God, what have I done? She knew that except for the color contrast, John was Ben and she was Elaine. It scared her a little and she shuddered involuntarily.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said.

She looked at him then, walking next to her, so strong and sweet and sincere, the muscles in his forearm rippling as he squeezed her hand. God, he was a beautiful boy, his body sculpted by constant training for one sport or another. If there was an ounce of fat anywhere, she couldn’t see it – or feel it.

“Let’s go someplace where we can be alone,” she said. And she tightened her grip on his hand.
_____

CHAPTER 10: SUNDAY, MARCH 31

A few regulars sat on their favorite stools down at Skip’s, chatting and laughing, ignoring the television mounted above the bar where President Lyndon Baines Johnson was delivering an address to the nation.

“Whoa, did you hear that? Listen up guys.” Skip reached for the set and turned up the volume.

Suddenly, all eyes were glued to Johnson’s image on the screen. They watched the conclusion of the President’s remarks, and then watched the pundits and commentators appear on camera, looking like they’d been sound asleep and rudely tossed out of bed, scrambling to seize control of the moment.

“And… ah… the President said… ah… do we have that tape?.. no?.. ah, well… Dan, I believe his exact words were, ‘I will not seek, nor will I accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president.’ Do we have that tape now? Okay, let’s roll it…”

And there on the screen flashed the replay, the image of a tired and beaten man saying in effect that he was stepping aside, that he would not run for re-election, that he was ordering a halt to the bombing of North Vietnam in hopes of bringing all parties to the peace table.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Old LBJ is throwing in the towel. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“That man’s been in the thick of it since the thirties. How’s he gonna retire? It’ll kill him.”

“I’ll tell you what’s killing him: it’s that damn war; a thousand dead American kids coming home in coffins every month. That’s what’s killing him.”

“Well, he took us into it. Wanted to ‘nail that coonskin to the wall’ and all that shit. Now he’s got demonstrators outside the White House chanting ‘Hey, hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today.’”

“It was that damn McNamara and the brass hat generals. They sold him a bill of goods. ‘Give us the men and the bombs and we’ll have the boys home by Christmas.’ Christmas, my ass!”

“You know that Gulf of Tonkin thing was a phony. Just an excuse to start bombing in the north.”

“Now we got 500,000 men over there and Walter Cronkite says it’s a stalemate.”

“It’s a sad state of affairs when people trust Cronkite more than the president.”

“Well, I tell ya what: Lyndon was a master in the Senate. There was nobody that could get things done the way he could. As president too. You watch: we’ll never see another president work congress the way he did.”

“You’re right about that. Voting rights. Public accommodations. Medicare. Housing rights. He knew how to get it done.”

“And you’re for all that crap? We give the coloreds – or the blacks, or African-Americans, or whatever they want to be called now – their civil rights and what do they do? They burn down their own neighborhoods! Los Angeles, Newark, Detroit, you name it.”

“Hey, look: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal.’ It’s damn well time we lived up to it, and LBJ knew that.”

“So you want ‘em living next door to you?”

“I think I’d rather have them than you.” (laughter)

“Remember when he said ‘We can have guns and butter too’? Turns out he had to choose. Turns out you can’t have both.”

“Yeah, well, you can take all of his Great Society crap and shove it. Who’s gonna pay for it? I’ll tell ya who: working stiffs like us, that’s who. And we’ll all go bankrupt together.”

“Just wait ‘til you sign up for Medicare. You’ll appreciate good old LBJ then.”

“Who are the Democrats going to nominate now? McCarthy’s a one-issue guy. I don’t think he’s got the stuff.”

“Humphrey will jump in. And LBJ will probably endorse him.”

“I think Bobby Kennedy is the man to beat. When he announced that he was running, I think Johnson was really hurt.”

“Ah, geez, just what we need: a return to Camelot. The damn Kennedys think they’re a royal family or something.”

“So LBJ’s going back to the banks of the Pedernales, back to the ranch. I don’t think we’ll ever see his like again.”
_____

Skip went about counting the money and closing out the cash register. Over his shoulder, he could see Bobbie and Thad, the two kids from the janitorial service, stacking chairs on the tables, preparing to sweep and mop the black and white tile floor. They were both in their late teens and Skip had come to admire their work ethic. They were quick and efficient and they left the whole place – the kitchen, the restrooms, the bar itself – spotless every night. He noticed that they were playful and affectionate, their conversation light and easy and punctuated with laughter, and he wondered if they were a couple. They were nice looking kids, both of them: dark skin, dark brown eyes, trim and athletic looking, and they both wore their hair in the Afro style that was currently in vogue.

Skip remembered the call from the service that afternoon, advising him that Thad would be leaving the company; he had been drafted and would leave for basic training in about a week. The manager assured him that a suitable replacement would be assigned, and that Bobbie would continue on the job.

“Hey, Thad, got a minute?” Skip called the young man over.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your boss called today, said you got drafted, that you’ll be leaving us.”

“Yeah, I leave a week from Monday.” Thad managed a weak smile.

“Well, we’re gonna miss you around here. You did a damn fine job.”

“Thank you, sir. Bobbie is going to continue on your account. You’re a good customer. I’m sure the company will take care of you.”

“Thad, if you don’t mind my asking, are you and Bobbie a couple?”

“Me and Bobbie? Nah, she’s my cousin. We’re family.”

“Oh. Well, here’s wishing you all the best, young man.” Skip reached his hand across the bar and Thad shook it firmly.

“Thank you, Mr. Marks.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Thad, let me ask you something…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you see the president’s speech tonight? What do you think about that?”

Thad was a little startled. In his experience, middle-aged white men didn’t often ask black teenagers for an opinion. “Well… I think he led us into this thing. And now it’s not going so well. And he’s gonna take his marbles and go home. Where does that leave the rest of us?”

Skip thanked Thad again for his hard work and watched him walk away, back to the job of mopping the tile floor. Those words would come back to him in the months ahead: “Where does that leave the rest of us?”
_____

Next week: Isaac Washington and John Harris – an encounter at Wilson Park. And Uncle Walter delivers tragic news.
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-07-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 7: WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 21

Kenji drove across town in his pickup truck, hurrying to check in with the crews he had working around the city. His first stop would be on La Cresenda in the midst of a beautiful neighborhood on the hill above the high school. His customer, Mrs. Lev, had requested some additional pruning work and he wanted to make sure it was done to her satisfaction. The black script on the side of the truck read “Hashimoto & Son / Landscaping.” He had taken the name from his father’s business, the business that was lost during the war years. He wondered if his father would be proud of the growth he’d achieved here in Vallejo. He’d never know the answer to that one: his father died shortly after the war, most likely of a broken heart.

The Lev home was a beautiful property, perched on the hill overlooking the high school campus. Ruth Lev was a good customer and Kenji took care to make sure she was happy with his work. It was a little past noon when he pulled up in front of the house. He saw his three-man crew, including his nephew Mark, sitting on the front lawn under a large sycamore tree, taking their lunch break. He spoke to the men briefly and then went to check on the pruning job. Just then, the front door opened and he heard a voice calling to him from inside the house.

“Mr. Hashimoto… Mr. Hashimoto… could you come here please.”

Kenji approached the front door and saw that Mrs. Lev was standing inside, the screen door securely fastened. “Yes, Mrs. Lev. How are you today?”

“Mr. Hashimoto, if you don’t mind, please ask your men not to take their lunch on the front lawn. Please, can you ask them to move? I called to them earlier, but they ignored me.”

“Ma’am? Is there something wrong?”

Kenji was a little confused. In his dealings with Mrs. Lev, she’d always been nervous and a little skittish, as though she had reason to be afraid of him and his men. But this was new. She didn’t want them to be seen on her front lawn?

“Please ask them to move, Mr. Hashimoto. What will the neighbors think?”

Kenji’s temper flared briefly. Well, they’ll think you hired some Japanese lawn jockeys. He started to respond, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He’d ask the guys to finish their lunch in the truck.

“Okay, Mrs. Lev, I’ll have them move. Then I’m going to check on the pruning you requested.”

He tipped his hat and started to move away from the door. He saw her reach for the latch, making sure it was secured, and then he saw her forearm. She wore a denim shirt with the cuffs rolled up a turn or two, and now as she reached for the latch, he could see part of the number tattooed on her arm. Oh, my God! He almost said it out loud. He knew that Ruth Lev was Jewish, but until this day, he did not know that she was a Holocaust survivor. He walked away from the door, toward where his crew was lounging on the lawn, smoking cigarettes and chatting quietly. He felt for the keys in the pocket of his khaki pants and realized his hand was shaking.

“Okay guys, let’s finish your break out in the truck. And don’t leave any butts on lawn.” The men gave him a collective groan and began to gather their things. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Lev ask you to move?”

“Ah come on, Uncle, we can’t even take our break in the shade?” His nephew grinned at him in his usual wise-ass manner.

“Just do what the lady asked, okay?”

“Are you gonna tap dance for her too, Uncle Tom? Oops, I mean Uncle Kenji.”

Kenji moved forward quickly and grabbed his nephew by the collar with both hands. He slammed him back against the trunk of the sycamore tree and held him there. This little punk didn’t know that his uncle had the knowledge and experience to crush his windpipe if he wanted to. Kenji held him, pinned against the tree, so angry he was unable to speak.

“Geez Uncle, I was just joking with you.” The grin was gone from Mark’s face now.

Kenji loosened his grip. “Go on out to the truck.” His voice was choked with anger. He turned and marched away toward the backyard to inspect the pruning work.
_____

Kenji sat on the stone bench under the flowering plum tree, gazing out across the rock garden. The garden was a flat, kidney-shaped space, about 18 feet long and maybe 12 feet wide. Near the center, he had mounded the earth, placed two medium-sized stones, and planted moss and a carefully pruned Bonsai tree. This central structure was shaped to represent the family’s home island of Hokkaido. All around it, the sand and small stones were raked to represent the ocean and its ever-shifting currents.

He looked at the garden and wondered if his father would approve. His father was the master and Kenji knew he could never match his skill. Still he wondered. Hiroshi Hashimoto would never praise his son openly, but perhaps he would have rested here on this bench, lost in meditation, and that would have been praise enough.

He was still upset about the scuffle with his nephew. It wasn’t often that he lost control like that. He thought of Mrs. Lev and the number tattooed on her arm. It occurred to him that he had more in common with her than with his own nephew. They were both camp survivors. Their families had been rounded up and hauled away from their homes, their property seized, their citizenship and their humanity denied. Yet he knew that beyond those simple facts, there was no comparison. There were no gas chambers and no ovens at the camp where Kenji’s family was held. What Mrs. Lev had seen and experienced, and how she had managed to survive, he would never know or fully understand.

Kenji took a long drink from the cold bottle of beer in his hand. He looked at the label with the bright red script that read “Budweiser / King of Beers.” He glanced across the back fence toward John Harris’s yard. Why did he tell that cracker that his name was Ken? My name is Kenji, the name my father gave me, he said to himself. And from now on, he would buy Sapporo, a good Japanese beer.
_____

CHAPTER 8: MONDAY, FEBRUARY 26

Ellamae Brown set the small overnight bag on the porch and carefully locked her front door. Then she closed the screen door, found the right key and locked it as well. Dear Lord, watch over this house and keep it safe.

It was one of many little prayers she would say to herself during the day, an ongoing conversation with God that didn’t require an “amen,” because it was never finished.

She wore a brown cloth coat against the February chill, and under that, her standard work clothes – a simple cotton house dress and crepe soled service shoes – practical, comfortable, perfect for the day’s work ahead. She unlocked the door to her ’63 Chevy Nova sedan, reached in to unlock the back door, and dropped her bag on the back seat. She stepped into the car, her stout body causing the vehicle to dip and rock a little. Ellamae was about five and a half feet tall and she would admit to 160 pounds. When she stood before you and fixed you with her steady gaze, the impression she gave was one of innate strength. It was clear that she was a formidable woman: you did not mess with Ellamae Brown.

She turned the ignition key and listened absentmindedly as the engine sprang to life. She flipped the switch for the windshield wiper to clear away the early morning dew, turned on the defroster and felt a rush of cold air sweep by her forehead. She let the engine idle for a minute or two, until the flow of air began to warm. There was no hurry this Monday morning, no need to rush. Finally, she shifted into reverse and backed out of her driveway, out onto Florida Street, and began the short drive across town to Ruth Lev’s home on the hill above the high school.

Ellamae had worked for Ruth Lev for nearly ten years now, starting as her housekeeper, coming twice a week to clean and scrub the large, well kept home on La Cresenda Street. But she and Ruth hit it off almost immediately, and soon they had developed an odd friendship, odd because they could not have been more different: Ruth, in her late sixties, born in Germany to a small, close-knit Jewish family, a Holocaust survivor, the widow of a successful banker; Ellamae, also in her sixties, born in rural Alabama to a poor black family, the widow of a shipyard worker.

Those were the surface differences. In the course of many conversations over coffee at Ruth’s kitchen table, they discovered the myriad things they had in common. As time went on, their bond grew and Ellamae’s job began to evolve. Rather than housekeeping two days a week, she would live in on the weekdays, occupying a room of her own on the second floor, preparing meals, cleaning, and generally looking after Ruth. They would shop together, making trips to the market to restock the pantry, or to the stores downtown to replenish Ruth’s wardrobe, and they were known all around town as Ruthie & Ellie: a partnership; an unbreakable team.

Of course, their ventures out into the community came on Ruth’s good days, when her spirit was bright and the sun was shining. Then there were the days when she closed her bedroom door and would not leave her bed, when her blinds were drawn tightly to keep out the sun, when the thought of food turned her stomach. On those days, which could last for a week or more, Ellamae hovered close by, ready to provide whatever Ruth needed, even if it was only a strong shoulder to cry on.

At first, Ellamae didn’t understand the dark times. “Holocaust” was just a word, the full meaning still a mystery to her. Through conversations with her pastor, and then trips to the fine old Carnegie library downtown, she began to study and learn and understand. The articles she read, the photographs she saw, overwhelmed her. The meaning of the number tattooed on Ruth’s arm and the miracle of her survival became clear.

Now Ellamae was caught in the traffic streaming toward the high school, moving slowly along Amador Street. She could have chosen an alternate route, but she didn’t mind the slowdown. The hustle and bustle of the young people making their way to the campus somehow energized her. She watched the boys and girls crowding the sidewalk, a slow-moving rainbow, all shapes, sizes and colors, laughing, talking, flirting, so different and far removed from her own childhood experience. Lord, bless these beautiful children.

She passed the intersection with Nebraska Street, then veered right onto Camino Real and began the climb up the hill, through the lovely neighborhood above the school campus. She marveled at the contrast between the homes here and those on her block of Florida Street. Soon, she was turning into the driveway of Ruth Lev’s home on La Cresenda, continuing along the north side of the house to the detached two-car garage in the rear. She would park her car in the garage later and it would sit there through the week until it was time for her to head for home. Wherever they went during the week, they would take Ruth’s Oldsmobile 88, the vehicle Ellamae referred to as the Land Yacht. She wasn’t sure of the model year, but it was fine car, well maintained, the dark blue finish polished to a high gloss.

Ellamae took her small bag from the back seat and made her way to the kitchen door at the rear of the house. She climbed the three steps and readied her key to unlock the door. Through the window, she could see Ruth standing in the kitchen, her back to the door, scooping coffee into the percolator. Ellamae paused for few seconds, watching the thin, frail-looking woman standing at the counter. Ruth was dressed in her usual uniform: khaki slacks, a white turtleneck sweater and a denim shirt. She stood watching, wondering which Ruth Lev she would find today: the lovely, warm and embracing Ruth, with her bright and irrepressible smile and the twinkling eyes? Or the dark, depressed Ruth, eyes downcast, unable to eat or sleep, barely able to function?

She rapped softly on the window so as not to startle Ruth, and then inserted her key and unlocked the door. Ruth turned her head, glancing over her shoulder, and smiled her brightest smile.

“Ellie!” She finished with the coffeemaker and plugged it into the outlet on the wall behind the counter. “Welcome home, dear. You’re just in time for coffee.”

Ellamae felt her heart soar. Dear Lord, bless Ruthie Lev, and let this be a good week.
_____

Next week: John Jr. and Bobbie on an “un-date.” And LBJ makes an historic announcement.
_____

'68 - A Novel

2011-07-24T05:40:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 5: WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 31

The usual after-work crowd was gathered at Skip’s Place for a cold drink and a little conversation, but today was different. Rather than the normal chatter about the Warriors’ prospects or what the Giants might do with the coming season, the discussion turned dead serious. All eyes were focused on the television screen as the voice of Walter Cronkite described the events in South Vietnam. The Viet Cong had launched a coordinated series of attacks at more than 100 locations, including the U.S. embassy in Saigon. The attacks were timed to coincide with the beginning of Tet, the lunar New Year. Now the screen was filled with scenes of battle, with U.S. Marines fighting to push back the attack and secure the embassy grounds. The gang at Skip’s watched and listened in shocked disbelief.

“How the hell can that happen? Didn’t Westmoreland just say the war was coming to an end?”

“Yeah, something about ‘light at the end of the tunnel’?”

“How did they get into Saigon like that? Did they just stroll into town armed to the teeth, and into the embassy, for God’s sake?”

“Hell, you listen to all this talk about body counts – sounds like we killed every damn Viet Cong already. Where are these guys coming from?”

“You hear that? They overran Hue. They’re actually capturing cities!”

“I don’t think Johnson and Westmoreland know what the hell they’re doing.”

“We should’ve listened to Curtis LeMay: bomb ‘em back into the Stone Age.”

“Oh sure, and bring China into the war on their side, just like we did in Korea.”

“I’ll tell you the problem: we got our military with one hand tied behind its back. We need to turn ‘em loose and let ‘em kick ass. They could clean this up in no time.”

“Bullshit! We got no business being there. What we ought to do is get our asses out, bring our guys home. The whole goddamn country isn’t worth the life of one American soldier.”

“Oh yeah? We pull out of Vietnam and the whole damn region will end up in the hands of the communists. Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, all them countries. All commie! Is that what you want?”

“Oh sure, and look at that fine bunch of individuals we’re propping up in Saigon. What a bunch of crooks! They line their damn pockets while our boys do the fighting.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this: if they draft my kid, I’m sending him to Canada.”

“Goddamn, I can’t believe you just said that. I thought you were a patriot.”

“Hey, don’t tell me about patriots. I fought the Japs all across the Pacific and I’m damn lucky to be alive. So don’t tell me about patriots!”

The discussion raged on as battle scenes flickered across the screen. Walter Cronkite summed it up: “And that’s the way it is: January 31, 1968.”
_____

CHAPTER 6: SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 3

The party was well underway when she walked in. John didn’t recognize her right away and he did a quick double take, as did half the males in the room. There was no mistake: it was Roberta Washington, Bobbie to her friends, Lucas Washington’s older sister. John knew she’d been away at school and he hadn’t seen her in more than a year. He couldn’t believe the changes. She was stunning. She wore a bright multi-colored, loose fitting top, a pair of fitted jeans, and black knee-high boots. Her hair was grown out into a full afro. Very large gold hoop earrings hung from her lobes and she wore a necklace composed of several strands of white beads. To John, she looked like an African queen, a woman among all the girls at the party.

The house was filled with friends from high school, there to celebrate the birthday of their hostess, a girl named Judy who he’d known since grade school. The crowd filled the living room, the dining room and kitchen, kids milling around, talking, laughing, flirting. The family room had been cleared to serve as a dance floor and several couples were rocking out to a Beatles tune playing on the stereo system. Yet in the midst of the hubbub, John could not take his eyes away from Bobbie. Then she looked his way, smiled and waved, and that was all the encouragement John needed. He worked his way through the crowd to get to her.

“Hi, Johnny! How are you?” She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.

“I’m great, Bobbie. How are you? You look wonderful!” John was never one to be shy, and whatever was running through his mind generally came right out of his mouth.

“You too, Johnny. You’ve really grown since I saw you last.” Bobbie was nearly 5’10” and she judged him to be about 6’2”.

The conversation continued, punctuated frequently by “…what did you say?” due to the noise level in the house. Finally, John suggested that they step out onto the patio where they could talk without shouting.

The night air was cool and refreshing after the closeness of the house, and they continued their conversation, filling each other in on the events of the past year. John could not believe how she had matured. He remembered her as a cute little girl in the years when they were growing up, attending the same grammar school. Now she had transitioned from cute through pretty and landed directly on beautiful.

“That’s a great blouse, Bobbie. What do you call that style?”

“Thanks. It’s a dashiki, kind of an African thing.”

“It looks great – with the earrings, the necklace. You look like a queen.”

She laughed and changed the subject. “So how is school going? And what is this now, basketball or baseball season?”

“School is okay, and baseball will start up next week. Lucas and I should see some good playing time this season, even though we’re juniors.”

“Oh my God, that’s right – next year you’ll be seniors. The class of ’69.” She laughed out loud. “I bet you get teased about that.”

“Constantly! Let’s see, you graduated in ’67, right? How’s school going for you?”

“Ah… not so good. I was at Sac State, but I really didn’t know what I wanted to do, plus I ran low on money. So I’m home again, working, trying to save some money. I’ll go back to school when I finally figure out what I want to do.” She didn’t mention the relationship that had gone bad: a boy who taught her to make love and then dumped her for a graduate student with better long-term prospects.

“Where are you working?”

“I’m working nights for a janitorial service. We clean some offices and businesses around town. It’s good work, and it keeps my days free.” She liked the way he maintained eye contact, those pretty blue eyes gazing deep into her own. His blonde hair was a little shaggy and she resisted the temptation to push it back from his forehead with her finger. He’d grown up to be a handsome guy and she was sure there were many young ladies that kept an eye on John Harris.

For his part, John was barely resisting the urge to put his arms around her and hold her close. At last, a pretty ballad came on the stereo system inside.

“Would you like to dance?” He smiled at her and saw her hesitate for just a second.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not.”

They stayed on the patio – talking, laughing, dancing when a particular song suited their mood – until the word was passed through the crowd that the party was over and it was time to head for home. John had arranged for his father to pick him up and he knew he’d be waiting outside at the curb. Bobbie was there to take Lucas home. And so they said their goodbyes with another little hug.

“I’ll give you a call. Okay?” John didn’t hesitate or think twice about it. She was a beautiful girl – a woman, really – and he wanted to see her and talk to her again.

Bobbie was surprised. Maybe a little shocked. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then she said, “Okay… sure… call me.”

With that, they headed back into the house to thank their hostess.
_____

John Harris, Sr. pulled up in front of the house, killed the engine and turned off the headlights. He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette as he waited. After a few minutes, the front door opened and kids began to stream out of the house, laughing and talking loud, calling goodbye to friends. John Jr. approached the car and opened the passenger-side door.

“Hey, Johnny. How was the party?”

“It was good. We had a good time…”

Just then, Bobbie and Lucas Washington passed in front the vehicle, smiling and waving, heading for Bobbie’s car parked across the street.

“What the… who the hell is that?” John Sr.’s eyes were focused on Bobbie.

“That’s Lucas Washington… and his sister Roberta. Remember Bobbie? She graduated in ’67.”

“What the hell kind of getup is she wearing?”

“It’s a dashiki… kind of an African thing.”

“Well… you didn’t tell me there’d be coloreds at this party. How many were there?”

“I don’t know, maybe six or seven.”

“Well, you sure as hell wouldn’t have been here if I’d known that.”

“Come on, Dad… were friends… we all go to school together.”

“Goddamn it, Johnny! What’s next? First it’s parties, then it’s dating, then what?”

“Dad, it’s not a big deal…”

“The hell it ain’t! Look, you don’t know these people, son. I do. I grew up with them in Arkansas. They had their own neighborhoods, and their own schools, and their own shops that they did business with, and we got along fine. Hell, some of my best friends were nigras…”

“Ah, geez…”

“It’s true! And they were happier that way, keeping to their own kind, Johnny. We didn’t have the troubles then that you have now.”

“Dad, we don’t live in Arkansas, and this isn’t the good old days…”

“Goddamn it, don’t get smart with me! By God, I’m telling you the way it is! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was quiet then. John stubbed out his cigarette and rolled up the window. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. John Jr. thought about Bobbie, how beautiful and regal she looked dancing with him in the dim light on the patio. He’d give her a call tomorrow.
_____

Bobbie drove across town, heading for home, making small talk with Lucas about the party.

“Lucas, tell me about John Harris. What kind of guy is he?”

“Johnny? Good guy… good teammate… probably going to get a scholarship, either baseball or football. Why, what’s up, sis? Is that who you were hanging out with all night?”

“We talked for a while…”

“Oh, my my my! Since when did you develop a taste for blue-eyed blondes?”

“Stop it. We just hung out for a while. He seems nice.”

“Well, you’d better watch it, Bobbie. I’m serious. You know how Daddy feels about salt ‘n pepper couples… about white folks generally.”

“Believe me, Daddy has nothing to worry about. John just seems nice, that’s all.”

They rode along in silence for a while. Bobbie couldn’t help but wonder if John Harris would actually call her.
_____

Next week: Kenji learns something about Ruth Lev, and we meet Ellamae Brown.
_____

We interupt this novel...

2011-07-17T15:46:00.000-07:00

I watched Hope Solo walk out to the goal for the start of penalty kicks and my heart was pounding out of my chest. I was sitting in Carmichael. She was in Germany. I can only imagine how she felt. As my Mom would have said, "Bless her little heart."

Please, Dear God, if I am to come back in some future incarnation, please don't make me a goalie with the World Cup on the line at the start of penalty kicks.

Can I get an "Amen?"
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-07-17T00:27:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 3: SATURDAY, JANUARY 20

John Harris was engaged in his favorite Saturday morning activity: working in his backyard garden. His winter vegetables were doing well, thanks to the mild Bay Area weather. He hoed and weeded and pruned where necessary, and thought about whether or not to add compost for moisture control and to protect the delicate roots. This was therapy for John after a grueling week on the shipyard.

His friends called him “Big John,” and for good reason. It wasn’t that he was tall – perhaps 6’1” or 6’2” on a good day – but rather it was the bulk and the impression of strength that he projected. He weighted in at 240 lbs., and he carried it with an athletic grace that made you think he could suit up and play offensive guard for the local semi-pro team.

As John continued his gardening, he noticed the compact figure of a man wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, working steadily in his neighbor’s yard. The low picket fence that surrounded the property made it easy to see what was going on in your neighbor’s domain. John wondered what Bart West, his neighbor, was up to. The figure moving about briskly – spading, hoeing and raking – wasn’t old man West. He must have hired a gardener for this project, whatever it was. But why now, when he had the house up for sale? Finally, John couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. He walked over to the back fence and called out to the man in the hat.

“Hey there… can you come over for a second?” The man looked up and John motioned to him. He hesitated for a moment and then walked over to the fence, removing his work gloves as he approached. “Hi, I’m John Harris. What are you working on there?” John saw that the short, powerfully built man was Japanese.

“Hi, I’m Ken Hashimoto.” He gave John a firm handshake. “I’m building a rock garden.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Why would ol’ West want a rock garden? Especially now, when he’s got the place up for sale?”

“It’s not for Mr. West.” Ken gave a slight smile. “I just bought the place. We just moved in. It’s nice to meet you, John.”

John was dumbstruck for a moment. West had sold the house, he was gone, his new neighbor was a Jap, and he was building a damn rock garden. He backed away from the conversation without ever saying welcome to the neighborhood. A few minutes later, he was washing his hands in the kitchen sink and looking to his wife for answers.

“So what the hell is going on? West sold the house? To a Jap? Why didn’t I know about this?”

Martha Harris patted her husband’s back and tried to reassure him. “The Wests sold the house late last month. They’re gone, relocated to San Diego to be close to their kids.”

“And they sold to a damn Jap?”

“Japanese, John. Don’t use the word ‘Jap.’”

“I’ll use any dang word I want! Did you know this was happening?”

“Of course. June West was a good neighbor and a friend.” Martha was puttering around her kitchen, getting ready to start dinner.

“But, Japs in our neighborhood? What the hell was West thinking?”

“Now, John. They’re just people, just like us.”

“Just like us, hell! We lost a lot of good men to those little bastards. A lot of good men, Martha. I know, I was there!”

“I know you were, honey. But Ken Hashimoto wasn’t. Actually, I think Tami said they’re from Santa Clara.”

“Oh, so now it’s Ken and Tami, is it?”

“Yes, I met her the other day. I brought her a cake. She seems very nice. You know their son is John Jr.’s age. He plays baseball. They’ll be teammates this year on the varsity team.”

John stood at the sink scowling, looking out the window toward his neighbor’s house. He could see a figure moving about in their kitchen window, a woman with short black hair.

“Well… I’ll be damned,” was all he could muster.
_____

Kenji Hashimoto leaned against the kitchen counter, shuffling some bills that had arrived in the mail that day. “I met our neighbor today – John Harris. What a piece of work!”

“What do you mean by that?” Tami was moving quickly around the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.

“I mean he thought I was the Wests’ gardener. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him we bought the place.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Martha Harris brought over a nice cake and we visited for a while. She seems very nice.”

“Oh really? You think it’s safe to eat the damn cake? Maybe we should give a little to the dog first.”

“Stop it now, Kenji. I’m sure they’re nice people. Their son is Eric’s age. They’ll be teammates this year at the high school. We’ll probably see a lot of the Harrises.”

Kenji looked up from the small stack of bills. “Well… I’ll be damned.”
_____

CHAPTER 4: MONDAY, JANUARY 22

The whistle blew for the shift change and the shipyard workers began to pour out of the shops to make their way home. Isaac Washington joined the stream of men, lunch pails in hand, heading for the dock where they would board the long, low boats that would carry them across the Mare Island Strait to the Ferry Building. From there, at the foot of Georgia Street, he would catch a city transit bus that would take him within a block of home.

Though the crowd of men was mostly white, Isaac’s was not the only black face in the throng heading for the dock. Born and raised in rural Alabama, it was still something of a shock to him to be working in a place where there were no “back of the bus” edicts and no facilities or water fountains labeled “Colored.” Oh, there were definite lines, but they were far more subtle in this blue collar, lunch pail, Navy shipbuilding town.

Isaac merged into the queue filing down the gangway to load onto the ferry. A sign on top of the cabin proclaimed that the little boat had a name: the Heron. He saw that another boat was gliding up to the dock, ready to load as soon as the Heron pulled away. “All aboard,” came the call and boat eased away from the dock. The skipper advanced the throttle to full ahead and Isaac could feel the steady thrum of the engine as they raced across the channel toward the city. Daylight was fading now and he could see the lights of the city glowing in the dusk. All he wanted was to get home and see what Millie had on the stove. Was tonight the night she had promised ham hock and beans? The thought made his mouth water and he realized that he was very hungry.

Isaac had a thing about dinnertime. It was a hard and fast rule that all family members had to be present and accounted for when it was time to sit down at the table. If one of the kids proposed to miss dinner, it had to be for a compelling reason. Casual absences were simply not tolerated. Family time around the dinner table was sacred as far as Isaac Washington was concerned. It was a time to share the events of the day and every family member was expected to participate. Now, with his daughter Bobbie home again after a year away at college, the family unit would be complete: Isaac, Millie, Bobbie, and his son Lucas. He relished having everyone under his roof.

The ferry pulled up to the dock, the lines were secured and the men began to stream up the gangway and onto the dock. Buses were waiting in the lot across from the Ferry Building, doors open, motors running. Isaac smiled and nodded to the driver as he boarded and dropped his token in fare box. He took a window seat near the front of the bus and settled back for the ride home.

He wondered if he had been too strict with his kids as they were growing up – too rigid, too demanding, too many rules? He’d always demanded a certain standard of behavior, especially when they were little. Bad behavior was met with a warning: “Knock it off! Now!” If that command wasn’t obeyed, the kids could count on a swift smack on the backside. That usually did the trick. But was it too much? Isaac wondered if he’d do it differently if he had it to do over again.

There was no arguing with the results. Bobbie and Lucas had grown up to be fine young people, polite, respectful and loving. He couldn’t be more proud of them: Bobbie, with her keen intelligence and ready wit, not to mention her physical beauty; and Lucas, a junior in high school this year, an outstanding student and a fine athlete. Isaac was sure that he and Millie had done a good job raising their kids.

He was looking forward to a quiet evening with his family. No class to attend tonight, and no need to report for his part-time job. Just a hearty meal, some lively conversation, and a little TV watching, all of it surrounded by the people he loved.

Isaac caught his reflection in the window and realized he was smiling. He could picture Millie, hurrying about the kitchen, the rich aroma of her down-home cooking wafting into every corner of the little house. He couldn’t wait to be home.
_____

Out across the Pacific, across the International Dateline, the sun was rising on a soon-to-be-historic day: January 23, 1968. In the waters off North Korea, events were unfolding that had no precedent in U.S. history. After a long day of harassment by gunboats and jet fighters of the People’s Republic of North Korea, the Navy spy ship USS Pueblo had been forced to halt dead in the water. The Pueblo carried a crew of 83 men; one of them, Fireman Apprentice Duane Hodges, had been killed as the North Koreans repeatedly fired across the ship’s bow. The ship was boarded and the crew was forced to sail into the port at Wonsan where they were taken captive.

It was the beginning of 11 months of beatings, torture, starvation and public humiliation for Captain Lloyd Bucher and the remaining members of his crew. In the years ahead, it would also come to be seen as a major intelligence coup, not only for the North Koreans, but for their Soviet allies as well. It turns out that the Pueblo was loaded with Top Secret documents and cryptographic equipment and there had not been enough time to destroy all of it.

The carrier USS Enterprise was on patrol 510 miles to the south, yet no aircraft were sent to ward off the enemy. No other warships of the Seventh Fleet were in position to respond. By the time president Lyndon Johnson was awakened with the news, it was too late: any military action would probably have resulted in the death of the crew.

And so a small, slow, virtually unarmed U.S. Navy ship and her crew, operating off the coast of a hostile nation, carrying sensitive documents and equipment, was left completely unprotected to be seized and exploited.

So much for naval intelligence.
_____

Next week: Remembering the Tet Offensive. And boy meets girl: is it love at first sight?
_____

'68 - A Novel...

2011-07-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers:

This week we embark on what I hope will be an interesting journey. I have a short novel that is in its third rewrite (let’s call it Version 3.0) and we are going to serialize it right here in the pages of this fine journal.

What’s it about? The working title is ’68 and it is about two subjects that have always fascinated me. First, there are all of the game-changing, earth-shaking events that took place in the year 1968. That is the backdrop. Second, it is about bigotry – where it comes from, how it manifests itself in our lives, how we deal with it and, hopefully, grow beyond it.

I will post a chapter or two every week and we’ll see how it goes. I welcome your feedback as we go along, whether good, bad or indifferent. You can reach me at: cspiggidy2@hotmail.com. A few of you have read earlier versions and made positive suggestions for V.3.0. Thanks for that, Tom and Carolyn and Linda. Much appreciated!

And with that, there is nothing left to do but begin. Enjoy!

Hopefully yours,

Chuck
_____

’68 – A Novel

by

C.W. Spooner

CHAPTER 1: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1967

They watched the image on the television screen, the lighted ball dropping in Times Square. “Five – four – three – two – one. Happy New Year!” The lucky ones turned to that special someone and shared a sweet kiss.

“Happy New Year, babe. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I wonder what this year will bring? All good things, I hope.”

“Yeah, well we got that damn war. Maybe that will wind down.”

“And we’ve got to elect a president.”

“Oh, I think old LBJ has a lock on that one.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“You know, some years just come and go and you never even notice. You never remember what happened. Like 1965, or 1966. Came and went, nothing much to remember.”

“Well… Aunt Tillie died in ’65. And little Jethro was born in ’66.”

“Yeah, but I mean in the big picture, world events. Like, you’ll always remember 1963, November 22 – where you were, what you were doing when you heard the news from Dallas. But most years just come and go. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. And you know what? This party is a bore. What say we go home and take off our clothes and get in a pile?”

“Now you’re talking. Start the year with a bang. Great idea!”

“I’ll get my coat and we’ll say goodbye.”
_____

There is a theory that used to be taught in college communications courses. It goes something like this: Each of us lives in our own personal box, like a big refrigerator box, and the only way you can look out at the world is through a lens on one side. That lens is made up of everything that has ever happened to you, the good the bad and the ugly. It is colored by all the people who have touched your life: parents, family members, friends, teachers and coworkers. Most of it is complete by the time you are an adolescent, but it can change as things happen to you, what the theorists call Significant Emotional Events. We can talk about other influences – the town where you live, the neighborhood where you grew up, what you do for a living – because they all shape the way you look at the world.

It all goes into your lens.

Let’s consider a few hypothetical questions. If you served in World War II and came under enemy fire and saw your buddies die, how would you view the conflict in Vietnam and the anti-war protests all around the country? If you grew up in a strictly segregated community, where those people rode in the back of the bus and drank from separate water fountains, how would you view the relentless push for civil rights? If you believed in the rule of law and the genius of our constitutional system of government “Of the People, By the People, For the People,” how would you view the successive waves of urban riots and assassinations? How would these events appear through your lens, and would it be changed by what you saw?

This is the story of several families living in a small town in Northern California. Each family has its lens, and each family member has his or her personal variation. We’ll see how those lenses are affected during the course of a single year as some Significant Emotional Events unfold. Are there significant changes, and are they for the good? Do people really change and grow?

Well, that is for you to decide.
_____

Getting back to our New Years Eve couple, they were right of course: most years come and go and are, to paraphrase Mr. Lincoln, little noted nor long remembered. This one – 1968 – would not be one of those years.
_____

CHAPTER 2: SUNDAY, JANUARY 14

The crowd started arriving at Skip’s Place around 11:00 AM. By kickoff time, it was two-deep at the bar and every table out on the floor was occupied. Skip Marks wasn’t surprised. It was Super Bowl Sunday, the Oakland Raiders vs. the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl II, and Vallejo was close enough to Oakland to bask in the glow. The silver and black excitement was so thick you could reach out and touch it.

Skip and his wife Marty had worked hard getting ready for this day. Bowls of chips and dip, pretzels and popcorn were placed on the bar and each of the tables. At the half, they would cover the pool table carefully to protect against spills, and then put out a lunch spread that would be remembered fondly in the days to come: cold cuts, cheeses, pickles, breads, potato salad, and Marty’s special macaroni salad with tiny bay shrimp. Finally, an assortment of cookies, cakes and pies would hit the pool table. If a customer went away hungry, it was strictly by choice.

Two bartenders worked the bar with Skip while Marty directed the three-person wait staff. It was all they could do to keep up with the drink orders. The staff would see very little of the game itself, able to glance up only on occasion to one of the television sets mounted around the room.

A huge cheer went up with the kickoff. Groans followed a couple of field goals by the Packers’ Don Chandler. Then, in the second quarter, Bart Starr connected on a pass to Boyd Dowler.

“Oh no… get him… get him! Tackle that sonofabitch!”

The play went for 62 yards and a touchdown, the Packers led 13 – 0, and some of the excitement left the room. Then the Raiders launched a drive that ended with a 22-yard touchdown pass, Daryl Lamonica to Bill Miller, and suddenly the excitement was back.

“We’re in this, baby! We’re in it!”

The glow diminished slightly when Chandler hit another field goal just before the half.

They put out the lunch spread at halftime and the pool table was mobbed. Marty’s macaroni salad was gone in a flash and the staff had to replenish the bread and cold cuts several times. Skip did a quick check of the cash registers and saw that this was already the highest volume day in the history of Skip’s Place.

The third quarter started with high anticipation. Then came an 82-yard drive by Green Bay that ended with a two-yard touchdown run. The highlight was a 35-yard pass to Max McGee, the final reception of his career.

“Oh no, not McGee! Not that old fart!”

Then Chandler kicked another field goal that made it 26 – 7, and some of the patrons headed for the door. The fourth quarter was just underway when Herb Adderley picked off a Lamonica pass and ran it back 60 yards for a touchdown. Just a handful of customers hung on until the bitter end. The final score was 33 –14. The Packers had earned another championship trophy and they carried Vince Lombardi off the field on their shoulders. Only a half-dozen cookies were left on the pool table.

It took a while to clean up the place and dispose of all the trash. Finally, Skip dismissed the extra help and he and Marty sat down with a cold bottle of beer.

Marty proposed a toast: “Here’s to a happy, healthy and prosperous 1968.”

“I’ll drink to that. And here’s to Pete Rozelle.”

They clinked bottles and smiled across the little table.
_____

Happy. Healthy. Prosperous. Skip pondered Marty’s toast as he went about closing out the cash register. She could have added “continued.” Continued health, happiness and prosperity. Things had certainly gone well for them since they purchased the bar in 1962. He and Marty were newlyweds then, and it had proved to be a great partnership. He watched her now, busy restocking the cold case, and he smiled. Who knew you could meet your soul mate working behind the jewelry counter at the City of Paris?

He was visiting his Aunt Ruth Lev that weekend in April of 1962, and he’d gone to the City of Paris in downtown Vallejo to look for gift for his favorite aunt. The pretty girl at the counter selected a lovely brooch and handed it to him to inspect. He asked the price and when she gave him the answer, he mumbled that it was crazy, using the Yiddish word meshugeh. She smiled at him and said, “So, you’re Jewish?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Me too,” she replied, and smiled at him again. It was then that he noticed the shiny black hair streaming down over her shoulders, and those lovely green eyes.

Three months later they were married in Aunt Ruthie’s beautiful garden, and shortly thereafter, they purchased the bar that would become Skip’s Place. It was down on the waterfront, at the foot of Georgia Street, a popular spot for shipyard workers and for sailors heading to town on shore leave. Skip had a vision of a clean, well-lighted place, where you could bring your wife or your best girl and feel at home. That’s exactly what he and Marty had created, and business was good.

The saloon business was a natural for Skip. His father ran a couple of successful watering holes in San Francisco, a notoriously thirsty town. Skip literally grew up in the business. But it was a long and winding road that brought the Marks family to San Francisco, stretching back through stops in Chicago and New York City.

Morris Marks, Skip’s father, had seen the ominous handwriting on the walls in their native Germany in the early thirties. He made arrangements to take his bride and immigrate to America, counseling his parents, brothers and sisters to do the same. Sheldon – immediately tagged with the nickname Skip – was born in San Francisco in 1934.

Aside from Morris’s little family unit, only his sister Ruth survived the Holocaust. Morris brought Ruth to San Francisco after the war where she met and eventually married a widower named Asher Zev. The Zevs settled in Vallejo where he prospered in the banking business. In 1950, Asher’s son Bradley and daughter-in-law Esther became parents of a baby boy they named Milton Jacob, and Ruth and Asher settled comfortably into the roles of Bubbe and Zayde. When Asher died suddenly in 1957, Bradley stepped in to run the business. Ruth was left with a lovely home and a secure income.

Skip glanced at Marty, finished now with the restocking chores. They had not been blessed with children and they’d come to accept that fact of their life. But they were still crazy (he should say meshugeh) in love with each other. He’d have to remember to thank Aunt Ruthie for settling in Vallejo.
_____

Next week: Meet “Big John” Harris and his new neighbor, Kenji Hashimoto.
_____

Keepin' It Real...

2011-06-18T18:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers:
The following is the final message in an email exchange between Harry Diavatis and me. Harry publishes a newsletter that goes out electronically to about 1,000 people, all of them graduates of the high schools in Vallejo, Ca.

Hi, Harry -

When you asked me to write a few paragraphs about my father and what he meant to me, at first I said No, sorry, don't have time. But it's been running around my noggin ever since, so here goes.

My father was the one who taught me to throw and catch a baseball, beginning (according to family legend) when I was three. More than that, he taught me to love the game, something I was later able to share with my kids.

My father was the guy who took me with him on Saturday mornings to cash his paycheck from the shipyard. This included a bus ride to the Skipper's Club, then up Virginia Street to the original Relay, then over to the Towne House on Georgia, and finally, back on the bus for the ride home. Saloon hopping with Dad was my favorite thing to do when I was five.

My father shared his love of professional wrestling -- yes, wrestling! -- and took me to the Farragut Club on Georgia Street to see the likes of Leo Nomellini, the Sharp Brothers and Antonino Rocca.

My father gave me his work ethic, the drive to work longer and harder than the next guy. It's been a blessing, and at times, a curse. And of course, there's the related lesson: A Good Sailor always cleans up his own mess.

My father gave me his politics and the deeply ingrained belief that a working man has only two things going for him: his union and the Democratic Party. If he knew I voted for Ronald Reagan, he would never forgive me.

As I reached my teens, I found that I was angry with him much of the time. He was a hard man, and neither one of us could bend. And then he was gone, lost to a stroke and a heart attack, and we never had a chance to make amends.

But when I look in the mirror now, there he is. A little taller, a little thinner, and with more hair, but it's my Dad nonetheless. We're still working it out, him and me. But things are getting better all the time.

Thanks, Harry. And Happy Father's Day.

-Chuck
____

The Poet's Corner...

2011-05-26T22:02:00.000-07:00

FOGHORNS

The boy was used to it
waking up to the sound of foghorns
There was the high-pitched Screee
and the baritone BEE-oh
It was amazing how the sound carried
from way out on the bay
but he knew that was the point.

He pictured a Coast Guard ensign
stationed at the lighthouse
at the mouth of Mare Island Strait
Bundled up in his pea coat and watch cap
binoculars around his neck
checking the visibility
deciding when to turn on the foghorns.

He pictured a harbor pilot
guiding a Navy ship
through San Pablo Bay
on its way to the shipyard
Or a merchant vessel loaded with sugar cane
headed for the refinery at Crockett.

The pilot would listen for the foghorns
and direct the helmsman
to turn away from danger
He pictured himself
as that ensign or that pilot
guiding the great ships home.

Some people said the Screee and the BEE-oh
were lonely sounds
but he never thought of them that way
because someone was out there standing watch
They made the boy feel safe.
_____

SEASONS OF LIFE

It has been a cruel season,
too many losses, too many funerals
too many times to face the shovel
waiting to cover another coffin.

Then again, we’re at that age
as are those we love
the matriarchs, the patriarchs,
the very foundation of our lives.

My great nephew, barely one year old
lets loose a happy shriek
a cry that says, “I’m HERE, and it’s GRAND,
and I will NOT be denied!”

God bless him
in all his beautiful blue-eyed wonder
for reminding us of dividends delivered,
that Life renews and goes rolling on.
_____

Keepin' it real...

2011-05-13T16:04:00.000-07:00

A GOOD, GOOD MAN

Note: My in-laws, Archie & Shirley Vine, came to live with us nine months ago. Archie was in failing health since suffering a stroke in December of 2008, and in early March, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. He passed away on Friday, May 6. He was 90 years old. The following were my remarks at his funeral on Monday, May 9.

I want to thank all of you for being here today. This is wonderful tribute to my father-in-law. And I want you to know what an honor it is for me to say “a few words” about Archie Vine. I have so many words I could share that we would be here for a long time, so I’ll give you the condensed version.

I was going to start with the word Dividends and tell you how Dad famously said one Thanksgiving, “Mom and I invested all of our lives, and all of you (meaning his children and grandchildren and their spouses, and his great grandchildren) all of you are our Dividends.”

I was going to mention MegaMillions and SuperLotto because Dad always, always believed he was going to hit the lottery. And when he did, he would provide security for his entire family.

I was going to talk about being Dad’s Newsboy, getting up early in the morning to read the newspaper and make a fresh pot of coffee, because Archie loved a good cup of coffee first thing in the morning. And then, after breakfast, I’d sit with Dad to discuss the news of the day.

I was going to mention Jeopardy and how we’d play along every evening at 6:30. And when the announcer said, “And now, here’s the host of Jeopardy, Alex Tribeck!” Dad, in sync with the announcer, would make a fist with his right hand, punch the air and say, “Tribeck!”

I was going to talk about Laughter and Dad’s exquisite sense of humor, how he loved to joke with you, and be a gentle tease. And of course his famous line on the occasion of their 60th wedding anniversary when Rabbi Taff called Archie & Shirley to the pulpit to say a special blessing. When the Rabbi asked Dad, “What is the secret to your long and happy marriage?" Dad said: “Always tell your wife those words she wants to hear: ‘Yes, Dear.’”

I was going to tell you about Archie and Shirley, the Superfans, and how they attended countless baseball, basketball, football and soccer games for grandsons Marc, Matt and Gabe. And let’s not forget dance recitals, musical reviews and plays for granddaughters Lisa and Rachel. They were – literally – always there.

What I want to do is get directly to the really, really important words. And the first one is Vuluma, Mere & Sam Vuluma and their son Jon. Mere joined our family about 4 ½ years ago to be Archie & Shirley’s caregiver, and to see Mere care for them is to witness a thousand acts of loving-kindness every day. Mere is truly and amazing human being.

When Archie suffered a stroke in December of 2008, Mere came up to me at one point, put her arms around me and gave me a hug. She told me how sorry she was that this was happening to Archie. And then she said, “I told my Sam, this is a good, good man.” Mere, no one could say it better.

After Dad’s stroke, Sam joined the team to stay with Dad through the night and be there if he called out for any reason. Then Sam would stay for breakfast, to talk and laugh and share the news of the day. Archie considered Sam to be his best friend.

When Archie & Shirley moved in with us, Sam would stop by the house to visit. He’d wrap his arms around Archie and put his hand on Dad’s heart and say, “Archie, Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melach h’olam (Blessed art thou, eternal our God, ruler of the universe). I love you, Archie.” And you could see Dad’s spirits rise.

Here’s my point: if someone asks you if there are angels in this world, the answer is: Yes, and they come from Fiji.

And now here’s the most important word to remember about Archie, and that is: Shirley. Shirley Kramer Vine. She was the absolute love of his life. Married for very nearly 65 years. His first thought every morning, his last thought every night, and every waking moment in between, was for her care and well-being. To see them together was to be inspired, to be moved, to be renewed.

Whenever he could reach her, he wanted to hold her hand. And then, of course, there were those kisses. First thing in the morning, and right before he went to bed at night, we would line up their chairs so that Archie could put his arm around Shirley, and then he would plant a big, wet, passionate kiss on Shirley’s lips.

To which Mere would say, “Oy yi yi!” Which is Fijian for Oy Vey!

And Shirley would say, “Delicious!”

They were truly a couple for the ages.

I want to close with a couple of very personal notes, first for myself, and then for Barbara.

Archie Vine was more than just a father-in-law. I lost my father when I was 16, and over the years, Archie became a father to me. He was there with his wisdom when I needed advice. He was there with a pep talk when I was feeling low. And, he was there to kick me in the butt a few times when I needed it.

When my own father, and my brother, and my mother passed away, there were words left unspoken, and I’ll always regret it. With Archie and me, there was nothing left unsaid. I loved him and I told him so. In fact, for the last nine months, I got to tell him every day.

He loved me and told me I was a son to him. What an honor to hear those words! He was simply the most loved and respected man I’ve ever known.

And now, for Barbara: When Archie and Shirley came to live with us, Barbara and Dad developed a ritual that they observed every night. After Archie gave Shirley that big, wet kiss, Mere would take him and get him ready for bed, and when he was safely tucked in, Barbara would go in to say goodnight. They would talk for a while, and then they would have a dialog that went like this:

Barb: “Good night, Daddy”

Archie: “Good night, sweetheart.”

Barb: “I love you, God bless you.”

Archie: “I love you too. God bless you and Chuck and your children.”

Barb: (lightheartedly) “See you in the morning.”

And then she’d wait for him to respond in kind. If he didn’t respond, she’d say it again… and again… until they were both laughing. And finally, he’d say:

“See you in the morning.”

And then she could leave the room and hope to do it all again the next night.

And so, that’s it… a few words about Archie Vine. Remember those words: Dividends, MegaMillions & SuperLotto, Newsboy, Jeopardy, Laughter, Superfans, Mere & Sam Vuluma, and of course Shirley.

When you hear those words in the days ahead I want you to smile. Because this good, good man is at peace.
_____

The Poet's Corner...

2011-04-10T17:52:00.000-07:00

CHRIS

Don't do it, Chris.
Not today
not while the sun is shining
and spring is in the air.

Think about it, Chris.
Sleep on it
wake up tomorrow and watch
the sun climb the eastern sky.

One more day, Chris.
Tough it out
see the buds burst open
on the trees that line the street.

Then one more day, Chris.
Stay the course
until the days become weeks
and months turn into years.

Easy to say, Chris.
Suck it up
and all the other useless cliches
we use to fake the courage we do not feel.

Too late now, Chris.
Decision's made
executed before we knew it
sirens wailing, grim-faced cops at your door.

Where were we, Chris?
With helping hands
rather than empty words
when you needed us the most?

Here we are, Chris.
A day late
blaming God for being asleep on the job
when we're the ones who saw but did not act.

Today's lesson: Chris was our neighbor, just across the street. He took his own life on April 4. He was only seventeen. If you see a young person struggling - isolated, lonely, unhappy - reach out a hand, throw an arm around his shoulders, wrap her in a bear hug. And never let go. Never ever let go.
_____

Keepin' it real...

2011-03-20T08:09:00.000-07:00

WHO’D YOU GET TODAY?

“Who’d you get today?” That was the standard summer greeting when you saw your buddies. Not, “What’s up?” or “How’s it goin’?” Simply, “Who’d you get today?”

It referred to our summertime hobby during the mid- to late-fifties, which was collecting autographed pictures of Major League baseball players. The way it worked was this: we would walk up to the branch post office on the frontage road along Highway 40 and buy a stack of two-cent postcards. Then we would hunker down and write cards to all of our favorite players, addressed to the stadium in the city where they played. For example:

To: Bob Feller
C/O The Cleveland Indians
Municipal Stadium
Cleveland, Ohio

Dear Mr. Feller:
You are my favorite pitcher and I am a big fan of the Indians. Please send me an autographed picture of yourself. I hope you win 20 games this year.

Sincerely,
Charlie Spooner

Or:

To: Mickey Mantle
C/O The New York Yankees
Yankee Stadium
The Bronx, New York

Dear Mickey:

You are my favorite player and I am a big fan of the Yankees. Please send me an autographed picture of yourself. I hope you win the triple crown this year, and that the Yankees win the pennant.

Off in the mail would go 50 to 100 postcards at a time. And then you’d wait every morning for the mail to arrive. Sure enough, within a week or so, back would come the requested product in the form of a picture postcard. If you were lucky, the postcard would be autographed personally by the player. In many cases, the autographs were preprinted on the card. It was a never-ending quest because each year the teams would prepare a new set of postcards, so you were constantly trying to get the current year’s edition.

There were several challenges to overcome. First, some players seemed impossible to get. These, of course, were some of the game's great stars, who I’m sure had realized that their pictures and autographs had significant value to collectors. I don’t think I was ever successful in getting Stan “The Man” Musial, though some of my friends actually made that catch.

Second, there was the problem of the preprinted autograph. We got around that by writing letters to the players and enclosing a self-addressed postcard:

Dear Mr. Ted Williams:
I think you are the greatest hitter of all time. Please autograph the enclosed self-addressed postcard and mail it to me. I hope you hit .400 this year.

You might ask what was the genesis of this little hobby? If memory serves, the credit goes to Bobby Morenco, one of my friends from Little League days. I believe he was the original collector. Don Decious, who lived across the street from me, was also an avid and innovative collector. He went so far as to create scrapbooks with all the cards and autographs mounted neatly, preserved for posterity. I had a mediocre collection, but I was in the game, at least enough to shout out the standard greeting to my friends throughout the summer months: “Who’d you get today?”

Then came 1956, the year of The Great Hall of Fame Breakthrough. Somehow, someone – was it Morenco or Decious? – obtained a list of the mailing addresses for all living Hall of Fame members. Wow! Out went the letters with self-addressed postcards enclosed:

Dear Mr. Ty Cobb:

I think you are the greatest hitter of all time. I hope your record stands forever. Please autograph the enclosed postcard and mail it to me.

And back they came, those priceless postcards, autographed by the likes of Carl Hubbell, Frankie Frisch, Rogers Hornsby, Bill Dickey, Jimmy Foxx, Mel Ott, Ty Cobb and (drum roll please) Joe DiMaggio, to name just a few. I couldn’t believe it. Ty Cobb held my postcard in his hands and signed it with a bright green marking pen! Joltin’ Joe, the Yankee Clipper, actually wrote a few words on my card: “Best Wishes from Joe DiMaggio.” I’ll be 69 years old this year and I still get chills every time I hold those cards.

As I said, my collection wasn’t much. It certainly couldn’t compare to Don or Bobby’s. Along about 1959, I began to lose interest. My cards were bound with a rubber band and stored away in an old shoebox. Later, I gave them to my then-brother-in-law, Rick Beaver. Years later, he returned them to me, which was a very thoughtful thing to do. When my sons reached Little League age, along about 1987, I found the old cards and shared the history with them. Now the cards are back in that shoebox waiting for me to do what I should have done many years ago: mount them properly in a scrapbook and make sure they are passed along to future generations.

That scrapbook is definitely on my “to do” list, along with several other things, but my “to do” list is notorious as the place where projects go to die. At least I got as far as sharing the story with all of you.

It’s funny, but I can still hear my buddies calling just like it was yesterday: “Hey, Charlie, who’d you get today?”
_____

Seems To Me...

2011-03-16T14:30:00.000-07:00

THE BEST LAID SCHEMES

I was reminiscing via email with my old friend Jerry Warren and the conversation turned to books. I mentioned that one of my favorites is John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I haven’t read it for a while, but the exchange with Jerry set me to thinking.

There is a scene in the book where George and Lennie, those quintessential itinerant farm workers, are sitting around the table in the bunkhouse talking about their dream: to own a place of their own. George even knows of a small farm that’s available if only they could get the money together. Candy, the one-handed old man who works on the ranch, says he has some money saved and he’d be willing to throw in with them if they’d just let him live there and tend the chickens. George pencils it out and comes to the realization that together they can do it. Their dream can become a reality.

It is an electric moment, one of the great ones in American literature, because it touches on a universal truth: everyman’s dream of a home, a place to call his own, a piece of God’s good earth. This is why, more than 70 years after it was published, Of Mice and Men still resonates with so many people. I’ll admit that I am one of them.

It resonates for me because of my father. “Three or four acres in the Napa Valley,” he would say. “That’s what I’d like when I retire.” Even in the early 1950s, that dream was probably out of reach for a shipyard worker. And yet, I heard him say it over and over again.

We didn’t have a car in our family until I was nine years old. We relied on city buses to get around town. Finally, in 1951, my dad decided it was time. My mom arranged for someone to give her driving lessons (my dad refused to drive because of a bad experience as a young man), and my parents negotiated a deal for a new Chevy sedan. Suddenly we had wheels! Not surprisingly, our favorite form of family entertainment was to take a Sunday drive, often with my older brother Dick behind the wheel. Most Sundays, the destination was the Napa Valley, extending as far north as St. Helena, and occasionally including side trips off of Highway 29.

“Just three or four acres, Charlie. That’s all a man would need.” It was my dad’s dream until the day he died.

There are many versions of Of Mice and Men out there for your viewing pleasure: the classic 1939 film version starring Burgess Meredith and Lon Chaney, Jr.; the 1970 television production with George Segal and Nicol Williamson; and the 1981 television version with Robert Blake and Randy Quaid. And, every now and then, your local theater company will stage a revival.

There are a couple of things to look for in judging any production of this classic. First, does it adhere to the Steinbeck original? It drives me nuts when a screenwriter or director has the unmitigated brass to rewrite John Steinbeck. Just look at what David S. Ward did to Cannery Row in his 1982 film version. There oughta be a law!

Second, how well do they perform that critical scene in the bunkhouse? They absolutely have to nail it, because after all folks, that’s what it’s all about. Say it with me: “Universal Truth.”

Having set the criteria, let me recommend Gary Sinise’s 1992 film version, starring Sinise as George and John Malkovich as Lennie. In my humble opinion, this movie gets it 90% right.

It always makes me think of my dad. And it always brings a tear to my eye.
_____

Tell Me A Story...

2011-02-12T21:29:00.000-08:00

ROUNDING THIRD

He saw the ball clearly as it left the pitcher’s right hand, picking up the rotation immediately: it was a curveball, starting waist high over the plate, intended to break down and away, out of the strike zone. He saw it hanging there, spinning, spinning like a big lazy melon with red seams. Hell, he could nearly count the stitches. He stayed back, back, weight over his right leg, bat back and high, coiled and ready to unload. Then he turned his swing loose – strong, controlled, even – and felt the solid contact, no sting, no vibration, just the beautiful “crack,” the sound of horsehide against northern ash.

The ball jumped off his bat, screaming high over the shortstop’s head, heading toward the wall in left field. He broke hard out of the box and sprinted down the first base line, looking up just in time to see the ball thump off the Green Monster. The ball caromed off the wall and directly to the left fielder, but that didn’t matter: with two outs and the runners going on contact, they would score easily from second and third. He rounded first base and then retreated to the bag, clapping his hands, looking into the dugout where his teammates were shouting and saluting him with raised fists. He looked to the first base coach who was yelling “Atta boy!”

“Damn, Mac!” he said. “That was a hanger. I should have taken it outta here.”

And then the scene was reset. He saw the ball again, leaving the pitcher’s hand, spinning, spinning… and the realization came over him: this was not reality; it was a dream. He opened his eyes, saw that the room was pitch black, and closed them again quickly, a little smile playing at his lips. For a few seconds, he was suspended in that delicious state, somewhere between wakefulness and dreamland. Maybe he could get back into this dream… maybe take it over the wall next time… maybe beat the Red Sox on their home turf… maybe…
_____

“Henry. Henry, wake up, darling.”

“Hello?” He opened his eyes, blinking in the pale morning light. “Marie? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be, sweetheart? Do you have other women come to your bed here?” She was sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling at him playfully, wearing a white terrycloth robe, her hair wrapped in a white towel.

“Did you shower already, sweetie?” He knew the answer. She always came from her morning shower like this, smelling of Ivory soap, her robe drawn around her and tied at the waist, her hair smelling of that shampoo with the wonderful scent of tropical fruit.

“Yes, I did. And I thought about you. And I couldn’t wait to come sit with you and…” She was smiling at him now.

“And what, darling? What is it?”

“This,” she said and leaned down to kiss him full on the mouth, gently but with clear intent.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet angel. Do that again.”

And she did, again and again, with that wonderful skill that comes from decades of practice. He cupped her face in his hands, breathless from her kisses, and looked into her lovely eyes. She was a beauty, a great beauty, and that beauty had never faded, not for Henry. From the time he first laid eyes on her, all those years ago, there had never been another woman in his life. He slid his hands inside the collar of her robe, intending to open it and gaze at her lovely body.

“Wait, Henry. Not here, darling.” She closed her robe around her. “There are no locks on these doors. They’ll walk in on us.”

“What? No locks? I don’t know…”

“We’ll go home, Henry, to our room, to our own bed. And we’ll make love there, no interruptions, no little intruders.”

“But, Marie, wait…” She was standing up now, moving toward the door.

“Just give me a few minutes head start, darling. I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t make me wait too long.” With that, she was gone.

Henry swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, waiting for his head to clear. He saw the slippers arranged neatly at the side of the bed, slipped his feet into them and headed for the door. He opened it and looked out into the wide, empty corridor, the linoleum floor polished to a high gloss reflecting the fluorescent lights from the ceiling. He saw a white-clad figure disappear around the corner at the end of the corridor. He hurried in that direction, wondering why Marie could not wait for him.

All along the hallway were doors to other rooms, securely closed, the occupants sound asleep on this early Sunday morning. He turned right at the end of the hall and found himself in an empty lobby, couches and chairs arranged neatly around the low tables. At the far end of the lobby were floor to ceiling windows with wide doors that opened to a covered portico and a driveway that led to the boulevard beyond. As he looked out toward the driveway, he saw that white figure turn to the right, heading east on the sidewalk along the boulevard.

Henry hurried out through the doors as they opened with loud swoosh. He had to try to catch up before Marie was completely out of sight. He turned right, just as she had, and made his way along the sidewalk. The sun was rising to the east and soon the glare caused him to shield his eyes with one hand, wishing he’d had time to find his sunglasses. Maybe it was the glare, or perhaps she was just too far ahead, but he could not see Marie’s figure any longer. Still, he was sure she had come this way, and so he trudged on, determined not to disappoint her.

The sun rose steadily in the morning sky and Henry realized that he was tiring, his pace slowing to crawl. His feet began to hurt and he cursed himself for not putting on his walking shoes instead of the damned slippers. And still he went on, ignoring the pain, ignoring the occasional car that rushed by on the broad, four-lane street.

The pain became intense, running from his feet up through his calves and into his knees. A short distance ahead, he saw a bench and a sign that said “Bus Stop.” He made it to the bench and sat down hard, the pain in his legs throbbing, more than he could stand. He decided to rest here for a while, just until the pain subsided, and then continue on after Marie. Had she come this way? Did he miss a turn? Suddenly he was afraid and very tired. He leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes.
_____

The police cruiser moved deliberately along Oak Boulevard, the officers scanning both sides of the street, searching for their target: an eighty-six year-old male Caucasian, about 5’10”, 160 pounds, probably dressed in blue pajamas and house slippers.

“Look, up there at the bus stop, Jack. That’s probably him.” The officer named Jack quickly pulled over to the curb and stopped, switching on the emergency lights to warn other drivers away.

“Sir… hello… Mr. Logan? Time to wake up.” The voice came to Henry from far away, growing closer, growing more intense. He opened his eyes to see a young man in a police uniform standing over him. “Sir, is your name Henry Logan?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“It’s him, Jack. We got him. Call it in.”

Henry heard the crackle of the radio and the strange voice responding to the officer’s call, and he saw the colored light bar flashing in sequence on top of the car.

“Mr. Logan, come with me now. We’re going to take you back to the home. Your son is there and he’s really worried about you. Come on now.” He placed a firm hand under Henry’s left arm and helped him to his feet. In a minute or so, Henry was secured in the back seat of the patrol car.

“Oh geez, Marty!” It was the other officer speaking. “Did you get a whiff of him? We’ll never get that smell out of the car.”

“Take it easy, Jack. It’s a short ride. We’ll take the car in and they can clean it up. Mr. Logan, we’re taking you back now. Your son is waiting for you there.”

“Thank you… thank you both.” Henry could see that the younger officer, the one called Marty, was more sympathetic to his plight. It seemed strange, talking to them through the heavy wire screen that separated the back seat from the front.

“Henry Logan,” the young man said. “Sounds familiar. Say, are you any relation to Hack Logan, the ballplayer?”

“That’s me,” Henry said. “Or… it used to be me.”

“Damn, Jack, we’ve got baseball royalty in the car with us. This is Hack Logan, the best ballplayer that ever came out of this town. Had a fine career! Mr. Logan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, son.”

“What teams did you play for, sir?”

“San Francisco... mostly San Francisco. And St. Louie.”

“The Giants and Cards!”

“No… the Seals and the Browns.” Then softly, as though to himself, “I met my Marie in Frisco.”

“Geez, Jack, isn’t this something?”

“Yeah, we’ll install a plaque back there: ‘Hack Logan shit here.’” Jack was in a foul mood.

As they turned into the driveway leading to the entrance of the retirement home, the officers could see a balding, heavyset man who looked to be in his forties pacing nervously on the sidewalk. With him were two very sheepish looking orderlies in their white uniforms, one of them holding a wheelchair.

“Okay, Mr. Logan. You’re home safe and sound.”

It wasn’t long before Henry was out of the patrol car, into the wheelchair and on his way into the building with the two staff members. A doctor had been called to examine him and make sure there were no ill effects from his adventure. His son John stayed behind to thank the officers for finding his father, and to take a card from Marty with a promise to have his father sign some piece of memorabilia and send it along to the station house. With that, the officers were on their way, the windows of the cruiser rolled down in hopes of clearing the air.
_____

Within the hour, Henry was bathed and powdered, buttoned into a fresh pair of pajamas, and safely tucked into his bed. The doctor’s prescription had been for plenty of fluids and lots of rest. The staff quickly delivered a pitcher of water, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a steaming bowl of oatmeal. They were determined to smother Henry with attention. And head off any liabilities.

John, who had delivered a stern lecture to the staff about keeping an eye on the residents, waved them out of the room and was prepared to deliver an equally stern lecture to his father.

“Dad, listen to me now… this can’t happen again! Do you understand? You cannot wander off and go hiking up Oak Boulevard. Dad? Are you listening?”

Henry looked into his son’s eyes and felt terrible. In a very short time, he’d seen John’s emotions range from relief to elation, from dismay to anger, and then repeat the whole cycle. He hoped he could make him understand.

“Johnny,” he said, “she came for me. Your mother came for me. She sat right here, on the edge of the bed.”

John looked at his father and felt his heart drop. “Dad, stop it now. You know Mom has been gone for more than nine years now. You can’t do this…”

“Johnny,” Henry said, wrapping his fingers around his son’s wrist and tightening his grip, “can you feel this?”

“What?”

“My hand. Can you feel my hand?”

“Yeah, Dad, of course. I can feel your hand.”

“That’s how real it was, son. She sat right here… in her robe… with a towel wrapped around her hair. And she kissed me, Johnny.”

John’s eyes were welling now. He wanted very badly for this conversation to be over. “Dad, you’ve got to stop it! Mom is gone and that’s that! You’re just going to make yourself sad. Do you hear me, Dad?”

Henry could see that there was no way to win this debate. Now, he too wanted the conversation to end. “Okay, Johnny,” he said, patting his son’s hand. “I’m fine now. You go on home. Go be with your family. I’m very tired now. I need to get some rest.”

“Are you sure, Dad?”

“Yeah, Johnny, please go… go be with the kids… give them my love.” And with that he closed his eyes. He could sense John standing there, waiting and watching him carefully. Finally, he felt a gentle kiss on his forehead and heard his son turn and head for the door.

Henry knew that John was wrong. None of this had made him sad. Not in the least. He took a deep breath and exhaled, glad to be in his bed, scrubbed and clean, his head resting on the pillow. He couldn’t wait to drift off to sleep. Surely Marie would come for him again. He could almost taste her kisses.
_____

Tell Me A Story...

2011-01-16T22:45:00.000-08:00

WILD CHILD – PART 4 of 4

“Dialing Back”

Rich poured the charcoal from the bag into the barbeque and then used the long metal tongs to stack the coals in a neat pyramid. When he was finished, he nodded to Nick who proceeded to douse the stack of coals with lighter fluid. When Nick was finished, they both stepped back a little as Rich struck a match and tossed it into the stack. The lighter fluid caught with a resounding whoosh and the flames leapt into the air.

“You know, that muffler repair – the whole exhaust system actually – was not cheap. I’m expecting you to pay me back out of your GVRD checks. Okay?” Rich was speaking calmly, deliberately, making his point clear. He was referring to Nick’s part-time job with the local recreation district.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll pay you back.” Nick was contrite, and in full agreement with his brother.

Rich took a long drink from his can of Hamm’s. Nick did the same. It was a cool evening in early November, yet the ice-cold beer still hit the spot. They watched as the charcoal pyramid began to turn gray around the edges. Rich would wait until the coals were entirely covered with gray ash before he spread them around the base of the barbeque.

“I mean… driving out across that field – what the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just panicked.”

“And what about the chicken farmer with a shotgun? Geez, Nick!”

Nick had nothing to say to that. He stared at the pile of charcoal.

The coals were ready now and Rich spread them evenly around the bed of the barbeque. He held his palm over them to make sure they were good and hot. He nodded to his brother and Nick put the gleaming chrome grill in place over the coals.

“Tell me about the rowboat heist. Rowing out to that damn barge. What was that all about?”

“I don’t know…” Nick was starting to sound like a broken record. “Just the challenge, I guess.”

“You guys are out there on the bay in the middle of the night, no life jackets. Do you realize all the things that could have gone wrong? You know how the current rips through the Strait when the tide changes.”

“Yeah, but we planned it for high tide.”

“And what if you planned wrong? What then? You could have ended up out in San Pablo Bay, or over at the mothball fleet.”

Nick didn’t say anything. He knew Rich was right.

Rich nodded his head again, indicating the grill was ready and Nick went through the garage and into the kitchen to retrieve the steaks. They had been marinating all day in the special sauce that he and Rich had concocted. They called it their “kitchen sink” marinade, a little bit of everything: catsup, mustard, some red wine vinegar, brown sugar, Worcestershire, Tabasco, minced garlic, chopped onions, maybe half a can of beer. They would let the steaks rest in this mixture all day, and save a little to brush on just before they came off the grill. It was all good.

Nick was back with the steaks now – three nice-looking sirloins. The meat sizzled as it hit the grill. The sauce that clung to the meat began to caramelize and the aroma made their mouths water.

“What did you guys do with the Budweiser sign?” It seemed that Rich had a checklist he was determined to cover.

“It’s in the clubhouse – the shed – over at Hank’s place.”

“And Hank’s old man is okay with that?”

“Uh… not really.”

Rich just shook his head. He flipped the steaks, wanting to get a good sear on each side to seal in the juices. He glanced up at Nick. “You know none of this would be happening if Dad was alive.”

Nick had nothing to say. Rich was right. Their father had been a stern man, not someone you wanted to cross, and he didn’t tolerate bullshit from his kids. You behaved like a Good Sailor or you shipped out. Nick remembered that night in October of 1958, a little more than a year ago, when Rich came to pull him out of a dance at the high school. As they walked to the car, his brother turned to him, put his hands on his shoulders, and said, “Brace yourself, Nick. Dad had a heart attack. He’s dead.” Rich was only 25 at the time, just nine years older than Nick, yet so much responsibility had fallen on his shoulders since that night. Nick knew he was just making it worse.

Rich was watching the steaks carefully. He and Nick preferred medium-rare, while their mom liked hers well done. “Look,” he said, taking his time, choosing the right words, “you guys are good students. You get good grades. You’re not in trouble at school. You’re good athletes. Hell, you’re good kids! So why act like juvenile delinquents?”

Nick was quiet. Rich took two of the steaks off the grill. He would give the remaining steak a few more minutes. Mom would have the baked potatoes and salad ready when they came in and, of course, there would be chocolate cake for dessert.

“Why don’t you just dial it back a little? You know?”

“Yeah…”

“I mean, I know you guys like to have your fun. Just dial it back some. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Rich took the last steak off the grill and they headed into the house. Their mother was hurrying around the kitchen, putting the heaping salad bowl on the table, pulling the potatoes and garlic bread out of the oven. Nick thought about his brother’s words as they sat down at the dining room table. Dial it back? Make it easier for Rich? Make it easier for the whole family, really. Yeah, he could do that.

And so he did.
_____

There are some stories from your childhood that you love to share with your family, tall tales and adventures, most of them having lots of good laugh lines. But Nick never shared the stories from 1959, that wild and chaotic year. He didn’t want to be the dad who had to say, “Do as I say, not as I do.” He didn’t want to be disciplining his kids over some infraction and have them say, “Oh yeah, well what about what you did when you were a kid? What about that? Huh?” So he never told them about the Budweiser sign, or the rowboat trip to the fight barge, or that crazy Halloween night when he tore up the car. He never told those stories.

That is, not until now.
_____

Tell Me A Story...

2011-01-10T14:17:00.000-08:00

WILD CHILD – PART 3

“Look, Ma, No Muffler”

Hank and Darin stepped out of the car, paused for only a moment, and then started their run across the field toward the chicken coops. The coops were built in several long rows running north and south. To the right, on a slight rise, was the farmhouse, a neat one-story stucco structure with a red brick façade. On the left side of the house, there was a small porch and steps that led to a driveway where a late-model pickup truck was parked. Their mission was to grab as many eggs as possible and then beat it back to car and get out of there – fast. They were almost there, bags at the ready, making no effort to be quiet now, brush and twigs crackling underfoot. The commotion roused the chickens, just a few squawks at first, followed shortly by a full-blown cacophony. It’s amazing what a racket several thousand chicken can make.

Inside the farmhouse, a middle-aged couple sat watching television.

“Do you hear that, Henry? My, what a ruckus.”

“Damn kids! Happens every Halloween. They think they can come out here and grab a bunch of eggs to throw at each other.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Same as always.” He walked to the side door where a loaded shotgun stood propped against the wall.

A light above the porch came on, the door opened and a man stepped out of the house, a long, narrow object in his right hand. He raised the object above his head and pulled the trigger. The boys felt their ears ring as the shotgun blast split the night sky and reverberated through the valley. They dropped their bags and began an all-out sprint for the road and the waiting car, expecting any moment to hear a second blast, this one aimed in their direction.

Hank and Darin made it to the road where Nick was waiting with the car, engine running, headlights off. They piled in shouting “Go, go, go, get the hell out of here!” Nick hit the gas and the car started to roll. There was no screeching of tires or flying gravel as he pulled out onto the highway. The ’51 Chevy sedan with PowerGlide transmission wasn’t built for fast starts. The car gained speed steadily, heading up the highway toward the town of Petaluma.

It was several minutes before anyone could speak. “Who the hell’s idea was this, anyway?” Hank knew the answer. He was glaring at Nick. Nick swallowed hard and felt bad for his friends. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

They cruised slowly through Petaluma, “The Egg Basket of the World,” trying to attract as little attention as possible, and soon they were rolling down Lakeville Road, heading toward the intersection with Highway 37. It would take a good 40 minutes or so to make it home safely to Vallejo.

The plan had been to raid the chicken ranches in the rolling hills west of Petaluma and gather as many eggs as possible. Someone had told them that the coops were built so that the eggs rolled down into a wire trough. All you had to do was run along and scoop them up. Easy pickings! Back home they would cruise through the popular spots – Patches, Scotty’s, Eat ‘n Run, Terry’s – and pelt their friends’ cars with fresh eggs. It was Halloween and this would be a great prank. Unfortunately they had nothing to show for their little adventure. They would have to settle for several dozen water balloons, if they could find a place to fill them. At least they had a Plan B.
_____

Nick pulled into a service station out on Broadway and ordered a couple of dollars worth of regular. The attendant went through the ritual of pumping the gas, checking the oil and radiator, and washing the windshield. Meanwhile, Darin and Hank hurried off to the rest room to fill balloons with water. They emerged from the men’s room carrying cardboard boxes filled with balloons, varying in size from grapefruit to cantaloupe. One box went into the trunk in reserve and the other into the back seat of the car. Now they were armed and ready to cruise. Their first stop would be Patches drive-in on Tennessee Street.

The process was pretty straight-forward: drive through one of the popular places around town, spot some people you knew, pull up alongside and get them to roll down their windows, then bombard them with water balloons. It was good clean fun, especially if the other car was full of girls who would screech and scream when the balloons started to fly. Of course, they had to be prepared for incoming bombs because they weren’t the only ones that were armed and ready for battle, and water wasn’t the only substance flying.

They were making a pass through the parking lot at Eat ‘n Run when Nick saw Tony Bonetti and several friends heading in their direction. Tony was behind the wheel of his daddy’s brand new Chrysler 300E, a beautiful hardtop coupe with a gold-bronze finish polished to a mirror shine. Darin and Hank immediately began grabbing balloons in anticipation of splattering Tony and his gaudy new ride. Nick, on the other hand, felt a surge of panic. Tony “T-bone” Bonetti was big and swarthy and mean, and so were his friends. They had the reputation of being guys you just did not mess with. The big Chrysler approached and Darin and Hank were cranking down the windows, getting ready to launch.

“No no no no no, not Tony, not T-bone…” Nick was determined to stop the attack.

Tony was nearly alongside now, his window rolled down, smiling and waving.

“No no no no… don’t do it, don’t do it…”

But it was too late. Darin and Hank fired the opening salvo. The first balloon caught Tony square in the face. The next round splattered the roof and the door of the beautiful new coupe. Tony wasn’t smiling any longer. They heard him screaming expletives as Nick hit the gas and sped toward the exit.

“Whoa, here he comes!” Darin was looking out the back window. He could see Tony speeding toward the opposite exit, determined to wheel around and give chase. They were about to get their butts kicked by some guys who really knew how.

Nick had about a 30-second head start as he sped down Georgia Street, heading east. He knew he could not outrun that big 300E. His only chance was to head off Georgia and try to lose Tony with some quick turns. He took a hard right onto Gleason, a left on Campbell, then another quick left, which took them back to Georgia. All the while, they could see headlights trailing them in hot pursuit. Nick headed east on Georgia again, then a quick right onto 14th Street. Up ahead he saw a low building with a paved parking lot in front. He flew into the lot, skidded to a stop just to the left of the building, doused the headlights and killed the engine. They slid down in the seats, their heads out of sight, and waited. A second later, Tony made a fish-tailing, tire-screeching right onto 14th and came flying up the street. Nick inched his head up as the roar of the engine passed – just in time to see the brake lights come on as the Chrysler came to a quick stop. They’d been made. The jig was up.

Nick jumped up behind the wheel, started the engine, threw it into “drive” and hit the gas. The car lurched over the parking curb and started across the open field beyond, pitching and bucking over the broken ground, heading toward the chain link fence that bordered the freeway. Suddenly, the hood dipped sharply and then rose up again as they bounced through a shallow ditch. The next sound they heard was an ear-spitting roar. It took Nick several seconds to realize what had happened: he had ripped the exhaust system from the engine manifold and it was now running completely un-muffled. He could not believe the sound that came from that old Chevy.

Back on 14th street, Tony and his friends watched in utter disbelief. After a minute or two, the big Chrysler pulled slowly away. They were content to let the idiots out there in the field self-destruct.

Nick would not remember much about what happened next. Somehow he managed to get the car back on the pavement, over the freeway and home to Russell Street, in spite of the deafening noise and the sparks flying from the muffler as it was dragged along under the car.

When he finally pulled into the driveway and shut the engine down, Darin and Hank jumped out and made a beeline for home leaving Nick to deal with the consequences. He walked up the front steps and opened the door as quietly as possible, hoping his mom was sound asleep.

“Nick, is that you?” His mother was calling from her bedroom.

“Yeah, Mom.”

“Are you okay? What was that awful noise?”

“Nothing, Mom. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Okay?”

It was quiet for a few seconds. “Okay, honey. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.”

“Night, Mom.”

Nick closed the door to his bedroom and leaned back hard against it. He stood there for a moment in the quiet, darkened room. What a night, he said to himself. What a Halloween… Trick or treat.
_____

In the morning, Nick made up a whopper to tell his mother. Geez, Mom, we were just driving down the street and we hit a bump or something and the whole muffler thingee fell off. Must have been worn out, rotted through… or something. His mother, being sweet and gullible, bought it without question.

He told the real story to his older brother Rich who was decidedly less accepting. “You’re gonna have to pay me back for the repairs, buster. And you and I need to have a little talk.” Nick knew he was right. Stupid pranks were one thing. Tearing up the family car was another.

He figured he’d have to go to Tony Bonetti, hat in hand, and beg for forgiveness. Strangely enough, Tony never said a word, as though none of it ever happened. It was a bizarre ending to a Halloween Nick would never forget.

Trick or treat, indeed.
_____

Tell Me A Story

2011-01-04T19:53:00.000-08:00

WILD CHILD – PART 2

“Barge Right In”

They crouched behind the rocks at the end of the sandy beach, looking out at their objective. The waters of Southampton Bay lapped quietly at the pilings that supported the old pier and they could see that the tide was still rising, approaching the high water mark. Fifty feet or so out onto the pier there was a shack that served as a bait shop and rental office, and then beyond the shack and below the raised pier were the pontoon-supported slips where the fishing boats were tied. Each boat was painted red, severely faded now, with “Costa’s Resort” in white letters on each side. A few of the wooden boats had been hauled from the water and were stacked on their sides like a row of clamshells, but several remained in the water, bobbing gently on the rising tide. There was a light burning in the shack and they watched closely to see if there was any movement inside.

“I don’t like it,” Hank whispered. “There could be somebody in there.”

“It’s almost midnight,” Nick replied. “There’s nobody there. They don’t live on the damn pier.”

“What if somebody’s in there?” Darin shared Hank’s misgivings.

“Then we’ll run like hell. It’s no big thing.” Nick wasn’t about to let either of them back out now. They were coming if he had to drag them.

It all started when Nick and his mom had dinner one evening at Spenger’s. The restaurant was located on an old ferryboat christened the Encinal, anchored in Southampton Bay, looking out at the Carquinez Strait. Spenger’s was an old favorite, famous for its seafood, and Nick and his mom had been there many times. On this particular evening, while waiting to order, Nick happened to flip the menu over. On the back was a short history of the Encinal and its service on the bay as a car ferry. And then there was a paragraph about a barge anchored out in the Strait at the mouth of the bay where, allegedly, illegal prizefights had been staged in years past.

Illegal fights? That got Nick’s attention. Later, as they left the restaurant, he paused in the parking lot, peering out across the bay toward the Contra Costa shore. Sure enough, there it was: a large, wooden barge anchored out where the calm waters of Southampton met the turbulent Carquinez Strait. He had recently read “The Light Of The World,” a Hemingway short story that referenced a fight “out on the coast” between Stanley Ketchel, the “Michigan Assassin,” and Jack Johnson, the great black heavyweight champ. He recalled bits and pieces of the dialog:

“Steve Ketchel… his own father shot and killed him. Yes, by Christ, his own father. There aren’t any more men like Steve Ketchel.”

“Wasn’t his name Stanley Ketchel?”

“Oh, shut up… what do you know about Steve? Stanley. He was no Stanley. Steve Ketchel was the finest and most beautiful man that ever lived… He was the only man I ever loved.”

“Didn’t Jack Johnson knock him out though?”

“It was a trick… a fluke… Steve knocked him down… He turned to smile at me and that son of a bitch from hell jumped up and hit him by surprise…”

That was the only suggestion Nick needed. His imagination ran wild. He began to construct his own narrative: Ketchel versus Johnson, a great battle out on that barge, staged there because the State wouldn’t give Johnson a license and no one was sure who had jurisdiction out on the bay. Nick could visualize the barge surrounded by vessels of every shape and size, overflowing with fight fans, shouting at the top of their lungs, wagering their paychecks on one man or the other.

No doubt about it: Nick would find a way to stand on that barge. And here they were on this mild summer night, ready to execute the mission he had planned so carefully.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Nick took off running toward the end of the pier and a second later, Hank and Darin followed him. Now they were on the pier, approaching the shack where the light burned inside, expecting to be jumped at any moment. Now they were past the shack, climbing down the ladder that led to the boat slips. They chose a skiff in the last slip at the end of the dock and Nick and Darin scrambled aboard. Hank untied the rope and gave a strong push with his right leg as he jumped in. Now the small boat was floating free of the dock. Nick slipped the oars into the oarlocks and began to row as quietly as he could, moving steadily out into the bay. They were on their way.

Nick leaned hard on the oars, no longer worried about the noise. To his right, he could see the sandy beach as it swung around toward Lover’s Point; to his left, the long arc of the shoreline leading to Dillon’s Point; looking back, Costa’s Resort and the pier growing ever smaller with each stroke of the oars. It was a long hard pull out to the barge. Hank and Darin each took a turn rowing as they zigged and zagged their way across the water, not a straight line but good enough given their inexperience.

Finally, they pulled alongside the barge and tied the skiff to a wooden ladder that led up to the deck. They climbed the ladder and stood on the deck at last, grinning at each other. Mission accomplished. Well, half of it at least.

The flat wooden deck was a large rectangle, about 100 feet wide and maybe twice as long. There was a sturdy rail that ran all around the perimeter and a small wooden shack in one corner. And that was it. Nick walked along the railing, taking in the view. To the west, he could see the double span of the Carquinez Bridge, and below it, on the south shore of the Strait, the town of Crockett and the sugar refinery with the bold C&H sign in red, white and blue lights. To the east, the lights of Benicia burned brightly. All around them, the dark waters of the Strait lapped at the barge. They had arrived at high tide. He tried to picture a fleet of boats, jockeying for position to view the epic fight, the crowd raucous and loud, fistfights breaking out here and there.

“Okay, so that’s it. There’s nothin’ to see. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Hank broke the mood and the scene faded from Nick’s mind. They headed for the ladder and the skiff to begin the journey back to shore.
_____

It was a typical July night at Lover’s Point with four or five cars parked facing the water. You could drive out onto the point, turn slightly to the left or right to keep the center aisle clear, facing out toward the Contra Costa shore or inward toward Southampton Bay. Every now and then a door would open slightly and some lovemaking debris would be dropped to the ground. Then headlights would come on, the car would back out of its space, turn and head back toward the street. Before long, another vehicle would arrive to take the vacant spot.

It isn’t likely that any of the couples in the parked cars noticed the little skiff making its way across the water, angling toward the beach just north of the point. If they noticed, they didn’t react. There were more important things to do.

The boys pulled the boat up onto the sand well out of reach of the tide, which was past its ebb and beginning to turn. Before long, the current out in the Carquinez Strait would be flowing hard toward San Pablo Bay. They scrambled up the path from the beach and made their way to the car where they retrieved an ice chest from the trunk. A few minutes later, they were relaxing on the beach, enjoying an ice-cold beer, toasting their successful mission to the barge.

They would leave the skiff there on the beach. When the sun rose in the morning, it would be easy to see from Costas' pier. The Costas would have no trouble recovering their property. No harm, no foul.
_____

Many years later, Nick would learn that the great championship fight that took place on that barge was between Gentleman Jim Corbett and Joe Choynski, 27 brutal rounds, finally ending when Corbett landed a devastating body blow. The fight actually started in San Anselmo on May 30, 1889, but was broken up by the police after four rounds. The battle resumed on June 5 out on the barge in Southampton Bay, surrounded by boats of every description, most of them, according to the newspaper reports, coming in from San Francisco.

It isn’t often that reality trumps fantasy, but Nick had to admit that the historical accounts of the fight and the setting were even more vivid than his imagination. It was July of 1959 when Nick and his friends stood on the deck of the barge, 70 years after the Corbett-Choynski fight, and it seemed incredible that it was still there after all that time.

Yet even faced with the facts, Nick had a hard time giving up his fantasy version of the event. He could almost hear Hemingway’s characters in that train station up in Michigan:

“He was a great fighter…”

“I hope to God he was… I hope to God they don’t have fighters like that now… My soul belongs to Steve Ketchel. By God, he was a man.”

For Nick, it would always be the Ketchel-Johnson Barge.
_____

Tell Me A Story

2010-12-27T06:35:00.000-08:00

WILD CHILD – PART 1

“This Bud’s For You”

Nicholas Shane sat back in his seat, gazing out the window of the bus as it rolled through the tidelands and salt marshes along Highway 37. They were on their way back from San Rafael, from a baseball game against San Rafael High. Nick had finished his sack lunch: the soggy bologna sandwich, a bag of chips, a red apple and a chocolate chip cookie, all of it washed down with a small carton of milk. It had been a sunny day in late March of 1959, a small taste of the warm spring weather ahead. He could see the lights of Vallejo in the distance as the bus negotiated the gently winding road in the gathering dusk.

Nick loved the trips to Marin County to play against the high schools there – San Rafael, Tamalpais and Drake. The communities nestled against the eastern slope of the coast range, watched over by Mt. Tamalpais, were quaint and beautiful, reeking of money, both old and new. In Nick’s mind, when he tried to picture heaven it looked a lot like Marin.

They were getting close to Vallejo now and Nick focused his attention on the apron of the road where the wild growth had been cut back to form a clear green strip between the roadway and the cattails that grew at the edge of the slough. Then he saw it up ahead, their target for later that night: the metal sign caught in the headlights, a white background with bold red script that spelled out “Budweiser,” and in smaller block letters “King of Beers.” The sign was mounted on what looked to be 4” x 4” posts cemented into the ground. Darin and Hank were in the seat in front of Nick. He tapped them both on the shoulder.

“There it is,” he said. “Right up ahead. There!”

The bus rolled by the Budweiser sign and sped on into the night. The boys looked at each other and grinned.
_____

The dark green ’51 Chevy sedan headed west across the Napa River and out onto Highway 37, beyond the turnoff for the north gate to Mare Island. Though the car belonged to Nick’s mom, Darin was at the wheel as the designated driver for the evening. It was after 1:00 am and there was no traffic in sight. The three boys watched intently, looking for the Budweiser sign on the left apron of the road. Then suddenly, there it was, ready for the taking. Darin brought the car to a quick stop just off the pavement.

Nick and Hank jumped out and crossed the road to the sign, Hank carrying the hand saw from his dad’s tool shed. Darin pulled away, heading west. He would turn around a couple of miles down the road and swing by to see if the sign was down and ready to load into the car. He would switch the lights off and on so they would know he was coming.

Hank immediately went to work with the saw on one of the 4” x 4” posts. The posts had been soaked in creosote and the cutting was tough. When Hank began to run out of steam, Nick took over and continued the cut.

They saw headlights approaching from the east and knew it could not be Darin. They scrambled down the bank toward the slough and lay flat on the ground until the car passed. Then it was back to work on the post.

Headlights approached again, this time from the west, winking off and on. They continued working, looking up as Darin rolled by, craning his neck to see their progress, his eyes as wide as saucers. Nick and Hank saw the look on Darin’s face and laughed so hard that the sawing stopped for several seconds while Nick composed himself. It’s amazing how things are so hilarious after a couple of beers.

The first post was cut through and they quickly moved to the second one. Darin rolled by again, heading west this time, the same wide-eyed look on his face, and again Nick and Hank roared with laughter. Finally, the second post snapped and the sign toppled to the ground. After a few minutes, they saw headlights approaching from the west, turned off and then on, and they got ready to load the sign into the trunk. Darin pulled off onto the apron, jumped out and headed to the rear of the car.

“Oh, my God! Look at the size of that thing! It will never fit. Just leave it and let’s get out of here.” Darin looked east and west, checking for traffic, his face panic stricken.

“Open the trunk, man, we can get it in there. Come on!” Nick and Hank were not about to leave their prize.

The trunk lid popped up and they shoved the sign in as best they could. It just barely fit side to side, and it was clear that it was going to hang out of the trunk by about two or three feet. They pulled the lid down and secured it with a length of rope. All the while, Darin kept up a steady stream of objections, met by continuous laughter from Nick and Hank. They jumped into the car and Darin pulled back onto the roadway, heading toward Vallejo.

“Okay, assholes, what happens if we get stopped?” Darin was beside himself.

“Hey, if we get stopped, you stay with the car. Me and Nick are making a run for it.” Nick and Hank made saucer-eyed faces at each other and howled with laughter, which only added to Darin’s stress level.

They had to make it home to Steffan Manor and Darin was frantically trying to choose a route with as little traffic as possible. After crossing the Napa River, he started south on Sacramento Street, but quickly decided that was too risky. They veered off through neighborhoods they’d never seen before and would never see again, avoiding the major thoroughfares – Redwood, Sonoma Boulevard, Tennessee, Broadway, Springs Road.

“I know we’re gonna get stopped. We should dump that damn thing right here and now.” Darin was picturing himself in a police lineup, a headline in the newspaper screaming “Local Boys Busted in Bizarre Incident.”

“If you get stopped, just say, ‘Sign? What sign, officer? I don’t know about any sign!’” More laughter filled the car, much to Darin’s chagrin.

They crossed the freeway at Georgia Street and made an immediate right on Miller. At last they reached the corner of Buss and Russell. Hank’s house was situated on the corner and they unloaded the sign and hid it as best they could in a small alleyway, overgrown with shrubs and wild rose bushes, which served as an easement to the adjoining property. There was no way to conceal a sign that size – they judged it to be about 4’ x 7’ – so Hank knew he’d have to deal with it in the morning, coming up with a plausible story to tell his father. As soon as the sign was unloaded and the car was safely parked in Nick’s driveway, across the street and down the block a couple of houses, Darin headed for home.

“Hey, don’t you want to stay and celebrate a successful mission?” They had a few more beers on ice.

“I got you dummies home. Now it’s all yours. Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” And with that, Darin was gone.

Nick looked at Hank and shrugged. “So, more beer for us, right?”
_____

The sun was up and the morning dew was rapidly burning away when Nick stepped out onto the porch to retrieve the Saturday Times-Herald. He knew there would be an article in the sports section recapping yesterday’s game. Across the street at the house on the corner, the garage door swung open and he saw Hank emerge pushing a lawnmower. Nick sat in the front room, reading the sports section, glancing out the window every now and then to track Hank’s progress.

Hank finished mowing one section, and then began a long pass that would take him close to where the Budweiser sign was stashed. Nick put down the newspaper and watched intently to see what would come next. Hank stopped the mower near the overgrown bushes that shielded the alley. He turned and walked quickly back to the house, entering by the front door. After a minute or two, he emerged with his father close behind him. They walked over to where the sign was hidden. Nick watched as a brief but very intense discussion ensued. Then Hank’s father turned and marched back toward the house, his eyes straight-ahead, obviously not happy with the situation.

Nick went out onto the front porch and whistled in Hank’s direction. Hank motioned for him to come over and Nick trotted across the street.

“What did you tell your dad?”

“I told him, ‘hey, look, somebody left this sign here last night.’”

“And he bought it?”

“Nah, not really. He’s pretty pissed. I asked him if we could put it in the shed. He didn’t like that at first, but then he said to go ahead and just get it out of here.”

There was an old shed in the backyard that had been built by the previous owner as a workshop. Hank’s dad stored tools there, but otherwise, the space was unused. Hank and his friends turned the shed into a clubhouse over the years. They hauled in an old couch and a couple of rickety chairs and decorated the walls with pictures of their sports heroes. Gradually the sports heroes gave way to Playboy centerfolds. The Budweiser sign would be a great addition.

Nick and Hank carried the heavy metal sign into the shed and admired the way it looked propped against the wall. In the cold light of day, they were amazed that they’d been able to cram it into the trunk of a ’51 Chevy.

“Are you sure your old man is okay with this?”

“Well…” Hank paused for a moment. “He did say that if the police come looking for a missing sign, he’s bringing them straight to me.”
_____

The police never came, there was no call for a lineup, and the Times-Herald never mentioned a missing sign. Two years later, Hank joined the Air Force and left Vallejo for good. Eventually his parents sold the house and moved to Utah. Nick was living in Minnesota at the time and Darin was busy around town doing his own thing.

They never asked what became of the Budweiser sign.
_____

Tell Me A Story...

2010-07-18T15:48:00.000-07:00

THE ROAD TO MOONLIGHT

I had no idea what was in store for me when I walked into The Vintage that afternoon. I just wanted to see what Jesse was up to and if he wanted to go get something to eat, then maybe watch a game on TV. It turned into one of the all time great road trips, one we still talk about. Funny how the best times are the ones you don’t plan.

Jesse was behind the bar, getting ready to hand-off to one of the bartenders who worked for him. He bought The Vintage in1964 and turned it into the best bar in Napa, at least as far as I was concerned. It was like Grand Central: if you stayed there long enough, everyone you knew would come through the front door. After three years, The Vintage was doing really well and all of Jesse’s friends were happy for him.

Let me tell you about Jesse. You see, he was born with some serious issues. The state declared him blind at birth – “legally blind” was the term that got tossed around. He could see, but not much. You’d think that would be a major problem, but not for Jesse. He refused to let it slow him down. He kept up with all the rest of us, in school and on the playground.

I remember going over to the basketball courts at the park and playing for hours and hours. It was always me and Will against Lonnie and Jesse. Lonnie was a couple of years older and he and Jess made a great team. Jesse was tough under the basket: he could box out with that round body of his, and he could score off the rebound. They beat us most of the time. We’d play for hours.

As we got older and went out for school sports, Jesse became our team manager, taking care of the equipment, keeping score and keeping the official stats. He even got to travel with us on all the road trips. The important thing was that he was part of everything we did.

Some kids who didn’t know Jesse would make smart-ass remarks and tease him. They would see him holding something an inch from his nose, struggling to read, and they’d think that was funny. They’d only do that once because we’d kick their asses. Anybody who messed with Jesse was in for a whipping. That’s just the way it was. He was our friend and we took care of him. And here’s the thing: it wasn’t because we felt sorry for him. He was just a great guy and we all loved him.

So, I walked into The Vintage that summer afternoon and took my regular stool at the bar. Jesse popped open a cold Hamm’s and slid it in front of me.

“Hey, Jess, how’s it going?”

“Good, Jon. A little slow. Ronnie’s taking over. It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“So what do you wanna do? Wanna grab some lunch?”

“Okay, but, you know, after that…”

“Yeah…?”

“I’m bored, man. Ya know? I mean, we need to get out of town or something.”

“Where to, Jess?”

“Let’s go to up to Nevada. To the Moonlight Ranch.”

“Carson City? Geez, Jess, that’s a five hour trip.”

“Yeah, so? Come on, let’s do it.”

Just then the front door swung open and our friend Danny strolled in. He came over and took the stool next to me. Jesse went to get a beer for him.

“Hey, Jon. What’s up?”

“Hi, Danny. Jesse wants to go to Carson City. To the Moonlight Ranch.”

“The cathouse? Okay, I’m in. Wait a minute…” Danny took out his wallet and cracked it open a little. “Damn, I’m a little short, Jon. How about you?”

“Yeah, me too. Let’s talk to Jesse, see what we can do.”

Jesse came down the bar with a beer for Danny. “What’s up, Dan?”

“Not much, Jess. I hear we’re going to the Moonlight Ranch?”

“Yeah, if we can talk Jon into it. Whataya say, Jon?”

It wasn’t fair, because I knew it would be too easy, but I went into negotiation mode with Jesse, looking for the best deal we could get. “Damn, Jess, Danny and I want to go, but we’re a little light, man. You can’t have fun up there without some cash in your pocket.”

Jesse’s brow furrowed over that one. “Look, I’ll spot you guys a c-note, okay?”

“Is that a c-note each?” I was having fun now.

“Okay, a c-note each.”

I could see that Jesse really wanted to go. “It’s a long drive, Jess. It’s gonna take some gas, too.”

“All right, damn it, I’ll pay for the gas.”

Now it was Danny’s turn to weigh in. “I say we stop at Stateline too, spend a little time at Harrah’s.”

“Oh, man, I don’t wanna stop. If we’re going to The Ranch, let’s just go.”

“I don’t know, Jess. A little stop at Harrah’s can’t hurt. The ladies will be waiting when you get to The Ranch.”

Jesse knew he was being hustled, but he caved in anyway. “Okay, we’ll stop for one hour at Harrah’s. One hour and that’s it! Done deal?”

Ten minutes later we were on the road.
_____

We made a quick stop for lunch and I went to a pay phone to give Gina a call. Gina was Jesse’s sister and they were really close. I knew she’d worry if she didn’t know where Jesse had gone. The two of them fought like cats and dogs, but one thing was certain: Gina always had Jesse’s back. She looked out for him like a mama lion.

“Hey, Gina, it’s Jon. Just wanted to let you to know that Jesse is with Danny and me. We’re going up to Nevada.”

“Nevada? Where in Nevada?”

“You know, Stateline. We’re goin’ to Harrah’s.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re goin’ to Harrah’s. Look, just be careful. Don’t leave him alone in the casinos. It’s too damn crowded. Okay?”

“Sure, Gina, don’t worry. He’s with Danny and me.”

“This is on you, Jon.” With that she hung up.

It was nearly 5:00 pm when we pulled off Highway 50 and into downtown Placerville. We were thirsty and Danny said he knew of a good bar near the center of town. It was a place called The Hanging Tree. They had a dummy hanging from a noose from the second story of the building, a not-so-subtle reminder that the original name of this burg was Hangtown.

We went in, took a seat at the bar and ordered some beers. Jesse struck up a conversation with some local guys sitting at the bar and it wasn’t long before he had them all laughing. Danny went to scope out the action at the pool tables in the back room, and he came back with a grin on his face.

“I think we can make some money here, Jon. Are you up for it?”

“Sure. You gonna talk us into their game?” Danny could shoot a mean game of pool and I was no slouch.

We left Jesse with his new best friends and went into the back room. Before long, we were in the game – Danny and me against two locals who smelled fresh meat. They were pretty good, but Danny was better and I was having a pretty good day. We played 8-ball, starting at $5 a game. Before long, it was up to $10. We were winning two games for every one of theirs and our pile of winnings was growing steadily. The locals weren’t taking it very well. They didn’t like the idea of some out-of-town guys coming in and messing up their Saturday evening and they started making some wise-ass remarks.

Danny walked over to me while one of their guys was lining up a shot. “Okay, they win the next two games. Got it?” He smiled a little and I could see that he’d taken out his front tooth. He had a false tooth to plug a gap left by a fight a long time ago, and when he took it out, it meant that he expected trouble.

“Oh crap, Danny, I don’t wanna fight these guys.”

“Don’t worry. Just follow my lead, okay? And go get Jesse back here – now.”

I went and told Jesse that we needed him in the back room, even though I wasn’t sure why. We tanked the next two games and the locals were really feeling it. They were laughing and slapping high-fives all over the place.

“Hey, guys,” Danny started, “we’ve got to leave for a date with some Nevada ladies. What say we shoot one more game for – let’s see – $200… no $250. Here’s our stake.” He counted out $250 and dropped it on the table.

The locals looked kind of stunned. “What? Nah, you’re full of shit...”

“What’s the matter, that kind of money scare you? You guys aren’t afraid, are you?” Danny had them going now.

Sure enough, the two players and a couple of their buddies huddled up and came up with the $250. After all, they’d just won the last two games. They dropped their money on the table and Danny scooped it up and handed it to Jesse.

“Okay, Jesse here will hold the stakes. We’ll lag for the break.” I was already racking up the balls.

The local guys weren’t happy about Jesse holding the money, but things were moving too fast for them now. Danny won the lag easily and got ready to break. He sent the cue ball into the rack like a sledgehammer and the 15-ball fell neatly into the corner pocket. He ran the rest of the stripped balls and left himself an easy tap-in of the 8-ball for the win. And just like that, it was over.

“Thanks, guys,” Danny chirped. “We gotta go.”

We laid our cues on the table, Danny grabbed Jesse under his right arm and I grabbed his left, and we booked it for the front door. The locals didn’t have time to react. Jesse called goodbye to his new friends as we passed through the bar. We were out the door, up the street and into the car by the time they regrouped and came after us. They just stood on the sidewalk, under that legendary hangman’s noose, and watched us drive away.

“All right! That was sweet!” Danny was looking out the back window, laughing and waving at the Placerville boys. “Now we can afford some good, clean Nevada fun.”
_____

We pulled into Harrah’s parking lot around 9:00 pm. Jesse wanted to see a lounge show while Danny and I gambled, so we helped him find the lounge. He wasn’t comfortable trying to find his way around places he didn’t know, especially with the crowds. I was itching to find the poker room and Danny was looking for a craps table.

“Okay, you guys, look: if you go and blow your stake, don’t look to me for help.” Jesse was laying down the law. “You’re on your own. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, no worries, Jess. We’ll be back in about an hour.”

No worries, my ass! I sat down at a seven-card stud table and I’ve never seen the cards so cold. It was a $3/$6 limit table and I won a couple of small pots, but I was looking at rags most of the time. The hour was nearly up and my stack of chips was going south.

On the next hand, I looked at my hole cards: a pair of 10s. Finally something to work with! The dealer turns up another 10 and suddenly I have a set. I make the small bet and watch most of the players around the table muck their cards. Except for a sweet-faced lady sitting across from me who reminded me of my grandmother; she calls my bet with a 7 showing. The dealer throws me an 8 and grandma a Jack. Now she makes the small bet and I call. My next card is another 8 giving me a full house. Grandma draws another Jack and checks. Damn, what does she have? Jacks showing, but what’s in the hole? Didn’t I see another guy fold a Jack? She’s probably got a set. Okay, so I throw in the max bet, and she calls. The next cards don’t help either of us. She checks again, I go for the max bet and she calls. The dealer throws the seventh card face down and I can’t believe my eyes: it’s a 10. I’ve got four 10s. Now she tosses in the max bet and I raise. Grandma re-raises, which puts me all in, but that’s okay because I’m sure I’ve got her. I stand up to get ready to rake in the pot, and I’ll admit my heart is thumpin’ big time. She turns over her hole cards: a pair of Jacks. She’s got four Jacks! I look up at her and she gives me the sweetest smile. “Sorry, honey,” she says. I tuck my tail between my legs and limp away – flat broke.

I found Danny just as he was walking away from a craps table. “How’d you do?”

“I lost.”

“How much?”

“All of it.” Danny gave me a weak grin. “How ‘bout you?”

“Same story. I had four 10s and got gutted… by somebody’s grandmother. Can you believe that shit?”

What a roller coaster! We came out of Placerville riding high and now we were back to zero. There was nothing to do but go find Jesse. The lounge show was ending as we walked up and Jesse was saying goodbye to several new friends. What a guy! He made friends everywhere he went. We told him our sad stories and he cracked up. It was the funniest thing he’d heard all night.

“Okay losers, let’s hit the road. It’s about half an hour to The Ranch from here.” Jesse was laughing all the way to the car.
_____

When we pulled up to the Moonlight Ranch, it was close to 11:00 pm. The parking lot was nearly full, probably typical for a Saturday night. We went in and sat down at the bar. Danny and I had enough money for a couple of beers, but that was about it. So we nursed our beers while Jesse struck up a conversation with some of the girls. Before long, he went off to talk turkey with the madam and a cute little brunette. Then we saw him heading off down a long hall with the girl he chose. He looked back over his shoulder and waved to us, a big grin on his face.

We took our beers over to a couch across from the bar and visited with some of the ladies. They said it was a shame that we didn’t have any money because we were nice looking guys. That didn’t make us feel any better. Danny popped out his front tooth and grinned, and that made them laugh. One of the girls brought a deck of cards over and we gathered around a low coffee table and played gin rummy – dollar a point, though it was just for fun.

After a while, Jesse came back out to the bar and ordered a tall orange juice. We kept the card game going and about half an hour later, there was Jesse, heading back down that hall with another girl.

We got tired of playing cards, so we just sat around and talked to the girls. One of them asked if we could at least put a quarter in the jukebox and play some music. Danny and I looked at each other and shrugged: between us, we didn’t even have a quarter. The girl went over to the bar and brought back a couple of beers. She said our friend was doing so much business that the house could buy us a round.

Jesse came back out for more orange juice, and the next time he went down the hall, it was with two ladies. I settled back on the couch and closed my eyes. All the chatter and laughter at the bar was like a lullaby and in a minute, I was sound asleep. The next thing I knew, Jesse was shaking my shoulder, waking me up. He’d spent all his money and he was ready to go. All the girls came over to give him hugs and say goodbye. Like I said, he made friends everywhere he went.

We stumbled out the door and headed for the car. The cold, crisp night air was like a slap in the face. I looked at my watch and saw that it was a little after 3:00 am.
_____

Finally, we were back on Highway 50, heading for home. I took the first shift behind the wheel while Danny stretched out in the back seat to get some sleep. Jesse was riding shotgun up front with me. I checked my watch and made a mental note to give Gina a call when we got to Placerville. When we hit Spooner Summit, I glanced over at Jesse and saw that he was out cold – with a smile on his face.

It made me think of the times when I was a kid and we’d go over to the Suisun Valley to pick apricots. It was a way to make a little extra money for school clothes and such. All day long, you’d be climbing up the ladder, picking apricots as fast as you could, climbing down to dump your bucket in a wooden crate, then scrambling back up the ladder again. The faster you picked, the more money you could make. At the end of the day, you’d go home dead tired – and dream all night long about picking apricots.

I looked at Jesse with that big smile on his face and knew that he was dreaming a sweet dream. And it had nothing to do with apricots.
_____

A father's tribute...

2010-06-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers:
My son Matt Spooner married Julie DeLiema on Sunday, June 27, in a beautiful ceremony in Mission Viejo, CA. For this occasion, Julie's dad, Rob DeLiema, composed original lyrics to John Denver's song "Poems, Prayers and Promises." It was performed by Jerry Valentine, a dear family friend of the DeLiemas. I asked Rob if I could share it with all of you. I'm sure you will find it as moving as I did.

-Chuck

Poems, Prayers and Promises...

I’ve been lately thinking about my life’s time

all the things I’ve done and how it’s been,

and I can’t help believin’ in my own mind

A day like this I wish would never end

My daughter’s now become a very fine young lady

Being her father’s always made me proud

The little girl I once knew

Is now a lovely woman

And found the man I know she’ll always love

And I have to say it now I wish you a good life all in all

A life of love and smiles and kindness all around

Supporting one another and being best of friends

With all that life’s ups and downs

Will send you through the years

And talk of Poems, Prayers and Promises

things that you believe in,

how sweet it is to love someone,

how right is it to care, how long it’s been since yesterday

what about tomorrow and what about your dreams

and all the memories you’ll share…

Days have passed so quickly now, nights weren’t too long

Time around me whispers, let her go

Changes are a part of life, it’s Julie’s turn today

With Matt to help guide her on the way

I pray that life is good to you

There’s still so much to do

So many things your minds have never known

You’ll tackle them together

With support along the way

To dance across the mountains on your own

And I have to say it now I wish you a good life all in all

A life of love and smiles and kindness all around

Supporting one another and being best of friends

With all that life’s ups and downs

Will send you through the years

And talk of Poems, Prayers and Promises

things that you believe in,

how sweet it is to love someone,

how right is it to care, how long it’s been since yesterday

what about tomorrow and what about your dreams

and all the memories you’ll share…
_____

Editor's Note...

2010-04-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

Hi, Loyal Readers:
Just a note to let you know that "The Rejected Writer's Journal" is going on hiatus again. We've got lots of projects to pursue, including the self-publication of Children of Vallejo. I know, I know: I've been threatening to take that plunge for a long time, but it's now or never. Wish me luck.

The last couple of weeks have been brutal, with a half-dozen rejection notices falling on the mailbox like a spring shower. However, there are a couple of bright spots:

Mike Shannon, the editor of Spitball - the Literary Baseball Magazine, dropped me a note to say he wants to publish my story "High and Tight." It's a question of finding a place to "...work it in." If you'd like to refresh your memory, "High and Tight" was posted on this blog March 19, 2009.
As reported earlier, "Party Crashers" will be published in the June issue of The Storyteller. Something to look forward to, even though it's a modest publication with a very Southern vibe. (Brother-in-law Sid suggested I change my pen name to Uncle Charlie. Or maybe it was Cousin Bubba. Can't remember which.)

Thanks for your support. And rest assured, I shall return with more scintilating tales designed to put you on the edge of your chair. Or sound asleep, whichever comes first. In the meantime, feel free to browse the archives in search of your favorites.

-The Editor
_____

Tell me a story...

2010-03-25T12:48:00.000-07:00

THE PROSPECT

Darin and Hank cruised slowly through the parking lot, looking for an open space, finally settling for one at the far end, in front of the motel. Darin pulled the car in and killed the engine.

“Man, what a crowd,” Hank said. “Jill must be dancing tonight.”

The Bird of Paradise, adjacent to the motel along the frontage road, was the first bar in Vallejo to go topless and business was good. James Brady, the proprietor, was an old school chum, known as Diamond Jim to all his customers. Jim had no problem recruiting attractive dancers, but he’d hit the jackpot with Jill St. Paul. She was the one pulling in the crowds.

They walked into the bar and found that it was standing room only. Jim was behind the bar, moving quickly to keep up with the drink orders. It was nearly 9:00 PM and the show was about to begin. Darin pushed his way up to the bar and waved to Jim.

“Hey, Darin! What’s happenin’, man? What can I get you?”

“Gimme a couple of Buds. Hey, Jim, is Danny here tonight?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back. He’ll be out in a minute.” Jim slid the long neck bottles on the bar in front of Darin. “Want to start a tab, Darin?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Darin could barely hear over the noise. He passed one of the beers to Hank. Danny emerged from the back room with several bottles in his large hands. Darin caught his eye and waved him over. “Danny, how’s it goin’?”

“Busy as hell, man. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to remind you about the game tomorrow in San Rafael. We’re gonna meet at Wilson Park at around 9:00 AM and car pool from there. We’re counting on you to pitch tomorrow, okay? There should be several scouts there, man. It’s a good showcase.”

“Okay, 9:00 AM, Wilson Park. You guys stickin’ around for the show?”

“Oh yeah. I take it Jill is dancing tonight.”

“You got that right.” Danny moved away to help another customer.

Diamond Jim had his system down pat. There were shows at 9:00, 10:30 and midnight. For each show, there was a two-drink minimum, though he’d waive that for his friends. He had three dancers and each one would do a fifteen-minute set with a little break in between. That would fill up about an hour, giving the cocktail waitresses time to settle up tabs and turn the room over for the next show.

Jill would be the third and final dancer and she’d become a minor sensation around town, for obvious reasons. She had long blonde hair, light blue eyes, and she was very pretty. Add to that the fact that she possessed a near-perfect body, long and firm and full-breasted. Perfect bodies were easy to find in magazines like Playboy, with makeup artists, professional lighting, professional photographers and airbrush finishing. But Jill was real and she was the complete package. To Darin, she was absolutely stunning. He was always amazed at the reaction of the crowd. When the other girls danced, the guys would whistle and shout and make wise-ass remarks. But when Jill was on stage, there was a general hush that came over the room.

Jill and Danny had been together for a couple of months now, living in a house that Danny shared with two buddies. They made a great looking couple, though Darin wasn’t sure what the attraction was, beyond the obvious. At least they could keep an eye on one another, working in the same place night after night.

Jim bounded onto the stage and announced the start of the 9:00 PM show. He cracked a few lame jokes and then introduced the first dancer, a girl named Debbie. A couple of guys left the bar to move down in front of the stage. Darin and Hank grabbed the empty bar stools and settled in for the show.

Each girl had a similar routine, wearing some sort of top and maybe a sexy bra, and then slowly stripping in time with the recorded music. Bottomless had not taken hold as yet. That would come later. For now, topless was the rage, spreading from North Beach in San Francisco to many of the cities in the Bay Area.

When Jill was introduced, she received a rousing ovation from the rowdy crowd. She came out of the back room and headed for the stage, waving to Darin and Hank as she passed. Her first song was “Light My Fire,” and she went into a slow grind with the music. When she unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off over her shoulders, Darin heard Hank mumble, “Sweet mother of God!” He looked around the suddenly quiet room and saw several guys set their drinks down and swallow hard.

Jim had installed spotlights that rimmed the stage to highlight the dancers. The low ceiling and the closeness of the lights made the stage a very hot place. Jill’s body glistened with sweat as her third song ended. She reached for a white towel that she’d placed on a stool next to the stage and began to dry her torso. A guy sitting up front spoke to her and she handed him the towel. He stood up and proceeded dry her back. Then the music started again and she picked up the beat and began to dance.

Diamond Jim witnessed this scene and let loose a stream of expletives that turned every head at the bar in his direction. The song ended and Jill took a deep bow. She put her shirt on quickly and left the stage to a standing ovation. As she rounded the bar and headed for the back room, Jim grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her around the corner, out of sight from the bar.

“What the hell are you trying to do, cost me my license?” He was yelling at her, furious that she’d let a patron touch her on stage. “You stupid bitch, don’t you know they could bust me for that? How goddamn stupid can you be?”

“Jim, I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

Jim’s tirade continued and Darin thought for a minute that he was going to hit her. He waited for the scream, not sure what he would do if it came. Her apology fell on deaf ears and Jim continued to call her every rotten word in his vocabulary. Now her voice was rising and Darin could tell she was losing her temper.

“Okay, asshole, you want to fire me? Go ahead, say it. You’re not the only bar in town. There are plenty of other places that will be glad to have me. Go ahead, tough guy. Fire me!”

It was quiet then. Jim came out from the back room and started working the bar, his face pinched in anger. Darin looked at Danny and saw that he’d ignored the entire scene. After a minute or two, Jill came out to the bar. Darin got up to give her his stool and she thanked him as she sat down. Danny brought a drink and placed it on a coaster in front of her. Her face was flushed and her eyes were welling.

“Thanks for the support, Danny.” She spit the words at him. “It’s good to know you’ve got my back.”

“Hey, kiddo, he’s the boss. Know what I mean?” Tall, well built, good-looking, Danny could charm your socks off. He grinned at her and moved on down the bar.

“Shit, Darin,” she said. “What am I doing here? I must be out of my friggin’ mind. They treat me like a goddamn whore. I’m not a whore…” Darin thought she was going to cry.

“Hey, Jill, you know how Jim is. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’ll cool off in a minute and be over here apologizing to you, just watch.” Darin did his best to calm her down, but he could see it wasn’t helping much. He tried to change the subject. “How about coming with us tomorrow to San Rafael? Should be a good game. Danny’s going to pitch. Why don’t you come along, get out of town for a day?”

“Thanks, but I gotta work tomorrow.” She smiled at him. “You’re a good guy, Darin. Thanks for asking.”

Darin and Hank finished their drinks, said goodbye to Jill and Danny and headed for the parking lot.

“Holy shit,” Hank said, “did you hear all that? I thought he was gonna smack her. And Danny never made a move. Can you believe it?”

“No. No, I can’t. But that’s Danny.”

More cars were entering the parking lot, moving slowly, looking for open spaces. They passed a group of guys heading for the bar, laughing and talking loud. It was a busy night at the Bird of Paradise.
_____

Everybody was there, except for Danny. The guys milled around the parking lot at Wilson Park, drinking coffee, munching donuts, conversing in subdued Sunday morning voices. They checked their watches and glanced toward the entry road. Finally, at around 9:20, Darin took charge. Five guys would ride in Jack’s van, another five in Mike’s station wagon. Darin and Hank would go by Danny’s house and see if he was there and if he was coming; they’d try to catch up and get there in time for the game. The little caravan pulled out of the lot, two vehicles heading for Sonoma Boulevard to connect with Highway 37, and Darin and Hank splitting off to head for Danny’s place.

Jill answered the door wearing red flannel pajamas, sweat sox and an exasperated look. “Come on in. I’m trying to get him up. He got hammered last night and now all he wants to do is puke and sleep.”

Darin walked quickly down the hall and into Danny’s bedroom. He was sprawled across the bed in his underwear, his right arm thrown across his eyes, moaning softly.

“Danny, come on, man. We gotta go. This is a big day for you. There’s gonna be a bunch of scouts there. Come on, man.”

“Ah, fuck the scouts. Leave me alone.”

“Come on, Dan. The guys are counting on you.” Darin took hold of his wrists and pulled him upright on the bed.

Suddenly, Danny jumped off the bed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. They could hear him retching with the dry heaves, sounding like he was about to die. A minute later, they heard water running in the sink, and then he staggered out into the hall. “Okay,” he said, smiling at them sheepishly, “let’s play some ball!”

They loaded Danny into the backseat of Darin’s car. Jill brought a duffle bag with all his gear. She also brought a pillow, which he promptly tucked under his head. They hit the road knowing they’d have to drive hard to make it to San Rafael in time for the game. Danny was sound asleep before they reached the Napa River Bridge.

Darin glanced over his shoulder at Danny, snoring softly in the back seat, and shook his head. He’d known him since they played Little League ball together. Now in his early 20s, Danny was at a major crossroads in his life. He was a little old to be a prospect. Talented players his age had gone off to college on scholarships, or signed with a pro team by now. But Danny wasn’t scouted in high school because he could never stay eligible for the team. There was always a failed class or his grade point average dipping below 2.0 to jump up and bite him in the ass. He gave junior college a try, but again found it hard to stay eligible. And yet, when you could get him in uniform and on the field it was pure magic. He was a natural. As a pitcher, he was unhittable. As a hitter, he roped line drives to all fields. It was frustrating for his friends, the people who loved him, to see all that talent go to waste. If it was ever going to happen for Danny, now was the time.

They made good time to San Rafael. Danny woke up hungry, so they stopped at a little shop for a toasted bagel and a small container of orange juice. He wolfed it down in the car and then struggled into his uniform as they drove to the city park. The rest of the team was on the field loosening up when Darin pulled into the parking lot. They laced up their spikes and Danny strolled off to the bullpen to start his warm-up routine.

The Vallejo team went down 1-2-3 in the top of the first. Darin strapped on the catcher’s gear and trotted out for the home half of the inning. As he approached the plate, he could see a half-dozen scouts grouped together in the grandstand, right behind home plate. There were several players worth watching in this game. Danny was just one of them.

Danny flashed good command of his pitches while warming up in the bullpen and he brought it with him to the mound. Darin settled back to enjoy himself, working with Danny’s fastball, change-up and curve to set up the hitters and keep them off balance. His fastball was in the low- to mid-nineties and Darin’s left hand began to turn red and swell, in spite of the padded glove he wore inside the catcher’s mitt. It was a good feeling. It occurred to Darin that catching a guy with this kind of stuff was about as good as it gets.

Danny pitched seven strong shutout innings and gave up only three scratch hits. He also ripped a double and a single and drove in two runs, including the game-winner. It was a typical performance. Darin thought back to that morning when Danny was “driving the porcelain bus,” hurling his guts out. He shook his head in amazement.

After the game, the guys gathered under a tree behind the dugout and brought out an ice chest full of cold beer and soft drinks. They sat around and swapped stories while Danny met with a couple of the scouts up in the grandstand. Finally, they loaded their gear and started the long drive back to Vallejo. Darin and Hank sat waiting for Danny to finish his meeting. They saw him shake hands with each of the two men. He came strolling over toward Darin and Hank wearing a huge grin.

“So? What’s the story?” Darin couldn’t wait to hear.

“The Giants are gonna offer me a contract,” he said.

They rushed to pound him on the back and offer congratulations.
_____

Hank popped open the trunk and tossed the luggage inside. He would drive Danny to the San Francisco Airport for his flight to Arizona where he would join the Giants’ Class-A affiliate. Hank and Darin stepped away to give Jill and Danny a moment to say goodbye. As the car pulled out of the driveway, Danny gave them a farewell wave, his patented grin fixed in place.

“Want to get some coffee, Jill?” Darin watched her dab her eyes with a tissue.

“Sure, why not.”

They drove across town to Scotty’s on Tennessee Street, known for the best donuts in town. The coffee was from a freshly brewed pot, delicious as usual. Darin bit into his glazed donut with gusto while Jill picked absent-mindedly at hers.

“Well, that’s that,” she said.

“Whataya mean? He’ll be back, Jill. Hell, the A-ball season is over in August.”

“He won’t be coming back here, not for me.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Why do I always fall for guys like Danny? Arrogant, self-centered, selfish bastards. I never ever learn.” There was bitterness in her voice.

“Because they’re charming, and they’re fun, and they’re pretty, and you always think you can fix whatever’s broken.” It sounded harsh when Darin said it, but he knew it was true.

She looked at him intently for a few seconds and then turned away. “Shit,” she said softly. “You’re right… Why can’t I ever meet a guy like you?”

He started to say “you have,” but he thought better of it, and the conversation drifted to other topics. They finished their coffee and donuts.

“Darin, can you give me a ride to The Bird? I have to work tonight.”

“Sure, no problem.”

They left the shop and made their way to his car. She sat next to him, looking away through the passenger-side window.

“You know, I’m leaving at the end of the month,” she said. “Don’t say anything to anyone, cause I haven’t told Jim yet.”

Darin felt his heart sink. “Where are you going?”

“My friend Carol is a dancer in San Francisco. She’s gonna get me an audition. We can share rent, and the money’s better there. She’s from Vallejo. Maybe you know her – Carol Doda? Anyway, I need a change from this town, that’s for sure.” Darin pulled up in front of the Bird of Paradise. “Thanks, Darin. You’re a good friend. I’m gonna miss you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Remember, don’t say anything yet, okay?” And with that she was gone.

Darin thought about going in to see her show. He wondered if she’d start with “Light My Fire.” He could picture her beginning to move to the music, unbuttoning her shirt. He really wanted to see her dance. But they were friends, she’d confided in him, and somehow it just didn’t feel right. He wanted to be more, more than just another “arrogant, self-centered, selfish bastard,” gawking at her with a growing lump in his jeans.

“Screw it,” he said. He pulled away from the curb and drove down the block, not really sure where he was going.
_____

The Poet's Corner...

2010-03-09T16:53:00.000-08:00

               KIMBERLY
                 (Age 9)

I see the lovely features forming, even and clear.
The dusky blue eyes, reflecting all your emotions,
     the long, straight legs,
          the narrow hips
               the softly arching back.
You will be a beautiful woman, daughter,
               in time.

But for now, you’d rather save your allowance
     for a baseball glove
          or a hamster.
And I can’t remember the last time you wore a dress.
I’m glad summer is here – at least I’ll see your legs,
     now that your jeans are put away.
But must you wear the baseball cap?

You fill so many needs in my life these days,
     like holding my hand as we ride in the car,
          or smiling your special smile when I wink at you.
And when I say, “I love you,”
     I know you’ll say, “I love you, too.”
That’s the way things are with us.

We have a long road ahead of us.
It leads through puberty, adolescence, braces,
     first love, and – who know what else.
I don’t know this road very well.
It’s been a while since I traveled it
     and so many of the landmarks are gone.
But I’ll be there, Kim,
     at least to hold your hand
          while you find your way.

               CHERYL
                (age 8)

What will you be today, young Sarah?
I can see that gleam in your eye.
Will you play the hurt baby-child?
Lower lip pouting,
     sadness written across your face,
          perhaps stumbling a bit for effect?

Or will you play the gay ballerina?
Dancing, whirling through the room,
     laughter barely contained,
          stealing every heart?

As a baby, you were a daddy’s girl,
     and I gloried in your love.
You would climb onto the lap of any man
     who visited our home,
Knowing you would find love there,
     having learned that on my knee.

These past few years have changed you, Cheryl.
I’ve watched you carefully building
     your own identity.
Unlike your sister, unlike anyone –
     completely Cheryl.

I miss the open giving and receiving of your affection,
     but I’m not afraid.
I know you are simply polishing another facet
     on the gemstone of a beautiful soul.
_____

Tell me a story...

2010-02-23T19:58:00.000-08:00

GAME OVER

The capacity crowd was on its feet, waving white towels and roaring loud enough to shake the old stadium. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, 2-and-2 on the hitter, the tying run on second base, the winning run on first. Grady Masters rubbed up the new ball while he looked around to soak up the scene. He wanted to remember every moment, every detail. This is what he got paid the big bucks to do: be the closer, shut ‘em down, seal the deal.

The left-handed hitter was putting up a fight, fouling off pitch after pitch, after going down 0-and-2. Grady had pounded him in on the fists, over and over again. Now he was set up for the backdoor slider, on the outside corner at the knees. He looked at the ball, rotating it in his right hand, getting the feel of the seams. He toed the rubber and looked in for the sign. His catcher knew exactly what to call. Grady went into his stretch, looking back at the runner, now into his kick, gathering his weight over his back leg, then driving hard toward the plate. The ball started six inches outside, breaking sharply in the last few feet to catch the outside corner. Or did it?

The hitter took the pitch, frozen, expecting another one in on the hands. The umpire took one step back and cranked up his patented punch-out move, as though firing up a chain saw: “STEE-rike! You’re outta here!”

Suddenly Grady’s teammates were charging the mound, spilling over the dugout railing, sprinting in from the field, and the celebration was on. They danced around the mound, pounding each other, jumping up and down in unison, until the group began to topple and it quickly turned into a dog pile. When they finally scrambled to their feet, half the crowd was gone, the rest streaming toward the exits. They were back in the playoffs for the first time in four years and it was sweet to clinch it here in the home of their archrival.

They hurried into the dugout and down the steps that led to the clubhouse, whooping and shouting along the way. As Grady entered the room, someone pressed an ice-cold bottle of champagne into his hand, and before he could raise it to his lips, he was hit with the spray from a half dozen teammates, shaking their bottles and squirting the foamy liquid on anyone within reach.

Grady grabbed his cell phone from his locker and slipped away into the trainer’s room. He knew it would be quiet there and he wanted to call Gwen and share this moment with her and the boys. He couldn’t wait to hear their voices.
_____

The lobby bar at the Century Plaza was crowded with teammates and friends, and they gave Grady a rousing cheer when he entered the room. He sat at the bar and ordered more champagne. He wasn’t much for partying, but this was a special occasion. The champagne went down smoothly, more like soda pop than wine, and Grady could feel a buzz coming on. They had one more game in L.A. before heading home, but the skipper already told him he’d have the day off. He sat on the bar stool and thought about all this team had been through, going back to spring training, going through the long season with all its ups and downs, the injuries, the fights, the trades that sent friends away and brought new faces to their clubhouse, and the mind-numbing travel that left you wondering where the hell you were. And the whole damn thing was worth it, just to sit here and savor a shot at the big prize: the World Series. No, he wasn’t much for partying, but he was going to enjoy this one.

Dexter Purdy – first baseman, young, handsome, single, self-professed ladies man – strolled over to the bar and clapped Grady on the shoulder.

“Way to go, man. You did it again. Really shut that crowd up. Did you see how fast they left the park?” Dexter was laughing at the L.A. crowd, notorious for its laid back yeah whatever demeanor.

“Thanks, Dex. Great game! Great season! And it ain’t over yet, buddy.”

“Hey, Grady,” Dexter leaned in, speaking softly now, “see the gal over there in my booth? The gorgeous brunette with the magnificent rack?”

“Where? Oh, yeah. Pretty girl.”

“Pretty? Are you kiddin’ me? She’s to die for. And those pretty titties don’t just grow like that. Those are store-bought, man. We’re talkin’ ten, twelve grand at least.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“Are you serious? You just lay her down and see if they still pop straight up. It’s a dead giveaway. Complete defiance of gravity.” Dexter was laughing, having a good time. “Anyway, she says she’s a big fan. Wants to meet you. Come on over.” Grady followed him to the booth where Dexter made the introductions.

“Lyla, Grady. Grady, Lyla. Lyla is a big fan, right darlin’?”

She was wearing dark slacks and a very becoming white blouse with a few buttons strategically undone. A single strand of white pearls hung around her neck and rested softly at the apex of her cleavage. It was hard for Grady not to stare. He concentrated on keeping his eyes up, focusing on her pretty face: dark hair, dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, rosebud lips, a nose that was nice but not perfect. Exotic was the word that ran around Grady’s head.

“Nice to meet you, Grady Masters,” she said. “Dex is right, I am a big fan of your work.” She fixed him with a brilliant smile.

“Really? Were you there today?”

“Yeah, I never miss a game if I can help it.”

His eyes drifted down again. “Very pretty,” he said. “Are they real?”

“What do you think?” She said it with a little tilt of her head.

“Ah… I really don’t know much about pearls.”

“Oh… we’re talking about my pearls? Actually, they are real.”

Grady felt his face flush. He tried to change the subject. “So, you saw the game today?”

“Yes,” she said. “And congratulations. It’s great to see a man who can perform under pressure.”

“Thanks.”

“What was that last pitch you threw? The replays showed it just caught the outside edge.”

Grady was impressed. She seemed to know something about the game. “It was a backdoor slider,” he said, wondering if he’d have to explain the terminology.

“So, is that your signature move, sliding in the backdoor?”

“Are we still talkin’ baseball?” he said with a laugh.

“Yeah, as a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?”

She motioned for him to come closer and he leaned in so that her lips were next to his ear. “A metaphor for fucking,” she said. He could feel her cheek against his as she smiled.
_____

Grady stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his hands braced against the countertop, his head lowered, staring into the sink. He couldn’t look at himself. He’d never wanted to be that guy, the one who fooled around on the road and took advantage of the groupies that were abundantly available in every city they visited. And in fact, through his nine-year career, he’d never been that guy, not until now. How could he justify it, even to himself? He could say that he was drunk last night, but that didn’t explain this morning, after the wake-up call from the hotel operator, when he was stone cold sober. To make it worse, he couldn’t remember her name. Was it Leah, or Leslie, or Maya? All he could think of was store-bought, but he couldn’t just go in there and say, “Hey, Storebought, could you please leave now so that I can get back to my real life?”

He’d seen what happened to the guys who got caught, their families torn apart, battling their way through divorce court. Or, the wife would show up at the ballpark one day sporting a diamond the size of a jawbreaker. He’d always been determined to avoid either scenario.

“God oh God oh God,” he mumbled to himself, offering up a desperate prayer, “please get me through this and I swear, never never ever ever again!”

Right on cue, God answered his prayer, though it wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. He heard the phone ring in the other room. And then he heard her voice say, “Hello…” He opened the door quickly and stepped into the room. She was sitting up in bed, the morning sun splashed across her naked torso, holding the phone out to him.

“It’s for you,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I think it’s your wife.”
_____

There was a loud knock at the door and Grady knew it was Dexter, a few minutes late as usual. “It’s open, come on in,” he called, slurring his words slightly from the effects of the two bloody Marys he’d consumed for breakfast.

Dexter let himself in, casing the apartment as he entered. The dining area was empty, except for a half-dozen boxes stacked against the wall. The living room held a new leather couch, a battered old coffee table, a floor lamp, and a very large flat-screen television, its pedestal resting on the floor. The walls were bare; not even a poster to break up the freshly painted white surfaces. Beyond a high counter, Dexter could see a week’s accumulation of dishes in the kitchen sink.

“Hey, man, I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Screw you,” Grady shot back. “I didn’t expect to be here this long.” They had lost in the first round of the playoffs and now the long, dull off-season was underway, the dullness turned painful by his recent separation. “Want a beer?”

“Nah, too early. Speaking of which, how’s it going with Gwen? Is she about ready to take you back?”

“No. I am still the unforgiven, cheating, asshole of a husband.”

“So what are you going to do, man?”

“I don’t know, Dex. She won’t believe me, that it was the first time, that it won’t ever happen again. The fact that it happened at all, even once, is unforgivable to Gwen.”

He started to go on, felt the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes, and said nothing. He thought of his boys, six year-old twins, and what this was doing to them. They bounced between days so heavily booked with activities that they barely had time to think, to nights when their mother cried alone in her bedroom while they were left to stare at the television. And then there were the weekends with Dad, swimming in the pool at his apartment complex, going to movies or the zoo or wherever their hearts desired, and then trying to choke down his pathetic attempts at cooking. The net effect was that they were left dazed and confused by the two people they loved most in this world.

“Ya know what, buddy, let me talk to her,” Dexter offered brightly. “At least I can convince her that you never came out with us guys, chasing around to bars, hooking up with the groupies. Maybe she’ll listen to me. I think I’ll have that beer now. What’s on TV? Aren’t the Bears playing today?”

Dexter made a beeline for the refrigerator while Grady headed to the bathroom to splash water in his face and regroup.
_____

Grady drove carefully down the boulevard toward the entrance to the gated community. A police car passed in the opposite direction and his hand instinctively reached for the Smith & Wesson 38 Special sitting on the passenger seat. The cruiser passed by, paying little attention to Grady’s Porsche. He pulled up to the gate, entered the security code and waited for the crossbar to lift. It was nearly 2:30 in the morning. He pulled up to curb across from his house and stopped. There in his driveway was the jet black Cadillac Escalade with the custom license plate: PRDYBOY. He shut off the engine, picked up the revolver and left the vehicle, heading across the street to the front door. The lock clicked softly as he turned the key. He pushed the door open, glancing at the wall where the alarm keypad was installed. The alarm was not set. The front of the house was dark as he passed through, heading to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. He passed the bedroom his sons Greg and Geoff shared, the door ajar, the beds neatly made and undisturbed. As he continued down the hall toward the master bedroom, he could hear voices speaking softly, a woman and then a man. He opened the bedroom door slowly, reached for the light switch and flipped it on. The room flooded with light and Dexter and Gwen sprang apart, as though they’d been poked with a cattle prod, clutching the pretty floral print sheet up around their necks.

“Ohmygawd! Grady, what are you doing here?” Gwen’s face was turning a bright red.

“Ah, geez, Grady! What the hell! You scared the crap outta me.” Dexter wanted to run, but there was no easy exit.

And then they saw the gun in Grady’s right hand. Now they were talking over one another, desperate to reason with a man pushed beyond reason.

“Oh, God, Grady! What are you doing? Please put that thing down. Please, baby, don’t do something stupid. Please!”

“God sakes, Grady. Put that damn thing down. You don’t want to hurt anybody here. This is crazy. It’s crazy. Come on, man, you’re not going to shoot me, for chrissakes.”

Grady raised the gun and leveled it in the general direction of Dexter’s head. His hand began to shake violently. He steadied his right hand with his left and pulled the trigger. The sharp pop slammed the room, like a firecracker in a metal box. The bullet tore a neat hole in the wall behind Dexter’s head, missing him by at least a foot. Now the pleas from Dexter and Gwen took on a new tone, one of sheer terror.

“Oh God oh God oh God oh God. Please don’t shoot don’t shoot don’t shoot me don’t shoot me…”

Baby, no no no, please don’t to this don’t do this… think of the boys, think of your sons, think of the boys, they need their father, they need you, they need you, please please please…”

Grady walked quickly around the bed and placed the barrel of the gun against the back of Dexter’s head. He would not miss this time. Dexter sat on the side of the bed, his head down near his knees, pleading for his life. And suddenly Grady could hear Gwen’s voice and her voice alone: “…your sons, your boys, your sons…” It seemed that an eternity had passed since he entered the room, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. He had not spoken a word. Grady opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Game over, PRDYBOY… Get out… Now!”

Dexter bolted from the bed and began to gather his clothes from a chair at the side of the room. The last Grady saw of him was his bare ass hurrying out the door, arms overflowing with pants, shirt, shoes and underwear. Grady sat down on the bed, dropped the gun to the floor, and began to cry, his body racked with violent sobs. And then Gwen was there, her arms wrapped around him from behind, sobbing with him.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I just wanted to hurt you, to get even. I love you I love you. Please say you love me please please please…” Grady turned to hold her in his arms, to say he loved her and beg for forgiveness, over and over again.

And so it went, deep into the morning hours.
_____

It was a beautiful March day in Phoenix. She walked along the stadium concourse, picking her way through the crowd, turning heads all along the way. Her blonde hair was cut in a sassy bob, her oversized sunglasses perched on top of her head for the moment. A large straw handbag was thrown casually over her shoulder, its leather accents matching her sandals. She wore khaki shorts and a pretty blue tank top that fit her taught runner’s body perfectly. Gwen Masters was a beautiful woman in the absolute prime of her life.

She walked up a short flight of steps and out into the sunshine, the manicured green field spread out in front of her. She loved spring training, that magic time of year when every team is in first place and hopes for the coming season soar without limits. She searched the field for Grady and her sons, Greg and Geoff, and found them playing catch in the outfield. The boys could be on the field with their father until it was nearly time for the game to begin. She made her way to the box seats reserved for the players’ wives and significant others and was greeted there by a half dozen friends. Then Martha Kemper, the wife of the bullpen coach, grabbed her left hand.

“Oh, my God! When did you get the new ring set? How exquisite!” She held up Gwen’s ring finger to let the diamond sparkle in the sunlight. “Look at that diamond! How many carats?”

“I think it’s four and a half… maybe five.”

Of course, she knew exactly how many carats, as well as cut, color, clarity, market price, insurance cost, and so on. A girl’s best friend indeed!

[Note: The “cynical” version of the story ends right there. The “sympathetic” version continues below. You, Dear Reader, get to choose the ending you prefer.]

The women gathered around to Ooo and Ahh over the new rings. Gwen did not mention the inscription inside the wedding bands, both hers and Grady’s, which read: “Never before. Never again. Forever.”
_____

Keepin' it real...

2010-02-08T06:31:00.000-08:00

THE RIGHTS OF SPRING

“I got the best shit in town. Nobody’s got shit like I got shit. I tell you, it’s the best shit in town!”

He was a wiry little man with a thick salt-and-pepper moustache and he wore bib overalls and a railroad cap. He spoke with a heavy accent, which my mom identified as German. His dump truck looked like it was built by hand on a very old Ford chassis. The mechanism that lifted the bed was a jerry-rigged cog and chain contraption that he cranked by hand, and the sides of the bed were made of two-by-fours and plywood. Onto this strange-looking rig, he could load about 10 yards of steer manure, which he delivered to our house on Russell Street every spring.

The delivery generally took place on a weekday when my dad was at work, so my mom took care of having the load dumped in our driveway and paying the man for his goods. Mom loved to tell the story and I always thought she was exaggerating. That is, until I witnessed it several times when I was home on spring break. The gentleman really could go on a five-minute rant about “…the best shit in town.”

My dad’s vegetable garden was his pride and joy. He was an Arkansas farm boy and I suspect that gardening put him in touch with his roots. We had a narrow strip of grass that ran along the back of the house, 10 feet wide at the most, then the rest of the yard – maybe 50’ by 60’ – was given over to vegetables. Dad raised several varieties of lettuce, squash, and beans. There were root crops like carrots, radishes and turnips. He also raised Swiss chard, which was one of my favorites. But without question, he poured the greatest measure of his love and labor into his prized sweet corn.

Dad favored a hybrid variety of corn called Golden Bantam. Over the years, he experimented with others, but always came back to that one variety. He would plant a couple of long rows, let it get well up out of the ground – maybe six or eight inches – then plant another couple of rows, and so on. The happy outcome was that we’d have sweet corn ripening and ready for the table all summer long. It was the staple of our summer diet: whatever else was going on the table, it would land there next to the sweet corn.

I have to admit that this turned me into a sweet corn snob. My dad taught me that when corn is picked, the sugar in the kernels begins to convert into starch. If it sits around for a while, that wonderful sweetness is lost, and all the butter and salt in the world will not make up for it. I rarely buy corn at the supermarket because I know it just won’t measure up.

So, the wiry little German man would deliver 10 yards of steer manure to our driveway and that weekend, my dad would begin the process of carting it back to his garden plot, one wheelbarrow load at a time. He’d spread it out over the fallow ground and then begin digging it into the soil by hand, a process that would take most of a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. He’d stop every now and then for a cold beer, or to scoop up one of our cats and scratch its ears, but he’d always finish the job by sundown. A shovel was the only tool he needed. Dad was past his sixtieth birthday when we finally convinced him to hire someone with a rototiller to do the job.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, it’s almost time to head over to my favorite garden supply store and load the trunk of my Honda with eight or ten bags of steer manure. This I will spread on my 4’ by 12’ tomato patch, and then dig it into the soil with my trusty shovel. It doesn’t take more than an hour or so, but I’ll manage to stop for a couple of beers. And my beloved cat Sophie will be hanging around, keeping an eye on the proceedings. Maybe this is all a guy really needs: a piece of God's good earth, a sturdy shovel, a loyal cat, and a couple of beers chilling in the fridge.

I’ve had good production from several varieties – Early Girl, Better Boy, Sweet 100, to name a few – but my all time champ is the Lemon Boy, a nice big yellow tomato. Good old Lemon Boy just seems to love my little piece of ground.

Here’s a little bit of irony: for all my dad’s expertise and hard work, he could never grow a decent tomato. Maybe he just overwhelmed them with care. They always seemed to turn out with thick white cores, and they were generally tasteless. One summer, our neighbors the MacLaughlins, drove to Oklahoma to visit family. They had planted some tomatoes before they left and told my dad that if he watered them, he was welcome to whatever fruit developed. These poor, neglected plants - unstaked, untended, unloved - produced the biggest and best tasting tomatoes ever grown in Vallejo.

My dad swore he’d never plant another tomato. Which leads me to wonder if he would have admired my tomatoes as much as I admired his corn. It's something to ponder.

At any rate, in a week or so I’ll make my annual trek to the garden shop and load the trunk with bags of steer manure. I can’t say that it’s the best shit in town, but my Lemon Boy sure seems to like it.
_____

The Poet's Corner...

2010-01-31T22:17:00.000-08:00

BOOMER'S LAMENT

Retired.
It’s a hard word to say
Even harder to swallow
So hard that I made up a term:
“Quasi-retired”
Isn’t that cute?

It means if my old colleagues
Launched a mega-project
One with my special skill set
Written all over it
I’d go back in a flash
Arriving early, staying late
And loving it.

The months have flown by
I’ve stayed in touch
An email here, a phone call there
Dropping by just to say “Hi”
My way of saying
“Hey, look, I’m still here!”

Slowly the realization dawns
If that perfect project came along
My friends would likely say
“Let’s get someone like whatshisname”
- or worse yet -
“Let’s get a young whatshisname.”

It’s time to say it out loud
Time to drop the “quasi”
Ole whatshisname is
Retired.
_____

Tell me a story...

2010-01-26T11:49:00.000-08:00

CODY’S WAR

Carol plopped down in the patio chair and looked out across the deserted swimming pool. The three-story apartment building wrapped around on all four sides, forming a large courtyard with the pool as its centerpiece. The sun was rising to her left over the east wing of the building and the sky was clear and blue above. It would be a sunny summer day in the North Bay, maybe low eighties with a little luck. On the small table next to her was a steaming cup of coffee, a plate holding a toasted bagel and a sliced golden nectarine, its sweet juice collecting in little pools. It was Sunday and Carol Crane had the perfect morning planned. The most effort she intended to expend was to remove the rubber band from the Times-Herald and get caught up on the news of the day. A grueling workweek that extended through Saturday was behind her and she’d earned the right to do nothing at all.

The morning air was cool, but Carol felt comfortable in her jeans and the navy blue sweatshirt with “Cal” scrawled across the front in gold script. She took a sip from her coffee mug and was about to pick up the bagel when she heard a knock at the front door. She wondered who it could be. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe it was the maintenance guy needing to check on something. She padded across the apartment in her stocking feet and peered through the peephole. Carol flinched slightly and then looked again. Standing in the hall outside her door was a man with wild, dirty black hair and a full Walt Whitman beard. The small patch of his face that was visible through all that hair was burned a dark brown by the sun. He looked as though he’d been living on the street for months, if not years.

“Who is it? What do you want?” She wondered how he’d gotten into the building, but she knew the answer: someone was always propping open one of the doors, bringing in groceries or moving furniture in or out. Security was a joke.

“Carol? Is that you? It’s me… Cody.”

“Oh my God!” She looked again and this time she recognized the eyes. She unhooked the safety chain and opened the door. “Cody? Oh my God. Is it really you?” She started to lunge for him, to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Whoa, hold on girl! I’m a little gamey.” He backed away slightly. “I don’t think you want a hug right now.” And then he laughed that all-too-familiar laugh and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Cody.

“Get in here, you dope.” She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him into the apartment where he dropped a large duffle and a sleeping bag. As this was happening, it all started to come back to her. How long had it been? Five years? Longer? She had to stop and think. If not for the sporadic cards that would arrive out of the blue at Christmas or on her birthday, she would have long since given him up for dead. She thought about how badly it had ended and for a fleeting moment, she could feel all the old pain boil up inside. But he was here and he was alive, and for now, that was all that mattered.

“Come on out to the patio with me. You can share my breakfast. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Thank God for the patio and the fresh air. The odor that clung to him was overwhelming.

“I’d love some coffee.” He moved toward the patio. “Nice place, Carol! How long have you been here?”

“Oh, couple of years.” She didn’t have to ask how he’d found her. She’d always been listed in the phone book.

She handed him a mug of coffee and took the chair across from him. For all the years of separation, the conversation came easily, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Cody could always make her laugh; make that almost always. They devoured the bagel and the nectarine as they brought each other up to date on the progress of their lives. She asked him where he’d been and he launched into a recitation of his travels, from Minneapolis, to Miami Beach, back to Minnesota, and then a long westward journey that took him through Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado, Nevada, and finally back home to Vallejo.

While she listened intently to his story, she thought of the day they met, when she’d taken her car to a local mechanic to find out why it was overheating. When she returned to hear the bad news, there was Cody Barrett in his coveralls, wiping the grease from his hands and fixing her with the most beautiful smile. The details, the estimated cost, everything about the poor overheated car went straight over her head. Luckily, it was all written down so she could read it later. When he finished, he smiled at her again and patted his chest with his right hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind my saying this, but you are… the most… beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Would you be offended if I asked you out… for coffee… or something?”

All the while his face was turning a bright crimson color. It was irresistible. Carol said no, she didn’t mind, and yes, coffee – or something – would be nice. From that day on, she believed in love at first sight.

Cody continued with his story and she asked how were things in Minneapolis and Miami and all those other places. It turned out that Minneapolis was too cold, and Miami was too muggy, Iowa too corny, and so on across the country.

“And how were you in those places?” She had to ask.

“Not good in most of them… in all of them, actually. But I’m better now, Carol. Swear to God, I’ve been dry for nearly a year.”

This was good to hear, even if it was hard to accept immediately. She’d been thinking about the bottles of liquor sitting on the upper shelf of the cabinet in her kitchen and wondering if she should hide them, or maybe pour them down the drain. She’d worry about that later, when the time was right.

Their timing had been atrocious all those years ago. When they first started to talk about getting married, Cody wanted to wait until he could establish himself, maybe start a repair shop of his own, one that people could count on for honest estimates and quality work. Then he learned that his draft lottery number was moving toward the top of the list. He chose to enlist rather than be drafted and he was sure the Army would take advantage of his skills as a mechanic, maybe enhance his career with experience on heavy vehicles. The Army, in its wisdom, assigned him to a combat battalion and before he knew what hit him, he was on his way to a place called Da Nang. That was 1968, right after the Tet offensive, and the Army needed boots on the ground. Nearly a year later, he was within days of the end of his tour in Vietnam when he was hit by a sniper’s bullet while on patrol. The bullet entered his left side just below his ribs and exited without hitting any vital organs, leaving him with a very interesting scar. You could say that he was lucky. Or not.

It was only the beginning of Cody Barrett’s war. He came home broken and none of the doctors who saw him in the VA hospitals could fix him. For starters, he couldn’t sleep. The truth was he was afraid to sleep. When he let himself sleep, the nightmares came. Nightmare is such a feeble word. It doesn’t come close to describing the flashbacks and the sheer terror that would cause him to jump up in bed screaming, the bed sheets soaked in his sweat.

He couldn’t talk to anyone, not the VA doctors, not even Carol. She remembered only one comment from Cody about the war. That was when William Calley went on trial for the massacre at My Lai. “Sure,” he said, “let’s heap it all on Calley’s shoulders and crucify him for our sins.” And that was it, other than the screaming testimony that came in the middle of the night.

Cody found a way to make it though the night, or at least most of it. It was called vodka. He’d buy the cheapest, foulest brand available, quantity over quality, knowing that the more he drank, the longer the night terrors would stay away.

And so their life together spiraled down into the darkest pit imaginable. He drank and couldn’t hold a job. He drank and they fought. He hid bottles everywhere, drank on the sly, and fooled no one. He drank and could not function as a lover. Carol fought for him and tried to love him, but she was only human with only so much capacity for pain. Finally, she gave him an ultimatum: get help, give up the bottle, or get out.

Cody left a note that said he loved her, more than life itself, but he couldn’t put her through any more of his personal hell. He had to leave and try to find himself somewhere else. He didn’t promise to come back. He knew his promises would be worthless.

And now, here he was, looking and smelling like a wild man, sitting on her patio on a bright summer morning. Carol hoped with all her heart that he was in recovery. But that same heart had been locked away for so long, safe from all emotional exposure, that she knew it would take more than a few promising words to convince her.

“Okay, Cody, here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take a hot shower and maybe a long soak in the tub. In the meantime, I’ll hit the laundry room and get your clothes washed. Do you have any clean clothes to put on?”

“Don’t think so,” he said, with an embarrassed grin.

She remembered a box out in her storage locker by the carport. After he’d been gone for several months, she’d packed his things and stored them away, out of sight. She was sure there were some clean clothes for him there. “I’ve got some of your old stuff. I’ll get it while you’re in the shower.”

Carol went to the locker and found the box. She removed the lid and saw some of Cody’s jazz albums on top of the clothes and a small leather case off to one side. She unzipped the case and opened it to see the familiar barber kit she’d purchased years ago. There were scissors, a couple of combs, and an electric trimmer with several attachments. She had been Cody’s personal barber when they lived together. She turned the clippers in her hand and smiled at the thought of cutting his hair. Then she closed the case and zipped it quickly, put the lid on the box and hurried back to her apartment. There she opened the box again to pull out clean underwear, a pair of jeans, and a t-shirt.

She opened his duffle bag to sort his clothes for the wash. On the very top was a thick book. The title proclaimed Tanakh – The Holy Scriptures. A Jewish bible! What was he doing with this? She’d never known Cody to practice any sort of religion. Well, she thought, whatever works.

Cody poked his head out of the bathroom door, steam billowing out around him. “Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, try these.” She handed him the clothes she’d found.

“Do you have a razor I can borrow?”

“Better than that.” She handed him the leather case with the barber tools. “And there’s a razor and blades in the upper right-hand drawer. Help yourself.” She finished sorting his clothes and as she headed off for the laundry room, she heard the clippers buzzing steadily in the bathroom.
_____

Cody emerged from his shower a nearly-new man, holding his dirty clothes gingerly. “What should I do with these?”

“Toss ‘em on the patio. We’ll burn ‘em later.” That made him laugh, but he knew she was only half kidding.

She looked at him across the room and smiled. The Whitman beard was gone and he was clean-shaven. The sunburn around his eyes and nose looked like a funny little mask, but that would fade in few days. He looked thin and he tugged at his old jeans to hike them up on his waist. His dark hair was long and shaggy and he’d combed it straight back revealing his face. He was older, the lines in his face a little deeper now, but it was her Cody standing there.

Carol had pulled a chair into the center of her small kitchen. There was a tablecloth and a clothespin resting on the counter. “Bring the leather case and the clippers,” she said. She was going to fix that shaggy hair. Cutting someone’s hair can be an intimate, sensual thing, and she loved doing it when they were together. Cody sat up straight in the chair. She fastened the tablecloth around him and went to work, taking her time, trimming carefully, the dark hair falling in little tufts on the kitchen floor.

“Tell me about the bible,” she said. “Where did that come from?”

“A friend in Miami gave it to me. I’ve carried it around ever since. I read a little almost every night. Somehow it makes me feel… what’s the right word?.. peaceful.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Especially the Psalms. The language is beautiful. The best of them are like… beautiful, perfect short stories. Peaceful… that the right word.”

“Why Minneapolis, Cody? Why Miami? What made you choose those places?”

“I knew guys there, from the Army, guys that I could talk to. They’re the only ones, Carol, the only ones that understand. Everyone else tries as hard as they can, but they don’t know. They can’t know. Even the doctors wind up looking at you like you’re crazy, like you’re a strange little specimen under a microscope. You need to talk to someone who understands.”

She knew he was right. She was one of those who tried hard but could never really get it, no matter how hard she tried or how much she loved him.

“So, what’s next? Where to from here?” Carol continued to comb and cut with the scissors, her barber skills coming back quickly.

“I’ve got a job lined up in Richmond. I have to be there on Monday. An Army friend of mine has a shop there. It’s a service station with three repair bays and he needs a mechanic. He’s a good guy, Carol. I think it’s gonna work out – this time.”

She was nearly finished now. She turned on the clippers and trimmed carefully around his ears, then the curly little hairs that sprouted on his neck. Now she stepped back and surveyed her work. He’d never again be the boy she fell in love with, but some of the young Cody had emerged from under the unruly mop. Time now to sweep up the hair and check on the laundry.
_____

Carol dropped the bedding on the couch – a pillow, a couple of sheets and a blanket. “There you go, big guy. It’s all yours.”

“Thanks for letting me stay, Carol. It beats the hell out of where I’ve been lately.”

They’d spent the rest of that summer Sunday shopping for things he’d need in Richmond, browsing through the sales racks in the discount stores, looking for bargains. Carol was happy with the purchases, sure that they’d saved every penny possible. Cody’s resources were limited, at least until his first paycheck came through.

It had been a long day and they were both tired now. But Carol was more than tired. She couldn’t help but think of their last nights together, five years ago. She wasn’t sure what to expect, or how she would handle it if it got bad. They’d talked about many things, but not about what his nights were like now. Finally, she said good night, closed her bedroom door and crawled into bed. It wasn’t long before she fell into a fitful sleep, waking several times and then dozing off again.

Carol’s eyes snapped open. What was that sound? She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was just after 2:00 AM. She could see a light under the bedroom door and knew it was from the kitchen. Cody must be up, unable to sleep, maybe looking for a snack or something. What if he was looking in the cupboard where the bottles of liquor were stored? She tried to put that out of her mind. He said he hadn’t had a drink in a year and she had to take him at his word. But what if he was reaching for the vodka? Could she just lie there and let him fall off the wagon? She heard the clink of a glass. Oh God, what was going on? She threw back the covers and sat up on the side of the bed, listening. Another clink. That was it – she headed for the door and opened it quickly. There was Cody, a glass of milk sitting on the kitchen counter, quietly placing the carton back in the fridge.

“Hey, sorry, did I wake you?” He gave her a sheepish grin.

“No, I…” What could she say? I thought you were into the vodka and I was coming to slap it out of your hand.

“You don’t have any cookies, do you?”

So that was it: milk and cookies. In that moment, she wanted to wipe the milk off his upper lip and bake a batch of cookies just for him, standing there in his T-shirt and boxers, looking like a hopeful little boy.

“What?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Come here, dummy,” she said, holding out her hand.

She knew this was stupid, that it wouldn’t fix anything, that it wouldn’t bring back the lost years, but for now, she didn’t care. The bedroom had always been a special place for them, before Cody went off to the war. It was as if he had the magic key to unlock every nerve ending in her body, some secret code that had been conveyed only to him. The bedroom had been magical for them – then. She took his hand and led him there now to make the magic live again.
_____

Carol heard the front door close with a metallic click. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock. It was 5:00 AM on Monday morning and Cody had insisted that he’d take a cab to the bus depot so that she could sleep. She dozed off and on until the alarm went off at 6:30. The coffee maker would start automatically. She waited a few minutes, wide-awake now, and then headed for the kitchen.

She found her favorite mug and turned to place it on the counter. There was Cody’s bible, a folded paper napkin closed between the pages. Carol opened it and found that the napkin marked Psalm 103; the following passage was highlighted:

The days of man are as grass;
he flourishes as a flower in the field.

The wind passes over it and it is gone,
and no one can recognize where it grew.

What was he telling her? That he was gone? Gone with the wind? She read the psalm from the beginning and was moved by the passages that spoke of God’s compassion and His love. Whatever Cody had seen, whatever he had done, surely God forgave him.

She closed the book and clutched it to her chest with both hands. This was his prized possession and he’d left it with her for safekeeping. It told her that he’d be back, that his war was finally ending. Cody Barrett was coming home.
_____

The Poet's Corner...

2010-01-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

RUSH TO JUDGMENT

I awoke in the middle of a dream
Screaming at the top of my lungs
The vision so fearsome, so horrible
That I fell from my bed to my knees
Begging the Almighty for mercy.

This specter, this vision so terrible
That words cannot describe
Was sent to me as a warning:
Change your ways today, my son
Or this could be your fate.

I share the vision with you
That you may heed the call:

Locked in a padded room was I
Four walls, one door, no windows,

And mounted on each wall
Speakers of the latest design
The highest fidelity,

And from these mighty speakers
Day and night for all eternity
Oozed the voice of Rush Limbaugh.

Repent! Atone for your sins
Before it is too late, my friends,
For this is the Hell that awaits us.
_____

The Poet's Corner...

2010-01-17T22:52:00.000-08:00

Force Majeure

Death and devastation around every corner
Bodies piled randomly in the streets
The face of pain etched forever in our minds
Brought to our family rooms in high definition

I wonder what it's like to be a victim
To have Katie Couric hold your hand
To see your pain in Diane Sawyer's face
To hear Anderson Cooper ask
"Where is your family?
What happened to your house?"

Giant planes land at the airport
Great ships anchor off the coast
Laden with food, water and medicine
Rescue teams and doctors from around the world
Brave people come to help - again

And now the hard part
The one that vexes us again and again
From Sumatra to New Orleans to Port-au-Prince
Moving what's needed to the people who need it
If only it was as easy as moving a camera crew

CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, BBC, et al
Soon the proud logos will depart
To New York, to Washington, to London
Back to you in the studio, Katie
The 24-hour news cycle must be fed

On the island of Hispaniola
The face of pain remains
For the people of Haiti
Now becomes forever
_____

The Poet's Corner...

2010-01-16T14:06:00.000-08:00

Like Brothers...

He staggers out of the men's room
Weaving between the pool tables
Looking tiny and frail
His summer suit wrong for the season

He doesn't recognize me at first
Then his face lights up
Hey, been a long time
How the hell are ya?

I buy a round
(Am I an enabler?)
And we have the conversation
We've had a dozen times before

Remember that time
Down at Lemon Street
When you fell in the bay
Remember?

Remember the hike
Out to Blue Rock Springs
When Gary fell in the mine
Remember?

Remember we were City Champs
Underweight division
Jake was our coach, Roger our ace
Remember?

Remember all the guys
What a neighborhood we had
The best place at the best time
Remember?

Remember summers up at Tahoe
The beach at Camp Richardson
Fishing the Upper Truckee
Remember?

I loved your parents
They were the greatest
Treated me like a son
Remember?

What about yours
Great people too
Your mom drove us everwhere
Remember?

Another round, then
Let's call a cab
Nah, I'll take you home
My car's right outside

I drive up the hill
To the house where he grew up
So immaculate then
Crumbling now

Thanks, buddy, good to see ya
Give me a call, okay?
We guy-hug in the car
Our foreheads touch and linger

I watch him stagger up the walk
He falls flat, then bounces up
Damn, why didn't I walk him
Safely to his door?

Tomorrow he'll do it again
And the day after that
A short and vicious circle
With one dead certain end

Growing up together
Sharing our childhood
We were like brothers
Remember?
_____