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Category Archives: LSD

 

 

The Vampyres Of New York

Vol. I, Clip 8

by

R.E. Prindle

 

Story continues:

Ange: Partly, I tremble when I think about growing up in a country fraught with dangers I could never conceive as a child. For me my life has been an amusement park House of Horrors. The adaptations I have made to survive terrorize me. I haven’t been able to sleep well because of horrifying nightmares. Perhaps that is why I went catatonic as you say. I’m alone, or I was, and defenseless against forces I can neither evade or control. Life is a nightmare with that bastard Adelstein hounding me, demanding what I don’t want to give and he is the most powerful judge in New York.

You want me to tell you my story and I’m almost in tears thinking back to my girlhood. As you know I was born in nineteen forty-eight; that was in Orange County, California during the Gidget and surfing days. It was all oranges, sun and water, a near paradise.

Me: So you became aware somewhen around nineteen sixty.

Ange: Yes, and my parents got divorced at the same time. I was an only child and so I went with my mother. I don’t know what she was thinking when she divorced my father. He took care of her. She was a beautiful airhead and at the risk of being vulgar she didn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground. Men flocked to her and she couldn’t handle herself at all. It was horrible. Finally my father put me in Warren’s Finishing or I don’t know how I would have made it through my childhood.

Fortunately my father stuck with me. After Warren’s I went to UCLA and from there believe it or not, I graduated from Harvard Law School. That was in nineteen seventy-six.

As you may believe I was very good looking and had this amazing chest and you know what it was like in the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties.

Me: Only hearsay. I was married. Since then, of course, I’ve done a lot of reading. UCLA. You missed the Really Big Shoo up at UC but you must have around for Sunset strip in the Sixties. Sex, drugs and rock and roll and all that . How did you survive that?

Ange: You were up in Northern Oregon at that time?

Me: My wife and I left the Bay Area in sixty-six for grad school in Eugene then I opened a record store that became very successful. LA was the record capital of the world so I spent maybe three or four weeks a year on business in LA. I caught some of it but more from the fringe. I felt threatened too, perhaps in a different way but for me the terror started in Sixty and never let up until I got clear in about two thousand five. It was hard, hard travelin’ through those years. I can tell you stories.

Ange: Yes. I wish that Pill had never been invented. Of course as a silly young woman I had to have it.

Me: They beat the drums loudly, didn’t they? The Pill, the drugs, the disintegration of society; there was no safe place.

Ange: The drugs! I can’t tell you how many women I saw destroyed by some joker with cocaine. My father warned me about drugs and thank god I listened to him. Not that I didn’t do them a little, but on top of Dad’s warning I had a strange inhibition as though some hand prevented me from taking them.

Me: Really? That is strange. But, tell me, you were twelve in sixty, eighteen in sixty-eight just as things really got rolling. You say you lost your virginity in sixty-six. Was your mother from Michigan? Did you grow up in Michigan?

Ange: I was born in Battle Creek but we moved to Orange County shortly after. Have you ever been to Battle Creek?

Me: Yes, relatives there.

Ange: That’s where mother got in trouble. Some boy seduced her when she was sixteen and I was born when she was seventeen. My grand parents were horrified. They took me from her and raised me while they banished mother as a disgrace to them. That’s when she went up to the Grand Traverse where she met you or this other you. She was allowed to come back shortly after you left when I met her for the first time. She married father and we left for California.

She used to speak to me of ‘that boy’ often. She could never understand why you left without saying goodbye. Why did you?

Me: I have often thought about this Ange with an aching heart. You see, I had a broken wing and your mother had a broken wing. To salve her hurt she took to injured and things with broken wings. Toward the end she came across a deer injured by a hunter. She brought it to her cabin where she lavished all her attention on it bringing it back to health.

Then, one day, when it had recovered it looked at her with those big doe eyes lowered its head and walked away, disappearing into the forest. I thought, I don’t know what I thought, I was far from healed but I knew I that to leave too and so I just disappeared too.

I’ve always been ashamed of that but still I had no choice. In order to survive I had to cross the straits and disappear into the UP.

Ange: Where did you go?

Me: Oh, I don’t know. It’s all a blank space. The next thing I knew was that I was in Madison Wisconsin. I was already in the Naval Reserve so not knowing what to do I went active for three years and when I came out I was beginning to become Partly Wright. The name wasn’t really my mother’s joke, it was mine.

So, how did a young girl like you react to the Sixties. It was a pretty strange time. Strange Days like Morrison sang.

Ange: The Sixties pretty much passed over me. I was boarded at Warren’s most of the time so I was pretty insulated. At UCLA I spent most of my time in classes. Other than listening to a few records I don’t remember being too involved in what was going on and then I left for Harvard.

Me: From the West Coast to Boston. That must have been culture shock.

Ange: Talk about culture shock! I learned a thing or two at Harvard apart from law.

Me: I can imagine. And then you came down to the Big Bagel and then what.

Ange: Well, I had good grades, finished in the top ten percent, passed the Bar and was recruited off the lot by a middling level firm did well and was then taken by Barton, Adler, Adelstein and Dollop, a top firm.

Me: Adelstein? Is that where you met this Merivale Adelstein character.

Ange: Yes. A black spot in my life that, that I will never be able to erase.

Me: Oh, sure you will, I can erase that for you but tell me but this BAAD

Firm. A black spot. What exactly is your grievance, Angeline?

Ange: I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it but every time he leaves I have this revolting feeling and I hate him. I always have to take a shower.

Me: Every time he leaves. Yes, I think I see. So you are aware of his coming and going but not what happens while he’s with you, is that right?

Ange: Well, I never thought of it before but no, I don’t remember anything between his coming and going, it’s just a black spot, and I always feel dirty.

Me: Hmm. And this list of women you gave me. How did you know them?

Ange: Oh, we all worked at BAAD.

Me: Let me guess. You were all blond and attractive.

Ange: Yes, either natural or peroxide.

Me: And why did you leave the old firm…what was it called?

Ange: Gorden, Oils, Oswald and Dustbin.

Me: I see, so you went from GOOD to BAAD. Why did you go to BAAD?

Ange: Well Merivale made me an offer I just couldn’t refuse; it was nearly double what I was getting at GOOD.

Me: How about that. Very nice offer. So he was impressed by your work at GOOD?

Ange: That was the funny thing. He never checked. I thought it must have been because I was from Harvard.

Me: Well now, these women hired at BAAD, did they all get real nice salaries too?

Ange: Oh yes, BAAD paid its women well. Even the receptionist made a fabulous wage for a receptionist. It was nearly a dream.

Me: I think it was a dream Ange. Do you know what a Monarch slave is my darling girl?

Ange: No-o-o.

Me: I’m beginning to understand your situation at BAAD.

Ange: You mean catalepsy?

Me. If you prefer. I’m going out on a limb here but you know what hypnotism is don’t you?

Ange: Of course. What do you mean?

Me: Umm, I don’t know how they did this. By any chance did the firm require you to see their doctor for a physical exam?

Ange: Yes, we all did, Dr. Wormowitz.

Me: Right! And was Adelstein the only Jew at BAAD.

Ange: Well, Partly, I’m not prejudiced or an anti-Semite so I don’t look for that but yes, now that you mention it Jews might have been half or more of the attorneys.

Me: And the attorney’s you knew best were all more or less chummy with Adelstein and you women were all Anglos, perhaps?

Ange: Partly, I don’t know what you’re getting at.

Me: I will tell you Ange. In your present state of mind you might not find what I have to say believable. Just listen, ask questions if you need to, think it over, that is, sleep on it and then we will see if it applies to your situation.

I think what we’ve got here is a problem in psychology. Hypnotism and suggestion. That’s a problem society is unwilling to address and of which most people have little to no awareness.

In the nineteenth and early twentieth century when thinkers began to develop a rational understanding of mental processes the discipline was co-opted by a Viennese Jew, Sigmund Freud, who then began perverting psychology through psycho-analysis for Jewish national ends.

I am not opposed to psycho-analysis per se, Ange, in fact I use it for the basis of my understanding of the mind, but a discipline can be used for good or evil and psychoanalysis has been organized for evil ends; not all practitioners are guilty and may even not be aware of the ends others are seeking.

Freud himself developed little merely adapting and organizing what other researchers had discovered while taking all the credit and suppressing the others. Two very influential in the development of Freud’s program were the Frenchman Gustave LeBon and the Russian Ivan Pavlov. LeBon gave Freud the key to mass hypnosis while Pavlov showed him how to master indoctrination and conditioning.

Freud was fortunate in having developed his program, I won’t call it a theory, just as the great hypnotic media of movies, sound recordings, radio and later TV came into existence, all developed by gois. Thus the means for a blanketing dissemination of propaganda came into existence making his program possible.

As a Jew Freud hated the European civilization that had made the Jewish ideology obsolete and like his hero the Carthaginian General Hannibal who ravaged Rome he wished condign punishment on Europe and Europeans. As a field of battle he chose European mores and morals and by extension North America.

Freud’s rise also coincided with the years of projected Jewish redemption that the Elders Of Zion had scheduled for nineteen thirteen to nineteen twenty-eight. Freud made himself a leading light of the redemption, one might almost say its Messiah. This is clear if you read his collected works aright.

The redemption was going along swimmingly. In Europe the Great War worked to the advantage of the Jewish people. Heavily represented, very influential, at the Paris Peace Conference they achieved signal goals in Europe, especially in the German Weimar Republic that Jews consider the high mark in achieving their goals. In the new Soviet Union they had replaced the Russians as the directing force in government. The native Russians essentially became Monarch slaves.

While Jews practically owned the Wilson government in the United States their plans hit a snag when the Republicans won the nineteen twenty election. At the same time in reaction to their success in Washington during the war Henry Ford began his expose of their anti-American activities that lasted for seven years. The Republican Interregnum endured until nineteen thirty-three when their Democratic stooge, Franklin Roosevelt, regained the presidency.

Then, just as it seemed that success was in reach from the US to the Soviet Union, the Big Clinker showed up in Germany overturning the Weimar Republic and upsetting their plans of capturing Euroamerica. If not the whole story this overturning of the Weimar Republic caused their rage against Hitler compounded by what they would call his anti-Semitism.

Now arising in America during the Great War as a publicist, Freud’s nephew, his wife’s cousin, Edward Bernays, had established his career as a leading Public Relations and advertising man. He had visited his uncle a couple times receiving indoctrination from him. The Jews considered Hitler’s German triumph as evidence of the basic irrationality of the Demos when left to their own devices. Therefore the Demos had to be hedged out, that is controlled so as to remove any threat to the Jews.

As Freud’s agent in the US, much as August Belmont had been the Rothschild’s, Bernays acted to blunt the will of the Demos. As he expressed it a rational elite had to take direction of the Demos to prevent another irrational outburst as had happened in Germany. In his position of Public Relations and advertising he was able to slant advertising to achieve mind control advancing those controls. By the Sixties Jews had captured, for all practical purposes, the advertising industry managing the direction of advertising content.

To set the scene wholly, when Hitler displaced the Weimar Republic he also displaced the whole of Freud’s subversive Psycho-analytic Order. While psycho-analysis was based or disguised as science it was set up as an Order along the lines Medieval Chivalry. Thus the Order’s goals were political rather than medical.

The displaced Psycho-analytic Order, as well as other orders such as the Frankfurt School almost entirely re-located in the United States, mostly in New York and Hollywood, the two most important Jewish colonies in the US. While the gois had a visceral reaction to psycho-analysis it prospered mightily until by the Fifties and Sixties it dominated intellectual attitudes.

That’s a brief history of Freudianism for our purposes Ange. Now, if you haven’t any questions we’ll go on to the application of Freudianism in the US situation.

Ange: This is different than anything I’ve ever heard Partly, where have you read this? Especially the part about the what?, the Jewish redemption?

Me: I am an historian Angeline. The history you and the public read is heavily redacted and edited for Jewish purposes, one might say a conditioning of the mind. Nearly all of it is written by Jews or vetted by them. Thus only a homogenized version of history favoring Jewish goals is made available. Any exposure of its falsity is punished.

The major Jewish actors of the twentieth century are virtually unknown although their influence on the period was immense. I doubt if you have even heard of the most prominent Jewish actor of the period, Bernard Baruch.

Ange: Not that I remember.

Me: I thought that would be the case yet he was known as the advisor of presidents from Wilson to Eisenhower. You may have heard of Felix Frankfurter but I doubt if you know anything but the name.

Ange: Hm, no, not even the name.

Me: Felix is down the memory whole then too. He was as influential as Baruch. Tsk, tsk. Well, historically the Jews have functioned as an autonomous or near autonomous and separate nation within the nations and heavily influenced the Paris peace talks of WWI to place themselves in a very advantageous position vis-à-vis the Europeans. The talks enabled them to virtually takeover Weimar Germany.

In the US they were actually depicted as having their capital in New York City while the American capital was in Washington DC. Thus if you treat them as an autonomous nation working for their own interests as against those of the Americans you get a different and more accurate picture of the period than if you merely read what you are intended to and not read what is forbidden. Right?

Ange: I, well, I suppose so.

Me: What I tell you is true. So, that’s the bare bones of the history of the period. I have lots of corroborating evidence in my blog articles. You can read them if you want. So, now, leading into your situation.

As I say, Freud wanted to destroy and change the moral order of Europe. Having spent some time with Jean-Martin Charcot at the Salpetriere in Paris and with the important hypnosis developers Liebeault and Bernstein at Nancy as well as reading LeBon Freud acquired the means to undermine the mental state of Europeans while he developed his method. This is why the Nazis burned his books; they knew what he had done and what he was up to. These were all defensive moves.

His first assault was to attack the dream mechanism and put the understanding of dreams on a sound basis. This was actually a signal service but very unsettling to conventional understanding. Significantly his motto for the Dream book which while from a quote from Vergil in Latin essentially said that if he couldn’t make it in the gentile world he would create a hell and destroy them. You may think this is a stretcher but fourteen years later the Great War erupted that gutted the manhood of the Aryans.

I think the actual translation is closer to if the gods wouldn’t help him he would resort to Satan. And he did. Satan triumphed in nineteen sixty-six when Time Magazine asked on its cover: Is God Dead?

You might think that’s a stretcher too, but as Gustavus Myers said of his History Of the Great American Fortunes, it’s all facts, all facts.

Freud’s Dream book was not an immediate success but its sales volume grew year by year. As Freud recognized Dreams slipped the subconscious and had to be interpreted in that light. He also realized that life revolved around sex although he misinterpreted the meaning of sex, and he knew how disturbing the sexual act is. Emphasizing sex was a perfect way to unsettle society.

Europe’s efforts for two thousand years had been to get the sex impulse under control. They had succeeded to some extent, probably as much as could be done but Freud wanted to and did release the sex impulse to full indulgence. His Three Essays On The Theory Of Sexuality in which he defended homosexuality and proposed childhood sexuality threw the gois into a tizzy knocking them off center. These are legitimate topics of research but Freud always approached these things from the smutty side. As D.H. Lawrence noted Freud wasn’t trying to reform morality his goal was to destroy it. Sex being the potent disturber, he made his assault on the European vision of Woman that put her on a pedestal. The attack was fierce; he wanted to make a wanton of Woman, sluts and in the Sixties that was achieved. It was laughingly referred to by the knowing as ‘women’s liberation.’ Ask yourself, and Ange I wasn’t thinking, who benefited?

It was also necessary to disarm the goi so that there would be little or no resistance. This was a two pronged attack. The first was to induce guilt for thinking ill, or realistically, about Jews. For this the notion of anti-Semitism was exploited. In control of the media the Jews were always eulogized while it was forbidden to call attention to, for instance, Jewish criminality which by the way they now celebrate, while on the other hand goish faults were dwelt upon.

The Jewish Order of B’nai B’rith organized its terrorist arm to seek out any offenders and if they didn’t heed the warning they would hurt. For small fry this worked well but when the virtually immune Henry Ford appeared on the scene the Jews really had to exercise their powers. It took twenty years but by nineteen forty Ford was on the edge of bankruptcy. The government and most of society had been organized against him. Rust never sleeps and the Jews never desist.

Freud discovered cocaine in the eighteen eighties becoming something of an addict at the time while destroying a few lives by pushing it. He learned firsthand of the power of such a morality dissolvent and what it did to the mind.

His drug years are usually glossed over while it is said that he kicked the habit. Maybe. But how many do? I’m convinced that he remained a user all his life although he obviously brought his use under control.

Nevertheless, in the twenties, having discovered the effects of heroin the Jewish New York gangster Arnold Rothstein organized the heroin trade on a commercial basis. Of course most if not all drugs were legal until nineteen ten and hop heads, as they were known at the time, had always been around but now began a concerted effort to promote heroin use.

There were also synthetic drugs such as amphetamines. Amphetamines were synthesized in the 1890s. Strangely enough in the first thirty years of the century vitamins, previously unknown, were discovered. This led for some strange reason to the combination of amphetamines and vitamins into a feel good cocktail. It was believed that the vitamins neutralized the harmful effects of the drug.

Somewhen about nineteen thirty a Jew by the name of Max Jacobson claimed to have invented the potent mix. Max isn’t particularly reliable so he may have or he may have picked up the idea from someone else. In any event flushed out of Germany he showed up on America’s hospitable shores with his vial in his hand. By nineteen sixty he was medicating a large portion of New York City.

Numerous other drugs and psychedelics were synthesized over the forties and Fifties so that by the Sixties the cornucopia of mood elevators and depressants were legion. Many of these new stimulants were legal through most of the Sixties.

Lurking behind this was the development of the understanding of hypnosis, suggestion and post-hypnotic suggestion which is what you experienced if I’m correct Ange. The mothers of mind control. The Holy Grail of what many people sought for many various reasons.

You remember, Ange, that the Jews speaking through Eddie Bernays thought that an elite, that is a code for themselves, had to control the mass psyche to prevent them from aberrant behavior, code for anti-Semitism. The method would have to be through suggestion, indoctrination and conditioning.

If you examine the media through that lens it is easy to see how they manipulate the mass psyche. TV, movies and records are the key media and those have always been Jewish owned and controlled. If you watch the internet for your news you will quickly become aware of what the programmers want you to think. Deviate and society itself will correct you as the conditioning also teaches one to reject any unauthorized opinions.

However, specialists want more complete control. Thus the operators emphasizing indoctrination and conditioning go directly into the mind compelling the subject to delete old memories and opinions and replacing them with induced memories and opinions. This is facilitated by suggestion under hypnosis and post-hypnotic suggestion. Once the suggestion is accepted by the mind at any time in the future the suggestion will be performed. If you’ve seen the Manchurian Candidate you know how it’s done. A trigger word or gesture over the phone or anywhere will activate the suggestion.

The North Koreans used what was then called brainwashing during the Korean War on POWs to get them to renounce their allegiance to the US. The CIA under that strange one, Allen Dulles, experimented extensively. By the Sixties using sex, drugs and the media all highly hypnotically suggestive repeated over and over means the Jews were well on the way to conquering the mind of America; a truly remarkable conquest.

The Pill removed the fear of pregnancy, hence sex ‘liberated’ woman but also turned her into a piece of meat. Then in sixty-two Betty Friedan, a Jew, delivered the coup de grace to the Chivalric conception of Woman with her book The Feminine Mystique. By rejecting the Mystique or Chivalric approach, that women did, they were delivered to the meat market. As the Negroes said they were holes or ho’s to be used and discarded. This was especially clear in the world’s meat market, New York City. The Vampyres of New York had arrived fangs bared.

As I mentioned, in nineteen sixty-six Time Magazine signaled the changing of the guard when its cover blared Is God Dead? That created quite an uproar at the time, quickly obscured as time rushed on. It might be coincidence or it might be the Freudian plan unfolding but Time Magazine being published in New York City, the largest colony of Jews in the world was always if not controlled, majorally influenced by Jews as was the publishing industry in general.

No surprise then that in sixty-six Ira Levin, a Jew, published his novel Rosemary’s Baby. Rosemary was of course impregnated by Satan giving birth to his baby Andy in imitation of Mary and Jesus. Thus Satanism replaced Christianity. Roman Polansky the movie director, a Jew, immediately set about turning the book into a movie that was a smash hit in sixty-eight. Polansky made very few, possibly no changes, to the story. After Rosemary’s Baby the whole movie industry became Satanic. That would have been when you were sixteen and eighteen Ange. You are probably familiar with The Exorcist and the flood of movies of the kind.

Ange: Yes I am. That movie horrified me. I have even seen Rosemary’s Baby but I just thought it was a movie. But, I think I can see how society did change from God centered to Satan centered now that you’ve explained it. But except in a general way how does that apply to me?

Me: It sets the stage for what I am going to suggest happened to you Ange. Once you changed employers from GOOD to BAAD I think you must have some memory black outs, blank spots once you get to BAAD. Would that be correct?

Ange: Well…there are things I can’t explain, like waking up sore all over without being able to explain it as I couldn’t remember how it might have happened. At times even though awake I thought I was sleepwalking.

Me: Yes. I am probably right then. Now you must understand Angeline that on sexual matters I don’t follow the Liberal agenda. I find feminism puerile, self-serving and unrealistic. Sex matters are totally dependent on biology. Nature has created what nature has created no tinkering can change that and certain consequences have fallen out of that creation that cannot be denied. Because men have an Xy chromosome they are more or less self-sufficient; because women have the other two X chromosomes they are more dependent. Men are stronger, women are less strong. In point of fact men have no other use for women other than sexual and perhaps as beasts of burden. That may sound rude but if women had no sexual use but remained women they would be superfluous to men. However as women are conscious and intelligent beings men have to make certain concessions to them to maintain harmony. We call that Love.

There have been ways attempted around those concessions however, for instance, the harem in which a rich or important man gathers a group of women about him distributing his favors by his own peculiar method. As with all solutions there are unintended consequences, expense being a major one and the envy of other males another although to be surrounded by women is enervating.

Another solution most famously tried on slave plantations of the West Indies was to select favored females and then bringing them up with their every wish or whim fulfilled while being trained to be compliant in sex. Perhaps not too distant in concept from the Japanese Geisha girls.

The Negro slave women were difficult in numerous ways being unsatisfactory. Then fortune shown on the planters. Along about sixteen sixty or so Oliver Cromwell chose to subdue the Irish. Being the good self-righteous Protestant that he was he was especially brutal. He rounded up tens of thousands of Irish men and women selling them into slavery, chattel slavery, in the West Indies where they were put to work in the fields with the Negro chattel slaves. The beauteous Irish girls were more spirited and lively than the African women, however when half breeds were created the combination was just right to create near ideal sex, or Monarch, slaves. The women were near ideal however they did have to be coddled from birth and that can be downright irritating to more brutal male desires. The women’s attitude was easily ruined. So that solution was somewhat less than satisfactory.

Interestingly as New Orleans was part of the French West Indies when Haiti revolted and thousands of White planters fled to the Gulf Coast and New Orleans they brought that tradition with them so that the system continued to exist in Louisiana and as I understand it a few such women still exist there although only those men of a certain standard of wealth and temperament can possess one as the women must be maintained in their complete innocence.

The hope then was how to have women trained to gratify men’s desires without the unpleasantness of having to be directly concerned with them. This is where the advances in Freudian psychoanalysis, Pavlovian conditioning and hypnotism come in. I believe that you were part of that grand experiment along with the women on your list. You were all Monarch slaves.

Ange: Partly, what you are getting at is just too incredible. I’ve never heard of Irish slaves in the West Indies. What you said just doesn’t seem possible.

Me: I can assure you it was, not only that but those indentured servants in the American colonies you read about were actually slaves although technically not chattel. Still, men and women both worked in the field cheek by jowl with the Negroes. Hence the strong mixing of Negro and White blood. If you don’t have the historical background, and there is no reason you should have, check it out on the computer after we finish. It is there plus there are many books now dealing with the subject. So, I’m not talking through the back of my neck, Ange. I am a bona fide historian.

Ange: I believe you, dearest Partly, but it is all just so incredible.

Me: Not so incredible as may be revealed in your case Ange. I think we have a fearful tale to tell. Just remember that Hera loves her daughter and I have been sent as her priest to absolve you of all responsibility. All responsibility Ange, you are as innocent as a new born baby.

Ange: Yes, I believe you Partly. You have already saved my life and I’m sure that Hera and you can redeem it.

Me: Redemption is of the mind and can never be complete. So, now, we’re going to have to examine what happened after you went to BAAD.

Let’s start with your physical by Doctor Wormowitz. I think he may be the key. From his name did you think he was Jewish?

Ange: Yes, he was Jewish. He had a big Star of David in yellow facing you on his desk and other Jewish memorabilia scattered through his office including a couple pictures of Auschwitz on the wall.

Me: No secretary, just he and you in the office?

Ange: Yes, that’s right.

Me: What do you remember about the physical Ange:

Ange: Oh…well…I…I can’t recall anything.

Me: I imagine not. What do you recall between entering his office and leaving it?

Ange: I remember sitting down and then hearing him say close the door softly when I left.

Me: Right. So you were hypnotized while in his office and have no memory of what went on.

Ange: Hypnotized? I can’t believe that. He didn’t try to hypnotize me, I would have resisted.

Me: You didn’t know what hit you Ange. When I went to visit my parents and the Little Bastard once in Keokuk where they lived the Bastard took me to a party at his so-called friend’s house. Apparently completely without my knowledge or compliance his friend’s wife hypnotized me in the midst of assembled people. It took me a long time to realize what happened but I have a blank spot from the point where I was standing talking to them to where I moved across the room. I became aware that she was staring into my eyes. I thought then that she was trying to hypnotize me so at that point I pitted my will against hers and shook her off. Came out of it just as I was about to really go under. I have no idea what happened between us whether she planted a post-hypnotic suggestion or not. Wormowitz put you under without your realizing it. He must have begun indoctrinating you into sexual practices; so he must have implanted a signal or sign, a word, that would flip you in and out of trance in a split second. Do you remember any words or signs that these guys at BAAD flashed you or the other women?

Ange: No, no, I don’t remember anything like that. They did have this odd twitch when I saw them talk to some of the other girls.

Me: What twitch was that?

Ange: I guess they got nervous when they walked up so they scratched the lobe of their ear like this.

Me: Of course. Rubbed it three times. That’s it, Ange. With that sign they could flip you in and out at will.

Ange: That’s really hard to believe, Partly.

Me: OK, Ange. Watch this, I am going to put you under on the count of three. One…two…three.

And there it was. Ange flipped into her party girl, hot babe persona.

Me: Ange I command you to remember that I have just hypnotized you. I’m going to flip you out now.

At this point I rubbed my right ear lobe three times. But, instead of flipping out she leaped into my lap and began to French kissing me. I didn’t know what else to do so I responded in kind. While I was thinking she clasped my hand to her breast which upset my thinking momentarily. Christ, what could the counter-sign be? She had my right hand clasped to her breast so in my anxiety I put my left hand up to scratch the back of my head accidentally hitting my left ear lobe.

That was it. She flipped back to reality or, perhaps better, to her alternate or first personality.

Ange: Well, aren’t you the flirt Partly? How did you get me in your lap without my knowing it, Fresh One?

Me: I hypnotized you using Wormowitz’s signal Ange. That’s was the physical you were taking. You were being put under the control of the men of BAAD. You were then a sex slave. You were an improvement on the West Indies or Geisha model. You couldn’t remember what happened when you under when you were out. They had no responsibility for you. Being well paid kept you on the job. Don’t you remember saying you would remember if you were hypnotized?

Ange: Yes, of course I remember saying that, you told me too but how did I get on your lap and when did you begin to feel me up?

Me: You followed your conditioning well Ange. We’re going to have to experiment with your trance state to learn what they had you do and figure out how to back you out of it. By the way, was Merivale Adelstein a young lawyer at BAAD then?

Ange: Yes. I’ve known that bastard for a long time. How I hate to see him coming.

Me: I’m sure you do. How would you like to get your revenge by tearing his eyes out?

Ange: Nothing would give me greater satisfaction.

Me: OK. That was an easy one. That is what you are going to do. First let’s clear up your career at BAAD. In its own way this is a horror story, Ange, that you might find unsettling or maddening. I’m going to have to do another cleansing of you by Hera before we continue. Your mind has to be prepared. It’s almost five o’ clock. Let’s have a bite to eat and then a cleansing. You’re going to be conscious this time but I want you to open yourself, be receptive to my suggestions. Believe. Accept without resistance.

Now, here Ange, undress and put on this green silk wrap. Green is the color of rebirth. When Hera or the Earth blossoms in Spring she is a fresh virgin green. You were released from your former self at the first ceremony, with this rite you will be born again shedding your old self much as the first stage of a rocket falling away, a future without that burdensome baggage. Once free of that I will put you to bed and you will enjoy a healing and refreshing sleep until sunrise. You will awake to a new world without fear of a past that will appear as a novel written by someone else.

Ready? Now throw your raiment from you and slip into the cleansing waters. Hera will reveal a past concealed from you by the machinations of evil men. As they captured your soul by devious means you had no responsibility for their actions as they affected you. You are innocent. Your will had been taken from you supplanted by their wicked desires by criminal means. You will now reaquire your will.

Their means was suggestion that I am now removing and replacing that suggestion with the love of Hera for her daughter. You will respond to the sign of the ear only from me. No other is to be observed by you. You will respond only to my voice, no other.

You are to avenge yourself on Merivale Adelstein. At the opportune moment when confronted by Adelstein I will sign you to attack him. Your strength will be tripled, your fury will be irresistible. Tear at his face with your nails. Ignore all consequences until I say cease.

You are once again purified. Hera bless you.

 

With that I patted Angeline dry, placed her in bed, tucked her in, planted a sweet kiss on her lips and said: Sleep, my beloved.

She closed her eyes and was lost to the world till the sun rose over the horizon.

As I went out into the living room the phone lights began to blink so I said hello.

Lessing: Hello, Perry. Haven’t seen you for a few days. You OK?

Me: Hi, Lessing. I’ve been busy with another problem. Demanding. Didn’t mean to ignore you. How have things been?

Lessing: More and more interesting. You have heard the news about the Rabbis?

Me: No, Lessing. I haven’t had any news for a few days now. What about the Rabbis?

Lessing: Our lifetime president ordered them all rounded up.

Me: Rounded up? As in collected for further disposition?

Lessing: Yes. They have apparently been put in a camp put in operation to receive them. It’s unbelievable. I don’t know what to think.

Me: I can’t say I’m surprised. I won’t say I saw it coming but he’s had it in for the Jews from the beginning. I don’t know why they couldn’t see it. He didn’t happen to nab old Soros did he? Along with the Rabbis that would more or less wipe out the leadership cadre leaving the people rudderless.

Lessing: Soros is out of the country, may have had advance word. What do you think is next?

Me: Probably a general roundup when they get more space. Has he done anything to empower the Moslems? Anything in Sharia law, something like that?

Lessing: There is talk of Sharia law being permitted in the Moslem colonies but nothing firm yet. But, what is the other problem you spoke of?

Me: It’s sorta difficult to explain over the phone but I have found the means to virtually take control of the courts so we’ll be more secure than we are.

Lessing: How did you do that?

Me: I’ll have to explain face to face. Just let me ask: Do you know Merivale Adelstein?

Lessing: Adelstein? Sure.

Me: He’s in the bag and the knot is tied.

Lessing: Hard to believe. When can we meet?

Me: Give me a couple days to complete my matters here. How about Friday for lunch?

Lessing: Sounds good.

Me: OK. Oh, and I’m bringing my wife Angeline Gower so there will be three of us. Pick out a place that is always empty or close to it so we can talk low.

Lessing: Your wife! Angeline Gower! The woman who worked at BAAD?

Me: Yes. Do you know her?

Lessing: I know of her but I’m so flabbergasted I don’t what to say.

Me: It’ll keep till Friday. We’ll need a planning session on Saturday too.

Lessing: You’re sure about that?

Me: Yes. Be prepared for some excitement on Saturday. Should be fun. If anything happens give me a call; otherwise Friday for lunch.

 

Of course I knew the conversation was recorded so I sent Ragnar with a different set of instructions. We probably couldn’t elude the authorities but we could make it a little difficult for them.

Continued on Clip 9.

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The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

From The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams Collection

by

R.E. Prindle

Chapter I

Unemployed in Camelot

 

     Dewey sat down.  California- God, what a climate.  Here it was November and the weather was still delicious.  Was still?  It never ended.  Storm clouds were merely a break in the sunshine, scarcely noticeable, even welcome.  Even in dark San Francisco the sun shone brighter, the air was more clear, more fresh, more balmly than anywhere.

     It was almost a delight to be unemployed as Dewey took a seat on the bench to wait for his two o’ clock interview.  Almost a delight but not quite.  Dewey’s career, his assualt on the world, was going nowhere.  He knew his situation was very precarious.  The worst was that the persona he projected was not well received.  He sensed that there was someone, a part of a group, that defamed him wherever he went.  He was conscious of being stalked but that could be overcome if people liked him, if he knew how to ingratiate himself.  But he didn’t.  The blows of his childhood had made him a cross between servile and obsquious combined with an attempt to assert his self-worth that came across as arrogant.

     Even now as he sat on the bench on Montgomery just off Market a man stood across the square staring at him steadily.  He was waiting to follow Dewey wherever he went.  He would then report Dewey’s whereabouts, a phone call would be made and whatever chance Dewey had would be dashed.

     There was no sense approaching the guy, he would only retreat before Dewey leaving Dewey in the awkward and humiliating position of chasing him down the street.  All Dewey could do was endure him.

     Dewey opened his copy of  ‘Troubled Sleep’ by Sartre so as not to waste valuable time while he waited.  His copy was from the Bantam series of World Classics.  A fine collection of titles that he bought wherever he found them.  He gazed up from his book from time to time to wonder who the guy came from.  Dewey thought he must either report to Capt. Leon Douglas of Ocean Services or Barney Dolittle from Statistical Tabulating.  Those were Dewey’s last two employers.

     He knew that Douglas was following him because he had seen him enter Statistical Tabulating during lunch break.  Did the dirty work himself which was somewhat unusual.  But if you do want the job done right, do it yourself.  The attitude toward himself at STC had changed after the visit.

     Dewey could guess what Douglas had been about.  He had had several hints that he was being slandered from various employment agencies.  No one openly accused him but he was treated as though they assumed he was a thief.  The companies he had been sent to were also of low quality, not career opportunities.  Dewey had been forced out of Ocean Services when he had discovered a major graft scheme, they were now turning around the charge of theft in self-defense.  Tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars were being systematically plundered from Ocean Services.  Dewey, who was a Jr. Accountant, had stumbled across it while auditing invoices.

     Ocean Services ran a fleet of tankers on a triangular trade from Peru to Japan down to Indonesia and up to San Francisco and back to Peru; iron ore from Peru to Japan, oil from Indonesia to San Francisco.  The seamen employed were Japanese; thus supplies were appropriate to Japanese tastes.  As he audited the invoices Dewey thought from the amount spent that the seamen must be getting luxury goods.  He didn’t know what the supplies were as the terms were Japanese and the prices were in yen but they converted into hefty sums in dollars.  These guys were eating one heck of a lot better than Dewey had in the Navy.  Then one day Dewey came across an item for cathartics at $10.00 U.S. per tablet.  Dewey stared at the item.  Cathartics?  He knew he was right but he checked the dictionary to be sure.  He was right.  The firm had been charged $10.00 for an Exlax tablet.

     When he presented the discovery to Capt. Douglas, the president of the company, he had expected to be congratulated.  Instead he had been informed that it was his job to merely extend the lines not to analyze them.  He was told to get back to his desk and forget about it. 

     Shortly thereafter it was made apparent to him that he was not only superfluous but unwanted.  They tried the classic ruse of transferring him to another company that would be more suitable to him.  As he had only been on the job six months job changing would be a perilous undertaking.  Although he had held his previous job for two years, leaving to better his prospects, his employability would be suspect on leaving Ocean Services.  If he were released from the successor job shortly after being hired which he suspected was their intent he would be unemployable.  Ocean Services had a prestigious location at Kearny and California.  Dewey wasn’t going to be sent to any more prestigious locations.

     He had then taken a job at STC which as it turned out was owned by a Mafioso from Chicago.  The staff had all been sent out from St. Louis.  Dewey’s luck was still bad.  His boss was Barney Dolittle.  Dolittle had been fired as a young man just after he had married and was with a pregnant wife.  Dewey married in September of 1963.  A week later he was back on the street.  Dolittle had been very upset that Dewey’s wife wasn’t pregnant.  He had vowed to keep Dewey from getting another job.  Dewey thought that the guy staring at him might be from Dolittle.  He wasn’t, he was from Capt. Douglas.

     Even though Dewey didn’t know it he was the possessor of a dangerous secret.  He knew of the corruption at Ocean Services.  He didn’t know what Douglas thought he did.  Dewey thought the culprit was the purchasing agent, Dean Mangeon.  He wasn’t aware that everyone in the company was in on the take, nor that Douglas was receiving the lion’s share.  Douglas in his guilt gave Dewey too much credit.  Dewey was still too inexperienced to understand the pervasiveness of corruption in society.  The Captain to protect himself found it necessary to hound Dewey out of Baghdad By The Bay.  Douglas had quietly become a millionaire, he would to to great lengths to protect his ill-gotten gains.

      Dewey looked down to see a Chronicle on the bench beside him that wasn’t there when he sat down.  It was folded to the want ads.  An ad was circled in red pencil.  Stanford University was advertising for psychological subjects for testing.  Dewey read it.  The pay was very good.  He thought that he might be able to pick up some money and also learn something about himself.  But then he decided that it would interfere with his job hunting.  Had he answered the ad and been accepted he would have been destroyed.  Like Harvard, and over over at UC in Berkeley, Stanford was doing drug experimentation.  In this case they were shooting subjects full of methamphetamines- the very best and purest speed- just to see whether the subjects would flip or flop.

     Dewey laid the paper down.  The clock opposite said five to two.  His appointment was just across Market.  He slipped ‘Troubled Sleep’ into his inside breast pocket.  The building was a great Art Deco piece from the 30s.  It looked better from the outside.  The marble inside was OK but the entire core of the building was a lattice work iron cage.  The elevators even were iron cages pulled up and down on the exposed steel cables.  The building would give him nightmares for decades.

     He was made to wait half an hour.  He saw his prospective employer hang up the phone.  ‘The job’s already been filled.’  He called from his desk.  ‘Sorry.’

     As Dewey left he saw the guy from the square enter the elevator.  ‘Just as Well.’  Dewey thought as he cruised around the floor for a better look.  ‘I don’t think I could work in this place, much too spooky and weird.’

     How much difference in your life can half an hour make?  As the elevator reached the ground floor the building erupted into surrying activity.  Office doors opened, people ran out staring at each other in disbelief.  ‘Oh, my god!  The President’s been shot.’  November 22, 1963.  An old world when Dewey went up the elevator, a brave new one when he came down.

     Jack Kennedy had been shot.  A great weight lifted from Dewey’s shoulders.  The shooting didn’t come as a surprise.  He had been expecting it.  Hoping for it?  Ah well, Jack Kennedy aroused deep antagonism.  And then there had been the Bay Of Pigs.  Half the country had been sullenly resentful.  The air of oppression had lain heavy on the nation.  Now it was over.  Dewey heaved a sigh of relief.  But he felt guilty about it.  His attitude was so complicit that he almost feared discovery as an accomplice.

     Things had changed, now the darkness was not all below the top of his head.  He had been given new life.  As he moved out the door in slow motion it seemed that above his eyebrows all was light while below he moved in darkness.  How strange.  The killing of Kennedy had freed his conscious mind from the control of his subconscious.  He was on his way to freedom.  How strange.  Yet it was true not only for himself but for the country.  The pall that had descended on the nation with the anti-Communist struggles beginning in the forties had been lifted.

     He passed through the revolving doors to flatten himself against the wall slipping down Market like a fugitive.  Auto traffic had stopped and loose paper was swirling in eddies down the street.  People were running every whichaway shouting:  ‘Hey, President Kennedy’s been shot.  They killed Kennedy.’  The mood was not one of dejection but one of elation.  Kennedy was gone.  The land was free again.

     Dewey looked up at the blue November sky, felt the warm bright California air walking up toward Powell and the center of things.

     All the street characters for which San Francisco is so justly famous were running, jumping, shouting:  ‘Hey, they did it, they shot him.  Kennedy is dead.’  So they had.  Many walked as though zombies stunned that the President had been shot.  Dewey, too, was amazed.  His belief that the United States was too civilized for assassinations was disproved.  The last time a president had been shot was at the turn of the century.  Even then the assassin had been a crazy foreign anarchist.  Now Dewey would have to reassess his country.  He would find that it wasn’t even civilized and becoming worse every day.

     There was no doubt in Dewey’s mind, he didn’t even ask himself why, that Kennedy had been killed by the conservatives.  Ask who?  He wondered why it had taken them so long.  Threats had been heavy in the air for months.  Hadn’t Kennedy been warned not to go to Dallas?  Hadn’t the threat been, stronger than an implication, that the cowboys would kill him if he went?  Hadn’t he publicly said that he would not be deterred by threats?

     As Dewey looked around he saw shock on the peoples’ faces but he didn’t see dejection.  He even saw men shaking hands in deep satisfaction.  ‘Hey, didja hear Kennedy, the President’s been shot?’  Having heard Dewey walked wonderingly down to the Embarcadero to catch a bus home.

     The ride to Larkspur in Marin County was unusually quiet.  Everyone seemed lost in their own reflections.  Dewey himself, was breathing heavily.  A great and oppressive weight had been lifted from him.  ‘Free at last.’  He thought.  Free at last.  God almighty, I’m free at last.’  He was premature but at least the stone had been rolled away and he was free to be born again.

Chapter 2.

As In A Dream

     ‘Hi, Honey.  You don’t have the TV on, you haven’t heard?’

     ‘Haven’t heard what, Dewey?’

     ‘They shot him.  They killed Kennedy.’

     ‘Who shot him?’

     ‘I don’t know.  Them, you know, his enemies.  Turn on the TV.  We gotta see this.’

     See this they did.  The coverage was non-stop and in living color.  The TV reporters were agog.  They even interviewed demented drunks who claimed they were the good friends of John F. Kennedy.  The reporters of the various channels were actually shocked when they discovered a guy on a barstool who claimed to know Kennedy was a fraud.  Unless you consider ‘He was a real good guy’ as proof of acquaintanceship.  Oh well, it was the first time; the reporters would get a lot of practice in the ensuing years.

     ‘Wow!  I wonder why he was riding in an open car?’

     ‘Why, Dewey?’

     ‘Well, he was warned not to got to Dallas because they were going to shoot him.  Jackie pleaded with him not to go.  Everybody knew he was going to get it.  Why make it easy?’

     ‘Why did they want to shoot him?’

     ‘He’s a Catholic.  He betrayed the American ethos.  We hate him.’

     ‘What do you mean he betrayed the American ethos, Dewey?  What’s that got to do with being Catholic?  America’s a land of religious tolerance, isn’t it?’

     ‘Well, Honey, it’s a land where Protestant Anglo-Americans tolerate everyone else but they don’t tolerate us.  Where to start?

      First off, Kennedy’s a liar and a cheat.  Second, he’s got an unholy alliance with the news people.  I couldn’t stand the way he tricked and lied to the people to get their votes when he was nominated and then blatantly and openly betrayed them.  Not only that but the newspeople justified his chicanery as just politics.  Since his election, and there’s people that say that was rigged too, they have been singularly uncritical.  They even treat his failures- really gross imcompetent failures- like the Bay Of Pigs and the Missile Crisis in Cuba- as successes somehow.  Anybody else they’d fry.

      Then they started this Camelot thing- that stupid song The Impossible Dream- as symbolical of some fabulous new era he was inaugurating.  Some kind of Irish King Arthur come again in triumph over the bad Anglo-Saxons.  For Christ’s sake the guy was the Grand Inquisitor- a new Torquemada.  That’s why I say they shot him because he was a Catholic.  Not because he was a member of the Catholic Church but because he acted to enforce the same kind of orthodoxy rather than freedom of conscience.  He thought like a Catholic, he thought like a Pope.  Anyone who didn’t back his program was a heretic.  Not just misinformed or even wrong, but a heretic.  Outside the pale.  There was no room for discussion or another opinion.

     That’s the real reason Americans have never wanted a Catholic president.  The fear was always that he would be more loyal to papal ideas than to the American Constitution.  That’s exactly what he did.  That’s what he had to do.  You can only do what is in your brain.  If you think in terms of freedom of conscience then you can’t help but act on the basis of freedom of conscience.  It’s the way your mind is organized.  If you think in terms of orthodoxy and heresy then you cannot help but act that way.  You must act out your education, your brain is organized to think that way.  You can’t will such thoughts out of your mind.  Kennedy was Catholic; he was orthodox and if you didn’t agree with him you were a heretic.  I’ve been living in fear for four years.

     You never understood why I got so upset about General Walker- you remember him- they were grooming him as the conservative presidential opposition, but, at the time I thought it was that they were imitating the Russians in saying anyone who didn’t agree with them was crazy.  That wasn’t it.  They weren’t imitating the Commies; the Commies and the Catholic Church treated the problem of freedom of conscience in the same way.  If you’re not orthodox you’re a heretic or, as the Commies put it, you’re insane.  Same thing.  So what does Kennedy do?  Since the newsboys are his dogs they portray General Walker as being insane.  They destroyed him with stupid pictures that could have been taken of anybody.  Walker was an American.  He just disagreed with them which was his God given American right.  But Kennedy said:  If you’re with us you’re OK; if not, you’re insane.’

     I couldn’t explain my reaction at the time.  Then, right after that, they announced that they were going to let the crazy people out of the asylums and establish a house on every block where the crazies would have to report.  You didn’t take that serious either but all that meant was that if you weren’t orthodox you would be crazy and everyone in the neighborhood would know it.  That way the opposition would be isolated and rendered ineffective.  They were crazy.  You would have to go along with the program or else.  Very Jesuitical.  The Spanish Inquisition would then be established in America.

      You know who the busybodies are that would have empowered.  No, I’ve been living in fear and that’s gone.  I’m not for killing people but now that it’s done it’s the best thing that could have happened to the country.  I’m glad.  The son-of-a-bitch deserved it.  I could never be orthodox.  Anyway that’s why they killed him because he was a Catholic inquisitor.  Not because he was a member of the Chruch but because he wanted to install the inquisitorial attitude over that of freedom of conscience.  The Inquisition is part and parcel of Catholicism.’

       ‘Oh, they just arrested the guy.’

     ‘Oh yeah?  Who?’  Dewey asked, who had already guessed the course of events.

     ‘Some guy named Oswald.  Lee Harvey Oswald.  Oh, wow, I guess you were wrong Dewey.  He’s a Communist.’

     ‘A Communist, huh?  Boy, that’s convenient, isn’t it?  Next thing they’ll say Khruschev sent him.’

     ‘He was in Russia for a while.  Left here, went there and then came back.’

     ‘What’d they say they picked him up a mile or so from this book store where they think the shot came from?  How’d they know it was him?  Did he just look like the kind of guy who would shoot a president?  Now, that’s rigged; too convenient.  I’ll bet they kill him before he ever gets a chance to say anything.

     No.  No Communist did it.  Why would they want him dead?  He was giving them everything they wanted.  He was just a big talking back peddler.  Did you ever read about their father, Joseph P. Kennedy?  I mean, Jack’s not the first one they got; they killed his first son, Joseph Jr. during the war.  the Old Man has lots of enemies.  The guy’s a crook.

     He makes his fortune during prohibition in the liquor business.  Gives him the advantage of having connections on both sides of the law, I guess.  Twice as many places to make enemies.  So after prohibition he tries to go legit.  He even gets the Superdip, Roosevelt, to make him ambassador to England.  Roosevelt sends an Irish Catholic as ambassador to Protestant England.  So what does Kennedy do?  As an Irishman he hates the English so he’s pro-Nazi and openly anti-Semitic.  Boy, the soul of descretion.  England’s at war with Germany and Hitler’s killing millions of Jews and this guy’s a pro-Nazi and anti-Semite ambassador to England.

     So, at this point, it’s not who doesn’t like this guy but who does?  Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. is a flier.  He has a mission to fly over Germany.  Just like Jack people tell him not to fly because he wont’ come back.  He flies it anyway.  What happens?  His plane blows up just after take off.  Nazis got him, right?  Maybe the load wasn’t properly balanced.

     Anyway the warning was clear.  Joe Sr. wasn’t welcome in society.

      Look at the place he lives, a compound.  The whole family has to live behind a fence.  They need a lot of security.  Why?  Because a lot of people must want to see them dead.  Who lives behind walls?  Criminals and orphans, that’s who.  The Kennedys weren’t orphans.  So he’s told to lay low and he makes his son the first Irish Catholic president of the United States.  Who wanted to kill Jack Kennedy?   Lots of people.  Probably if they discovered who killed Joe Jr. they might discover who killed Jack.  And if Bobby knows what’s good for him he’ll lie low too.  Cause if he runs for president they’ll kill him too.’

      The world doesn’t stop, not even for dead presidents.  Dewey was out looking for a job the next day.  He returned home to turn on the evening news.  What to his wondering eyes should appear but the assassination of the supposed assassin.  Who shot Lee Harvey Oswald?  The super-patriot, Jack Ruby.

      ‘Well, imagine that.’  Dewey said to Angeline.  ‘Imagine that.  A Jewish low life criminal shot Oswald.  If you don’t dislike him because he’s Jewish you can hate him because he’s a criminal.  Now, watch this, if Ruby doesn’t die of food poisoning or some such, they’ll certify him as insane so they can discredit whatever he says.  Jeez, this is embarrassing.

     But, what do I care?  I’ve got to get a job, we’ve got to pay the rent.’

Chaper III

Living Water In A Stagnant Pool

      If Dewey hadn’t realized it before he now quickly grasped that he was not going to be referred to top flight companies or even good jobs.  He saw that he was never referred to a single major company of which, it goes without saying, San Francisco was full of.  The realization gradually dawned on him that he had been demoted from the first rank of employability.

     None of the agencies would tell him so but as he saw inferior people sent out on interviews denied him he had to alter his attitude.  Talking did him no good; thus when he was handed an address with a shrug of the shoulders that said:  You can have this or nothing, he accepted the interview.

      He was sent to a mortgage banking firm called Lowell, Smith and Evers.  Mortgage banking firms contracted with lenders to manage their properties.  The big money was still in the East.  The terrific expansion in California was financed by them.  In California entire cities were thrown up overnight or so it seemed.  When the City of Fremont consolidated its five burgs an entire metropolis sprouted within a few years.  Giant tracts of hundreds of house were financed from back East.

     In order to sell the houses quickly the builders took in anyone whatever his qualifications.  Thus the first few years of a tract was a sorting out process.  Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t meet their payments were eliminated to be replaced by those who could or would.  The result of such building and selling was chaotic.  The mortgage banking firms in an attempt to keep the deliquencies low hired people to go in and bully the mortgagees into paying.  This is the job destined for Dewey.

     Dewey considered himself an accountant.  He wasn’t.  He didn’t even have an inclination for it.  Even in Jr. College night school he veered away from business courses as soon as he thought he had enough, which was too soon by far.

     He saw this job for what it was; an undesirable position which could only be filled by the desperate.  He was aware that he wasn’t going to make it in a highly structured office.  He’d been in three now.  He’d been a social success in none of them.  Further, he knew it was impossible for him to be a social success; he was too unbending in his moral views.  He couldn’t tolerate the petty thieving that formed the basis of that society.  He worked too hard; wanted to get ahead too much and didn’t realize that socializing was more important that working hard.  He was too deficient in office politics.  He was in a quandary.

     If Lowell, Smith and Evers was a step down for Dewey he was a prize to them.  He was much better than what they usually got.   Whatever else was said about him he never missed work nor was he ever late.  He dressed well, talked and acted knowledgeably.

      He was interviewed by Bill Masters to whom he would be responsible.  Art Carson sat in on the interview.  As Dewey never saw Carson again he never learned his function.  It was apparent from the beginning that he was going to get the job.  Masters was selling hard, Dewey was a plum to him.  Dewey was against the wall; he had to accept.

      The financial terms were quite good although the job would lead nowhere.  Four hundred eighty was a good salary  for the time plus he was given a ’63 Chevy to drive which was always in his possession.  That was probably worth a hundred dollars a month extra.  Still he was acutely aware that he’d not only been exiled but cast out.

     He took his exclusion as a door closed.  There was no way back in.  He did not take it as a reflection on himself.  If the others thought little of him he thought less of them.  For him to have felt rejected he would have had to have respected the others.  He didn’t find them admirable; he found them contemptible.  Still, they occupied the citadel and he didn’t.

     At work the next morning Masters introduced him to his cicerone, Darby Ramme.  Ramme was another plum for Lowell, Smith and Evers.  As incredible as it may sound Ramme was a graduate of Stanford University, a year younger than Dewey.  He was only five-eight but he had a cheerful, bright countenance.  Stocky and bouncy he had an open and direct manner which belied his sneaky and malignant self.

     As yet unaware of his negative side Dewey thought that they might become friends.  This was not to be as Darby had a rather exalted notion of himself.  What flaw in his character led him to this job was difficult to discern.  Darby had majored in Political Science at Stanford.  College education in America is little more than vocational training thus upon graduating Darby found that he had a BS degree and no vocational training.  The only jobs available to him were sales jobs.

     Darby expected better having his sights on rising to the presidency of, perhaps a bank.  He was of good family, got a degree from one of the top universities within the alloted four year period, looked good and had excellent manners.  He was brutally disappointed.  He was compelled to accept a job selling coffee in Chicago.  The job paid well but was a terrific blow to Darby’s pride.  He was a Stanford graduate and here he was going from supermarket to supermarket having to talk to managers respectfully who maybe or maybe not hadn’t graduated from high school even.  Darby felt, rightly or wrongly, that their manners were atrocious.  He very likely was right.  He also suspected that to be accepted he would have to jettison his own excellent manners and adopt theirs.  He was probably right about that, too.  His mind revolted at the idea. 

     Darby didn’t actually have to stock the shelves himself, but even going into the markets, having to greet the clerks and all; it was a shattering blow to his self-esteem.  Not to mention that as a West Coast boy he hated Chicago.

     Darby chucked it all, came back West to take a job dunning delinquent mortgagees at Lowell, Smith and Evers.  Dewey sympathized with Darby but as he soon found out, he was placed in a class beneath the supermarket managers.  Darby had made a positive impression on Dewey which he now destroyed.  Dewey turned his back on him.

     Where he had listened attentively he now became critical.  Darby gave him much to criticize.  Darby’s psychological reaction to his coffee job was to work at Lowell, Smith and Evers so he could work off his frustration on the mortgagees.  He carried on vendettas with them.  In addition he spent half his time spying on the junior collector.

     The job was an emotionally tough one.  The mortgagees hated you.  They were openly resentful.  If you were susceptible, the treatment could be very demoralizing.  It had been to the fellow Dewey replaced.  He had been unable to perform the work.  Darby had tracked him down to a movie theater one afternoon.  The delighted joy Darby related in catching him and having him sacked offended Dewey.

     Darby explained the job to Dewey:  ‘We’re dealing with a lot of deadbeats.  These people just don’t want to pay their rent.’  He said, with obvious relish.  ‘So our job is simply to remind them that they haven’t made two monthly payments.   We don’t collect anything; we don’t take any checks; we just tell them they haven’t paid.  That happens after the tenth of the second month.

     The company manages thousands of houses all over Northern California but expecially here in the Bay Area.  On the eleventh of each month we get a stack of computer cards of the delinquent mortgagees and then we go to work.

     The Bay is divided into several areas.  Right from the start, no arguments, I get Contra Costa.’

      ‘Concord, Walnut Creek and all that?  You can have it.  I don’t like it out there.  Too dry and hot for me.’

     ‘All right.  You get Santa Clara County and Tropicana Village.  You get the East Bay and I get the Peninsula.’

      Stanford is on the Peninsula.

     ‘Wait a minibite.  You live in Berkeley so I can see why you want Contra Costa County but the East Bay’s a natural for you.  I live in Marin…’

      ‘You live in Marin?  County?  Really?  That’s a nice area, I wouldn’t have thought that.’

     ‘Uh huh.  We like it.’  Dewey said resenting the implication that he wouldn’t live in a nice area.  Dewey began to think there was more to fine manners than just manners.

      ‘I live in Marin,’  Dewey continued, ‘so why don’t I take Marin and Sonoma, the Peninsula and Santa Clara.  You can have the rest, which isn’t much.’

     ‘No.  I’ll take Contra Costa, Marin and the Peninsula and you can have the rest.’

     The question was moot to Dewey.  He just wanted to show he couldn’t be pushed around.  Within a couple months he would end up with everthing except Contra Costa County itself anyway.

     ‘All right, why don’t you go home for the day.  Come in tomorrow.  We’ll get organized and I’ll start showing you the ropes.’

Chapter IV

Lunch Without Nourishment

     Capt. Douglas now lived in fear of exposure.  His feeling of guilt was immense.  The extent of the corruption he controlled was virtually worldwide.  It involved dozens of people in the home office, Japan, Indonesia and Peru.  Douglas was negotiating for Chinese crews from Hong Kong for which the amount of graft was even greater.  Even if he didn’t go to jail his loss of prestige would kill him.

     The Old Sea Dog’s connections in the sleazy maritime world would be destroyed as well as the reputation he was busily constructing in San Francisco society.  His own vision of himself as an international mastermind would vanish like smoke on the water.  His carefully cultivated facade of respectability would look like a bad con job. He would no longer be a fixture at the brokerage house that Charles Schwab was establishing just down the street.

     His guilt drove him to deplorable lengths.  His fears were baseless.  Trueman had no intention of making a fuss.  Capt. Douglas’ criminality, if Dewey had suspected it, was no concern of his.  It was bad enough that he had lost a good job.  It was worse that his future had been made uncertain.

     What could Dewey hope to achieve by accusing Douglas?  There was no case for the police.  The situation was beyond their concern or even jurisdiction.  Dewey might go to the parent company, Marcona Mining, but what would that effect:  They would undoubtedly consider him sour grapes because he hadn’t been able to cut it if they they weren’t in on it.  Was Douglas afraid of blackmail?  No, Dewey had nothing to warrant suspicion for interfering with Douglas.  It was simply that Dewey knew and by knowing prevented Douglas from glossing over his crime to himself.  He couldn’t give it another name; he stood exposed to himself for what he really was- a thief.

     The Kennedy assassination set a train of thought in motion that made murder a viable solution to dilemmae.  Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King would be eliminated as political problems over the next few years.  People were murdered on all social levels.  Richard Speck and Charlie Whitman would appear in the summer of ’66.  The Zebra killings shortly thereafter.  Serial murderers became commonplace.  Had this been the seventies Dewey would undoubtedly have had an accident.  He might have been run down by a car going the wrong way down a one way street.  Perhaps a brick might have fallen on his head as he walked down the street.

     Or perhaps, once the Black Zebra killer started shooting White people in drive by shootings on street corners, Dewey might have been dispatched by  a hired Black thug.  A mugging, innumerable ruses could have been employed.  But this was 1963.  America had not yet been turned into a nation of murderers who solved their problems with guns and bombs. Or even insane weirdos like George Carlin who advocated gunning down anyone who disagreed with you on his TV show.

     So long as Dewey remained in San Francisco he remained visible evidence of Capt. Douglas’ guilt.  In the Captain’s eyes an honest Dewey remained a symbol of Douglas’ dishonesty.

     At present Douglas saw no way to expel Dewey from the City, but perhaps he could reduce Dewey’s moral superiority beneath his by inducing Dewey to commit a crime and actually go to prison.  Douglas thought that then his status would be restored in his own mind.

     Dewey turned up for work the next day.  Darby Ramme whiled away the morning showing Dewey some of the ropes.  Dewey was a quick learner, he was able to readily understand things.  This disturbed Darby whose need for superiority required less intelligent people not more.  Like all such people in such circumstances he had becoma an obscurantist.  He gave out conflicting explanations to as to confuse issues allowing himself to appear superior as he had to explain details over again.

     Dewey who had been dealing with difficult accounting problems for three years saw through the whole thing.  He just patiently let Darby go through his paces.  When lunchtime came Darby, to show his disdain for Dewey, airly dismissed him to have lunch by himself as it appeared it would be beneath Darby’s dignity to lunch with him.

     Dewey had no problem with this.  Darby had revealed his identity to Trueman.  If Darby didn’t like him, he was not offended.  As he saw it Darby had started with all the advantages.  If a guy with a degree from Stanford could sink from a job selling coffee to supermarkets to badgering mortgagees for payment then that meant to Dewey that the guy had nothing going for him.  He wasn’t offended by Darby’s attitude.

     Other problems concerned him; he believed, not incorrectly, that he was being exiled from San Francisco.  He found San Francisco a delightful, pleasant place.  It hurt him to be kicked out.  True, he would report in every Monday for news and assignments but that was no compensation at all.

     As he considered this his last day in Baghdad By The Bay he wanted to make the most of his lunch hour.  There was a little hamburger bar down on Kearny and Market that he had found while working at STC.  The place was run by a North Beach Italian guy who really knew how to cook a hamburg.  With a heart full of nostalgia for a lost paradise, Dewey walked up Market to Kearny.

     Capt. Douglas had not let him out of his sight.  He had known Dewey had gotten the job almost before Dewey.  As the job was a serious demotion from what Dewey had been doing the employment agencies believed they had done their job; he had been removed from socially acceptable employment.   Captain Douglas was still not content.

     When Dewey had gotten the job he realized that he would not be content to merely have Dewey out of town.  Dewey had to be a lower criminal than himself.  As said before the Captain had friends on the waterfront.  ‘Captain’ was not an honorary title for Douglas, he had commanded ships at sea for twenty years before assuming the presidency of Ocean Services.  He knew corruption as only those who have worked the waterfronts of the world can know corruption.  He had been complicit if for no other reason than if he hadn’t he would never have had a cooperative crew.  Accidents would have happened; thing just wouldn’t have gone well for him.

     Thus having conceived his plan he had no trouble finding an agent to implement it.  As Dewey was a dutiful husband and respectable citizen abjuring the nightlife where he would have been more vulnerable the Captain would have to catch him on the fly.

     As Dewey left his building his Shadow followed his movements.  At that time lower Market was a semi-slum.  All the condos and modernization was yet to begin.  The streets were virtually deserted at any time of day.  As soon as Dewey entered the diner a phone call was made and the plan was put in operation.  The Shadow stationed himself outside the diner on the curb to keep control of the situation. 

     Dewey had eaten there many times while at STC.  Jim Solieri who owned and operated the place knew him at sight.  He was interested in Dewey but had never struck up a conversation.  But as Dewey hadn’t been around for a couple months he thought he would have a chat.

      A peculiarity of Solieri’s place was that he refused to make french fries.  As some form of compensation he always placed a couple Italian pepperoncini on the plate.  Pepperoncini are not hot peppers but it is necessary to cultivate a taste for them.  For a while Dewey had disdainfully left them lying on the plate.  But then one day by some magic of the chemistry between pepperoncini, the hamburg and his taste buds the little peppers had really hit the spot.  From that point on Dewey had asked for seconds; he even bought a jar for home.

     Today he took a big bite from his hamburg, following it with one of his two pepperoncini with obvious relish.

     ‘I remember when you sneered at those things.’  Solieri offered.  ‘Now look at you, can’t get enough.  I knew you’d come around.’  He flipped a couple more on Dewey’s plate.  ‘Haven’t seen you for a little while.’

     ‘No.  I had to get another job.  Haven’t been in the area.’

     ‘Another job, huh?’  Solieri said appraising Dewey from another point of view.

     ‘Yeh.’ Dewey said ruefully.  ‘Be my third in little over a year.  Fourth in three years.  Damn.’

     ‘I know what you mean.  Been there myself.  Maybe you’re just not the corporate type.’

      ‘Maybe.  But, you know, what am I going to do.  I mean, you know, I’m somebody too.  I’m at least as good as they are, maybe better.  I gotta lotta talent, I think, abilities, you know, I don’t want to get left behind.  You can dig that, I suppose.’

     ‘I can.  And I’m not putting you down, as you can see I’m flippin’ burgers.  Of course, I own the stand.’  He added defensively.  ‘Didn’t start out that way.  I used to be like you.  Don’t know what it is but I just didn’t fit in.  I’m thirty.  Went from job to job, no offense and I’m guessing, but just like you they kept getting worse and worse until I couldn’t stand it anymore.  So I went off on my own.  Started a nice little Italian restaurant.  Good food, well prepared, nice place.  But, you know, I just couldn’t manage the employees.  Like a lot of guys I thought that employees acted up because they had bad bosses.  Well, I’m a good guy so I didn’t think I ‘d have any trouble.  Boy, was I wrong.  You give ’em an inch and they’ll take the whole hundred yards.  Any boss is their enemy; they just resent working for anybody.  In point of fact you gotta know how to be tough to make them do their work.

     How much detail you want?  As you can see this is a one man operation’

     ‘Really, huh?  Well, um, do you make enough money here.’

     ‘How much is enough?  I do OK.  You’d be surprised what kind of profit a place like this can turn out.  But, no, I don’t make enough.  I live comfortably but frugally.’  Solieri was actually cheap.  ‘Invest as much as I can.  Done OK there.  So if I keep it up by the time I’m fifty I should be OK.  Just in case I reach fifty.  But, you dig, I have to work for myself.  You might have to do the same.’

     ‘Might have to do something.’  Dewey said reflectively.  Notions were already circulating through his mind as he apprehensively viewed the blight placed on his career.  But as he wished to raise himself in his own estimation as well as the world’s his thoughts gravitated more toward attainments in the scholarly world.  He aspired more to the dignity of the college professor than the merchant prince.

     ‘You’ve got a good thing going here but I think I’d rather get a PhD and be a college professor.’

     Solieri smiled indulgently:  ‘How much chance is there for that?’

     ‘Well, I don’t know.  I’m going to night school at Junior College.’  Dewey confessed, naively raising a silent laugh from Solieri.  ‘I’d have to find a way.  Don’t have one now.’

     ‘So, you learning anything in Junior College?’  Solieri asked sarcastically.

     ‘Oh, sure, hard to believe you’re getting anywhere sometimes but it’s all required classes so what do you do?  I read a lot on my own, too.’

 

     ‘Oh yeah?  You got any great wisdom you can share.’  Solieri was one of those who considered books one of the worst things in the world.

     ‘Well, I’ve got a theory on the origins of the solar system you might like.’

     ‘Sure, shoot.’

     ‘Um.  You ever heard of a guy called Immanuel Velikovsky- ‘Worlds In Collision?’

     ‘I saw the movie.’

     Dewey laughed:  ‘Naw, that was ‘When World’s Collide.’  Good movie though.  No.  Velikovsky’s got some pretty weird ideas.  Hard to believe a lot of it.  But he makes an issue between the gasseous planets like the Sun, Jupiter and Saturn and the five rocky inner planets.’

     ‘Only four aren’t there.’

     ‘He includes the asteroid belt as an exploded planet.  To explain the rocky planets he thinks that a live intelligence ejected them from Jupiter.  Well, I don’t think there’s live intelligence on Jupiter but I think it’s possible that the planets were ejected by natural causes.’

     ‘Oh yeah?  How’s that?’

     ‘Well, I’ve never heard a good explanation where the gaseous planets or the rocky planets came from except that the solar system was once a huge swirling mass of gas that formed the three gaseous planets but you have to take the view that all matter is one.  For instance, the Sun the Earth and Jupiter although they exhibit different external characteristics are all made of this same material.  The external differences are only the result of size and gravity.  The sun being huge, the gravitational force pressing in on the center makes it incandescent.

     Jupiter being very large but nowhere near as large as the sun must have a core that is more than molten but less than incandescent so that the heat produced combined with gravity vaporizes its outer matter into various densities of gases.  OK?’

     ‘Yeah, I’m following you.’

     ‘Now, the Earth being smaller yet has a molten core but the gravitational pressure in relation to its size allows the exterior layers to cool forming a crust.  So all three are of identical composition but different form.

      So, if that’s clear then your next problem is how the planet got here from Jupiter.  Like I say, Jupiter has various layers of gases moving, I hypothesize, at different speeds.  So, as these various layers rub together globules of solid matter form, kind of like a pearl in an oyster.  When they get large enough they are ejected by centrifugal force.  Like, there’s actually an asteroid belt on either side of Jupiter.  Why would a planet explode on either side of Jupiter and nowhere else?  So, I don’t think these are exploded planets but smaller ‘pearls’ ejected over the eons.

     Really big ‘pearls’ are developed and they were ejected with enough velocity to enter the sun’s gravitational pull where they find orbits far from Jupiter.  Probably the moon was ejected too but was captured within Earth’s gravitational pull.  It’s supposed to be moving slowly further from Earth so probably the Sun’s attraction is greater than Earth’s.  So what do you think?’  Dewey asked, fearing a burst of derisive laughter.

     ‘Not bad.  Not bad.  I don’t know whether it’s true of course.  But it’s at least  as good as the cosmic dust theory I’ve heard.’

     ‘Oh yeah.  That’s the official scientific theory, that the solar system was filled with dust and then the dust particles were attracted to each other bonding into ever bigger agglomerations until the rocky planets as we know them were formed.  Hard for me to believe too.  Sure hope the magnetic polarity isn’t reversed or we’ll all become comets.’

     ‘One problem though, so why isn’t their life on Mars or Venus?’

     ‘Oh, Venus probably because it’s too close to the sun, way too hot.  Although since it’s about the same size as Earth it should have a molten core.  Mars is too small for a molten core to sustain itself.  Probably just warmish in the center.  Same with the moon.’

     ‘Sounds like you really thought that one out.’  Solieri began when a Beatnik type burst through the door.  He was the agent from Capt. Douglas.  The two best ways to destroy a man’s reputation are sex and drugs.  If it’s possible to project a man as a homosexual he will lose all credibility.  For that reason the charge of homosexuality is projected on nearly all great men from Caesar and Napoleon on down.  Great men can survive the charge, lesser men may not be able to do so.  The charge of drugs destroys a man’s respectability entirely.  When a man is free of either curse then the possibility of entrapping him in overt acts or the appearance of such acts exists.  A charge of homosexuality would reduce Trueman to a station far below that of Captain Douglas, allowing him to reassert his own sense of dignity.  A charge of drugs which at that time meant marijuana or heroin would result in a prison sentence, especially if Capt. Douglas came forward to put the bug in the ear of the police with his claim of theft.  Capt. Douglas would do anything to reclaim his self-esteem.

     As far fetched as his plan may appear, more far out plans have been attempted and succeeded.  There is only one thing that can protect a person from the assaults of stalkers and that is character.  Things happen so fast and come from such unsuspected quarters that only a firm set of ideals can save one.

     The guy who had burst through the door was Job Seth, the agent of the agent selected by Capt. Douglas to place temptation in Dewey’s path.  Having made Trueman his enemy Capt. Douglas had assigned what to him was the most despicable character he could think of- a Beatnik- a hipster.  Douglas who was dapper nineteenth century style with a pencil thin mustache from the thirties projected the lifestyle on his opposite member- the Beatnik- on Dewey.

     Job Seth was of course an imposter.  His impersonation of a Beatnik was hilarious.  Not being part of the culture he chose as his role models the Maynard Ferguson character from the Dobie Gillis TV show and Jughead from the Archie comic book series.  He didn’t wear Jughead’s beanie but he mussed his hair up for the disheveled Beatnik look.  But he was careless so that it was easy to see that a single combing would give him a conventional appearance.  He had on the black vest, the horizontally striped T-shirt, black and white, and a dark pair of baggy cotton pants actually secured be a rope for a belt.  He wore the obligatory Beatnik sandals with the wide leather straps and studs.  But, not only was he wearing socks but they were socks no self-respecting Beatnik would own, the black ribbed knee stocking of the middle class employee.  Even as the bell was still jangling above the door both Dewey and Jim Solieri exchanged an amused and knowing smile.

     ‘Check this out.’  Solieri said from the corner of his mouth.

     ‘Seth wasn’t clear as to which diner was his target.  He first rushed to a diner at a side table, looking out the window at Dewey’s shadow for confirmation.  The man shook his head and pointed at Dewey.  Both Dewey and Solieri caught the motions.  They gave each other signficant glances.

      There was a stool empty beside Dewey.  Seth rushed over in what he thought was the best hipster style plunking himslef down leaning bodily against Dewey.

     ‘Hey, man.’

     Dewey shoved him over. 

     ‘Hey, man.  Didja hear me?’  He said leaning over the counter so as to look directly in Dewey’s face.

     ‘You talking to me?’

     ‘Hey, man, like, I’m looking ya right in the eye, ain’t I, man.’

     ‘Say what and git.’

     ‘Like, don’t get sharp, man.  Like, maybe I got something to say you might want to hear.  Be cool.’

      ‘I’m so cool ice cream wouldn’t melt in my hand, man, but, like, you know, like this, I’ve got my own thing going.  Somehow you’re not part of it.  So, buzz off.’

     Solieri interrupted:  ‘What’ll ya have?’

     ‘Hey, don’t bug me, man.   Like, I’m talking to this guy here.  Alright?  What’s your name, man?’

     ‘You can call me Jack, Joe.’  Dewey said, realizing he’d have to humor this guy until he finished his hamburg or just leave it.  His situation wasn’t so prosperous he could just get up and leave it.

     ‘Like, man, like what do you think of this Viet Nam war thing.’  Seth said, launching into what he considered a hep topic which he projected as a major concern of Dewey’s.

     ‘Little.’  Dewey replied, hoping to shuck Job off.  Out of the corner of his eye he was watching the Shadow who stood in rigid attention leaning forward on his toes.

     ‘Aw, man, how about the way Diem treats those Buddhist monks.  Disgraceful.  You call that freedom?  So bad they have to pour gasoline on themselves and burn to cinders.  Huh, man?’

     ‘Yeah, well, like they better pray the Commies don’t get them or they’ll find out what.  Did you ever notice there aren’t any monks in North Viet Nam?  I wonder why.’

     ‘Yeah, man, well, maybe you’re right.  Why trouble your head about some gooks.  We got problems right here, right.  I mean, like, good thing there’s some escape routes, right?’

     Dewey was munching fast on his hamburg, in a hurry to get away.  He tried to ignore him.  Job grabbed his arm, Dewey pulled away.’

     ‘Like, what I got is something you won’t ever have to worry again.’

     Dewey was down to a couple bites glancing at Solieri who was staring down at Seth with a contemptuous glare.

     Seth leaned over whispering into Dewey’s ear:  ‘I got a couple high tension reefers in my pocket.  Let’s go up to my place and ingest ’em.  My old lady and her girl friend are waiting.  Come on, man, let’s go, you ain’t got nothing better to do.’

     ‘You’re right I don’t have anything better to do but I gotta go to work.’  Dewey said, washing down his last bite with a slug of coffee.  ‘Late already.  Gotta go.’  He waved to Solieri.

      ‘Hey man, don’t be square, be cool like me.’  Job yelled.

     ‘I’m too cool to fool pal.  See ya around.’

     Dewey’s shadow had disappeared as Dewey emerged into the street.  The Captain’s rather far fetched plan had been to give Dewey the two numbers and let him into an apartment where a naked eight year old boy waited.  The police would burst in immediately leaving Dewey with a lot of fast talking to do.

     As Dewey hurried back he passed a drug store with one of those columns of mirrors on all four sides.  A sullen, morbid face met his.  He started back in disgust then realized that he was looking at his own reflection.

     He was quite startled because for a moment he had seen the image that he was projecting to others.  His conscious image of himself was nowhere apparent.  Instead the face that he had been given by his tormentors stared back at him.  Seth had activiated the morbid loathing of Dewey’s subconscious self.  Of the two Dewey’s, the worst, was what people were seeing, the bright cheerful Dewey was not visible.

     Trying not to be conspicuous Dewey took a  moment to brighten up his countenance and tried to stroll back nonchalantly rather then aggressively marching.

     Rather than going out as promised Darby dinked the afternoon away then told Dewey to meet him the next morning at his house in Berkeley.

Chapter 5

The Medium Is The Message

And The Mediator Is Its Prophet

      Dewey got up on the San Rafael Bridge for the drive to Berkeley and his appointment with Darby Ramme.  The sight of himself in the mirror on the previous day had had an unsettling effect on himself.  He knew the poisons that had entered his mind from childhood.  He knew how potent they were and he knew where they came from but he couldn’t identify the fixation of his life hidden behind a massive wall of fear.

     Dewey was aware that his actions were controlled from his subconscious.  He was perpetually at war with himself trying to impose his conscious rational goals on his subconscious opinion of himself; an opinion that had been imposed on him from outside evil forces.  In the terms of hypnosis, the suggestions given him.  The evil force of ill-wishers and his mother.

     The evil forces had inundated his youthful consciousness.  He had been too young to reject or manage their influence.  He had been trying to break free since he left home at eighteen and realized the hole he had been placed in.  He had actually made wonderful progress but he had begun from such a low level that his progress was scarcely discernible to himself, let alone others.

     Dewey had never sought professional help but he had taken to reading various tracts of Freud.  His understanding of Freud was that the individual himself was sick, that is, that the pathology came from within.  It seemed that Freud believed that the individual was responsible for his own malaise.  Dewey didn’t think that was necessarily so.  This was tantamount in his mind to saying that a small fish gulped down by a larger fish had the fish eating disease.  To Dewey this ignored the Field itself as well as the fact that the smaller fish obviously was not prepared to face the dangers inherent in the Field.  Properly informed the smaller fish would have been able to avoid the larger fish.  No, Dewey knew he was an innocent man.  He knew that he was responding to something that had been done to him but he didn’t know what.

     He had come to terms with his mother’s contribution to his malaise.  As far as he knew there was nothing in their relationship subconsciously concealed.  He did not love or respect her.  He considered that the crimes she had committed against him were the result of ignorance.  She just wasn’t a responsible mother, not every woman can be.  All women have the physical apparatus to become mothers but not all women have the emotional requirements to actually mother a child.  As someone put it:  Some girls just want to have fun.  That had been Dewey’s mother.

     She had been a silly woman.  She had never understood the worthlessness of men.  Rather than devote herself to her two sons who should have been her treasures she was always willing to sacrifice their interests for men who had no respect for her.  Miserable luck to have gotten her, Dewey thought, but the luck of the draw.

     Of the two influences he was most concerned with those who had given him his face and his body language.  He had somehow to eliminate their influence.  He could not, under any circumstances, allow them to triumph over him by accepting the character they had tried to impose.  Unable to free up his subconscious he could only resort to Emile Coue’s autosuggestion.  Suggest to yourself a course of behavior and then let your mind bring your actions in line with your wishes.

     As he pulled up in front of Darby’s house he was a little disappointed.  The Bay Area, especially Berkeley, was filled with romantic, quaint, secluded houses and apartments.  Dewey’s flat in Larkspur was one such, nestled against the hillside of Mt. Tamalpais.  Darby lived on one of the those straight avenues well West of the California campus.

     The street was all rentals, filled either with students or the innumerable campus hangers on.  Darby was in the latter class.  Unable to accept the consequences of his graduation and the disappointment of his first job Darby had retreated to the security of the college atmosphere where he had done so well and found so much contentment and happiness.  In so many words, he had retreated to the security of the womb.

     Luckily there was a parking space right in front of the house.  Dewey eased his big ’56 two tone green Chrysler into the space.  The used car salesman had had a field day with him.

     Dewey often wondered why he had bought the car, other than that he needed a car, of course.  It didn’t seem to represent him at all.  It might have been that he had been a push over for the salesman but, no, he had been drawn to the car.  Consciously he would have chose a ’56 Chevy, he really did love the ’56 designs.  The ’56 Chevy was a fantastically good looking car.  He had always loved the extravagant two tone coloring of the year.  The Chrysler had a light green top with a dark green body.  Like all the cars of that year it had enormous fins.  Perhaps that was it.  The Chrysler had fins that swelled up from the body like the belly of a reclining woman from the Mound of Venus.  An additional echo of the motif was repeated in a quiet reverberation contained within the two strips of chrome.  The light green of this strip across the dark green of the body was enclosed in a graceful swell of chrome strips repeating the swell of the fin of the fender.  Perhaps Dewey had been seduced into buying a sexy car.

      Not least of the subconscious appeal had been the Chrysler ads of those years in which a busty woman opened the driver’s side door and thrust her enormous breasts into the viewer’s face.  The ads had certainly gotten the attention of the male population of the country.  Anyway the car was a good buy; it had never given him any trouble.

     Darby let him into the house.  The place was done up in admirable minimalist taste.  Not what Dewey had expected.  Maybe there was something in the location of the place he didn’t know about.  On a table sat a bowl with what looked like a couple dozen aspirin tablets in it, blue on one side.

     ‘What are those?’  Dewey asked curiously thinking that they couldn’t be candy.

     ‘Oh, you can have one if you want.’  Darby said with a mischievious smile.

     Darby’s wife, Selene, bustled busily into the room.  She was a very attractive tall slender woman.  She had a very superior attitude as they all did.

     After introducing them Darby said mysteriously:  ‘See. Didn’t I tell you so.’

     Selene muttered something, then banged out the door.

     Dewey and Darby followed.  The company had given Darby a ’64 Chevy to drive.

     ‘Is that your car?’  Darby said pointing to the Chrysler.  I wouldn’t have thought it.’  He said to Dewey’s reply.

     ‘I wouldn’t have either.’  Dewey replied, himself mystified by his choice.  As he spoke an image of a laughing big busted woman thrusting her bosom from behind the wheel flashed through his mind.  The ad had apparently imprinted itself on Dewey’s mind because he would buy Chrysler products the rest of his life as the image flashed across his mind.

     ‘I’m from Chevy country,’  Dewey continued, nevertheless looking at Darby’s Chevy disapprovingly, ‘back there they’d string you up for buying anything else.  I hated them.’

     Obviously there was a conflict in Dewey’s mind.  the mind is a funny place to live.  The pain of growing up back in Chevy country had contributed to his rejection of General Motors’ cars.  He always felt vaguely uncomfortable in them.  He sought to remove himself from his past by rejecting Chevys, even though he thought fifties Chevys the best looking cars on the road.  But, heck, Louis Chevrolet couldn’t even pronounce his name right.  He said:  Louie Chevrolay.

     As they headed into the tunnel from Alameda County to Contra Costa County Dewey remembered the pills in the bowl.

     ‘How come you keep aspirin in a bowl in your living room.’  He asked bluntly.

     Darby smiled enigmatically:  ‘Oh, those weren’t just aspirin.’  He tried to change the subject but Dewey brought him back.

     ‘Well, Dewey, there’s a lot happening in the world these days and, well, I think it’s just beyond you.’

     ‘Oh yeah?  Well, you offered me one and if I’d taken it, it wouldn’t be beyond me now, would it?’

     ‘I suppose not.’

     ‘It’s gotta be some kind of pill, what is it?’

     ‘Lysergic acid diethymalide.’

     ‘Oh, that’s all.  LSD?’

     ‘You’ve taken it?’  Darby asked incredulously.

     Darby thought he was on the cutting edge.  Even though LSD had been relatively common for at least ten years by 1964, (It was actually isolated in 1938) the academic crowd seemed to believe it had just been discovered.  Dewey now understood at least one of the reasons Darby and his wife believed themselves so superior.  While the Beatniks and Hippies were wallowing in the stuff the college elites treated LSD like a sacrament.  Having once taken it they invariably thought they had been raised above and cut off from the rest of humanity- a new chosen people.  They were amusing to watch if you knew what was happening.

     Darby had gotten his tabs from a psych major, or rather his wife had, who was involved with the experimental program at U.C..  Stanford and Berkeley as well has Harvard had extensive government funding to test the psychological effects of the various pharmaceutical drugs for military applications.  Timothy Leary had been a wild card at Harvard who the system had not been able to control.  Media attention had blown his situation out of all proportion.  It turned that he was only the fall guy.

     ‘No, I’ve never taken it.  I don’t believe in drugs.’  Dewey said.

     ‘How could you possibly know about LSD then.’  Darby asked in wonder.

     ‘What do you mean how could I know about it.  I read TIME magazine for Christ’s sake.  How In do you have to be to do that?  They’ve had big write ups of the Leary guy at Harvard.  How secret can it be?’

     Darby’s pride of place insulated him from what he considered the lower classes.  There was no reason for him to be surprised at Dewey’s knowledge.  ‘You know about Leary, too?’

     ‘Well, Darby, none of this stuff is new.  I wrote an essay on drugs in high school that included a reference to LSD and that was in 1955.  I mean Peyote buttons…’

     ‘How do you know about Peyote?’  The manner in which Darby emphasized ‘you’ offended Dewey.

     ‘Well, Jesus, Darby, I was in the Navy.’

     What’s being in the Navy got to do with it?’

     ‘Jeez, Darby, there were guys into everything.  We had it all- morphine, heroin, speed, peyote buttons, all kinds of little pills that I couldn’t even identify.  I mean, one time I was hitchhiking down on 101 outside San Diego and this Marine from Camp Pendleton picked me up loaded on all kinds of things that he freely offered me.  I refused it, of course.  For Christ’s sake we even had to stop for road blocks between San Diego and LA where they were checking for marijuana smugglers from Mexico.  You should have seen it.  A couple cars even jumped the meridian, turned around and went the other way.  What did they have in their cars, I wonder?

     So, anyway, this Jarhead is telling me about all the drugs they’re using at Pendleton.  He named a whole bunch of stuff, maybe LSD was in it, but he’s telling me about this guy at camp who ingested a whole bunch of Peyote buttons and got way up there, as he said.  Well, the guy thought that was pretty alright so the next time he ingested twice as many.  The driver turns to me with a smile and says:  ‘He’s still up there, he hasn’t come down yet.  Maybe he doesn’t want to.’  Good story, huh?

     The driver himself was loaded.  101 was bumper to bumper, wall to wall that day and this guy is cool and relaxed, he’s just slipping back and forth from lane to lane trying to inch ahead a little faster.  He’s slipping into gaps no bigger than his car.  Everybody on the freeway is staring at us open mouthed.  So, I am, quite seriously, a nervous wreck.  I can see myself a corpse by the side of the highway.  I’m hoping they say something kind in the note they sent to Mom.

     He looks at me with a very benign smile and says:  ‘What’s the matter?  Why are you so nervous?’

     I mean, while he’s looking at me to the right, he slips into a car length gap in the left lane.  Am I nervous?  I am terrified.  So he reaches into his pocket and hands me a black triangular pill.

     ‘Here, take this,’ he says, ‘you’ll feel better.’

     ‘Well, I don’t take it.  The guy was crazy anyhow.  Well, but that’s another story.  But, we had this guy, I used to ride with him up to the Bay Area alot.  He had a car.  He lived in Marin, still does apparently, I saw him, believe it or not, the other day.  He was still loaded.  This guy was a heroin addict, a morphine addict, plus he took everything else there was to take.  Didn’t interfere with his functioning at all.  I’d have been dead.

     I mean, this guy could probably have saved Leary hours of research on LSD or anything else.  He probably tripped from here to the moon before Leary ever heard of LSD.  So, I mean, this stuff is new?’

      Darby was stunned at this difference between the street and the academy.

     ‘How come you haven’t taken it?  It’s awe inspiring.  You can see God.  It’s a tremendous religious experience, a sacrament.’

     ‘Aw, really?  Well, if that’s what you saw, that’s what you saw.  Here’s the catch, there isn’t any God to see.  If you saw him, he was of your own devize.  All you’ll do is mess up your own mind.  You can’t get out of it what isn’t in it, and you can’t put anything in it with a pill.  So, the way I see it you have to organize what’s in it, if you can, then add only the information that’s going to be the most beneficial, if you can, but that’s hard work.’

     ‘You don’t think you can expand your consciousness with drugs?’

     ‘No.  I don’t even know how you can expand your consciousness, whatever that means, unless you mean by adding experience you broaden your understanding.  The only other thing you can hope to do is absorb your subconscious into your conscious; that is to strip away the debris hiding your subconscious motivations from your conscious mind.  Thus instead of being of two minds, you become of one mind.  Beyond that I don’t there’s anything.  Period.’

     Darby had never heard anyone talk this way.  The ‘greatest minds’ of his generation were sold on the efficacy of drugs.

     ‘Have you ever tried any drugs?’  Darby asked caustiously.

     ‘I had something called Nembutal last year when I had a couple wisdom teeth pulled out.  Shouldn’t have done it.’

     ‘Bad trip?’

     ‘No.  I mean the wisdom teeth.  There wasn’t anything wrong with them.  All I did was gratify a dentist’s greed.  Hmmm.  The Nembutal.  No, it wasn’t a bad trip for me.  I might have been for the other patients in the office though.  How so?  Well, man, all my inhibitions went out the window.  I became totally self-centered.  I didn’t respect any social conventions.  I was just looking through people, bobbing and weaving, telling them what was on their minds, explaining them to themselves.  No data, I just knew.  No, I didn’t have a bad trip; I really enjoyed myself, you know, but there wasn’t anything there, no reason to go back, you know what I mean.  You ever read ‘Troubled Sleep?’

     Darby pulled up in front of a house in Concord.  One can only imagine the effect on a housewife when a new white Chevy pulls up and two guys in suits get out holding clipboards and gesticulating toward the house.  It’s amazing that anyone opens the door just because there’s a knock on it.

     Darby’s style was magnificent.  He exuded warmth and compassion while keeping the edge of a threat in the background.  He chatted the woman up with a style Dewey envied.  He explained that there was no problem with Lowell, Smith and Evers that the payment of the rent couldn’t cure.  He inquired about her and her husband’s financial condition.  Oddly enough she told in some detail.  He was affability itself.  Then he admonished her to get the payment in and bid her a cheery adieu. 

     Dewey was astounded.  He couldn’t believe this was the same guy.  Suddenly Dewey realized how uptight he himself really was.  He couldn’t even relax his vocal chords; he barely opened his mouth to speak, releasing his words through clenched teeth.  A wave of admiration rushed from him to Darby.  He would have given his other two wisdom teeth to be so affable.

     ‘Wow. That was terrific.’  He said admiringly.

     ‘Thank-you.’  Darby said with sincerely felt complacency.

     ‘You’ve got to know how to talk to these deadbeats.’  He said with the self-satisfaction of innate superiority.

     ‘Boy, I’ll say.  I don’t know if I can do it like that.’

     ‘Oh, you may be able to learn.  Just watch me.’

     Darby, to put it on the positive side moved deliberately.  On the negative side, as Dewey saw it, he wasted a lot of time.  For the whole morning they only made three calls.  Nor did Darby move systematically or in a straight line.  He seemed to have some mystical way of selecting a card, shuffling though his deck until the right one popped out somehow.  While engaged in this he was lost in absorption.  Dewey sat silently observing him.

     After having driven all over Contra Costa to make the three calls it was time for lunch.

     ‘Why don’t we get a sandwich and drive to the top of Mt. Diablo and enjoy it there?’  Darby asked with the amiability with which he approached ‘deadbeats.’

      ‘You mean go all the way up Diablo to eat lunch?’  Dewey asked incredulously.

     ‘Sure, Dewey.  Great view.  You’ll love it.’

     As Dewey was to learn Darby knew how to make his days as delightful as possible.  He knew the most interesting way everywhere.  He found rusticity in the midst of the concrete Californians love so well; even the concrete took on rustic dimensions when Darby drove through it.  He didn’t even have to point it out to Dewey; it just appeared.  Darby’s whole day was a magic carpet ride; he was just relaxed and paying atttention.  Compared to him Dewey felt as tightly wound as a baseball without a cover.

     Darby drove ten miles to seek out a little deli he had found somewhere in the depths of Concord.  The place was charming, the people were terrific and the sandwiches were unbelievable.  As they walked out Dewey looked back to see nothing that would distinguish the shop.  All he saw was another sandwich shop in another shopping strip.  As he sat in the car he studied the shop trying to see what Darby obviously saw.  He couldn’t see it.

     He studied Darby in a new light as they wound their way up Diablo.  Locating what was apparently his favorite spot, Darby eased the Chevy into a parking space and they sat gazing out over Contra Costa County to the North.

     Diablo is a low mountain rising alone in the middle of Contra Costa.  The county begins in the Oakland hills in the West, bordering the Bay in the North and against the San Joaquin River on the East.  From the relatively lush hills of Walnut Creek it turns into the hot burning desert of Byron.   It was all laid out before them.

      As this was in January the weather outside was frightful but inside the car the radiation from the sun through the windows made it warm and cozy.  Darby was in to the mood to impart lore and instruction.

     From the look on Darby’s face he might as well have been in heaven.  Smiling is not the right word. He, beaming beatifically, so at peace with the world that the notion of unpleasantness didn’t exist for him.  The notion that he was high on LSD didn’t occur to Dewey, but Darby was.  Dewey just thought that he had to learn this attitude.

     Despite his beatific appearance he began the conversation with a ‘deadbeat’ story.  ‘Very few of these deadbeats have a college education.  They’re ignorant people.  They don’t think.  Some of the things we’ve come across are scarcely believable.  There was this fellow in Sacramento.  Never paid.  He let it go to the max every time then caught up.  By max I mean the full six months.  Finally he slipped past the limit and we got to foreclose on him.  Naturally he just abandoned the house.  I’m surprised how many people will do that.  Instead of selling the house, which in nearly every case has appreciated a little, they just walk away.  Not very intelligent.  You wouldn’t believe what this guy did, except that it’s me telling you.  His garage was connected to the house and in order to save money, I suppose, he just opened the kitchen door and chucked the garbage into the garage.  Garbage was piled higher than your head.  The entire garage was full.  Gosh, there were rats as big as beavers.  It cost several hundreds of dollars to haul the stuff away.  You wouldn’t believe how some of these people live.’

     ‘Jeez, I guess I’m about to find out.’

     ‘Uh hum, you sure are.  Now, listen Dewey.’  Darby said in his warm patronizing tone.  ‘We’ll get your car to you tomorrow morning, so take the bus to the office.  One good thing about this job is that, if you’re careful, you’ll never have to buy your own gas.  You can buy gas anytime during the week with no problem.  But never buy on the company credit car on the weekends.  Always fill up the last thing Friday night wherever you’re working and then the first thing on Monday morning.  You’ve got to do it this way or you’ll ruin it for all of us.  If they ever say anything just shrug your shoulders and pretend not to understand.

     One other thing.  Once a year you have to go down to Fresno and again up to Ukiah.  You have to stay overnight.’

     ‘Oh no.’  Interjected Dewey.  ‘I can leave early in the morning and make it back by night.  Neither of those places are that far.’

      ‘No.  No.  You’re not listening to me.  You have to pay at least fifteen dollars for your room.  My first time, with my love of the extraordinary I searched out this place in an old mill by a stream outside Ukiah.  They only wanted a dollar and a half.  I split the difference with them up to fifteen dollars.  You can’t ruin it for the rest of us; you have to do these things this way or else.’

     ‘Yeah. Yeah.  OK.  How did you find the mill for a dollar and a half?  That sounds wonderful, sound of water running by and all.  Did someone tell you about it?’

     ‘Oh, uh uh.  When you get to know me, Dewey, you’ll find that I have a real nose for the picturesque.  We better get going now.  Did you enjoy your lunch?’

     ‘Oh yeah, Darby.  This was terrific.’

     ‘Too bad you don’t have a degree.  Stanford was terrific.’

     ‘Been on the campus.  Liked it a lot myself.’  Dewey replied, as they wound back down Diablo after an hour and half lunch.

     ‘That’s one of the good things about the job you can set your own pace.’

     They made three more calls that afternoon.  At four Darby turned the car homeward.

     ‘You’re off work at five o’ clock so always leave early enough so that you’re in your driveway by five.’

     ‘Not so bad.’  Thought Dewey.  ‘You don’t have to knock on doors before ten and you’re back home at five.  An hour and half lunch.  I might be able to dig this.’

     Quite unaware of himself Darby had become a role model for Dewey.

 

    

A Short Story

From The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams Collection

All The Way From China

by

R.E. Prindle

 

Ruby lips above the water

Blowing bubbles soft and fine

But, alas, I was no swimmer…

Trad.  Clementine

 

     Dewey roused himself in bed, propping himself up on the pillows.

     ‘Where are you going today, Dewey?’ Asked his wife Angeline.

     ‘Nowhere actually.  I’m supposed to work Marin here.  Not a lot to do really.  Just a dozen houses but they’re far apart.’

     ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to do Marin?’

     ‘I’m not but Ramme sends me into his areas every so often.  Must be someone he’s afraid of or unpleasant for him.  Maybe he just doesn’t feel like driving over from Berkeley today.  I don’t know.  He’s an odd duck.  He’s got this Stanford degree and he’s doing the same job I am.’

     ‘Where are you going first?’

     ‘Just over the freeway here in Larkspur.’

     ‘You mean Corte Madera?’

     ‘Yes, Angeline, just over the freeway here. I think it’s one of those houses built on stilts over the tidal flats; you know, out there on the mud.’

     ‘Really?  They’ve got houses out over the bay?’

     ‘Yeah.  I guess they’re fairly defensive.  Some guy told I wouldn’t dare go out there to collect or they’d chuck me over the side, beat me up or something?’

     ‘Really?  Would they do that?  Are you going to go?’

     ‘Sure.’

     ‘Why?  If Ramme doesn’t want to do it why should you?’

     ‘Well, my dear, I’ve never been there before.  Looks pretty strange.  I’d like to see it from the other side.’

     ‘What if they hurt you?’

     ‘Oh, they aren’t going to hurt me.  Nobody has yet.  Nobody’s even tried although I have had a few threats.  What’s to worry?  Just talk ’em out of it, that’s all.  They threaten me and I’ll threaten to burn ’em out at high tide or foreclose on ’em, that’s all.  What do you think of that?’

     ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

     “If I had to pay to get my suit cleaned I might.’

 

     The mud flats Dewey referred to were at the mouth of Tamalpais Creek out into the San Francisco Bay.  At low tide a strand of a couple hundred feet was exposed.  Several houses connected to shore by walkways were built out over them on piles.

     Dewey rolled up about ten to make his call.  His house was not part of the main cluster but was an isolated structure North and East, closer to the creek.  Tamalpais Creek at one time was navigable for small ships but over the years civilization had reduced it to a trickle.  Now it could barely be spotted as it oozed into the bay.

     A parking area about three cars wide was cleared in a little copse of trees and foliage.  Romantic spot, really, which is why the tenant lived there.  A wooden walkway extended about fifty feet from the the shore to the house.

     As Dewey got out of his car he noticed motorcycle tracks in the gravel. 

     ‘What a weird situation.’  He thought.  ‘I’ll bet that house isn’t even on land.  I’ll bet that’s property that belongs to the State.  I’ll bet nobody can own land on the tidewater.  These people must be some kind of squatters.  I wonder how they got a loan on the house?’

     As he stepped out on the walkway he looked over at the main cluster.  ‘I’ll bet you Darby was afraid to make this call so he gave it to me.  What a chicken.’  But he didn’t like the look of those motorcycle tracks.  ‘Might me those damn Hell’s Angels.’

     ‘How strange, how strange.’  Dewey thought as he turned to look back at the shore.  ‘Very picturesque though, very romantic.’

     ‘Come in.’ Floated out the open door before he’d even had a chance to knock.  What a beautiful melodious female voice, spoken in such a languorous sensual tone.

     Dewey stepped inside.  A delightful array of scents caressed his nostrils.  Colors ovewhelmed his senses making his brain tingle.  There seated in a chair by a window looking out over the bay was the most beautiful woman.

     She was beside a table on which sat a large basket of funny looking squat orange fruit, not an orange, not a tangerine.  Dewey had never seen them before.

    ‘Hi, honey.  Have a seat.’  She said with a warm curiosity interested to see what fate had cast up on her shore.

     There was something so voluptuous, so eternally female in her voice that Dewey for the second time tingled.  A strange enervating glow radiated from the top of his spine into his brain leaving him almost euphoric.

     ‘My name’s, Suzanne.  What’s yours?’

     ‘My name?’  Dewey said astonished and surprised.  ‘Um, Dewey.  But I’m from…’

     ‘Oh, we can get into that later Dewey.  Let’s get acquainted first.  Let’s get to know each other.  Wouldn’t you like that?  Would you like an orange?’

     Dewey looked at the basket.  ‘Those are oranges?  I’ve never seen them before.  What kind?’

     ‘Those are Mandarin oranges, Dewey.  They came all the way from China.  Peel me one.  Will you be so kind?’

     ‘Huh?’

     ‘Peel me an orange, Dewey.  You look like you have good hands.’

     ‘Oh, yeah, sure.’  Dewey picked up an orange to peel as he looked around taking stock of where he was.

     Suzanne had a real hep pad; she was a real hep chick.  The genuine article.  The location was too exotic.  The house was small, one room really, with partial dividers setting off the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom.  The delicious Marin air wafted through the house through windows open and looking out in every direction.  Off to the West San Quentin Prison was visible across the black mud extending to the Eastern edge of the water.  The house was now high and dry as the tide was out.

     ‘The tide makes a wonderful sound when it come creeping back in, lapping against the piles.’  Suzanne breathed in that wonderful voice.

     ‘Um.’

     The house was sparsely furnished Zen style with just the right number of peices of undecorated but classically correct furniture, no more than necessary, no less.  The walls were draped in Indian bedspreads or tapestries.  One covered the central part of the ceiling over the exposed central light bulb.

     A turntable, speakers and amplifier were arranged on boards supported by cinder blocks on Suzannes’s left.  Dewey had never seen separate components before.  He easily recogized the phonograph for what it was.  All of a sudden his portable Webcor seemed like trash.  In an instant he had never wanted anything more than a component phonograph system.  Dewey could identify several records lying about.  Suzanne was a real folkie of the old school.  Records on the Topic label by Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Bob Gibson and Bob Camp were there.  A couple Leadbelly sides and a Josh White, Odetta.  Old Weavers records and a Pete Seeger.  The most current stuff she had was the Kingston Trio, Chad Mitchell Trio and Judy Henske.  The two Trios were of the hippest political stuff.  Both were considered dangerous, especially the great Chad Mitchell Trio.

     She kept the place immaculate.  A few books were artfully strewn about.  ‘The Book Of Tea’, ‘Zen Flesh, Zen Bones’, ‘Steppenwolf’, ‘Light From The East.’

     Some of the singer’s names Dewey had only heard of, some were completely unknown to him, they were already part of the past.  ‘The Book Of Tea’ and ‘Zen Flesh, Zen Bones’ he owned himself in those picturesque little Charles Tuttle editions.

     His swung back to Suzanne herself.  She was a very beautiful woman.  She was the epitome of femininity, completely woman, no equivocation if you know what I mean.

     She was sitting on the chair, barefoot with her legs tucked up.  Her feet were beautifully formed, her ankles the neatest.  She wore a rose colored blouse with a darker rose colored vest laced across her midriff.  The vest raised her stunning breasts as if offering them to the world.  Stunning?  My god! They were truly melons, slightly elongated resting on and pressing against the sides of the vest.

     Dewey nearly swallowed his teeth.  She wasn’t wearing a bra.  Very unusual in 1964.  Nipples the size of fifty cent pieces raised, it seemed, a quarter inch above the surrounding flesh pink beneath the rose material.  Dewey bit his lip as he tremblingly peeled the Mandarin orange.

     Looking up he saw that she was still beautiful with a gorgeous full mane of long dark chestnut hair.  She an an enchanting line of freckles across his cheeks and nose. The ample but not overly full lips were drawn back in a half smile.

     ‘Wow!  Dimples on her elbows, dimples on her knees.  A drunkard’s dream if I ever did see one.’  Ran through Dewey’s mind.

     But, Suzanne, Dewey noted, was past her prime.  She was probably close to or over forty.  She had the look of experience, of having been passed around.  Her skin showed the ravages of drug use.  The flesh was slightly dry and wrinkling from excessive exposure to the California sun.  Too much skiing, water-skiing and boating.  Too much of being the good sport.  Too much enjoying the pleasures of being a party girl.  Suzanne was at the stage where she had been superseded by younger and fresher looking women.

     ‘Finished yet?’  She cooed as only a San Francisco Mama can.  She gathered her hair in that languorous sensual way, looking inquiringly at him.

     ‘Yes.  I am.’  Dewey replied as coolly as possible.  ‘Do you want me to split it in half for you, or…’

     ‘Of course, silly boy.  Keep half for yourself.  We’ll share it.  Some for me, a little for you.’

     ‘Uh…OK.  I’ve never had one of these before.  They really come from China?’

     Suzanne nodded, smiling at Dewey’s awkwardness and apparent simplicity.  Suzanne, who knew very few men who wore suits had guessed who Dewey was.  She couldn’t make her mortgage payment, the money wasn’t there.  Perhaps she could wheedle a payment out of him or at least divert his attention so that she could avoid the embarrassment of admitting she didn’t have the money which would have killed her.

     ‘Tell me, Dewey…’

     ‘Oh god,’  thought Dewey, ‘I hope she isn’t going to go into the sound of one hand clapping or if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one around to here it, does it make a noise.  Boy, I’ve had enough of that.’

     ‘…which do you think is more important, money or relationships?’

     ‘Well, I think you can have both, Suzanne.’

     ‘Yes, of course, Dewey, but which do you think is more important if you could have only one.  Money or relationships?’

     Another guy might have risen to the bait and Dewey saw it there silhouetted on the water but, besides being married, his instincts revealed the hook in the fly.  Somehow he could sense trouble so he took the question as one to be dealt with intellectually.

     ‘Well, Suzanne, that’s a tough one.  Relationships are important of course.  But they are all based on expediency.  When the reason for them disappears so do the relationships.

     Hence in all relationships there is the user and the used.  My wife’s family owns a nursing home and even in the parent-child relationship, which should be enduring, children dump their parents off and never think of them again.  They keep the money.  At least if you have money in the bank, you can always pay the rent.’

     The last remark was made thoughtlessly.  Dewey had no intention of making Suzanne uncomfortable.  She nevertheless felt the sting which disheartened her in her rather perilous situation.  She rose to offer Dewey a cup of tea, subconsciously attempting to arouse him.  It had worked with men so many times before.

     She rose to lean over Dewey breathing in his ear would he like a cup of tea.  Her marvelous breasts swung left and right dazzling Dewey’s eyes.  the magnificent nipples nearly brushed Dewey’s lips.  He could have…it would have been so easy.  Her intoxicatingly wonderful scent nearly loosened his mind from its anchors.  As Suzanne sat back down rolling her breats around Dewey nearly fainted from delight.

     ‘Really, Dewey?’  She breathed in that husky suppressed sexuality.  ‘I’ve found that my relationships have always been the most rewarding things in my life.  Friends are more important to me than anything.’

     ‘Uh huh.  Well, diamonds are a girl’s best friend.’  Dewey thought to himself.

     He didn’t respond directly.  As beautiful as Suzanne was Dewey could see that she was past the age of desirability.  She had been displaced by younger women.  But Dewey liked to talk and Suzanne was venturing into areas he had thought about.

     ‘Well, Suzanne, I’m not from here.  I grew up in Michigan.’

     ‘Oh, really, Dewey?  I’m from Waterloo, Iowa.’

     ‘Wow.’  Thought Dewey.  ‘Waterloo’s loss was San Francisco’s gain.’  He continued:  ‘Waterloo, hmm.  and most of the people in California, like me and you, come from somewhere else.  Close friends are hard to make; everyone seems suspicious of everyone else.  I’ve concluded therefore that once out of childhood it’s impossible to make any real friends.  Even in childhood the friendships are based on relative status which only seems natural in childhood because you grew up with it.  You can see people fly apart after graduation when those distinctions change.

     After childhood, it seems to me that all relationships are built on expediency.  People can be friends only while it is worthwhile to know each other.  Even then there is a sharp struggle for status and social place.  One party has to be dominant.  The struggle for leadership is the most important thing.  If one party won’t go under the relationship can’t exist.

      Everyone wants to be superior to the other.  The concept of equality is only important for the low man on the totem pole.  In a static society maybe a rough sort of equality might obtain but I don’t think so, everyone would just know their place.

     The ability to consider other people as equals is also being seriously undermined by TV.  If you watch the shows you will notice that it is always the story of the mastermind and his stooges.  Some guy, for no apparent reason, thinks he is a leader.  He has no credentials.  He isn’t even successful in a conventional way; he has no training; he is even uneducated if not illiterate.  But he has charisma.  For some reason, brash over confidence, I suppose, we are to believe that this guy possesses the answer that nobody else can find.  Everybody recognizes this take charge guy’s superiority.  His response is always:  I don’t know the answer, but let’s try this.  He never knows anything but he always succeeds.  Everyone hastens to assist him.  Superbly educated scientists subserve him; he commands generals who have been trained to leadership and they leap to obey his commands.

     The TV image creates the reality or, at least, a very large body of imposters trying to assume the image.  I have known all kinds of guys trying to assume that image.  They can’t.  And when you refuse to accord them the dignity, you deny their fantasy, they hate you.  They think you’re the arrogant upstart.

     These guys are going to get really frustrated, twist; in the not too distant future after repeated denials of their omnip0tence; some of these guys are going to crack.  They’re going to show up with guns and just start shooting everybody down.  TV is really being misused.  TV is evil.  None of those guys is ever going to be around when you need them, and they’re users, so I’d rather be sitting cozy with a bundle in the bank rather than trying to cultivate them.’

     ‘You’ll notice I don’t have a TV.  I certainly agree with you about that.’  Suzanne replied who really liked this type of discussion.  ‘But still my friends have been a great help to me.  They give me things and I learn lots from them that I might otherwise not know.  I mean,’  she leaned forward breathlessly, ‘I think you will understand this, because of them I have seen and talked to God.’

      ‘Oh yeah?  How’s that?’  Dewey said trying to conceal his contempt of anyone who claimed to have talked to God.

     ‘Well, my friends are pretty hep.  They know about things lots sooner than other people.’  She said nodding in the direction of the records.  ‘Have you ever hear of LSD Dewey?’

      ‘Uh…no, what is it?’  Dewey lied.

     ‘It’s this new hallucinogen that you take and it opens up your doors of perception so you can see God and have really truly mystical experiences.’

     ‘What’s a hallucinogen, some kind of drug like heroin?’

     ‘No, it’s not a drug, it’s entirely different.  It makes you see things in a way you’ve never seen them before and better, more clearly, with total reality.  I’m an entirely different person.  I feel like a real god compared to people who haven’t taken it.’  She reached out and touched his arm by way of apology for having distanced herself so much from him.  But she spoke the truth.  she now felt in a world, a class apart, they all did.

     Suzanne belonged to the folk half of the post-war period.  She had passed through the whole period but on a level above the Beatniks but below Society.  She had in fact been what would have been known as a groupie for the folk musicians.  she had met and knew most of them and had loved them all.  They all enjoyed her.  She had been a fixture at the ‘hungry i’, that preeminent San Francisco folk nightclub.

     She had never had to work.  Gifts had come her way.  She had never questioned them.  She gave freely of the love she genuinely felt in her heart, the heart of a good loving woman, and she saw nothing amiss in what she considered the outpouring of love in the form of gifts from her admirers.  Perhaps they saw it that way too.  She should have been a little more mercenary requiring something more substantial than what only amounted to baubles.  She would not then have been delinquent in her mortgage payment.

      She was so beautiful, so lovely, so the eternal woman that she could have chosen men with discrimination.  Even in her choice of folkies she chose well if not lucratively.  The folkies were a bunch of great guys.  They had their limitations of course but a more decent group of men never existed.

     Suzanne had been the belle of their balls.  She had presided as queen at all their get togethers.  Of course, she had to be supported, that is, until she got old.  Now, not only was Suzanne superannuated but the whole folk scene was vanishing.  This year was the year of transition from the folk half to the rock half of the post-war era.  The next generation was about to transform the music into folk-rock and blues based electric rock.  There was to be no place left for the acoustic folkies.  The amplified hand held bass guitar destroyed them.

     If any year was crucial to the transition from the old to the the new 1964 was it.  Timothy Leary had lent Harvard’s imprimatur to experimentation in drugs.  The Beats had spread Marijuana throughout the Bay and now LSD and the other hallucinogens would lend Harvard’s credibility to the weed.

     Musical groups like the Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead and Big Brother and the Holding Company were already destroying the folk scene.  The ‘hungry i would be replaced by the Matrix and electric music.  Within just a couple years the rock musical sensibility would sweep all other musical forms from the charts.

     The Beat writers who emerged in 1959 were changing the consciousness of the youth.  Marshall McLuhan, that incredible master of nonsense, that twentieth century Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll rolled into one, was about to publish his book ‘Understanding Media.’   Everything but the premiss was wrong, but it was found to be true that the Medium is the Message.  Carlos Casteneda was relating the absurd adventures of Don Juan and J.R.R. Tolkien had woven the fantasy of the Hobbits and their Ring.  All the elements for the rock half of the post-war world were in place waiting to take effect.

     News may travel fast but it penetrates slowly.  As Dewey and Suzanne sat by the river in the warm California sun eating the oranges that came all the way from China neither had an inkling of what was happening.  It was as though a Japanese farmer looking up from his fields toward Hiroshima and noticing  the funny mushroom shaped cloud asked:  ‘What’s that?’

     Suzanne was too old to make the change.  that very lovely woman was about to lose all.  Dewey would catch the wave and ride the crest into shore.  Neither knew they were sitting on opposite sides of the same abyss.  Suzanne’s implicit faith in friends who gave her drugs saddened Dewey.  From his male point of view he could see what had happened and what would happen to Suzanne.  She was totally lovable as the eternal female.  As such he had fallen in love with her at sight.  But, as the eternal female he knew that men were irresistable to her.  She loved to much and too well.  He could never respect such a woman and could love her only from a distance.

     Out of love for Suzanne, at the risk of humiliating himself, he thought to tell here what any woman less a woman than Suzanne must surely know.  Dewey heaved a great sigh, then began:

     ‘As a token of friendship they gave you dugs?  Now, Suzanne one can never get out one’s mind what isn’t in it.  The only way to break on through to the other side if such a thing can be done is by analyzing your own mind.  Drugs will only mess you up, even new stuff like LSD.  All drugs are bad.  Men are peculiar animals!  I love everything about the way you live Suzanne.  I don’t know about a lot of the artists you listen to and I haven’t read a lot of these books you have.  I hate to admit it but I haven’t even heard of a lot of them.  But I’ve done a lot of reading, you know, all kinds of things, I like ancient history a lot.

      And, you know, there was a time when mankind didn’t know about procreation.  The female of the species was the source of increase so Man woshipped the Great Mother.  Women were available to all men, in theory at least, or as a woman might put it all men were available to her.  But then Man discovered paternity.  He learned that he was the inseminator.  In his vanity he became the Creator.  The Great Mother became the passive receptacle of his creativity rather than the source of all things.

     With the knowledge of paternity came the desire for immortality by creating a son in his own image much as God created Man in his own image.  That’s why all men think they’re gods Suzanne.  The Great Mother cult was unrestrained in its sexuality and orgiasm which runs counter to self-control and reason.  Man was also becoming more conscious of who he was and his surroundings, hence he left the Garden and entered the World.

      Now the Great Mother had to be destroyed for those two reasons.  Reason had to supplant unreason and women had to become the property of men so that paternity could, hopefully, be assured.  Beyond that men have no real use for women.  But men like them and want them because they are beautiful and desirable.  But men don’t want responsibilities so if they can get what they want without obligations so much the better.  You dig?

     Men have been good to you because you are beautiful and I suspect, because you know who you are and how to manage them.  But, you know Suzanne, everything changes.  There comes a time when the incoming tide washes away the magnificent sand castles built on the strand.  We have to retreat further inland and start a new life.  Do you get my drift?’

     ‘I think I do, Dewey.’  Suzanne said with a tear in her lovely eye.  No mascara ran down her cheek because she didn’t wear makeup.  She was hep to the bone.  ‘I think what you’re saying is that I should find a harbor for my craft.’

      ‘Well, yes.  In your shoes, I suppose I would leave the well traveled roads and look for that Mansion On The Hill, put the past behind me and look to the future.  You have had the best of lives.  Looking at your records, Suzanne, I can tell by the covers that they’re all old.  I mean, I like folk music too but I’ve never heard of half those people.  You don’t have any Limelighters or Glenn Yarborough, no Christy Minstrels or any new stuff.  Even then Folk has just about run its course.  It’s really turning trite and sappy.

     You don’t look like you could do Jazz and you’re too old for Rock n’ Roll.’  Dewey bit his tongue.  ‘So I’d look to those new vistas opening on the horizon there.’

     Suzanne looked at him long and pensively.  The changes he was talking about clicked through her brain in successive images but she couldn’t retain any of them long enough to form a sentence.  She intuited the truth of what he had said even admired the way he had said it but she liked men, not a man, men.

     She liked the intoxication of feeling universally desired.  What would she do to get that?  No.  The die was cast.

      Dewey really liked Suzanne but now it was time to go.  She had that quality; he wanted to do something for her.  Unfortunately his money was in his billfold, one of those clunky things that made it look like a man had tumor on his buttock.  He didn’t want to stand there and ostentatiously withdraw money to give her.

     ‘Um, I have to go Suzanne.  May I use your bathroom?’

     In the bathroom Dewey took a five out of his billfold, a lot of money to him at the time, put it in his front pocket and went back to Suzanne at the table with the oranges on it.

     ‘Well, Suzanne, I have to leave.  I’ve got work to do but, look, here’s five dollars.  I want you to have it, you know, I mean, uh, keep it.’

     ‘Oh, Dewey, I couldn’t take your money.’

     ‘Sure, just consider it a loan.’

     ‘How would I ever be able to pay you back?’

     ‘Oh, if not me then loan it to somebody else sometime.’

     ‘Here, here Dewey take some oranges.  They come all the way from China.’   She said thrusting three oranges at him.

      ‘Thanks.  I love you, Suzanne.’

      Then Dewey walked out into the sunshine across the causeway.  He got into his car, backed out and was half a block away when the air was split by the roar of two motorcycles.  Fat Tony and Stig wheeled into the parking space.

     ‘Who the fuck was that, Stig?’  Fat Tony roared.

     ‘I don’t know Ton’ but only bill collector’s wear suits.’

     ‘Come ’round here and we’ll stomp his ass good.’

     ‘Damn right.’

     ‘She’s ours now.  Wait’ll you see her.  Cans out to here.  That folk singer guy told me about her.  I was here last night and wooee.’

     Four black engineer’s boots thundered across Suzanne’s walkway.

     ‘Say mama, I’m here, and look who I brought, my friend Stig I told ya about.  Say, who was that guy I saw drivin’ away.  Don’t want to see him no more.  You ours now, Mama.

     What the hell do you call these, bitch?’  Fat Tony said pointing to the oranges.  ‘Why the hell don’t you get some American oranges that look like oranges should.’  So saying Fat Tony pitched the basket of oranges out the window.  The orange balls rolled out across the black mud flat where they would soon be bobbing on the incoming tide.  Some would be left clinging to the foliage on the bank, some would be swept out to sea through the Golden Gate perhaps to return all the way to China.

     ‘Come on, Bitch, get outta those rags and get on your hands and knees me and Stig wanna fuck.  We’re horny as hell.’

     Dewey got on the freeway speeding on down to Mill Valley for the next call.  He looked over at the three oranges on the seat where he had placed them.  Picking them up he tossed them out the window into the middle of the freeway where they rolled down the fast lane.  Sploot, sploot, tires shot the juice into traffic.

      Dewey forgot that he had ever met Suzanne.

 

 

 

A Fictional Dialogue

Battleground America:

Breakfast At Champions

by

R.E. Prindle

Clip 2.

 

Dewey

You haven’t heard it because our thought is controlled.  Only the correct opinion is allowed to be published.  In the first place the notion of being politically correct comes from the Stalinist era of the Show Trials of the thirties.  No deviant opinion was allowed; all opinion had to be politically correct according to Stalin’s guidelines.

Therefore before anyone dared express an opinion they first had to check with their Commissar for the correct slant.  Earl Browder, the head of the American Communist Party served that purpose in the US.  Reds had to ask ‘What does Earl Say?’ before they dared to express their opinion and then it was always the same as Browder’s.  Therefore, as you say you are PC you have to check all your opinions against a central authority.  Hence you are not free to think as you like; hence you are a slave to another’s authority.  I can’t do that; I’ve got to be free.  Freedom of conscience is everything to me.  But then, different strokes for different folks as they used to say.  You need the security of knowing you’re right.

Craig

(makes growling noises as the truth of the statement sinks in)  That…that’s not…entirely…true.

Dewey

Sure it is, Craig.  Or else it isn’t possible for you to be sure of being politically correct.  But, let’s get back to the Irish Catholic, John F. Kennedy.

Craig

Racial motives can’t possible enter into the Kennedys.  Besides Dewey it has been scientifically proven that race doesn’t exist.  Do you know that ninety-nine point six percent of the genes of every living human being are the same.  What do you have to say about that?

Dewey: 

Well, for starters, ninety-nine point six is not the same as one hundred percent.  What you have just told me is that four tenths of one percent of our genes determines race.

That’s an inane argument since we all come from the same source along with rocks and trees and birds and bees.  The genetic makeup of everything comes from the same source.

Craig

We’re gentically one with rocks?  Puff away, Dewey.

Dewey

Craig, we took geology together.  The Earth has a molten core. Everything that is on the crust which is dried molten core is identical with the core.  Life as we know it arose from the ‘living’ water that exuded from that core and continues to exude  to the present day.

The water is so strong in life giving propensities that even though photo-synthesis isn’t possible at present depths chemical life forms are created.

If you believe in evolution then according to its proponents all life proceeded from a single celled organism.  All genes have arisen from this organism.  That they have differentiated along the way is self-evident.  Even so the majority of genes must be shared by all organisms, even rocks.

Therefore you can prove that species don’t exist either because all life is genetically identical.  Therefore the elephant is not a different species of being.  It’s just a human with a different configuration.

If you are going to to be politically correct then you should insist that your Commissars think these things out before they speak.

In addition your objection to race is that if race exists then other races are inferior to your own.  This is the universal premise behind the genocide which is being practiced by every race in existence.  I don’t think one race is inferior or superior I just accept that they are different and have developed separate racial approaches to managing reality.  I’m sure that even the politically correct will admit that there are different approaches to reality and they are not equal or else how could you be politically correct?

The question then is are all approaches equally productive?  That’s the question not physical identity.

So, the Celts have their characteristic way of looking at reality that is different from the Anglo-Saxon.

For instance, the Irish speaking of Ireland refer to it as the Old Sod while they refer to the United States as the New Island.  Language and words are very important indicators of feeling.  New Island can only be an extension of the Old Sod thus both localities are Ireland in the Irish mind.

The Irish have always used the New Island to carry on the war on the Old Sod against the Anglo-Saxon Protestants.

Actions speak louder than words.   Joe Kennedy not only supplied arms to the IRA but as I said he openly sided with the Nazis while Ireland itself remained neutral in the conflict which in the circumstances was a very bold move.

Jack was in office for three years but one of the first things he did on an official trip to Europe was to snub America’s premier ally- England.

Craig

I don’t remember that.

Dewey

Sure you do.  He went to the European capitals first, which in itself was considered a snub of England, then on the way back he spent a few hours in London but three whole days in Ireland.

I mean no  unkindness to the Irish but Ireland was, is and always will be an inconsequential backwater of civilization.  There can have been no political reason for that visit except to show the Irish they  had come into their own.  The Old Sod and New Island were one.  The Once and Future King had returned.

Indeed, in those three short years Camelot was reinstituted on American soil with John F. Kennedy as the reincarnation of the Celtic monarch Arthur.  Jackie was no Guinever but then if she had been replaced by Marilyn what a double cheeseburger that would have been, hey?

Craig

Marilyn Monroe?  There wasn’t any question of Jack Kennedy divorcing Jackie to marry Marilyn Monroe.

Dewey

Don’t lose your sense of humor, Craig.  It’s one of those historical what ifs.  Besides you aren’t considering Marilyn’s motives.  I think she thought it was possible.  But that’s neither here nor there.  I’m sorry I brought it up.

Anyway, I think it’s pretty clear that old Eire-land is in the saddle having captured America from the Anglo-Saxons.

Words and symbols, Craig, they’re dead giveaways.  Think of what Jack Kennedy did in those incredibly action packed three years.  A lot of fantasticks thing that Jack Kennedy was going to wind down the Viet Nam war.  I don’t know what they’re smoking.  South Viet Nam had been fairly well Catholicized under the French.  The Church had a pretty good toe hold which it would lose if the Communists gained control.

The campaign against Communism in the United States was directed in large measure from the Vatican.  Had the Communists gained control of Europe all three major churches- Russian and Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic would have been eliminated not to mention their parent Judaism.  The Roman Catholic Church was fighting Communism for its very existence.

All of the really important anti-Communists were Irish Catholics- Father Coughlin, Parnell Thomas, McCarthy, all of them.

Craig

Richard Nixon wasn’t Irish.

Dewey

It depends on who you call important but OK, I exaggerate for effect.  Anyway Nixon wasn’t destroyed by the Reds, at least until the seventies, so they couldn’t have taken him very seriously.  Martin Dies wasn’t Irish either but he was destroyed.

The Kennedys themselves were ardent anti-Communists and Catholics.  Bobby served on McCarthy’s committee and Joe Kennedy had Joe McCarthy up for dinner.

So you want to tell me that Jack was going to be soft on Communism in Viet Nam?  I don’t believe it.  Another first thing he did was create an elite Army Corps called the Green Berets.  Remember them?

Symbols, Craig.  Don’t you ever ask yourself why green?  Green is the color of the Emerald Isle me bhoy.  Celtism forever.  Remember in ‘Kim’, Kipling’s book, ‘Kim’, his father tells him to look for a red bull on a field of green and they will make his fortune for him.

The Red Bull of Cooley on a field of green was the flag of his dad’s old Irish regiment.  Kim was Irish if you remember.  Jack just took off the Red Bull of Cooley; but, if you look closely you’ll probably find a little bull in there.

So scratch cooling off Viet Nam.

By the way, the Army changed the color from green to black after Jack died.  I recently saw where the entire Army was assigned black berets and the Special Army Corps objected so they assigned tan berets to them.  Know what the nickname of the British troops occupying Ireland was?  The Black and Tans.  Coincidence?  Probably, but isn’t it amazing how those coincidences add up?

Now, by sixty-three it was clear that the neo-king of Camelot was as shoo-in for the sixty-four election.  He’d had such perfect press coverage he would have taken at least sixty percent of the vote even if Jackie had divorced him and she did threaten to do that if he  didn’t stop seeing Marilyn.

After Jack Bobby would have been a shoo-in for eight more years of the Kennedys with Teddy in the wings there were eight more.  Who knows who would have been next but that was a twenty-five year dynasty of Irish Catholics in Camelot.

After twenty-five years of Celtish rule who can tell what the country would be like except that the Anglo-Saxons had lost their inheritance.  They’d not only lost it but their good will had been betrayed.  They had offered a helping hand to the starving Irish during the potato famine and now rather than combining with their benefactors the Irish robbed them.

Don’t get me wrong, Craig, I don’t dislike the Irish as people.  They’re great company, but their racial motivations have to be discussed under a separate heading.  The Irish are essentially ingrates.  They not only came here during the famine but they also flooded England where they disrupted the wage scale by providing cheaper labor impoverishing English laborers for decades.  The English gave them employment in the English Army.  If a helping hand hadn’t been extended the Irish would have starved in their millions.

What gratitude did they show?  They burned down the queen’s chief residence.  They robbed the Anglo-Saxons of their own country.  These are just facts; there’s nothing you can do about them.

Now, Craig, let me ask you, why do you thing John F. Kennedy was shot?

Because he left us no choice.

Craig

Wait a minute, wait a minute.  In the first place I believe that Oswald was the lone assassin who killed Kennedy for his own reasons but now Sam Giancana and the Mafia are claiming responsibility.

Dewey

Oh right, Craig.  C’mon, the question is who is manipulating who.  We may never know, but then that’s the purpose of conspiring.  The chief conspirators are so hidden nobody can find them if they’re any good.  The lone assassin thing didn’t hold up; everybody, except you obviously, easily saw through that.  In their hurry they botched up the Warren Report.

So, nearly forty years later it gets out that Giancana thought he was being double-crossed by the Kennedys because they were reneging on what he thought he was due for helping get them elected.  And it was substantial help.  Get that, the Mafia got him elected. So Giancana orders a hit on Kennedy in Dallas by a nut.  Did you ever ask yourself what was in it for Oswald.  Nothing.

Bill Bonano of the New York Mafia even claims that Johnny Roselli was the real trigger man who fired the actual shot that did Kennedy in while he was standing on a rung down in a sewer when the car drove by.  How’s that for military precision?

All I can say is that if the Mafia was involved then Lee Harvey Oswald may have been the patsy but the Mafia was the Fall Guy of Plan B.  If history is any guide when Plan B fails they’ll fall back on Plan C, the Scapegoat.  By that time it will be ancient history, everyone concerned will be dead and no one will really care.

The assassination was cleverly handled but the real reason Kennedy bought it was because the Irish Catholics had captured the US government from the Anglo-Saxons and weren’t about to return it.  I repeat, he left us no choice.

Craig

OK, OK. I’m not saying I’m going for this racial crap about Celts and Anglo-Saxons but where does his being Catholic enter in?

Dewey

Viet Nam for one.  Ok.  So I got a wedge in on the racial theory.  I’m really trying to demonstrate to you how Madison Grant’s studies apply before I get to the big swindle with the Chinese, known of old as The Yellow Peril.

The Catholic influence.  Well, Craig, you have to ask yourself what it means to be Catholic. It must mean something or why call yourself one.  It’s all in the education.  It’s like being Jewish.  If there is no Jewish agenda or program then it is meaningless to say you’re Jewish.  Jews have this special education; I had mine as a Protestant Methodist which colors every opinion I have whether I will or no.  The Catholics have theirs.

A Catholic must think of Catholicism as the true religion.  So on the face of it the Church is and must be intolerant of every other religion and secular belief system.  You may object, but I saw William F. Buckley of the National Review representing the Catholic viewpoint on a panel discussion and he said out loud that his religion as the true church forbade his admitting the validity of any other viewpoint.

You know of the Catholic Index of Proscribed Books.  It therefore follows that freedom of conscience is not a tenet of the Catholic Church.  You are either religiously correct or a heretic.  Sounds a lot like your politically correct credo doesn’t it?

Now, if you are brought up to believe that your church and hence yourself is the only possessor of the truth and all other beliefs are lies it follows that you will probably think you are in possession of the truth and your opponents are devils who are willfully trying to thwart you.

That is essentially what Kennedy thought.  You probably don’t remember General Walker, Edwin Walker, but I was scandalized by his treatment.

I don’t know what General Walker’s beliefs were but he was scathing in his evaluation of Kennedy.  Kennedy’s response was religiously or politically correct in the negative sense.  He didn’t try to refute General Walker or tolerate his difference he declared the man insane for disagreeing with him.  Jack Kennedy had General Walker, a man with a distinguished military record in the Army of the United States, committed to an insane asylum.

An insane asylum!

Shades of Soviet Russia.  I immediately recognized Kennedy for the irresponsible bigot that he was.  I disliked Kennedy from the beginning but I despised and hated him from that day forward.

I’m really surprised that nobody remembers what I’m going to say next but I was terrified by the plan.  Kennedy’s idea was to discharge all the mental patients in America.  As I remember it they were to have subsidized housing in every neighborhood in America.  Then the mentally ill were to report to the block house on every street.  Some person was to be designated as block big brother.

If anyone was denounced as crazy as in the case of General Walker they were to be placed on the list of the mentally ill being required to check in with the block big brother for indoctrination regularly.  In that very Catholic manner there would never be a chance of the Presidency ever passing into Anglo-Saxon hands again.  Any who dared to challenge the orthodoxy of the Celt ascendancy would immediately be declared mentally ill and neutralized.  Or in religious terms they would be heretics, infidels, anti-Semites or politically incorrect.

Well, you know, along with every other Anglo-Saxon Republican I was opposed to the Once And Furture King Of Camelot.  I’m sure all but die-hards like me would have converted to Democrats the day the plan was passed.  I lived in actual fear that Kennedy’s plan would be realized.

So you see, when I heard he was shot my question was is he dead?  When I heard that news I danced and sang.

Kennedy’s approach to political opposition was precisely the result of his Church education about orthodoxy.  I felt that General Walker was avenged when Kennedy was killed.  I don’t have to tell you that General Walker lived in Dallas.

Craig

You think that General Walker killed Kennedy then?

Dewey

No.  I don’t have any idea who the actual conspirators were other than a general sense of direction but, remember, Kennedy was told not to go to Dallas.  Jackie publicly begged him not to go.  It was common knowledge that an attempt would be made on his life if he did.  I knew that it would happen and I was an absolute nobody who read only the papers, Time and Newsweek.

Craig

I don’t remember that at all.

Dewey

I seem to be the only one who does.  So, anyway, his Irish Catholicism was negating everything that Anglo-Saxon Protestantism stood for.  And then the Negro revolt was heating up pretty strong.  I can’t imagine that his handling of the Negro problem had anything to do with it but it is possible that he was thought to be making untimely or unnecessary concessions to them.

Craig

Well, it would go without saying that the conservatives were opposed to Negro rights.

Dewey.

Yes.  I suppose.  But remember the most important decisions in Civil Rights were made under the conservative Eisenhower.  Brown versus the Board Of Education in fifty-four and Central High in Little Rock in fifty-seven were real milestones.  All of the initial events had already taken place when Kennedy was elected.  It is true that J. Edgar Hoover was a real enemy of Mike King but would he go so far?

Craig

Who is Mike King?

Dewey

Martin Luther King before he changed his name.

Craig

King changed his name?

Dewey

Sure.  He was born Michael King.  Changed his name but didn’t drop the Junior so his father was Mike King and there wasn’t any Senior.  Although after he and Bobby were shot down in sixty-eight the whole atmosphere changed.  There was a kind of relaxation, a certain tenseness went out of the air although the Black rebellion continued unabated.  It was more like with Nixon in the White House things were back under  control.

Then, somewhere in there the Blacks began their separatist program.

Craig

You mean to say you think that Africa-Americans are trying to separate into their own country within the United States?

Dewey

I think so.  They ethnically cleanse every neighborhood they move into; they will almost certainly demand the status of an autonomous people.  Everything depends on how you look at it but they have already staked out certain economic areas as well while territorially they seem to be packing an area in Illinois and Indiana.  They are active in cleansing certain areas in Mississippi for instance.  They will almost certainly take over Chicago as a starter.

Craig

Take over Chicago! How are they going to do that?

Dewey

Are you kidding?  You Liberals get incensed because Hitler used the democratic process to establish an authoritarian government and you don’t know how the process works.  Or is it that you don’t think it can happen here, or if it does, it will be just.  The end purpose of both Hitler and Kennedy was alike.  If Kennedy had gotten his mentally ill program thorugh he would have executed the same type of  coup as Hitler did.

It’s easier than you think.  You just don’t have any respect for the rules, that’s all.  You make a new game or, as you Liberals now say, a new paradigm.  Every city in America is governed by a board of elected councilors.  They call it the City Council.  I don’t know how many Chicago has but all the Blacks need is half of it to control the city.  They may even be able to come up with more than half and then Chicago is theirs.  Gary, Indiana  and East St. Louis belong to them already.

The laws were all written in such a way and social realities are such that in housing Blacks are favored over Whites.

Craig

You know, Dewey, we must see things very differently because the way I see it the housing laws are written to provide equality not preference for anybody.

Dewey

Once again, Craig, it all depends on your perspective.

I don’t deny that was the intent but the intent of the Constitution of the United States was not to provide a way to establish a dictatorship and yet it does so for anyone so inclined.  Whether you’re willing to see things in the round or as a perspective of your intent in the problem you’re facing in understanding is what I’m saying.

There is no question that the laws as they were written intended to make housing open to all.  But, in practice, there are very few White people who have any desire to move into solid Black neighborhoods.  Nor would I advise it because Blacks are going to be much less tolerant of Whites than vice versa.

Watch your TV set very closely, Craig, you can see what I’m talking about happening before your eyes if you will only open them.  In certain real life situations filmed in integrated neighborhoods you will see colored kids, meaning Blacks, Mexicans and whatever crowding to the front while the White Kid or kids cringe back.  If you think in an integrated neighborhood a White minority is going to get fair treatment, Craig, you’re the one smoking those funny little cigarettes.

Hence, as in Chicago, an influx of Blacks will displace Whites from the city.  In the old days they called it the Flight to the Suburbs.  An influx of a few thousand Black families and Chicago is part of the Black Autonomous Republic.

On the economic front they have appropriated Basketball and Football as their profit centers.  If you watch TV, I mean look at it, Blacks have appropriated at least half of the acting jobs in shows and movies and at least half of the opportunities in commercials.  In all three areas they have displaced Whites from lucrative jobs which require nothing in the way of education.  Real lumpenproletariat functions but remunerative.

In Madison Grant’s terms they have flushed their racial competitors out of those areas.  This stuff is really interesting to observe if you can get rid of your prejudices and see things as they are.  You’re watching Grant’s Great Race commit suicide.

Craig

So you think there will be an African-American Autonomous Republic and an Irish Autonomous People.  What else?

Dewey

I didn’t say anything about an Autonomous Irish People but as the process develops anything is possible.  You know, the Pope has ordered changes in the parochial school system to bring instruction more in line with Catholic doctrine rather than American methods.  He is able to do that because the tremendous influx of Catholics into the country has either given the Church a majority or will soon.

So as the ‘Nativist bigots’ feared the country is being increasingly governed by Rome.

Craig

Catholic influx:  Well that’s a new one on me.  Where is this Catholic influx coming from?

Dewey

Aw, Craig, c’mon, man.  You’re a really smart guy.  What do you think all these Mexicans or Hispanics are?  Catholic to the man.  They just keep coming.

They’re really dangerous too.  Almost as much as the Yellow Peril.

Craig

How can some impoverished poor people seeking a better life in our prosperous country be a threat.  Don’t you think they just want to be like us?

Dewey

If I weren’t more aware of racial and psychological realities I might.  I just have a harder time adopting the Bwana attitude than you do.  The machine gun makes us all equal, Craig.  Those Columbian dope runners who fight pitched battles on American territory don’t strike me as poor inoffensive campesinos trying to milk their big rich Whtie Northern neighbors out of a few meals.

I see them for what they are:  aggressive all-male bravos fully as capable as any White man in equal combat, machine gun to machine gun.  That Bwana mentality you enjoy is real hard for me to grasp.  I don’t see oppressed African Americans, poor Hispanics or little yellow Chinamen.  I see a fully armed and dangerous group of peoples out to smash the White hegemony established in the Seven Years War.  And it is racial my old friend.  Our colored brothers are quite conscious of their racial identity.

Taking advantage of our legal system and goodwill the Mexicans are invading the Southwest to ‘reclaim’ what they think is their birthright.  You Liberals should try to deal with historical realities rather than this sappy Bwana superior attitude.

Number one, the Mexicans have never gotten over the shame of being conquered by fifty or sixty White guys in armor on horses.  This defeat is a livid scar on their psyches.

Secondly, the Spaniards after having conquered the Aztec Empire centered on the Valley Of Mexico then claimed in the name of Spain, not Mexico, the whole lower half of North America from the Oregon border in the West to Florida in the East.

When the Mexicans revolted against Spanish authority they claimed all the lands that nominally belonged to Spain.  The Mexicans had no real claim to Texas, California and the Southwest.  The citizens of those areas who revolted against their new overlords, the Mexicans, had every right to do so just as the Mexicans had the right to revolt against Spain or the United States to revolt against England.  If you want to talk prior rights Mexico then still belongs to Spain and the United States to England.  Don’t do things by halves.  Restore the former order or shut up.

If those new States then chose to align themselves with the United States instead of Mexico, and who wouldn’t, they had every right to do so.  The Mexicans have no claim to those areas but they believe they do.

The indigenous Indian tribes get rubbished every way.  What used to be Apacheria is totally disregarded.

So all these Mexicans flooding in are not looking for a higher standard of living by sucking off us big bad Norte Americanos as you say but they are merely occupying the land in the time honored method.  We are being invaded.  They will force the Whites out in the time honored racial manner described by Madison Grant.

I don’t think they will be successful, mainly because of the Chinese but like the Blacks they are going to be able to establish autonomous areas where Anglos won’t be welcome.  That means you and me.

Craig:

Are we going to get to the ‘Yellow Peril’ now?

Dewey

Not just yet.  First we have to deal with that very touchy subject, the yeast or leaven.

Craig

The yeast or leaven?  We’re going to talk about bread now?

Dewey

No.  We’re going to talk about the most important and sensitive element of the racial mix of the United States: The Jews.

Craig

The Jews?  Why yeast or leaven?

Dewey

Well, if you have studied Jewish history at all and bear in mind nearly no one else has, even among the Jews, except for a few odd balls like me and some half-crazed Rabbis, and I don’t know anyone else but me who has looked into the subject.

I’ve even talked to a few rabbis in town and except for following the party line and being defensive they don’t know much.

First off, Craig, let me say that historically all the modern trends that began in the French or Great Revolution as the Reds call it have now established easily followed patterns.  This is no longer the nineteenth century when all these incipient movements were gestating or even the first half of the twentieth century when enough of the web had been woven so that the complete picture could be formed by the mind.  All you need is the desire to see things as they are and not project your fantasy of how you would like them to be on reality.

So, apart from denials and obfuscations the Semitist game is clear.

Craig

You haven’t become an anti-Semite have you Dewey?

Dewey

There’s the issue Craig.  That’s an obfuscation, turning immediately to the ad hominem.  There is no clear definition of what constitutes an anti-Semite.  As a point of fact the ADL- Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith- a private organization maintains files on three milion, what they term, ‘known’ anti-Semites, in America.

As you can see the notion reeks of paranoia.  If they believe there are three million known anti-Semites how many ‘secret’ anti-Semites are there?  Are we only looking at the tip of the iceberg or is it possible that every American is a ‘secret’ anti-Semite?  Are we all out to get the Jews?  Hmm?  Think about it.

Did you ever see the movie ‘Men In Black?’  Well, it’s kind of a metaphor explaining the role of ADL in society.  Speilberg directed it.  It’s the Men In Black’s job to seek out and destroy those concealed anti-Semites that only they can recognize.  They don’t turn them into the authorities because the anti-Semites haven’t committed any crimes they are only waiting patiently for the opportunity.

Apart from the paranoia one might ask how these anti-Semites are known.  There are no objective criteria for determining the status.  The rest of society doesn’t really care.  In fact a known anti-Semite is whoever anyone in the ADL says is an anti-Semite.  Someone could turn you in and you’d never know.  Just all of a sudden friends would start turning their backs on you; you’d come under scrutiny at work and little difficulties would start cropping up on a regular basis.  God would have unblessed you because you weren’t blessing the Jews.

Craig

What kind of things?

Dewey

Well, in my case I was arrested on trumped up charges and had to defend myself to the tune of thirteen thousand dollars.  That was fun.

Craig

What did you do?  They couldn’t arrest you without good evidence.

Dewey

Let me add to your education Craig.  Sure they can.  They can do anything they want with impunity.  If they haven’t captured the DAs office then they have enough people in it to do what they want.

Craig

The Jews?

Dewey

In conjunction with the Liberal Coalition, you know, the Women’s Movement, NOW, the Homosexual Movement and those so-called holy groups.

Not only can they do what they want but furthermore they have complete immunity.  You have no recourse.  They are above the law.

Craig

Surely you jest, Dewey.

Dewey

Surely I don’t; this is no joke, I’ve learned the hard way.  That’s the only way otherwise you would never believe it.  I’d seen it on TV dozens of times and always sided with the law but now I know better.  I consider the law my enemy.

Craig

(softly) That’s really strong Dewey.

Dewey

Well, as they told me, we’ll just have to let the chips fall where they may.  The fact is that the DAs office can commit any crime with impunity.  They have absolute immunity.  Understand the power we have given to these people.  They can be irresponsible and get away with it.

I was arrested on no more than the uncorroborated sayso of a woman on no greater charge than I had offended her sensibilities.  That was the whole charge, no crime had been committed or claimed.

Craig

(emphatically. laughing.)  Aw, c’mon Dewey.  You’re stepping off the ledge.

Dewey

Life is obviously more complicated than you think.  You knew me in California, Craig, but you don’t know who I am in Oregon.  You may not believe it but I am more of a somebody than you see.  If you remember I came up here to get a Masters at the UofO in Eugene.  jFor various reasons that became an impossibility so as you know I opened a poster store, couldn’t sell enough posters so I turned to records.  I was born to sell records so my store prospered accordingly.  I was hip, long hair and all that so people really wanted to buy records from me.

In the social climate of the times everyone thought that record stores were just covers for dope operations to it therefore followed that I was a dope dealer.

Craig

You never used dope when I knew you.  When did you start?

Dewey

Ay, there’s the rub, Craig.  I didn’t start.  I didn’t have anything to do with drugs.  But the truth doesn’t matter in situations like these.  They thought I was quite literally the biggest dope dealer on the West Coast if not a mastermind for the world drug trade.  They thought that I had Swiss bank accounts bulging with illicitly gained money; they still do.

I was under twenty-four hour surveillance, my house was gone through on a regular basis as well as my car or van when I wasn’t in it.  They couldn’t find anything because there wasn’t anything to find.  There was absolutely no evidence that I even so much as smoked a joint but that merely showed them how clever I was.  I mean, you know, they ran a mail drop on me, my phone was tapped, they opened my merchandise shipments and inspected them before they delivered them to me.  Finally I decided to go down to UPS and pick them up myself.

One time UPS had a box sitting in the middle of the floor with all four sides laying flat and the records exposed.

Craig

You complained about that loudly, I suppose.

Dewey

It was against the rules for me to complain.  Sure I was loud but so what.  I was told that was the way it was and if I didn’t like it I could kiss their ass.

I found the proposed alternative unpalatable so I realized that the law meant nothing to them and they had no intention of observing any laws where I was concerned.  I am only thankful that they at least didn’t plant evidence when they were in my house or car.  But that’s the way Oregonians are.  They have no self-respect and no sense of decency.  The only way they look at the law is as a protection for themselves.

Craig

I can understand why you’re a little sore at them, Dewey, but you do seem a little extreme.

Dewey

Well, he was no favorite of mine but as Barry Goldwater said:  Extremism in the defense of liberty is no offence.  Besides look at what they did to Diane Downs.

Craig

Is that the woman who shot her kids?

Dewey

Whether she shot her kids is open to question but they’ve had her in jail for decades for a crime she almost certainly didn’t commit.

Craig

I’m not too familiar with the case, Dewey, but they must have had some evidence.

Dewey

No, they didn’t have any evidence, they just didn’t have any other explanation and they wanted to put her in prison.  There was more than reasonable doubt.  Her story made a lot of sense to me.

Craig

How did her story make sense to you when it didn’t make sense to the jury?

Dewey

You’re not familiar with the Eugene-Springfield area.   Those people are really hard on people from out of state, especially people from California.  They’re rabid and, man, I mean rabid.  Diane Downs was new to the area having come up from California.  Apparently she thought she could screw her way into acceptance because as I understand it she was hard at work.

Anyway, I am familiar with the place at which she stopped when her kids were shot.  It’s a little bridge over this small creek that might be called the Marcola, I forget.  Anyway the area is called Marcola.  It’s real small.  The road runs up through a narrow valley.  In the very late sixties this place was a haunt for revolutionaries.  They built concrete bunkers up in the hills where they stored guns and ammunition, radios and the like for the coming Revolution which they thought was imminent.

They even had mobile radio units ready for operation.  They knew about triangulation and all that so they were prepared to move from place to place to avoid detection.  They dressed very colorfully in French Resistance outfits.  I did you not.

In addition to that Marcola was a recreation area which was haunted by criminal types.  Marijuana was everywhere.  One time there were a group of campers by the creek when these idiots stood in the flood light asking What as they were shot down with deer rifles from a truck.  This Marcola was mean do-wrong daddy kind of place.

I knew this guy who lived in Marcola and Jeannie and I visited him and his girl friend one night.  Round about midnight he jumps up and says we have to leave immediately.  We were driving back toward the highway when we came to this bridge over the creek.  As we drove up this literal shaggy haired man came up from under the bridge obviously under the influence of something and stood in the middle of the road waving his arms for us to stop.

Believe me I wasn’t going to stop.  There was room to drive around him so I did.  You know, these guys are all crazy so he’s shouting obscenities at us as I drive slowly on looking back.  I see this other big round guy come up from under the bridge waving a hand gun.  I stopped looking back and stepped on it and left them in the dust.

Now, here’s the kicker.  I don’t know the exact distance to the highway from the bridge but it’s not more than a mile.  If you’re not familiar with Springfield it’s really hard to know which way to turn in the dark so, just like Diane Downs, in my excitement I turned left into the mountains.  You can’t tell which way you’re going until the McKenzie Bridge.  The McKenzie river runs down from the mountains through Springfield.  Once there you know you’re going the wrong way so you turn around and go back.  That’s exactly what Diane Downs said she did.  She had an injured child in the back seat who had been shot by a madman so I think she had plenty of reason to become confused.

The Eugene-Springfield DA had to know the reputation of the Marcola area but in their eagerness to convict a Californian they put her away for life just to please their prejudices.

Craig

Well, wasn’t she kind of ditso, didn’t she turn the trial into a media event?

Dewey

Being ditso is not a punishable offence, as yet, and it was not in her power to turn any judges courtroom into a media event.  Only the DA could have engineered or prevented it.  Since it was allowed to go on I can only assume that the DA thought it discredited his victim and so he used it to help convict her.

The only evidence against here was the ad hominem one of being a ditso.  I suppose if the jury didn’t have a shadow of doubt in their minds there was no shadow of doube in their minds but I think the State of Oregon owes at least a commutation of sentence to Downs if not a full pardon for all the difference that would make in her ruined life.

Nowadays because of cable TV we have a handy method to study the characters of lawyers, judges, police and DAs.  Cable networks are at a loss for programming so they fall back on a lot of true crime.  We get to see a lot of real life court procedures as well as the police and DAs in action and in interview.

Just as the FBI can provide profiles on the type of person who may have committed a crime we can prepare profiles on types of lawyers, judges, cops and DAs.

Always remember that these self-righteous guys were once a next door neighbor who you may not have thought well of.  None of these people come from an hereditary occupational class, they are all self-selected for their jobs.

The DAs all seem to be attracted to the job ecause they think the the job will confer virtuousness on them.  I dare say you and I can’t think of anyone we went to high school with that we thought was that virtuous.

Since they think the job confers virtuous conduct on them they become extremely self-righteous.

As virtue is conferred on them anything they do is necessarily done for a virtuous reason.  Hence they all ‘fight crime with crime.’  Lie to liars, whether the other guy is a liar or not.  They become criminals in the name of the law.  They also fear failure so that if a crime is committed they must have the instant gratification of seeing someone, anyone, in jail.

All DAs are lawyers.  Now, being a lawyer does not mean you are intelligent, goodwilled, honest or anything else, it merely means you have memorized a ton of casework and law and were admitted to the bar.  I hae dealt with numerous lawyers and judges and have been impressed neither with their intelligence or understanding and much less with their integrity.

In the first place Diane Downs didn’t have to be indicted.  There was no threat to society.  She had an unusual story that couldn’t be checked out but was plausible given the circumstances I outlined. Heck, they even checked her hands for powder burns and found none which she would have had to had if she had recently fired a handgun. 

Besides the Da must have had complaints about those guys under the bridge  if they operated that way for years which they evidently did.  He knew that Fall Creek was a high crime area.

It was not necessary to indict her at that time.  The case could have been put on a back burner.

So why did the DA think it was so necessary to make a media circus out of the trial.  I certainly don’t know but the DA is the one who stood to benefit the most.

Very likely he had a crime and an unusual story so in his self-righteousness he adopted an attitude and then presented innumerable ad hominem arguments against her since he didn’t have the necessary evidence to convict.

The DA did exactly the same thing against me.  Even though he had no evidene to connect me with drug salses or even use he was convinced that since I ran a record store I must be doing dope.

So that’s the substratum of the reason why Barry Schunch had me arrested.

The proximate background of the reason to arrest me was, I think, this.

After the Stonewall riot in nineteen sixty-nine the homosexual community became very aggressive in practicing their ways.  Being the record business I had a huge increase in the number of sexually explicit covers.  Since homosexuality is sado-masochistic in nature and since the object of their distaste is women a large number of those sexually explicit covers involved the sado-masochistic treatment of women.  If you remember there were some real shockers as the envelope of pornography was burst asunder by the homosexuals.

Now, the Lesbian part of the homosexual community took offence at these covers.  They, of course, being mentally and emotionally disturbed blamed the emphasis on sado-masochistic sex portrayal on the heterosexual male rather than the homosexual male out of perverted solidarity.

Rather than attack the producers of the porn they decided to attack me who only stocked the records as the man who could stop the covers if I wanted.  All I could do was shake my head in wonder.  I was too young and inexperienced to deal adequately with psychotic behavior of this type.,  Besides who took the situation that seriously?  My detractors looked at me shaking their heads and saying:  This too shall pass so those covers would pass too and they did.  But that’s neither here nor there.

I wouldn’t voluntarily take hit records off the shelf.  The first act of the Lebians was to boycott my store.  One beautiful Saturday morning I am driving to work when a homosexual radio DJ announces that there will be a demonstration at my store beginning at twelve o’ clock.  Perhaps the intent was to get me to capitulate, get rid of the records and get them to call the demonstration off.  If so, the notion didn’t occur to me.

I was pretty prominent at the time running thousands of dollars of radio and TV commercials a month so I guess they thought they would get pretty good media coverage.  They didn’t know that I was being given the silent treatment by the media.  It was forbidden to mention my name in the Daily Assassin while all pictures of my street used on TV were closely cropped to eliminate the showing of my store.  So no reporters and TV cameras showed up.

So then they decided to creat a riot.  They invaded my store screaming and shouting, standing up on the racks waving red flags and the whole works.  I was pretty slow.  I should have had my head someplace where there was better light.  Actually the customers all thought this idiotic demonstration was just a publicity stunt of mine.  If I had kept my cool and stood back laughing uproariously everyone woud have thought it was just a good joke.

Of course, the demonstrators would have torn my store apart but that’s another consideration.  I called the cops.  Remember when I quoted Dylan:  The cops don’t need you and man, they expect the same?  That’s how it was.  The cops were not very enthusiastic about quelling these lesbian creeps but when nothing seemed to be soming of it they wound down and left.  Damn them all to hell.

But, the covers were still there.  Next they came into the store and slashed about a hundred covers with knives.  Well, I’d gotten used to treatment of this sort over the years both in Eugene and Portland so I didn’t think too much of it in the press of events.  I merely sent the records back as defects.

That wasn’t the response the Lesbians wanted so they published a story in their newsletter taking credit for the deed.  The next thing I hear is some cop on the phone saying they had read this story and while they didn’t care how ‘we people’ treated each other they thought this was going too far.  They offered to press charges against the Lesbians.

In fact, I’d completely forgotten about the slashed covers and if the cops wanted to extend a helping rather than a hurting hand I was immediately suspicious so I told him that the think had never happened.

Thus I thwarted, quite unintentionally, the Lesbian intent of creating a scene.

There last attempt to creat a scene was when they got a television crew of Lesbians affiliated with the same radio station which had announced the riot to attempt to how the ‘artistic value’ of record covers.  I told them they could photograph whatever they liked.  They thought they had me in their trap.  They immediately went to this particular record cover and asked me to come over and explain its artistic merits.  I refused to appear in their ‘video essay’ so they packed up and left.

I thought that was the end of it until I was arrested, Christ, you know, twenty years later.

So that’s the background of why DA Schunch would arrest me without adequate cause.

The whole legal operation was conducted without my knowledge because the DA didn’t give me a chance to defend myself at a hearing against patently absurd charges.

The Office fabricated an arrest record for me.  I was never even spoken to but there is apparently a file that shows that I was arrested, brought in and released on my own cognizance.  Next it was there duty to give me a hearing to determine probable cause of arrest.  They scheduled the hearing within ten days of the time they say they arrested me but somehow forget to notify me so it looked like I refused to appear for the hearing.

The charge I had been arrested on was some incredibly lame City Ordinance that said that if, this is how the mighty legal brain of Portland works, a person thought that someone had it in mind to commit an act against either their person or their belongings they could have them arrested.  So this complainant who I’ll give the improbable name of Virginia Woolf, said only that she thought that I intended to, I’m embarrassed for she, she said that in the middle of the Esplanade I got down on my knees and tried to thrust my hand between her legs so I could have finger intercourse with her.  She did admit that I never established contact with her person and there were no witnesses.  DA Schunch decided to prosecute this psychotic woman’s complaint.

At the hearing since I wasn’t there to defend myself, nothing like shooting fish in a barrel, hey? they escalated the charge to menacing. Now menacing is a fairly serious offense.  You have to be waving a gun or holding a knife on someone or something really serious to menace someone.

Well, the judge issued a bench warrant and I went blissfully about my business unaware of what was hanging over my head.

Two days before Christmas I found out when at one o’ clock in the morning there was a prodigious noise on my front door and it wasn’t Santa Claus, it was the Sheriff.  He wanted me to take a ride downtown with him.

Craig

I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Dewey, but what you’re saying is so incredible.  I believe you but still I can’t believe it.

Dewey

Like I say, until it happens to you.  Jeannie and I watched many of these stories on TV and found them incredible and unbelievable too but these DAs are out of control.  They are irresponsible monsters.  Once they got it in their head that I was a major dope dealer way back in the sixties with millions in Swiss bank accouants they were determined that I wouldn’t get away with it.  Like I say they ran mail drops on both incoming and outgoing mail, tapped my phones and had me under twenty-four surveillance, ransacked my house and car regularly, found not one shred of evidence that could connect me to dope in any way but still they took the position that I must be guilty because they thought I was guilty.  Hurts ’em to be wrong.

How can they interfere with you?  Oh, lots of little ways.  The ADL works in complete secrecty.  Most people don’t even know there’s alist let alone whether they’re on it.

Craig

How do you know there’s a list?

Dewey

Like I said I study Jewish history and affairs.  This guy J.J. Goldberg has this  book titled: Jewish Power: Inside The American Jewish Establishment, sounds near autonomous doesn’t it?  He mentions the ADL files quite proudly for instance.  It all comes together.

This is how race, sect, religion or whatever they’ll admit to being operates.

Now, they view all societies as an inert mass of dough without zest or flavor until acting as a yeast or leaven the Jews enter their society to show them how to live.

Craig

That sounds kind of anti-Semitic, Dewey.

Dewey

Tell me.  Heresy, infidelity, anti-Semitic, I can’t help but be me because I am not of the faith.  Further as I accept a scientific explanation of reality rather than a supernatural one I can only condescend to those trapped in what is an earlier consciousness.  The truth is anti-Semitic and the truth is that inferior forms of consciousness must give way before superior ones.  They may go screaming and kicking into the night but into the night they must go.  Call it anti-Semitism, I don’t care.

Understand Craig, that I do not talk out of the back of my neck or off the top of my head, I am not shooting from the hip, I say nothing that cannot be demonstrted or is unsubstantiated.  If you haven’t studied the history you can’t know and we aren’t talking about secret histories or hard to find arcane volumes we’re talking histories published by every leading publisher in the country.  Brandeis University Press, you name it.

So anyway, this yeast entered the United States, in numbers, beginning in about eighteen-seventy and continuing unabated officially until nineteen-twenty.

Now this is what the Honky Cat was talking about when he was so loudly booed away from the lectern.  That Cat was one courageous guy even if he did cower behind the lectern.

When there was finally a reaction against unrestricted immigration after the Great War the Nativists who had observed attitudes and sabotage during the war wanted to eliminate Eastern and Southern Europeans entirely.

You have to study the War years to really understand what the various immigrant groups were doing.  The Intalians, for instance had remained loyal to Italy which they were to do until after World War Two when they finally accepted that they weren’t going back to Italy.

History is full of interesting little oddities.  Did you know that the Italians issued a call to Italians living in the United States to return to fight for Italy and a great many went.  Wait, that’s not the interesting part.  After the War Mussolini wanted to return injured veterans to the United States for medical treatment.  That’s just one of the way foreign nationals view the inexplicable US immigration policy.

The Irish had actually helped the cause of the Central Powers with sabotage in the United States on the princible that a friend of England was an enemy of theirs and an enemy of England was a friend of theirs.  The most famous incident being the explosion at the Black Tom pier in New Jersey.  Of course, in the interests of racial peace in the United States the investigation was never pursured and athe explosion is listed as an accident.  There are accounts in which the Irish take credit.

The Jews were an interesting case.  They professed to hate Russia and the Czar who they have turned into  one of the greatest demons of all time.  So long as Russia was an ally of the United States the Jews were pro-German.  After the overthrow of Russia by the Bolsheviks, which is to say, the Jews, they became pro-Ally and of course they were always one hundred percent Americans.

The  Austro-Hungarians in the United States were suspected of being saboteurs and there are incidents of sabotage by Austro-Hungarians.

And of course the indignities the German-Americans were subjected to during the War years were unparalleled until the Japanese and numbers of German and Italians were interned during World War Two.

In the wake of the War the Nativists wanted to eliminate Southern, Central and Eastern Europeans altogether.  The best they could obtain was a quota based on demographics existing in about eighteen-ninety.  As Italian immigration only began in earnest after that date that virtually eliminated legal Italian immigration.

Believe it or not the Jews were in the process of transferring the entire Eastern European population to the United States when the war intervened.  In order to relieve the strain on New York City and the other Eastern ports while concealing their numbers channels had been established in New Orleans and Galveston to receive the bulk of these Jewish immigrants.

They were packed and ready to go in Europe when the restrictive new immigration law was passed in nineteen-twenty.  The Jewish plans were thwarted.  In addition as the Jews were a stateless people so entry visas had to be issued under the quota of another State.  The Jews may be temporarily stymied but they are not so easily defeated.

They set about conditioning public opinion in America to reverse the immigration act.  They got around the laws pretty easily in the aftermath of  World War Two.  For some reason unknown to me the Americans accepted racial guilt for what the Nazis had done.  I never have, not for the Nazis, not for the Blacks, not for Hiroshima, not for nothin’.  I didn’t do it and I don’t know anyone who did.

But in nineteen forty-eight the Jewish State Of Israel was established.  There was only one flaw in that plan.  Asiatics were fully excluded from immigration and Israel was on the West coast of Asia.  That meant dual citizenship was limited from West to East.

The Jews were unable to change the law in nineteen-fifty when a revision was made but they were successful in nineteen-sixty-five when the new immigration law was written.  Now, what do you think the most significant historical event has been since the end of the Seven Years War?

Craig

I don’t think it was this immigration act if that’s what you’re leading up to.

Dewey

That’s not what I’m leading up to.  But it fits hand and glove.  The second most influential fact of the last three or four hundred years was the Cultural Revolution begun in China in nineteen sixty-six by our good friend, the lunatic, Chairman Mao Ze Dong.

The two facts were not coordinated in advance of course but the coincidence is a remarkable fact.  At the very time Mao was leading the charge of the worldwide Red offensive the door of America was thrown open rendering the country nearly defenseless.  This at the height of the Viet Nam War and the Negro Rebellion too.  Is it any wonder we were psychologically and intellectually overwhelmed?  That refer to me and you too, Craig.

That more or less brings us up to the Chinese situation but I haven’t finished with the Jews yet so I’ll have more to say about their influence.

Americans are extremely myopic not to mention that we are capable of seeing only what we want to see.  They see only the the Chinese want to come here.  Oddly enough, that flatters them.  They do not look for ulterior motives or, indeed, underlying causes.  In fact, Americans, which always means White Americans in my scheme of things, are stupid.

We have been warned about  the Yellow Peril for some time but we prefer to put a different construction on things and ignore realities.  The fear of the Mongol hordes has been on Europe for centuries.  Strangely, modern White academic scholars take the side of the Mongols against White Europe.  They actually ridicule the Europeans while cheering the Mongols and lamenting their retreat.  The self-hatred is one of the consequences of the unmitigated success of the British in the era of European world conquest.

The East was always a source of dnage for Europe.  Celts, Germans and Slavs and Mongols all came from the East but the racial difference, which is to say cultural difference was a real terror.

Attila the Hun who entered Europe in the fifth century has always been a byword of terror although in recent years his reputation is being refurbished as some kind of farseeing leader.  You see White self-loathing at work.

Then in the thirteenth century the hordes of Genghis Khan penetrated deep into Central Europe before they retired.  they weren’t actually defeated they just withdrew back into the steppes while retaining hegemony over the Slavs of Russia.

So a very real fear was implanted in the Europeans.

Craig

That was a long time ago, Dewey, that has no relevance now.

Dewey

That’s where you’re wrong, Craig.  Historical memories have relevance over immense spans of centuries.  Here’s on e you daren’t disagree with.  Twenty-five hundred years ago the Jews suffered some indignities at the hands of this cat named Haman.  Every year they commemorate the horrors of this guy.  What he did then influences thier attitude toward others today.

As to the Chinese I am led to believe that Kaiser Wilhelm was the first to originate the term, Yellow Peril.  W.R. Hearst picked it up from him to illustrate the dangers of Chinese immigrtion into California.  And of course Hitler imbibed the fear of the Yellow Peril into his very genes.  All three of the men are execrated today but Wilhelm, Hearst and Hitler were right.

     Oddly enough the abominable racial pride of the English is the proximate cause of the Chinese Diaspora.

We are all familiar with the Jewish Diaspora but there have been several others.  The European Diaspora is prominent but the Chinese Disaspora is virtually unrecognized in the United States.  It will never be taught in the public schools.

Somewhere about eighteen twenty or so the British began moving Chinese into Singapore and other areas because they were thought to be more industrious than the aborigines.  If the British had had the population surplus of China they might have brought English out but since they didn’t have a big enough population for their purposes they pressed the Indians and Chinese into service.

This of course distributed Indians and Chinese into places they would never have gone on their own.  Once jump started the Chinese, who had never left China before began their great Diaspora of which the California immigrants were only a small part.  It’s not like they loved America best, as our Liberals like to believe or that they wanted to tap into our bounty specifically but that California was only one of many locations all around the Pacific Rim.  The Chinese were not helpless little yellow men seeking the aid of Bwana White Man but they had an agenda of their own.

The Australians sensed the danger quickly passing laws to keep them out.  Thus they temporarily avoided becoming a province of China.  Doesn’t bother people like the Liberals because they have no actual racial identity or pride.  At least, they don’t think they do.

Dennis Kearny and a number of farseeing men who are now termed intolerable bigots sensed the obvious danger of losing California and the West Coast to China so they pushed the Chinese Exclusion Act through Congress in eighteen eighty-two.  So the problem was minimized until the Jews undid their work in nineteen sixty-five.

Craig

Wait a minute, Dewey, wait a minute.  You’re not saying that the Chinese are inferior because they’re of a different race are you?

Dewey

You don’t believe in the concept of race, Craig, besides as I already told you I don’t have that Bwana attitude that you and your Liberal friends have.  You don’t put it in those terms but in your hearts you feel superior to them or you probably put it like you’re more advanced than they are but they’ll catch up in time.  You Liberals have euphemisms for everything.

They’re to to catch up and run over you sooner than you think , too.

So, in nineteen sixty-six the Chinese were no longer a backward trampled empire.  Under Chairman Mao they were the vanguard of the Red Revolution having displaced the Russians during the war in Korea.

In one act Mao sinicized the peoples of the world.  Marshall McLuhan picked up on it during the Great Leap forward or possibly earlier.

Within two years, or by nineteen sixty-eight the Chinese Red influence was apparent on every campus in the United States.  I still have two copies of the Little Red Book I picked up from Honky Reds from the UofO.

OK.  Talking of historica timelags.  Mao had a deep abiding hatred of the West because of its exploitation of China in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.  Remember all those Chinese artifacts in European and American possession were literally stolen, looted, from the Imperial Palace but even more important was the forcible introduction of opium into China by the British in the first half of the nineteenth century.

If you want to know what the legalization of drugs in America will be like the place to study is China.  The country was completely debilitated by the forceful legalization of opium by the British.  Mao remembered.

I can’t believe that idiot could have so little respect for his country’s heritage that he would smash and burn and try to efface all memory of the past but that is what he did.  But then, perhaps, he thought that as the old China had failed inn its imperial mission everything had to be destroyed and built up in victory anew.  I really haven’t studied Mao’s psychology at all.

Craig

It would be almost impossible for a Westerner to penetrate the Eastern mind.

Dewey

That’s an example of the Liberal racism I’m talking about.  It isn’t difficult at all.  If Freud and Jung proved anything at all it is the universality of psychology.  Hey, we’ve all got ninety-nine point six the same genes, right?  There are only so many psychological types no matter within which racial configuration and the response to the natural world is universally the same no matter in what symbols it is expressed.

What good does it do us to have acquired this tremendous scientific knowledge if we don’t apply it.  That is the question.

At the same time as the Cultural Revolution within China the Chinese colonization of the world began in earnest.  Numbers of colonies have been established in South Americ while colonies in Vancouver, Toronto, London, Paris, New York, San Francisco, LA and other points in the world are being increased on a daily basis.  The invasion of Africa has begun in earnest.

The Chinese will not have the manpower shortage that the English had because they have a reservoir of a billion and a half people.  If they sent a hundred million people each to Europe, America, South America and Africa today they wouldn’t even begin to release the population pressure in China.  But they woud effectively politically dominate the entire world.

Let’s go back to Madison Grant and his theory of racial exclusion.  You have these local exclusions going on in Africa and Sebia as well actually as China.  The Chinese are systematically exterminating racial minorities within China.  Yu have a national exclusion going on in South Africa where the Whites are being ejected by the Bantus while Americans Black and White, cheer.

And you actively have a global struggle for dominance going on which is being won and probably will be won by the Chinese.

Now, let’s go back to the Honky Cat in San Francisco at the Gate of Wine.

In his analysis of the probable results of the Immigration Act of sixty-five the Chinese were the big problem.

I don’t remember if he considered the effect of Moslem and Hindu immigration but what results we’ve had there.  You Liberals and Reds really achieved one there.

Craig

(testily)  How’s that?

Dewey

Well, we conservatives were moving along pretty well in getting the Shah of Iran to bring his country into the twentieth century.  He was soing a good job of eliminating idiotic antiquated Moslem notions.  Women had made good progress; education was on a modern basis.  However there was the usual and to be expected reactionary religious backlash.

The Ayatollah working of that haven of bloodthirsty criminal politicians, Paris…

Craig

Hold it, hold it.  You aren’t going to defame  Paris, the City of Light, are you?

Dewey

I don’t defame anyone, Craig.  I deal in facts.  Paris was the birthplace of the Jacobins of Ninety-three who lived on blood puddings and in recent years the Ayatollah.  Ho Chi Mihn and Pol Pot amongst others had asylum there for years.  They have all been notoriously murderous or genocidal.  For what it’s worth Pol Pot who murdered a huge percentage of his own countrymen has never been apprehended and punished. He lives in luxury in his own country.  This worse than Hitler is living in luxury in his own country.  The Shah was denied asylum anywhere and allowed to be murdered by Moslem fanatics.  They wouldn’t even let him come to the New York that harbored Leon Trotsky, another huge genocidist.  I hear no outcries from Liberals.

Whether it is the Parisian inheritance of Ninety-three or indigenous to the Communist type you can take your choice but I opt for both.  I mean, how stupid can you be, American Liberals rail at the Chinese for violations of human rights.  By whose standard?  The Chinese government is Red.  It follows the party line to the letter.  The same thing will happen here if we let the Reds take over.  They have their own program.

At any the Ayatollah working out of Paris with the incomprehensible aid of American Liberals and Reds set out to overthrow the Shah.  Now think about that.  Liberals aiding the revolution of a reactionary religious leader.  Reds doing the same.  Liberals negating the Shah’s revisions which they will practically kill for in the United States.  What is wrong with this picture?

The Shah, who was a very good and decent man was willfully and criminally vilified by you Liberals and Reds.

Iranians flooded into our country with the immigration bars gone where they turned our universities and streets into bedlam in support of this insane reactionary fanatic.  Nobody examined the facts they just accepted ad hominem insults.

I will never forgive you Liberals for what you did.

In a shameful reversal of policy our elected representatives cowardly withdrew support from its own creature, the Shah, going so far as to refuse him safe asylum Leon Trotsky was allowed, not to mention the religious nut, the Dalai Lama, and John Lennon but the Shah was exposed to his vile ante-diluvian enemies who slaughtered him like on of their so-called unclean pigs.

I have my head in shame for my country.

  Then when that fundamentalis idiot the Ayatollah turned Iran into a reactionary hell you so-called Liberals disowned the situation by saying:  We only help them get their freedom; what they do with it is their business.  Fie!  You Liberals should be ashamed of yourselves; you betray your own principles then laugh at them.

So now because of the Jewish sponsorship of the sixty-five immigration law we’re saddle by a large and growing Moslem population not to mention the stultified Hindus.  I don’t have to remind you what happened when Britain left India.

Craig

You may have forgotten this little fact, Dewey, the Constitution of these United States of America guarantees freedom of religion so I don’t know where you get off being so hard on Moslems nd Hindus.

Dewey

The Constitution forbids the establishment of a State sponsored religion that’s all.  The government is forbidden to pass laws benefiting any specific religion.  That notion has been violated by these Loser or so-called Hate laws which give legal protection to certain faiths.

 Besides as usual you Liberals willfully misunderstand and exaggerate.  No one is denying anyone the right to practice any religion no matter how stupid.  I even defended Jim Jones’ right to make his adherents commit suicide on the basis of freedom of religion.

Just because you have a right to practice a belief system doesn’t place that belief system above criticism.  All religions are primitive in relation to Science.  A Scientific Consciousness is superior to any superstitious Religious Consciousness.

Craig

I wouldn’t say that a religion is superstition.

Dewey

You’ve got to be kidding, Craig.  You used to.  When you were in college you equated religion with superstition.  What’s the matter?  The Grim Reaper got you scared or are you turning superstitious.

Craig

I have reasons for beliving in eternal life.

Dewey

Good.  I don’t.  Anyway importing millions more superstitious idiots has nothing to do with me accepting them as anything else but.  All religions are intlerant, especially the Moslem, so all we’re doing is creating problems for ourselves down the road.

But to get back to the Honky Cat.

If you remember he said the legalizing of Chinese immigration would increase dramatically the number of illegal Chinese immigrants.  All you have to do is watch the news to see he’s right.

He predicted that in fifty years San Francisco would be a Chinese city.  He was right.  Oakland too, he missed that.  They’ll probably change Kearny Street to Mao Ze Dong Promenade.  Union Square will be new Tianenmen Square.

Craig

I think there are more Chinese in San Francisco than there used to be but I don’t see them taking over the city.

Dewey

There’s still a decade or so to go Craig.  When I was there the Chinese were all in Chinatown but now they’ve also taken over the Sunset.  That’s a huge territorial expansion.

Now, San Francisco’s population is limited to about seven hundred fifty thousand because of its small land area.  If the Chinese land only fifteen thousand illegals a year, in fifteen years that would be two hundred twenty-five thousand additional people.  When you add illegals and natural growth which will be huge bucause they come here, so they say, because they can have large families, you’re looking at three to four hundred thousand Chinese in addition to the two or three hundred thousand already there.

If even more illegals come in you’re looking at an additional half million or more.  That’s enough to force everyone, White, Black or Hispanic out of San Francisco.

You don’t think they didn’t have a good reason for claiming the Sunset for expansion do you?

Craig

What good reason?

Dewey

The Sunset gives them a coastline.  Transports don’t actually have to land.  Lighters in the form of cruisers or yachts under White ownership can take them off in parties of twenty, thirty or sixty or more and land them unobtrusively.  Given a thousand dollars or so per each the Chinese build up protection from White profiteers.

Once in possession of San Francisco there will be no way to stop them from landing Chinese at will.

Now, these are all Red Chinese.

They will have to be involved in the American political system.  So, in addition to the Black Caucus, the Jewish Caucus, the Irish Caucus, the Hispanic Caucus and whatever you will have the Red Chinese Caucus with laws in place to deny a White Caucus to have any legal objections. 

Once you have open Reds in Congress the White, Black and whatever else Reds will rally round the Chinese Reds who represent the mother lode of Reds in China.  Then the conflict will come out into the open.

Once the Chines have legitmized their presence in the Bay Area larger numbers of Chinese will be sent over from China until the Chinese are in possession of the West Coast from British, by now Chinese Columbia or, perhaps, New Sinkiang down to Baja.

The racial rules propounded by Madison Grant will really take effect.  With tens of thousand of Chinese arriving on a daily bais not only will Whites be excluded from the West Coast but also the Blacks and Mexicans.  The nature of the racial ethic is the expulsion of al other differing peoples.

Craig

That’s a pretty grim scenario, Dewey, and I think a false one.  Never forget that all men are brothers.  Intolerance is a sin against our fellow man and a crime against all mankind.  I don’t think the Chinese or anyone else is inferior to me on the basis of color.  Race has no meaning in an enlightened America and a just world.

Dewey

You’re absolutely correct Craig.  Race wouldhave no meaning in an enlightened America and a just world.  But, that’s not the naw the world is and that’s not how race works.

It isn’t a question of whether Blacks, Whites or Yellows are inferior or superior.  Race or culture works on a subliminal level.  People want their world to reflect only their kind whether you’re willing to acknowledge the fact or not.  Goodwill while admirable will have no effect on the future.

Whites take a more cosmopolitan point of view largely because it was thrust upon them.  The Europeans didn’t have the man power to displace the indigenous peoples when they got there so they had to come to an accommodation with the locals to enforce their possession.

In America they or we had the numbers to roll over the sparse population of American Indians.  In East India the British had to employ native troops as well as their own to enforce their rule.  Even then half the British Army was made up of Irishers who took the Queen’s Uniform to escape the rigors of the potato famine.

The Chinese who have been massed in their native land have no such cosmopolitan view.  The British in India could not have succeeded unless their vision of society was more just to more Indian than Indian society had been.  The British rule must have been less oppressive than that of the Indians or no Indians would have rallied to their flag.  That goes without saying.

In addition European Science went so far beyond Indian metaphysics that the British commanded respect on that score alone.  However Science is only knowledge aznd an approach to knowledge which can be learned closing that gap or superiority.

Both the Indians and Chinese have done that at least on a superficial level…

Craig

Superficial?  You mean you don’t think they’ve really grasped it?

Dewey

Racial values, Craig, racial imprinting.  It is axiomatic that you can’t learn what you don’t already know.  The European grasp of Science is bred in the bone.  Our conception of Science was developed by our Aryan ancestors in the Middle East.  It is inherited directly from Greco-Egyptian culture.

The scientific concept is indigenous to no other people, nor can it be learned in the half dozen generations or so that other peoples have been struggling with it for at least three or four hundred years and they haven’t mastered it yet.

The concepts haven’t even scratched the surface of the African soul and may not have made too deep an impression on the American Blacks.  I don’t think American Blacks would maintain American achievements if Whites were gone.

The Indians will return to Hindu metaphysical concepts as soon as the scientific impusle is removed.  Their culture is set.  The same with the Chinese.  Just as the Chinese have expelled Whites from the Orient so as they expel Whites throughout the world they will reject scientific principles as un-Chinese.  Their success against the proples of the world will prove the superiority of their ways just as the European successes proved he superiority of their ways.  However Europeans lacked to manpower to displace other peoples which the Chinese possess.

You see, Craig, even if you and I do not think we are innately superior to them, they don’t share our generosity of spirit.  They know that they are superior to us.

So, you see, the Honky Cat actually knew what he was talking about.

Craig

I still think brotherhood will triumph.  It’s the right way.

Dewey

It is that attitude which has stripped the White race of the ability to either resist or to assert itself.  The ideal of brotherhood which you profess is above reproach as an ideal.  In an ideal world of ideal people the vision would have been realized long ago.  That it hasn’t proves that it is a beautiful but unrealizable ideal.

The notion is intellectual while race is visceral.  I admire the ideal and I wish well to all those who sincerely believe it but you will be rolled over like the America of old and you will take your race with you.

You have stripped our race of all pride and self-respect in favor of other races who either hate or despise you.  They do not share your altruism.  You have turned your women into whores for the entertainment of abject peoples; you have made your sons subject to all others.  You have passed laws which enslave them.  They dare not assert their ability against any other people upon pain of humiliation and emasculation by their own in their own homeland.

If they assert their manhood at all they will be sent to a diversity training vlass where they will be taught they are nothing with no rights while all others are their moral superiors.

They have to defer to criminals like the Spade Cat, some Moslem from the desert, some Chinaman who will be insulted because you refer to him as an ‘Oriental’ when in reality you should be referring to him as an ‘Asian.’  Not an Asiatic but an Asian.  Next week you will be shown your political incorrectness when he is given a new PC name.  That’s how they keep you in line.

Oh, by the way, if Chinaman is an insult why isn’t an Englishman.

I don’t know who your Commissars are but they shouldn’t change the rules so often.

(they pause)

 Craig

Well, Dewey, I can see where the Honky Cat made a deep impression on you but I hope none of this puts a damper on our friendship.

Dewey

No need for that.  But now maybe we can go back and integrate all this into the psychological cluster I mentioned a while back

 End of Story.

A Fictional Dialogue

Battleground America:

Breakfast At Champions

by

R.E. Prindle

This is a dialogue inspired by the movie My Dinner With Andre.  I was so entranced by the movie that I wanted to write something along the same lines.

This is it.

Clip 1 of 2.  Fifty pages in each.

I note once again the extreme injustice

through an excess of justice,

to which most liberal spirits come…

–Romain Rolland

 

Craig

     ‘I know you!’ A voice exclaimed as Dewey entered the restaurant.

 Dewey

     ‘So you do!’  Dewey exclaimed in return in delight as he looked down at the seated figure.  ‘Craigo, as I live and breathe.’

Craig

     ‘So you do remember me, hey, Dewey?’

Dewey

     ‘Why wouldn’t I, Craig?  You are one of the great influences on my life.  I’ve been thinking about you a lot.  Tried to look you up but you couldn’t be found in the usual places.  Phone books, city directories and such; not that I have any idea where you’re living.’

 Craig

     ‘I’m still in the Bay Area, San Mateo, unlisted number.’

Dewey

     ‘Oh sure.  What’re you doing here in Portland?’

Craig

     ‘Business, what else?  I was a big influence on your life, huh?  How’s that?  No offence, but I was kinda hurt the last time we met.  I thought I had been a pretty good friend to you but you didn’t seem to have any use for me.’

Dewey

     ‘You were a good friend to me.  I think I failed you too, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, make amends before we slide into the chute marked: Oblivion.  I can explain although I don’t think my explanation may make a lot of sense to you.’

Craig

     ‘Go ahead.  Do you remember where we first met?’

Dewey

     ‘Yes.  But only after you reminded me when you reintroduced yourself up on the Hill.’

Craig

     Um, I was a a timekeeper at the Chevy plant on 73rd  and you worked on the assembly line.

Dewey

       ‘Yuh, but I didn’t work for Chevy; I worked for Fisher Body in the Department called ‘Special Hardware’ at the time.  When the line was moving at sixty cars an hour I used to sort out the front seat for the oncoming bodies.  That was an interesting job.  When the line slowed down I sorted out the seats and put them in the car.  When it slowed down further and they were about to lay me off one of the guys on the line left after he got his paycheck, you remember how they used to pay us at lunch break, they didn’t have anyone to take his place but a foreman so I shouted I can do that and took over his job when he never came back.’

Craig

     ‘Oh, is that how you survived the cut?’

     Dewey

     ‘Yeah.  It’s called initiative.  You know how simple those jobs were?  So the foreman asks me do I think I’m capable for such a demanding task.  Ten minutes later I was functioning like a professional auto assembler.  You know, I guess there were some guys who couldn’t handle it.’

Craig.

     ‘There were quite a few who couldn’t cut the jobs.  I was always amazed myself.’

Dewey

     ‘Yah.  After you told me I remembered the attentive eye you gave me when we were all clamoring around the time clock for some reason.  I noted you too, funny how kindred types spot each other in a crowd.  But you always seemed aloof so I dismissed the idea.’

Craig

     ‘They didn’t want us to mingle with the assembly people.  GM wanted management and labor to keep to their separate spheres.  I was afraid you wouldn’t like me when I reminded you.’

Dewey

‘No.  We were simpatico, Craig.  You were different from me but you admired all the right things.  I never told you but you were even way ahead of me in a lot of things.  You always seemed to get there before I did.  At least we always did things on your schedule.  But that’s what I wanted to explain to you, why it seemed our friendship cooled.

Craig

‘Why did it?’

Dewey

‘Well, Craig, I’ve done a lot of reading and studying since that time.  A lot in your major, English, a lot in my major, History, and a lot of psychology and related fields.’

Craig

‘Oh yeah?  Didn’t take up any poetry did you?’

Dewey

     I still won’t read Algernon Swinburne if that’s what you mean but I have read a little Scott and Tennyson.  By the way, did you ever write?

Craig

No.  I tried a couple short stories but I don’t think I finished even them.  I may yet though.

Dewey

I have.

Craig

You?  You mean you write?

Dewey

Yep.  I told you I would, Craig, but you scoffed.  You always had this notion that you were playing Batman to my Robin.  Bothered me.  Yes, I’m three volumes into a roman a fleuve I’ve titled ‘City On The Hill.’  But, nevermind.  Do you know what a psychological cluster is?

Craig

No.  I missed that one, I guess.

Dewey

I’m not surprised. It’s my own notion.  A cluster is a group of memories that are related by content to a central memory that creates an illusion.  The memories may or may not be related in time and place; they may occur before, after or concurrently with the central fixation but they are associated with, influence and are influenced by it.  They are relegated to the subconscious where they usually remain unless you can call them up into your consciousness.  Now, that I am about to begin volume four which I have titled: On The Knees Of The Gods part of which will deal with you and Robie, the cluster came up.  How is Robie, that wonderful wife of yours?

Craig

She died a couple years ago, Dewey.

Dewey

Oh not.  Well, don’t tell me about it.  I always want her alive in my memory.

Craig

I didn’t know you liked Robie that much.

Dewey

Liked her?  I loved her.  She’s the only woman I’ve ever known other than Jeannie that I think I could have married.

Craig

You still married to Jeannie?

Dewey

Yes.  She’s well.  She remembers you and Robie with real affection.

Craig

Why did you like Robie so much?

Dewey

Well, Craig, I’ve thought about this a lot.  It’s just that you have such excellent taste in the people you choose to associate with.  I like the people you like although I have a secret resentment about how you choose who you like.

Craig

What do you mean by that?

Dewey

Well, Craig, you know I admire you and the things you do but you always suffered from insecurity or perhaps an inferiority complex so you always chose people you could feel superior to in one way or another.  That’s why you liked me, because I had excellent qualities that you could admire but overall you were ahead of me so you could condescend to me without feeling challenged.  Robie was a wonderful woman and you couldn’t have chosen better but, at the same time, she came from a lower social strata than you did so that she always, well, you know, so she always…well, she could always be grateful to you because you rescued her from a lower social strata.

You remember how her front teeth were all rotted away.  They had those huge black gaps between her front teeth.  Her parents had never taken the time to give her decent dental care.  I don’t criticize you for it but all your priorities came before fixing her teeth.  I don’t say you wanted her to stay that way but it gave you security to think no one would make a pass at her, I think.

You treated your dog the same way and you always condescended to your kids in this really superior but not unattractive way.  I always felt you treated me the same way.

You knew the quality of us but it was like a guy who recognized diamonds where others only saw coal.  But don’t take me wrong, you were never offensive about it.  You never tried to lord it but the feeling was still there.

But you were a long way ahead of me.  I hope what I have to say will be all good memories of yours.  They actually are of mine but I can’t stop analyzing them.  Remember in the winter of sixty-six when you took us over to that Beatnik coffee house in San Francisco?  The Gate Of Wine?

Craig

On Grant Street in North Beach?  Sure.  That was one of the greatest if not the greatest night of my life.  I was thrilled to my socks but I didn’t think you liked it that much.  I thought I had disappointed you.

Dewey

Like it?  I loved it.  It was the highlight of my stay in the Bay Area.  I would never have had that wonderful experience except for you.  Seriously, Craig, I owe you a lot.  Strangely enough that is the central icon in my psychological cluster of you.  Even though it was one of the most signficant moments in my life for which I can never thank you enough it is also the basis of the resentment that caused me to distance myself from you.  Strange hey?  Do you remember that night well?

Craig

I don’t know if I remember what you do but I remember the four of us together and walking into the place.  God, what atmosphere.  It was packed.  All those rustic looking chairs and tables like maybe some forty-niners put them together.  The buzz of expectation for the intellectual stimulation.  Then that amazing oration by that amazing Black guy…’

Dewey

What’s that?  Oh, a hamburger well done, two slices of onion, french fries and a glass of Porter.

Craig

I’ll have the same, medium hold the onions.

Dewey

     Yeah, I know, I still quiver with excitement when I think about it. You know, Craig, we were very behind the times.  The Beat thing was already passe at the time.  We were in a time lag of about ten years.  You still remembered the Six Gallery recital when Ginsberg first read Howl.  God, you were lucky to walk in on that.  How old were, seventeen or eighteen?

Craig

Seventeen.  Wow, what a night that was.

Dewey

But already Kesey was bad by the time we got to the coffee house, he’d already done the Acid Tests and Haight-Ashbury was almost in full swing, Marty Balin and the Airplane had already given the bottom to the movement with the Matrix Club and there we were thinking we were far out at a Beatnik coffee house.  You remember how much you used to like, even worship, Kesey?

Craig

I thought he was a great writer then and I think he’s a great writer now.  ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ has become a classic but I still think ‘Sometimes A Great Notion is better.  I couldn’t interest you in them though.

Dewey

No.  I started Cuckoo once but I couldn’t get myself into it.  By the way did you know I knew Kesey a little bit?

Craig

You’re joking?  You talked to him?

Dewey

Yes I did.  I even sold a couple Grateful Dead records to him when I was in the record business in Eugene.

Craig

Lucky guy, you.  I’ll bet he was just great.

Dewey

I’m sure he is great Craig but I didn’t like him any better in person than I did from his fame, which isn’t to say he’s a bad guy, you know, just a matter of taste.

Craig

Do you remember his adventures in the Bay Area.  God, I thought everything he did was great.  He was so avant garde I could never hope to catch up.

Dewey

Well, I can’t forgive him for leading his generation down the garden path of drugs.  I thought the Acid Tests were wrong then and I think he did his generation a great disservice by legitimizing LSD.  But the funny thing, the reason I dislike him most doesn’t really have anything to do with him and the memories associated with him are attached to you before I even knew you.

Craig

How can that be?

Dewey

That’s what I was saying; that’s how a memory cluster works.  It associates memories that the subconscious relates to each other as though they were all one big incident.  So, even though you didn’t have anything to do with a lot of this my mind places you into the same context; that’s part of the reason I drew away from you, you see, not your fault at all but subconsciously all my most negative thoughts and memories of you came together in this weird cluster.

In sixty-three, November twenty-second, the day Kennedy bought his one way ticket over the river of no return I was unemployed.  I’d only been married two months and I’d been fired the month before by a guy who had had the same thing done to him with dire consequences so he passed his monkey on to me.

Craig

What happened to him?

Dewey

Well, the same as he did to me they gave him bad references so that it was really hard for him to get a job.  His only way out had been to be co-opted by the Mafia.

Craig

Co-opted by the Mafia?

Dewey

Um hmm.  The company we worked for was owned by this guy from the Chicago Outfit.  Anybody who had been with the company for any time at all was a Mafia stooge.

Craig

You’re kidding me.

Dewey

No, I’m not.  San Francisco was riddled by Mafiosi from Chicago.  I was offered a ‘life time’ job with the Outfit but you know what that means.  Jeannie was a nice looking woman and they told me that once in I was in for life and that they might from time to time want to use her as a prostitute.  But it would be alright because I would get her back and there wouldn’t be any harm done.  Bullshit, man.  So, I told them no and a week later I was out on the street with no chance of getting a decent job.

I’d had a discouraging month or so and I was sitting on this bench down on the little plaza at the foot of Montgomery and Market waiting for a job  interview.  I looked over on the bench and someone had lain a newspaper down beside me with an employment ad circled in red.  Stanford’s psychology department was looking for subjects.  What do you think they wanted them for?

 Craig

Darned if I know, Dewey, it’s your story.

Dewey

CIA drug testing, LSD, speed, all that stuff.  I think it was the same program Kesey was involved with.  I didn’t know what they wanted but I thought maybe I would do it so I put the paper in my pocket and went into this weird art deco building across the street on Market.  It was surreal given my mental condition.  The inside of the building was all steel.  A big atrium with steel elevators, in the middle in open steel cages, perforated steel walkways around the floors, steel walls; a real monument to steel.

Have you ever been back in the library stacks at Berkeley.  Yeah?  Remember how the room went up for fifty feet or so with no dividers other than those perforated steel gratings?  I had some queer four floors up piss four floors down  through the grating on me.  By the time it would have got to me there was nothing left but that’s how those perverts at UC thought and acted.

Steel may be steel but I’ve never seen anything like this building this side of a locomotive.  I had an interview there with a guy who I later found out was very famous in an underground fashion where he was known as Dr. Queergenes.  ‘On The Knees Of The Gods’ is centered around him.  I guess he just wanted to see what I looked like because he took one look, sneered at me, then told me to get out.  Rude.  Really ill mannered

When I entered that awesome building I left one world and when I emerged I entered a completely different one.  When I came back out on the street from that house of steel everyone was running around screaming like berserkers just like maybe Khrushchev had dropped the big one.  It took me a long time to get someone to tell me what had happened but finally someone turned a staring face at me and said:  Kennedy’s been shot.

Now, you might think I was dismayed but instead a great feeling of relief flooded over me and the sky turned bright blue.  We all knew they would shoot him if he went to Dallas and now that they did I was glad.  My subconscious overwhelmed my conscious mind as I headed up toward Powell Street in an actual daze.  I had disliked Kennedy so much that I felt like one of the conspirators and actually shared in their guilt.

I didn’t really take the paper with the circled ad out of my pocket but I actually remember nudging and brushing it until it fell out.

Drugs and Kennedy.  I don’t know what they meant to me but November 22 was the first day of the rest of my life.  I was reborn on that day with the hope of a future.  Later I learned that Aldous Huxley died that day too.  Monster influence on me.  I couldn’t get you interested in his writing like you couldn’t get me interested in Kesey.

I wandered around downtown for a couple hours often in the middle of the streets as people ran around like chickens with their heads cut off.  I remember the car traffic seemed to be nonexistent.  I was curious isolated by my guilt so I couldn’t make contact with anyone else I just wandered around looking as crazy as the others.  Finally I went home where I turned on the TV just in time to learn that they had arrested Oswald who I immediately recognized as the scapegoat but that was alright because I too transferred my feeling of guilt to him.  When Ruby shot Oswald that closed the book on my past for me.  On one level I was free.  Only Bobby and King were left and then they got it five years later.

I don’t know why those three men had to go.

Anyway this memory of the ad for drug subjects and the killing of Kennedy is part of the cluster surrounding Kesey and which I irrationally attached to you probably because you were so sold on Kesey.

So here we were at the Gate of Wine which was, by the way, just around the corner from the rooftop Kesey sat on looking out over the City loaded on the speed the Stanford psychologists had injected into him when the cops came to get him.

   The web of society is so interrelated that the question in my mind is that if the CIA hadn’t been trying to find brain washing drugs and hadn’t enlisted the help of academia then Kesey would not have been influenced by drugs in the manner he was, had his his mind blown away as it were, and therefore he probably would have passed over the Acid Tests and society would now be a different place.  So while the straights blame Kesey they have only the CIA, the Government and themselves to blame.  Funny?

You see how we create our own hell with the best of intentions.  The ‘best’ people are more guilty than the ‘worst.’  In retrospect I see Kesey only as a tool of the government, as I might have been.  Imagine what I might have become after massive doses of LSD and Speed.

I hadn’t eaten and I was really hungry but you were so excited at showing us this place that you wouldn’t hear me.  The Gate was quite a discovery for you too.

Craig

I remember the evening clearly but I don’t remember that.

Dewey

It was.  The four of us go into this place.  I’m wearing my black pin striped job hunting suit and my blue flowered Ernst narrow square bottomed tie over a blue shirt and you’re wearing this dark grey sport coat over the green velour turtle neck Robie and I hated to much.

Craig

Ice blue.  It was ice blue not green and velour shirts were all the rage that year.

Dewey

Ha! Not with anybody with taste.  You were really proud of that shirt and wanted all of us to like it but we hated it.  It was tasteless.  That’s why your memories are filed in my mind in the section labeled: Shirts, cross referenced to Politics, Literature and Drugs.

Craig

I can follow you on Politics, Literature and Drugs Dewey, but you have a section labeled: Shirts?

Dewey

Yeah.  Shirts, Shoes, Socks, Pants, Jackets.  Funny, huh?

Craig

Just a minute.  Socks.  You just mentioned socks.  My velour shirt was more acceptable than those socks you wore.  Don’t say you don’t remember them.

Dewey

Of course I do.  I remember everything.  Those socks were one of a kind.

Craig

You can say that again.  Everybody thought you were weird because of those socks but I stuck by you as a friend.

Dewey

Those socks were not weird.  They were distinctive.

Craig

Oh yes, they were that too.  They were angora socks that only girls wore.  And those colors!

Dewey

Oh man, the memories come flooding back.  It took real balls to wear them but I enjoyed a pair of the brassiest balls ever seen on the Hill.  I really liked those socks.  Terrific pastel colors and like you say long and fuzzy like an angora sweater.  They may have been a little bit on the femmy side but they were daring and startling.  I think that’s what’s wrong with America today:  Socks are really boring.  They’re just drab and unuplifting.  You can’t find socks like that anymore.  Look at these:  Flat dull brown, the only flash is on the toe ends.  These are called Gold Toes or something like that.  That’s all America has to offer today.  I loved the sixties, all ten years of them.

Craig

Well then, let’s just can that talk about my velour shirt.

Dewey

I was just mentioning an historical fact, Craig old boy, it’s not proper to falsify and revise history.

So anyway, we go into this Beat coffee house called the Gate Of Wine for whatever reason because they don’t serve wine.

Craig

There were reasons.

Dewey

Yeah, I know what the reason was now but I didn’t then.  We’re late and the place is packed but we were lucky enough to get four seats together in the back.  Most of the people were like us, more or less straight people who were fascinated by the Beatniks.  A lot of suits and dresses.  There were some phony Beats in horizontally striped T-shirts, neckerchiefs and berets like they were French resistance  Apache dancers and even a few authentic Beats.

You’re right, the atmosphere was terrific.  Dark as a tomb.  All the seats were rough hewn like you said, really primitive Cubistic stuff.  Man, it was like being transported to Mars.  The Beats were real Luddites, living in the city and rejecting all the symbols of civilization except for some cutting edge sound equipment and spotlights.

I wanted to eat ’cause I’m hungry as a famished dog but you tell me there isn’t time and they didn’t even want to serve food.  I insist so they bring it just as the orators start and I’m not supposed to eat anymore.  Knife and fork make a lot of clatter but I eat anyway to the disgust of you and everyone else.

While I’m eating these nerd poets get up and recite their stuff.  Heartfelt, maybe, but terrible.

Craig

Those weren’t nerd poets Dewey.  One of them was Lawrence Ferlinghetti, one of the great Beat poets.

Dewey

Oh yeah.  And they apologized because Michael McClure couldn’t be there.  I didn’t know there were any great Beat poets, Craig, they were all crummy.  By the way, did I ever tell you my Ferlinghetti story?  I met him once.

 Craig

No.  How did you meet Lawrence Ferlinghetti?

Dewey

Well, he owned the City Lights Bookstore, you know, up on Columbus near Broadway.  This was like sixty-two at the time of the Cuba crisis when we all thought Khruschev was going to drop the Bomb on Baghdad By The Bay.  I was working for the shipping company at the time.  We were way up in a short ‘scraper on the corner of Kearny and California.  This prop plane, for Chrissakes, came over low and everybody in the office loaded their pants, you should have seen them.  Afterwards we covered our shame by discussing how the Soviets would have used a high flying jet rather than a low flying prop plane.  It wasn’t a very satisfactory excuse but it worked.

That was also about the time they had that free distribution of the Salk vaccine on sugar cubes.  We were all supposed to take time off and go down to get it.  I refused.  Almost got fired for it too.  But, I ramble.

Anyway I must have been coming on like a real hipster because somebody told me that if I was going to be one of them I should meet this Ferlinghetti guy who I had never heard of and get passed on.  As usual I have no idea what’s going on so I don’t have any idea who this guy is.  One lunch time they take me up to this City Lights Bookstore which is a pretty grimy storefront on Columbus which is a pretty grimy street anyway.

You’ve been to City Lights, I presume?

Craig

Many, many times.

Dewey

Yeah?  Well, then you know.  You go into this street level room which was kept dark and unattractive to discourage the idle or curious.  Then off to the left there’s this little narrow stairwell that leads down into a second room which is well lit and where they kept what they considered the good stuff.

Craig

It was.

Dewey

Well, you’re the poet Craig.  They got maybe a couple hundred of these slim little poetry books sparsely dispersed, none of which I’ve ever heard of so I figure like, wow, what is this?

Then my cicerone tells me that Ferlinghetti is up in his office and I should introduce myself.  Pass inspection I guess.  So when you turn around to go back up the steps off to the right up a branch set of steps is this little office with a little desk at which Ferlinghetti sits.  Well, he is this little skinny guy with a black fringe beard and crazy eyes behind this pair of glasses.  So, anyway, he sits looking up at me and I stand looking down at him.  Not knowing what else to do I say: Hi.  He just continues to look at me with his legs spread so I figure maybe he’s queer and wants a blow job.  He doesn’t say anything so I turn around and walk out, I don’t give blow jobs.  My hipster career is finished in SF just like that.  None of them will talk to me anymore.

So, now that you say Ferlinghetti was reading I remember him well enough of these so-called poets.  After being  bored by three of them they get around to the prose.

Now, here’s where we come in.  They got two orators this Friday night.  One is a little skinny White guy and the other is this humongous Black guy.  Remember?

Craig

Vaguely, vaguely.  I remember the Spade Cat pretty well, but go on.  I haven’t thought of this for years.

Dewey

Well, you know this White guy gets up and he’s really timid acting; he doesn’t really stutter but he falters a lot and looks really uncertain.  Real dry academic delivery.  Nobody likes him but me.

He goes on that he has been studying the political and social scene in the country pretty closely, like anybody cares.  He has some pretty unpleasant things for us he knows but they’re pretty important so we better listen up.  I’d finished eating by then, screw Ferlinghetti, so I was paying attention.

White Guy says that a new immigration law had taken effect in ’65 that would accelerate a number of processes in the United States that would destroy the importance of the States proper and lead to a condition he called a Union Of Autonomous Peoples.

He pointed out that at the turn of the century when the Eastern and Southern Europeans began to immigrate even though the talk was of a Melting Pot the seeds of autonomous peoples had been planted.  There was a lot of 0pposition at the time to the influx of Jews and Sicilians who thinking people at the time thought were unassimilable.

Craig

Hmmm.  I’ve heard this before.

Dewey

Right.  He didn’t get hissed yet but there was a lot of shifting around uneasily when he mentions Eastern and Southern Europeans; always a tender spot.  He says that right there in San Francisco some far seeing men like Dennis Kearny, after whom Kearny Street is named, and others had got the Chinese Exclusion Bill passed in eighteen eighty-two and they had worked hard to keep the Japanese out at the turn of the century.  This was all to the good, he says, and the patriots on the East Coast should have been heeded about the Jews and Italians but they weren’t.

Craig

C’mon, hey , really.  You’re not saying you agree with him?

Dewey

I’m not saying anything yet, I’m just reporting.  But, you’re right.  About then he gets a few hisses and a cat call or two and somebody shouts for him to sit down.

Wait a minute, he says, the Beats stand for the unlimited right of free speech.  I don’t have any other forum to say this.

Right, I say, to general disapproval, let him speak, he’s got a right.  So he goes on.

He explains the necessity of the restrictions placed on immigration during the twenties and their beneficial results.  Then he goes on in this dry explanation of the subsequent immigration acts that maintained the status quo of the twenties.  All that good work has now been undone, he says, by this new immigration law that opens the doors to all the peoples of Asia.  Couple billion of them which as he rightly says is a lot of people.

The reason the law was passed, he goes on, was so that the Jews who lived in Israel, which is a tiny spot on the western edge of Asia, could come and go to the United States as they pleased.

But America, he says, has never been able to digest all the peoples who came in before nineteen twenty.  The concept of the Melting Pot had tended to be centrifugal which eroded the national identities which these people cherished as they became one people.  Then countervailing centripetal force had been created to break apart the Melting Pot and reinforce national identities after the Second World War.  This new law would eliminate any chance of one people being created at the expense of national unity.

Now that totally unassimilable peoples like the Chinese and religions like the Moslems could enter the country at will the effect would be to accelerate the process into political units of peoples rather than administrative units of States.

He pointed out that the Chinese had been at least a semi-autonomous people in Chinatown from the beginning.  He said that the writ of the law of the United States did not loom very large in Chinatown.  Now that they could come in legally the number of illegal entrys would increase wildly.

As the authorities had no way of checking inside Chinatown the Chinese would function as a part of China.  Within fifty years, he said, all of San Francisco would be Chinese.

If you remember the booing and hissing was increasing but he was on fairly safe ground until he brought up what he called the Negro revolt.  He was the first guy I know who had this stuff all figured out.  He was launching into the sixty-five Watts riot when they really started shouting and screaming calling for his blood.  He was practically crying.

But, freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of conscience, he was crying, the Beat scene is supposed to be the only place left where you can speak openly and honestly.  I read it in Time Magazine.

Well, no one read Time Magazine in the Gate of Wine apparently.  This authority figure gets up, Ferlinghetti probably, and tries to quiet the crowd down while he tells this poor White guy he’d better go now.

The White Guy runs the gauntlet down the center aisle shouts out as he goes through the door:  There is no freedom of speech in America; the US is a nation of slaves.

Craig

I don’t remember that.

Dewey

Not pleasant; pretty strong stuff I thought.  I didn’t know what to think.  Then this big black guy gets up to the general approval of the crowd.

I don’t think that’s what America stands for, he begins sententiously.  I’m black and I know what it means to be discriminated against for no reason other than color.  That crackpot privileged White Boy he ain’t got nothin’ to complain about he can walk down the street without being harassed.  Any white man or woman can.  I’m glad he left and I’m glad you threw him out.

He speaks in this deep rich bass like James Earl Jones and immediately wins the audience over.  Everybody loves him including you.

This guy doesn’t falter or stutter but rolls on like de big ribber with the right tone of righteous indignation.  You’ll probably remember this because as hip as I liked to think myself this guy is using terms like I’d never heard yet.  I went out and got some hip lessons immediately.

This black guy doesn’t have the hip jargon down like Lord Buckley but he’s talking faster than I can listen.  I’m surprised you didn’t know Lord Buckley the hippest raconteur alive.  But you weren’t into the Folk Music scene like you were into the literary scene.

Craig

I was more into the emerging Rock scene than the Folk scene.  I always thought you were a little behind the times there.  I remember when I really understood ‘Rubber Soul’ – the Beatles- but neither you nor Robie or Jeannie had a chance of getting it.

Dewey

I still haven’t got it.  Well, I did hang onto the Folk thing until the very end.  The songs on Rubber Soul you pointed out as so good sounded just like noise to the rest of us.  I afterwards became quite an adept in Rock music if you remember but even though I can handle Blue Cheer which few people can I have never been able to accustom myself to Rubber Soul or the Beatles for that matter.  Real Charlie Manson music; helter skelter and all that. Makes you shudder just to thing about it.

Anyway this black guy is going on about how a Spade Cat can’t walk down the street with a White Chick without getting a lot of flack even in a cosmopolitan center like San Francisco.

Well, I can pick out White Chick as probably meaning a white woman but I can’t make out what I’m hearing as a spayed cat.  I can’t imagine what a spayed cat has to with a white chick.

     So after about the fifteenth spayed cat I have to ask, to the general disapproval of all what a spayed cat has to do with anything.  So you tell me in a very condescending way that he means a black man, a Spade Cat as in a catman black as the ace of spades.  Right.  So this guy is winning hearts right and left except for me.  I spot something wrong in the guy.

He ends his spiel. The talk fest is over and everybody is filing out.  Man, black people just have soul, people are saying.  They feel so much more deeply than we do and twaddle like that.  Really racist stuff.  You were knocked out by this guy.

Craig

Well, Dewey, honestly I thought he was a very open man and that he had a legitimate complaint.  I had great compassion for him.  I thought then and I think now that discrimination is wrong.

Dewey

Yeah, but see, you don’t know the twist.

Craig

What twist?

Dewey

The twist is this.  This is quite a story.  I can’t explain the cause of the effect produced by our visit to the Gate of Wine but that evening was one of the most traumatic of my life.  I was fixated by the place.  Nobody knows this, not even Jeannie, but I was so affected by the experience that I did something I had never done before.  I was compelled to revisit the place but I wanted to examine it in the daytime when its mystique was gone.

The next day was a Saturday.  I had never gone anywhere without my wife since we were married but without telling her where I was going I drove back over to the City.  I hoped the place would be open for lunch but it was all shuttered up.

My actions were weird even to myself but something other than my conscious mind was controlling me.  I walked all around the building examining it, even palpating the walls.  Then I noticed standing on the corner the big black Spade orator of the previous evening.  He was even huger up close.  I mean, six-five and well over three hundred pounds.  I mean he was like the side of the building all by himself.

It was strange.  It was like I wanted to be invisible haunting the place like the Phantom Of The Opera so I acted like I wasn’t there and you know what?  It was like I wasn’t.  Nobody seemed to take notice of me.

Now, here’s the kicker.  What do you think this Spade Cat you people admired over the Honky Cat was?

Craig

I don’t know but I guess you’re going to tell me.

Dewey

Indeed I am.  In the first place as I later discovered he owned the Gate of Wine so he wasn’t just some guy who got up out of the audience but he reserved a place for himself every session and delivered his propaganda.  I’m only guessing now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the White Guy was his opening act. Further he was a pimp and a junk dealer.  A criminal of the first magnitude.  This guy was big in more ways than one.  He had quite an organization.  He was talking to two of his white junkie slaves so I kind of slid behind his huge shadow on the wall of the Gate of Wine and hid there thinking I couldn’t be seen as I watched and listened.

He kind of noticed me out of the corner of his eye.  He was wondering whether I was a nark trying to land him or a junkie trying to score.  He opted for junkie and went on with his business.

The two white junkies were miniscule beside him.  They were only five-six or seven and as skinny as two pieces of fettucine stuck together; had about that much backbone too, not that I had anything to brag about.  Now, dig this, he’s not only charged them for smack but he wouldn’t sell to them unless they recruited white women for him.  Not just women but white women.  He had an all white stable.  Once he got the women on the boo he could turn them out as prostitutes.

So this ‘kind mistreated’ Spade Cat had a large ring of white heroin slaves that he could abuse at will in a reversal of the old slave days when White masters ruled the roost of Black women.

The White Chicks that this Spade Cat was escorting down the street were really his junkie prostitutes that he was moving from crib to crib.  This guy was operating so openly that everyone knew who he was and what he was doing.  He was paying protection money to the cops so the insults this Spade Cat got weren’t necessarily because he was with a White Chick but because he was known as one of the arch criminals of San Francisco.  The sympathy of you and those other people was completely misplaced.  I knew there was something wrong with him

As I stood watching melting into this big Spade’s shadow a White girl came toward us going to that grocery store that was mid-block across the street from the Gate Of Wine, if you remember.  She was as clean, rosy and pure looking as a young woman could be.  Pert, pleasant and innocent looking as she was blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful.  She was from Cincinatti having just come out to SF a couple years previously with her husband.

Craig

You’re making this up.  How could you possibly know that?

Dewey

Life and philosophy, Horatio, as the Bard said.  Just listen it will all come clear.  Her husband worked for the shipping company I had.  They had been living in Marin but he wanted more action so he moved them to Telegraph Hill.  She had never been in a ‘culturally’ mixed neighborhood. This is where a real clash of cultures comes in for which she and her husband were completely unprepared to deal.  When two cultures clash something has to give; the tragedy was that in those crowded streets of North Beach everything that was good and decent in White culture gave way to everything that was bad and criminal in Black Culture.

So this really clean, self-respecting proud White Chick comes down the street toward this Spade Cat who feels so discriminated against.  Poor bastard.  When she was about twenty feet ahead of us this big pimping junk dealing Spade Cat with this booming bass boice that you people admired so blares out, now get this:  Say mama, that sure is a nice tight little ass you’re swinging along behind you there.

You see, in Black neighborhoods this is how the Spade Cats treat their Black hos.

Craig

Treat their Black what’s?

Dewey

Aha!  Gotcha.  Let me condescendingly explain what a Black Ho is.  Looks like I finally caught up with you.  Black men, or at least a signficant portion of them see women merely as hos.  That is either a mispronunciation of whore or hole.  Women are seen only as holes that can be put to work shakin’ that money maker or whores that know how to use that money maker between their legs.  This pimp Spade Cat certainly looked at all white women that way.

So in a Black community when you come on to an unknown woman in the street about her shapely ass the Black woman is supposed to say something like this:  Thank you, you brown eyed handsome man but don’t thing you be taking any liberties with my sweet ass.

In Black culture as insecure as it is in what was always a hostile White world one Black is always in conspiracy with the others against Whites so they never need formal introductions.  In a way they revert to a more primitive tribal culture in which all are brothers and sisters and therefore already know each other.  Spade Cat expected this White woman who had been brought up in another cultural system in which all people are separate until introduced to abandon all her culture to become what amounts to a common strumpet.  I mean, when’s the last time you looked at a woman and said:  Say mama, you got a real nice ass.  Try it and see what happens.

Besides this Spade Cat was a junk dealer dealing with slaves.  He’d kind of lost all notion of the social niceties except with a microphone in his hand.  If you’ve seen the movie Sid and Nancy you have seen how dealers treat their junkies.

Well, this White Chick comes from a polite background where one’s space is discreetly maintained until one is permitted or invited to break the plane.  So, she throws her nose in the air quite properly disdaining such an improper advance whether from Black or White; I don’t think she was prejudiced, do you?  After all neither you nor I nor any self-respecting man would ever shout across the street to a woman that she has a nice ass nor would a White woman tolerate such behavior from a White man.  But for the same reason you people admired the Spade Cat’s speech she was prepared to ignore what would have a criminal approach from a White man.

When she threw her nose in the air she violated the social code of the Black community of this criminal, pimping, drug dealing Spade Cat.  All six foot five three hundred plus pounds of him took two steps toward her and boomed out:  Listen you White Bitch.  Don’t you act so proud.  When a brown eyed handsome man favors you with a compliment you should be flattered and respond properly.  Now, I’ll say it again:  You’ve got a real pretty tushy.

She pushed her nose up further showing some courage but her step faltered.

So the Spade Cat takes a couple lumbering steps out into the street and bellows:  White Bitch, you show proper respect or I cross this street you’ll regret it.

 Well, shit man, as the Spade Cat would say, she was terrified as well she should have been.  There wasn’t a single movement on a street filled with white people to help her.  The nose comes down and the Spade Cat says again:  Now, I said you got a real nice looking ass, woman.

‘Thank you very much Sir.’  She says but her whole world view had just disappeared.  This was the first moment of the rest of her life and she sure as hell didn’t want to see the second moment.

Craig

You’re sure the African-American was the same guy as the night before, Dewey?

Dewey

Oh yeah.  I’m sure the Spade Cat was the African-American.  But, listen Craig, the story is just beginning.  As I said, I can’t explain the fascination that this place and this experience had on me but I was completely in its grip.  On the following Wednesday instead of going up to Cal-State I drove over to Grant street and the Gate of Wine again.  Only this time I didn’t go up to the coffee house but stood in a kind of trance across the street.  The Spade Cat was still standing on the corner by the Gate of Wine which was apparently his office where he dealt out his balloons.

And then as I watched this blonde White Chick comes down the street again.  It was one of those things where time stands still in a parallel universe.  If there had been a dog scratching his ear on the corner his foot would have remained suspended in the air.

    The Spade Cat watched sullenly as the White Chick came along.  She was terrified.  She had her head in a half nod ready to acknowledge his ‘compliment’ but he just stared at the ground sullenly as she walked by.

He crossed the street to follow behind her.  As she came up on the grocery store he made his move.  I don’t know if you ever really paid attention to that market but there was a delivery door to one side of the entrance.  It had an unlocked screen door.  The Spade Cat came up behind the White Chick, grabbed her by the neck and thrust her through this delivery door.

All the junkies on the street came out of their doorways and holes to stare at the door.  As they stood motionless expectantly I walked past the grocery store to see what was going on.  I was terrified but consciously unmoved by what I saw.  The Spade Cat had pulled off the White Chick’s panties which he had pulled over her head, he pulled her skirt up and thrusting his pelvis forward he had lifted the White Chick onto his dick while with one hand around her neck and the other around her waist he was bouncing her up and down on his dick.

I stepped back into a doorway just as he came roaring out of the delivery entrance.

See how proud you act now White Bitch.  Next time you know how to behave yourself.

I don’t think he noticed me as he rushed past.  I stepped out behind him and walked back.  I looked in to see the skinny white junkie who was clerking push her back and spread her legs to take sloppy seconds.  As I walked slowly down Grant I saw the other white junkies drifting slowly across the street to take their turns.

I kept walking, got in my car and never looked back.  I didn’t know what to think but all I could remember was the cheer the crowd in the Gate of Wine had given the Spade Cat when he stepped down from the podium and the hisses and boos they had given the Honky Cat for telling them the truth about what was going on.’

Craig.

My god, that was horrible.  Why didn’t you go to the police?

Dewey

Not my business.  Besides it would only have been a crime if a White Guy had done that to a woman, Black or White.  When a Black guy does that to a White woman it is called the Payback.  And then, although I didn’t articulate this to myself I realized that Spade Cat was the Black massa on his white junkie plantation on Grant Street in North Beach in San Francisco in the Great State of California in the United States Of America in the year nineteen hundred and sixty-six almost exactly one hundred years since the abolition of Black slavery.  All the white junkies and prostitutes would deny what I said while the cops who were making a lot of money out of the Spade Cat would only be sore at me.  Also I was functioning as though in a dream.  In my heart of hearts I considered San Francisco a very corrupt diabolical place.

Craig

I still think you should have gone to the police.

Dewey

Sure.  Well, as Dylan said the cops don’t need you and man they expect the same.  Anyway a couple weeks later I was down in Berkeley doing some research at the library when I ran into the old receptionist at the shipping company who had come back to Berkeley to get her Masters and PhD. in Music.  She had a cold jolt when she went into the world with a BA in Music only to be told that it wasn’t worth anything more than a job as a receptionist which she could have gotten straight out of high school.  She asked me if I had heard about what happened to Bob’s wife.  Bob isn’t his real name but that’s the one I’ll use.  Doesn’t really matter, he’s dead anyway.  They both are.

I didn’t really care what had happened to Bob and his wife.  Bob had been real snooty to me when I worked at the shipping company.  Everybody there except for a few of us had BAs and Masters from top line schools.  They hired a few high school graduates to lighten their day.  We were all supposed to say funny and unpredictable things like five or six year olds to amuse them.  Bob was one of the most condescending.  He had a degree from Ohio State and I didn’t have one from anywhere so he treated me like a serf.  They all did.

Even though this woman was only a receptionist she still had a BA so she was forbidden to speak to me as an equal at work.  Seeing me on campus she must have thought I was now an equal.  I still remembered the old days but she started telling me this story and I realized that she was describing the scene I had witnessed.  That’s how I knew the blonde woman was from Cincinatti ‘Cause that’s were Bob was from.  Well, my resentment against Bob was so strong I subconsciously tabled the whole memory and didn’t think about it, I thought.

But then in 1968, two years after we graduated from Cal-State up on the Hill when I was down there and visited you and Robie I read in the Chronicle where Bob had been arrested for the murder of a Negro philosopher by the name of Hieronomous Murphy.  Terrific name, huh?  So I began to investigate what had happened in the previous two years.

     It seems that Bob either didn’t understand properly what had happened to his wife or thought she was damaged goods after that horrible incident but at any rate he threw her out which broke that poor inncent’s heart.  She got junked up by the Spade Cat and turned out to his immense satisfaction.  This guy who couldn’t walk down the street with a White Chick without being insulted and so she became another slave on his plantation.  About a year later either by accident or by a hot shot she died putting an end to her miseries.

After she died Bob woke up.  I guess he realized that his desire to live the fast life in the City had been the cause of his wife’s dishonor and death.  He then resolved to take punitive action on the Spade Cat.  He didn’t have to be real clever to figure a way.

By this time the Gate of Wine which seemed to be thriving when we were there had been knocked out of business by the psychedelic revolution and become a straight junkie tavern and hangout.  I went in once; everyone turned junked up eyes on me so I just turned around and walked out.  The Spade Cat still did business on the corner so Bob posed as a junkie and began buying stuff from him to gain his confidence.

Once Spade Cat got used to him he thought it was time to strip Bob of his independence and make him a slave on his Grant Street plantation.

The Spade Cat’s usual mode of subordinating the mind of his junkies after he had captured his body with junk was to make him pick up his stuff in one of those alleys on Telegraph Hill where they kept the garbage cans.  I was told where it was and tried to find it but if I ever did I didn’t recognize it.  I couldn’t find that many gargage cans anywhere and I began to get self-conscious poking around in those alleys.

Before he would release the boo he would make the junkie get down on his knees in what was described to me as this field of garbage cans and give him a blow job.  Nobody had much independence after that.

So Bob knew the routine.  When the Spade Cat told him to meet him in the garbage cans Bob was ready.  He dressed like a real junkie, snap brim hat, full length coat, everything.  He slings the proverbial sawed off shotgun under his arm and begins the long walk down the alley to the Spade Cat who is sitting leisurely on a garbage can with a wry smile on his face waiting for him.

Bob goes down on his knees like he’s going to do the number, the Spade Cat gets his weenie out and everything then Bob flips up his shotgun and from about six inches unloads however many rounds one of those pump actions carry full into the Spade Cat’s face.  Needless to say the Cat didn’t have enough face left to say:  Thank-you, I needed that.

Bob was tracked down immediately and went to Q where some other Spade Cat took a hammer to him which messed up Bob’s skull no little.

So that’s the story of the Spade Cat who couldn’t walk down the street with a White Chick that you guys admired so much.

You having another beer, Craig?

Craig

Sure, why not?

Dewey

Good, because I’m not finished.  Yeah, two more Porters.  No, no desert for me.

Craig

Me, either.   So, is the story true, Dewey, or are you embroidering the truth?

Dewey

No.  This is gospel Craig.  That only takes care of the Spade Cat; we still have the Honky Cat to deal with.

Craig

You followed up on him too?

Dewey

No.  I don’t know what happened to him.  I was always impressed by the fact that the whole crowd except me was sucked in by this fair speaking detestable criminal Black guy while they reviled the White guy who laid his mental treasures at their feet.  He kind of reminded me of a line from a song of the Folk group Hearts And Flowers- They have put the greatest poet of the age in a little padded cage and all he wanted to do was to lay his treasures at their feet.

That’s the way you people treated that poor Honky Cat who had worked long and hard to analyze society to keep it from going wrong only to be reviled because what he had to say ran counter to the prejudices of the day.

Craig

Do you really think the White guy was keyed in?

Dewey:

Well, it seems like everything he said is coming true.  I’ve really thought about and studied immigration results before nineteen sixty-five while forty years later it seems to me all the trends he was describing have developed to the point that they’re undeniable.

Craig

Oh, I remember now.  I can see the guy.  He was about five-six, skinny, glasses and his hair was combed straight up like he was scared witless.

Dewey

Yeah.  You’re right.  It was kinda weird, longer than a crewcut but it still looked like his hair was standing on end in a major fright.

Craig

Right. Right. And everytime they booed him he would crouch down behind the lectern like he was dodging the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Dewey

He had good reason because there was no one there to take his side.  Even if the heavy Spade Cat had bombed he could always get to his brothers and sisters and complain about the Honky bastards.  The White guy being unable to associate with other Whites but isolated by the unavoidable results of his studies could only get weirder and weirder as he became an outcast among his own.

I felt sorry for him.

But over the years what he had to say has stuck inside.  Even though I couldn’t understand very much of what he said then he was so earnest that his words stuck in my mind.  It’s not like I thought about them consciously but my studies seemed to trend in that direction whether I would or not.

Craig

And what he said was…

Dewey

I’ll tell ya.  I want to explain myself but I don’t know where to start or how to get where I want to go.  You graduated in fifty-six just like I did, right.

Craig

Right.

Dewey

 Well, in the first place we all live in a time lag.  None of us are really making decisions based on present realities.  None of us can be that current.  I heard a guy on TV the other day say that Jesse Jackson acted like he thought this was still sixty-eight.  You see, whatever Jackson thinks or does is not based on present day realities of Black affairs but as thing were on the Negro front in sixty-eight.   He thinks all his old arguments apply to the new situation.  He’s stuck in time.

When you read me that bit from ‘Sometimes A Great Notion where Kesey says that the art of the novel is dead because all the great thoughts had been thought and all the great things had been said he was way behind the times although it sounded current.  He was thinking in a time lag of twenty to forty years but his body was living in the present.  That’s probably why he embraced LSD so hard; he had intellectually blasted his present and didn’t know anyway else to get into the future.

He was about twenty years older than us so all his mental influences were before World War Two and a lot them were pre-World War One.  He was really out of time in the raging flood of change he found.

Both you and I were acting in a time lag of ten years while all our influences were pre-fifty-six going back to Victorian literature.  We scarcely recognized the changes while I for one was incapable of incorporating and acting on them.

You know, we weren’t even aware of the background of the Black revolt.

We weren’t so far behind the times as Kesey but all our reactions were centered on a reality that was just behind the big changes.  I’m really only getting my life sorted out now.

Craig

You’re ahead of me if you’re getting this figured out.  I haven’t had a clue for years.

Dewey

Don’t feel bad.  That’s because we weren’t paying attention to the right things or at least understanding them.  There’s a number of strands involved here but do you know what the unifying thread is, at least historically?

Craig

Aw, c’mon Dewey, give me a break.  I don’t know what you think.

Dewey

OK.  Lost that spirit of adventure, hey?  The central problem was the British and European conquest of the world, sometimes known as colonialism.  That was the cause from which all else is effect.

Really the British conquest is the important part because they were so successful.  When you looked at the old globe nearly everything was pink.

When the two world wars altered political realities while England lost its resolve the backlash against England and things English began.

Probably the most important event in modern history was the Seven Years War that was won by England.  It gave them clear title to North America, India and access to the choicest parts of the rest of the world.

When the Seven Years War was over Britannia ruled the waves.  There was no longer competition.

This little country then flooded the world with its citizens.

With no more concern from French interference from Canada British subjects began the conquest of colonial America in earnest.

Thus the racial situation was put in place.  Even in the eighteenth century Britain was scientifically so far ahead of the East and Africa that all those peoples seemed to be and were backward in comparison.  The inevitable result was that Britain saw itself as innately or racially superior.

Hence the Bwana and Mem Sahib attitude in Whites came into existence.  The Bwana attitude is central to our problem today.

Craig

Bwana attitude?  Sounds like conservative racism to me.

Dewey

Actually it belongs to the Liberal mindset.  If one were so disposed it could probably be traced back to the beginning of the nineteenth century when Liberals adopted that superior attitude.  But, the White Man as the superior in Africa was deferred to as Bwana, which I presume means something like Big Fellow.  In India the men were deferred to as Sahib while the women went by Mem Sahib.  All white people without consideration of merit were referred to in this manner.

Over the course of the centuries the conquered peoples acquired access to modern scientific methods and more importantly modern weapons.  A backward tribal African with a machine gun in his hands is equal and possibly the superior in ability to an educated, even Einstein, White with the same weapon.  Kipling put it into a beautiful allegory called ‘The Man Who w

Would Be King.’  John Huston made an even more beautiful movie of the story.  If you remember the story two English soldiers trip over the Himalayas into Central Asia where they establish themselves as godlike kings.  This must have been the way the British first appeared to the Indians themselves.  Invulnerable.

But then one of them takes up with a woman.  Kipling’s attitude toward the woman’s influence in history probably precludes his being read today.  The priests incite the woman to get close to the god king to scratch his face.  She does.  The god-king bleeds destroying his illusion and power because gods don’t bleed.

The natives rebel and kill the two Englishmen who go down with spectacular British fortitude awing the natives.

That’s probably a metaphor for what happened to the English in India.  Kipling was brilliant.  He was right too.  Women will get you everytime.

So the Whites lost the military and moral edge while retaining the conceit of being scientifically superior which we are.  They concealed their loss by feeling compassion for the poor Third Worlders.  Still privately feeling superior but unable to express it openly they nevertheless retain the Bwana attitude although now they punish Whites who do not kowtow to so-called minorities.

Did you ever watch the old Nash Bridges show?  There’s a perfect example of the dilemma.  The name Bridges of course gives away the conception of the role:  A White man reaching out to the minorities of America but not better than them.

I don’t know where the Nash comes from.  Bridges is one of the common folk; there is nothing obviously superior about him.  He dresses terribly and drives an orange car yet there is no doubt that he is the Bwana.  Knows everything and condescends to minorities while bashing Whites.  His Mexican stooge, or sidekick, knows it while all others recognize Bridges quality, except for his ugly White bosses, of course.

In a recent episode Bridges’ Mexican partner who has a tall blonde Swedish American wife wants to get his child enrolled in an elitist private school where the education is better than in the public schools.

The administrator comes across like a member of the Nazi party but as it turns out appearances are deceiving because the school turns out not to be a hive for angry superior Whites but a facist training ground for the new brotherhood of man.  The White Bwanas are leading the way to the integrated paradise.

Interestingly none of the other minorities have a culture of their own.  Unlike the attitude of the Spade Cat there is no clash of cultures.  The only differences are physical.  The whole argument of these people is based on cosmetic differences.  The only differences they can understand are the physical distinctions of race and color.  Fundamental differences of cultural attitudes do not enter into their thinking.

Craig

Sure.  I don’t think anyone is inferior because of race or color if that’s what you mean, Dewey.

Dewey

That’s not what I mean, Craig.  That’s the problem with the writers of the Nash Bridges show.  They think in terms of superiority and inferiority rather than substantial differences in culture.

Race is much more basic than that.

Craig

Now, Dewey, I’ve got to warn you that I can’t tolerate any racism.  I mean, we’ll still be friends but I can’t share any racist opinions.

Dewey

I understand.  Even though racism is disreputable you still don’t deny that races exist, do you?

Craig

I do believe that race is a social construct without any foundation in physiology nor do I think any differences are meaningful.

Dewey

OK.  But listen to this.  Have you ever heard of a guy named Madison Grant?  Hm.  Well, back in the teens during the Great War actually he wrote a book called The Passing Of The Great Race.  It’s on the American Index Of Forbidden Books.

Craig

You mean like the Catholic Index?  There’s no such thing.  We’ve got freedom of speech.

Dewey

That’s where you’re wrong.  There are a large number of so-called racist books that are proscribed.  A terrific war rages in our libraries whether you recognize it or not.  Certain groups even steal proscribed books from libraries and destroy them in an attempt to stamp them out.  Proletarian censorship you might call it.

Craig

Name one.

Dewey

I’ll go you one better and name two.  There is the collection of the Dearborn Independent articles issued in the twenties by Henry Ford which he unfortunately titled The International Jew.  There are very few copies that haven’t been destroyed while the rest have the margins filled with nasty and counter-nasty remarks.  They are all but impossible to get if you want to read them now.  The second is The Protocols Of The Learned Elders Of Zion.

Craig

Why, those are both anti-Semitic.

Dewey

Not the point, Craig.  You asked me to name a proscribed book.  I have.  The Protocols might possibly be anti-Semitic but Ford isn’t.  Both works have a place in the history of the twentieth century without which the century can’t be understood.  Ford has been completely suppressed while you can still get the Protocols through book stores if you’ve got the nerve to order it.

Craig

Why does ordering a book take nerve?

Dewey

You remember the so-called McCarthy era?  Even being caught reading a suspect journal made you a Communist; so even being interested in learning what these books contain marks you as a ‘known’ anti-Semite in the ADL’s eyes.  They’ll add your name to the list of three million other American ‘known’ anti-Semites they keep files on and then interfere with you.

Craig

A private group keeping files on other Americans.  You’re kidding me.

Dewey

No. No.  Racism is everywhere but we’re heading into a digression.  Anyway, Madison Grant wrote this book called The Passing Of The Great Race by which he means the Anglo-Saxons.  But that’s not my point.

The book is not racist in the manner for which it is criticized by the Jews.

Grant points out an interesting fact which is that on a subliminal level one race will not tolerate another race in its midst.  The more aggressive race will always either displace the other race forcing it beyond the borders or if that is not possible exterminate it. 

Just as God is supposed to have created man in His own image so man wants to look about him to see a uniform type in a common culture.

Now, this attitude is innate. It cannot be changed.

Craig

I suppose that’s an excuse for Hitler’s killing six million Jews.

Dewey

I don’t know whether it’s an excuse but it is the underlying reason.  If Hitler wanted to exterminate the Jews, so what.  Now the Jews are calling for the abolition of the White race.  Exterminating it.  They progressed pretty far along the way too.  So who do you love more the Jews or yourself?

The era beginning with the Bolshevik Revolution kicks off the terrifically cruel wars of genocide which issue out of it.  And genocide is now going on everywhere without mentioning the abolition of the White race.

In Serbia the Christians came into conflict with the Moslems.  They were trying to drive them out before the US interfered.

Of course in nineteen forty-eight in India they couldn’t even think of establishing a nation in which Moslems and Hindus were intermixed once the police power of the British was removed.  So what did they do?  They transferred Hindus out of Pakistan, the Hindu homeland for Chrissakes, and Moslems out of Hindu India.

The Moslems had been in India for many more centuries than America has existed yet the two religions still fell on each other with great slaughter when the British police power was removed.

Everywhere the so-called detested British police power was removed the story is the same.

I mean, just look at Africa.

The more aggressive tribes, and Africa is still tribal and not civilized, seized political power.  Without the restraining arm of Britain they got the guns and carried on genocidal warfare against rival tribes who had been there since time began.  Nor was this Black against White but Black against Black just like the rivalry between long heads and round heads in Bavaria.

Idi Amin in Uganda first shipped the British Indian auxiliaries off.  The Indians hated the British so much that they didn’t even choose to go back to beloved Mother India but went to England instead, that’s how much the Indians hated the British.  Then Amin carried on a genocidal warfare against his tribal rivals.

In Rwanda-Burundi where the Watutsies had dominated their tribal rivals for centuries before the British police power was established thus upsetting their hegemony their tribal rivals got the guns and carried on a genocidal war either killing the Tutsies or driving them out of the country.  What greater evidence is there that Madison Grant knew what he was talking about?

In South Africa now that the Whites can no longer impose segregation on the Blacks the Blacks are segregating them or driving them out of the countries, dispossesing them while you Liberals cheer the ‘justice’ of it.  They are now ethnically cleansing South Africa to your applause.  They are leaving in droves or are being killed.  If they defend themselves they will be called bigots and sanctions will be taken against them led by yourselves.  Once the Whites are cleansed or expelled the country will, of course, fall into ruins because Nelson Mandela doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground about administering a country and the tribe in possession of the most guns will exterminate all the others.  Within twenty years Johannesburg will be a ruined ghost town with squatters in the wrecks of the skyscrapers.

That is how race works whether you like it, agree with it, or not.  nature does need our intellectual compliance to function.

Now, this racial dominance is happening on the local level, the continental level and the global level.  If we refuse to acknowledge it then we will have to pay the price of extinction, that’s all.  It makes no difference to me.  I’ll be gone.

Let’s transfer out argument to the United States.

Let’s go back to the beginning of the nineteenth century.

Now, in the Catholic and Enlightenment conflict in Europe which shows up religiously as Catholic and Protestant the Protestants captured England peopling the colonies with Protestants except for the Catholic colony of Maryland.

Thus the colonies were English and Protestant.  The Free Masons had a larger hand than is imagined but since that is so little known or understood, let’s skip it.

After the revolt from Britain the new United States threw its doors open to unlimited immigration to the rest of the world which at that time meant only Europe.

The first people to respond in numbers were the Irish.  Now, like it or not, the Irish are a competing race.  The Irish are Celtic while the English are Anglo-Saxon.  That’s like the round heads and long heads in Madison Grant’s Bavaria.  The difference in race is a fact.  Historically that fact cannot be denied although Anglo-Americans refuse to acknowledge it while the Irish do recognize it.  Rivalry and warfare between the two races actually began when the Roman police power was removed from Britain in four hundred something.

The invading Anglo-Saxons actually carried on a genocidal war against the Celts.  The Celts either died or fled into France where they founded the State of Brittany or Little Britain as compared to Great Britain.  They naturally killed the conquered males in the country while, get this, cutting out the tongues of the females so they couldn’t corrupt the language.  Man has quite a history, doesn’t he?  Furthermore they were right if they wanted their culture to remain intact.  So that’s why Hitler killed the Jews and the Jews are now killing the Whites.

The rest of the Celts retreated to Wales, Scotland and Ireland.  The Anglo-Saxons, now Britons, pursued them after a fashion into Ireland which they dominated until just after World War I.

People never forget, so when the Irish came into Anglo-Saxon America they really came not so much as immigrants into a settled land as they were a hostile army invading their Angl0-Saxon enemy.

They really made no attempt to blend, which racially would have been impossible as it was their intent to displace their Anglo-Saxon ‘brothers.’

Wherever they had the numbers, such as in New York City they captured the government and ran an Irish State within the United States.

They ran New York City until the nineteen-thirties when the even more numerous and determined Jews and Italian displaced them.

During the nineteenth century it was virtually impossible for them to capture the Presidency of the United States because that is one of the few offices that require one to be native born.  However in the twenties the Irish Catholic Al Smith ran for president and was defeated.  Supposedly because there was a shameful appeal to racial and religious bigotry.  I see it only as race against race, religion against religion.  The Catholic Irish were no less bigoted than the Anglo-Saxon Protestants.

The second largest enclave of Irish was in Boston where the Irish Catholics had displaced the founding Anglo Protestants.  In Boston the competing races and nations were not numerous enough to dislodge them.  It was here the Kennedys and Fitgeralds developed their power base.

As we all know Joe Junior was being groomed by Big Joe his father to capture the Presidency for the Irish.  Being incorrigibly Irish Joe Senior openly sided with the Nazis.  Not that he himself was a Nazi but the Irish always side with the enemies of England.  Most people probably don’t realize this but the Irish Free State remained neutral during World War Two.

Joe Senior was ambassador to England when he spouted this pro-Nazi nonsense.  What FDR was thinking when he appointed an Irish nationalist to the Court of St. James in wartime I have yet to fathom.  Joe Senior paid the price of his folly when Joe Junior was blown out of the sky on a mission while still behind allied lines.

It may be coincidental or it may have been purposeful that John F. was assigned to the PT boats which was a notoriously  hazardous assignment.  Probably something like Presley being assigned to the Tank Corps on the Russian border.  Somebody hoped he’d be killed.

At any rate, John F. Was elected President of the United States in nineteen sixty so that racial Celts captured the government of the United States of America just as they had New York City in the nineteenth century from their ancient enemy of Roman times, the Anglo-Saxons.

The Catholic Church was thus in power over its spiritual rival, the Prostestant churches.

Craig

Aw, Dewey.  I don’t know what you’ve been smoking but that is the most incredible analysis I’ve ever heard.  John F. Kennedy would have been the all time greatest President if that creep Oswald hadn’t shot him.  Besides it’s politically incorrect to even think such stuff.

Dewey

Ooh, there’s a number of issues in a small compass.  Starting with the last I can’t bother with worrying about being politically correct or incorrect.  I’ve got to be free.  Free to understand things as they are, not as my Commissar tells me.  I refuse to be a slave to an alien ideology and so did you used to be.

Craig

Slave?  Alien?  What are you talking about Dewey?  I’ve never heard anything like this.

End of Clip 1, go to Clip 2.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Complete and entire in one clip. Approx. 50 pages.

The Hole In Black Mountain

A Novelette

by

R.E. Prindle

You can’t trust your eyes

When your imagination is out of focus.

–Mark Twain

     On the West Coast of the United States lying between the Coast Range and the Cascade Mountains in the State of Oregon is the Willamette Valley. (Pronounced Will-am-ette) The Valley is about a hundred miles long, twenty to thirty miles wide.  The bulk of Oregon’s population lies in this big valley.  To the north along the once mighty Columbia River, now ‘tamed’ by man’s ingenuity, is Portland, the metropolis of the State.  Sprinkled throughout the Willamette Valley are numerous small towns.  The most important are Salem, which is the State capitol, Albany-Corvallis, the home of Oregon State University and Eugene at the extreme southern end where the mountain chains join and rise.

     Eugene is a fair city.  Luxuriantly green in summer and mild and wet during the winter.  The lordly Willamette River bisects the town as it does all the important towns of the Valley.  Eugene is dominated by two buttes; Skinner’s to the East and Spencer’s to the West.  The soul of Eugeneans is bisected by the dichotomy of good and evil just as the river divides the town and the buttes are its poles.

     Eugene, much to the chagrin of some of its citizens purports to be a Christian town.  It is the intolerant Christianity of the fundamentalist sects.  The town’s more ardent Christian devotees wished to have a symbol of their Christianity above them.  They longed to erect a cross on Skinner’s Butte plainly visible to all the residents on the West Side of the river.  Those Christians less ardent and the non-Christians opposed such a monument.  Whether a heritage of the frontier past or merely an expression innate to their souls, or whether they were possessed by Satan, the ardent Christians in the still of the night erected a huge concrete cross in despite of their neighbors and possibly the law.  This created a furor.  The other citizens demanded the cross be removed.  The fundamentalist Christians defied them to take it down.  Armed patrols paraded the site at night prepared to gun down their neighbors if necessary to protect their cross.  Over the years attempts were made or talk was bruited to dynamite the cross but all efforts were detected and foiled or never came to fruition.

     Thus it was never clear whether the ardent fundamentalists represented God or Satan.  They professed to be one but acted the other.  They believed that evil could be perpetrated for the sake of good.

     In addition to their souls being bisected the souls were also consumed by envy, an unChristian attribute.  They knew how unhappy they were.  They therefore desired that none others should be happier than they.  At about the same time the cross was erected a pop singer by the name of Connie Francis was reachig the apex of an unparalled career.  She had gone from peak to peak of a record of unblemished success.  She was a symbol of wholesomeness and purity.  Too wholesome and pure thought some Eugeneans; no one can be that good.

      Now, at about this time Connie Francis was appearing in New York.  Just prior to going on she was brutally raped.  The consequence was that she was psychologically unable to recover. Her mental equilibrium was destroyed.  She never performed again.  Her brilliant career was turned to dust.  Envy had triumphed.

      A number of young Eugeneans took great pleasure in this sad occurrence.  They were pleased that that symbol of success had been destroyed.  They went so far in their minds as to transpose the situation to Eugene believing that Miss Francis was about to go on stage in Eugene and that one of them had committed the atrocity.  They could point out the motel she stayed at and everything.  The story was confidently and intimately told to others.

     Dewey Trueman drove into town with high academic hopes.  He hoped for a brilliant post-graduate career.  Dewey came up from California where he had lived for the previous six years.  Those six years coincided with the first six years of the fabulous sixties.  Years of unparalleled prosperity; years of maturation of world popular music; years of cultural changes that moved too fast for hide bound minds to contemplate.  The Beat movement of post-war years had developed into the Hippie counter-culture.  Inexplicably men had begun to grow long hair.  Complex ethnic problems had created student unrest on the college campuses.  The storm had centered on the campus of the University of California at Berkeley.

     Envy caused Eugeneans to profess to despise California.  Cars carried bumper stickers that read:  Don’t Californicate Oregon.  The very thought of Berkeley terrified Oregonians both on and off campus.  The fear was that those damned radicals might come up to Oregon.  Dewey had not attended U.C. Berkeley but had gone through the State college system in Hayward just to the South of Berkeley.  He had formerly had long hair but informed of the narrow attitude in Oregon he had trimmed it to above the collar in back and just touching the ears.  This was not good enough;  Oregon was whitewall country.  Trueman did not respond well to the bullying he received to show whitewalls.  He defied them.  He let his hair grow back.  The locks fell not only down over his collar but over his ears.  His situation deteriorated further.  He soon realized that his college career was going to be cut short shorn of brilliance.  He had better create a new dream.  At the end of his second year the axe fell.  He recieved a letter advising him that he was not of an academic disposition.

     This was probably not untrue although not reason for dismissal.  But then Trueman was not of a corporate disposition either or, indeed, any other.  He was a lone carrot growing in a potato patch.  A very good carrot and worth cultivating but not a potato.  Dewey took the news more sullenly.  He thought, and this was not incorrect either, that the reason for his dismissal was that he wouldn’t get down on his knees for the professors.  In fact the history department was studded with homosexuals.  These gentlemen did have the casting couch mentality.  As all power corrupts they had determined to break Dewey down to his knees.  But there is no changing history; Dewey was out.

     He had anticipated this development.  He was neither a stupid nor obtuse man.  He also knew from experience that he had little hope of success in a corporate environment.  He was now thirty; there was no reason to look for a job.  Consequently he had opened a record store at the beginning of his second year.  His store was now prospering.  He gave up his dream and took up a hope.

     Dewey’s store was downtown on Eleventh Street, actually in the shadow of the famous cross upon the hill.  Not Calvary, but Skinner’s Butte.  Selling records meant selling Rock n’ Roll.  Fundamentalist Christians saw Rock n’ Roll as the Devil’s music.  One who sold the Devil’s music must be a Son of Satan.  A few years on the Fundamentalists would invent the concept and seriously propound it on TV that by playing records backward one could hear Satan talking to you.

     Well, this is more serious than an intelligent person might think.  I don’t want to laugh when I tell you this although it is sublimely ridiculous.  Every store must have a name.  Dewey’s Records was out.  Dewey was a fan of an astonishing rock group named The Doors.  He especially adimired two songs off the first album.  Soul Kitchen and Crystal Ship.  He inclined toward Soul Kitchen, if you’re hip chuckle, but his wife persuaded him, wisely one believes, to call it The Crystal Ship.  This was too simple and straightforward for Trueman who inclined toward the religious or mystical.  Also it was the fashion of the day to change the spelling of common words as the rock groups had changed Beetles to Beatles and birds to Byrds.  Dewey dropped the article and changed the spelling to Chrystalship.  The similarity to Christ was intentional but ill-advised.  Music to Dewey had that connotation of salvation.  Indeed, if Chrystalship was successful it would carry him to salvation.

     It was not his intention to offend the Boxtop Clergy but they construed the spelling as an intentional insult.  And this by a Son of Satan selling the Devil’s music in the Shadow of the Cross.  Not only did Trueman offend the Boxtoppers (Very few of these guys who called themselves Ministers had ever seen the inside of a seminary or had theological training or even elementary education.  For ten dollars or less you could answer advertisements in newspapers for ordination in some bizarre church.  Hence for a cereal boxtop and a few dollars you could wear a collar.)  with Chrystalship but he astounded the Hippies with his daring.  Unknown to Trueman crystal was a term to designate the drug speed, or, by its proper name, amphetamines.  They thought the store was a cover to sell speed.  The Boxtoppers and citizens got wind of this definition before Trueman and converted the term to mean heroin.  You can see Trueman’s predicament.

     Thus exalted by their cross combined with their natural malignancy and envy they immediately outlawed Trueman and made him a non-person.  No one was to acknowledge his existence.  They also loaded him with all their sins which were so numerous he could only carry a portion at a time.  He was confirmed in their minds as a degenerate and pervert not only capable of anything but actually doing everything they wanted to and enjoying it.

     These were stressful times.  Even educated people set aside their critical faculties and believed their worst fears.  Because Trueman had come up from California and because he was first on campus with long hair and because student unrest reached Oregon with Dewey the faculty had cast Trueman in the role of mastermind.  This was absurd.  There was absolutely no evidence to confirm the opinion, but then when one wants to see what one wants to see none is needed.  This reputation on campus was converted into the notion that Trueman was certainly masterminding the drug trade of Eugene, probably Oregon and possibly the whole world.  A twenty-four hour a day watch was set on him.

     All Hippies were deemed stupid.  It was thought that none could succeed in business.  Indeed, a few Hippie businessmen had come and gone before Trueman.  He had been given what was thought to be an impossible location.  In ordinary circumstances it may have been but for a counter culture business the location was perfect.  The store prospered.  Trueman extended his store into an adjacent space in the deserted building.  This made the town fathers uneasy.  They expected him to close up not expand.  Then Trueman approached the landlord to rent the large vacant space formerly occupied by the town’s leading men’s clothier.  That space fronted the main street.  Willamette was the main drag,  the street down which every Friday and Saturday night the town’s teenagers drove their cars.  The street was a dragster’s dream.  Twenty-four blocks, nearly, from Butte to Butte. 

     Urban renewal was ubiquitous during the sixties.  Even little Eugene had such a thing.  There was little to renew but it was fashionable and provided jobs for dependents.  Urban renewal bought the building the month after Dewey’s inquiry.  Dewey was given thirty days to vacate, even before the deal was out of escrow.  He was told there was no room downtown for the likes of him.  The building was immediately demolished leaving a huge gaping hole in the ground that filled with water and existed for years in that manner.  There was no room in Eugene for Dewey.  Very likely it was hoped there was no room in Oregon for him.

     Trueman was in a desperate frame of mind.  In the two years at the location he had gone from a deficit of one month to an income by which his wife could quit working for what he called ‘the slugs of the Oregon Department of Employment.’  It was true that it was a very good thing for those boys that sexual harassment was not yet an issue for they were an evil crew.

     The thought that his independence was to be taken away from him drove him into a frenzy of activity.  There was only one suitable space available downtown.  That was a dilapidated building on the edge of respectability next to the main branch of the Universal National Bank of Oregon.  A mighty triple contradictions of terms that typified the mentality we are dealing with.

     The employees of UNB would have done anything to keep Dewey out.  The building was owned by a Mrs. Winsome.  She would have honored UNB’s request but for the fact that in their lawless disregard of other people’s rights they had trampled on hers.  While digging the foundations for their bank they had undermined the foundations of Mrs. Winsome’s building.  The brick wall had begun to buckle.  The repairs cost a vast amount not to correct but merely to arrest the collapse.  The wall now bulged inward noticeably.  Her recourse to law had been futile and expensive.  According to her the bank had said:  Stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.  She may have been exaggerating nevertheless it was with a fair amount of pleasure that she installed Dewey next to her enemies at the Universal National Bank Of Oregon.

     The new space was twice as big as the former store.  Trueman’s sales more than doubled.  It soon became apparent to the town fathers that Trueman might survive the move and actually expansion.  In the meantime they lost a golden opportunity to destroy him through their own shortsightedness.  Urban Renewal had decided to make a mall of downtown.  Thus three blocks each of Willamette and Broadway were torn up to make a pedestrian mall.  To spite Trueman the mall was stopped short of his building ostensibly leaving him outside the blessing.  Thus his business was not disturbed by construction and the parking spaces in front of his store were left intact.  Had they included his space they could have heaped an eight foot mound of earth in front of his door as they had done to one or two others who were also in disfavor.

      Realizing their mistake too late, after the mall was completed Urban Renewal condemned the building, gave Mrs. Winsome nothing for it as punishment for having rented to Trueman and gave Dewey thirty days notice.  Now, at this time there were no suitable vacant spaces downtown.  The faces of the town fathers tilted back and looked down their noses at Trueman with a warm smile of spite.

     Dewey’s brow knitted with care.  He no longer had just independence but an income which gave him some enjoyment of life.  He didn’t want it taken from him.  As he assayed the situation he noted that a women’s clothing store called the Orange Garden had just opened a new large store on Willamette and retained an original store two block away on Broadway.  They were at an impasse with the landlord over rent.  Dewey reasoned that Eugene was too small to support two stores two blocks apart, especially as a shopping mall was on the books for across town,  and that he would be doing them a favor if he could get the space.  As it turned out he was as the Orange Garden shut down two years later.

     Dewey approached the landlord.  He agreed to the landlord’s terms.  The landlord, in what he called fairness to the Orange Garden gave them a last offer which they refused.  The landlord then rented to Dewey.  The new location was twice as large as the former location.  Dewey had taken the lease with some trepidation but his sales immediately doubled and continued to rise.  Dewey tried to be cool but he was ecstatic.  The towns people looked on sourly.  As Dogie Doudous put it:  No one should look that prosperous.

     For the first time in Trueman’s life everything seemed to be going his way.   The town fathers turned their backs to him and grew pensive.  There was little they could do to his business now.  His building was up to code.  He was in the new mall across from the prestigious department store called the Bonne Chance.  They still tried a few things.  Dead rabbits were stowed in the power tunnel beneath the front of his store which gave off a fetid odor across the front of the store but Trueman’s business still flourished.  It was after all the heyday of the record industry.  People who had never bought records before now did and lots of them.  Trueman had avoided giving the store a head shop image.  Everyone could shop in comfort in his store.  It had an ecumenical atmosphere.

1o pages.

     The town fathers now knitted their brows sitting around in deep concentration.  It was decided unanimously and without a word of discussion,  Dewey Trueman must die.  This was no joke.

     Plans were made; the delivery of the ‘Death Warrant’ was entrusted to Teddy Tetou.  Teddy was on the staff of KGEN radio.  He had his own time slot from 8:00 to 12:00 AM as well as serving as a salesman.  KGEN was the official radio station of the town fathers.  No Rock n’ Roll disgraced its wavelength.  Neither did many listeners tune in except for the very old and cantankerous.  This rankled the town fathers who deplored the degradation of youth.  KGEN served as call letters for both the radio and TV stations.  The company had petitioned the FCC for the call letters KEUGENE.  This would have made them the only seven letter station in America.  The FCC refused.  The refusal was met indignantly by the station owners.  They didn’t see how it would hurt the FCC to change their entire system just for them.  As they were wont to say:  Where is it written in stone that call letters could only number four?  They were correct.  It wasn’t written in stone anywhere, but the FCC still maintained it was the rule and the FCC made the rule.  The FCC was a hated arbitrary authority figure in Eugene.

     Tueman’s success had not been accidental.  He had applied intelligence.  He had taken chances.  In his way he had overturned the way of doing business in Eugene.  He had proven that their rules weren’t written in stone either.  They took offence because they had meant to do that but just hadn’t gotten around to actually chiseling the letters.  In Dewey’s case it was noted that he was a disturber of the peace and an unwholesome presence.

     The merchants of Eugene believed they were dependent upon the University Of Oregon for most of their business.  Thus in the summer months when school was out of session they reduced their inventories to bare bones and waited for September.  In Trueman’s first year he was just beginning to do well when June rolled around.  He was cordially advised to reduce his inventory.   But in the record industry new releases come out continually.  Keeping up with them financially is the most difficult part of the business.  It doesn’t take long to lose your rhythm and fall behind.  Besides Dewey was too inexperienced to know how to reduce his inventory.  The hits would sell off and slow moving catalog would remain.

     Dewey plowed ahead amidst the laughter of more knowing heads.  But his business didn’t decrease, it expanded at an incredible rate.  At the end of the first August Dewey’s head was reaching for the clouds.  When the U of O returned his business shot into what he then thought was the stratosphere.  Dewey Trueman followed along.  He bought and sold, sold and bought.  His second summer was just as successful.  By the third summer the other merchants had learned their lesson from him, but they didn’t like him any the more for their increased prosperity.  They learned their lesson from him painfully.  They hated him for it.  Quite innocently and without intention he had proved them wrong.

     Dewey wanted to do big business in a bad way.  Perhaps as a joke they sent the towns top Rock n’ Roll, or rather Top Forty DJ, Bob Deal, ‘Your Fifth Wheel’ as he styled himself, to sell Dewey radio time.  Dewey hadn’t inquired because he thought advertising on the radio would be too expensive.  This was in 1968, but he found from Bob Deal that thirty second spots only cost three dollars each.  For a hundred dollars a week he could, as the saying goes, own the station.  As he was rapt in thought Deal laughingly excused himself thinking he had played a good joke.  He was out the door when Trueman recovered himself shouting:  ‘No, no, Bob.  Don’t leave.  Come back.  I’ll take a hundred dollars a week.’

     The Fifth Wheel stopped on a dime.  There were few, heck there were no, merchants buying a hundred dollars a week. 

     ‘The first week’s in advance.’  He blurted.

     Trueman did his own copy and on air delivery.  The advertising was instrumental in his success.  But the Son Of Satan in the Shadow Of The Cross drove his enemies mad with his ‘constant bleating’ on the air.

     The success of his radio advertising made Trueman want to try TV.  It was thought that TV was prohibitively expensive.  This was 1971.  As Trueman saw it ten dollars for thirty seconds could be made to pay.  As soon as he opened on Broadway he began a TV campaign.  He did his own spots on the tube also.  Thus not only had he succeeded despite all efforts to eliminate him but he now appeared nightly in the living rooms of the very people who hated him the most.  Compared to what had happened to Connie Francis, Trueman, they thought, would not be treated so tenderly.

     On February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, Teddy Tetou showed up at Chrystalship at closing time with Trueman’s ‘Death Warrant’ in his pocket.  He entered with an air of hostility and undertones of viciousness which characterized the heralds sent to deal with Dewey.  The general rule was that only the lowest of the low were to communicate directly with Trueman.  He had been slandered to such an extent as a sexual pervert, whatever that might have meant in Eugene,  and drug addict that no one except those of such a mind would try to talk to him.  Since he was not a drug addict or a sexual pervert he ignored any attempts of this sort to communicate with him.  As a radio time salesman Tetou had reason to talk to him, but Tetou had made himself so obnoxious toTrueman by his denunciation of Rock n’ Roll that he was no longer welcome even as a salesman.

     Accordingly as he truculently burst the swinging doors open he was greeted with an equally truculent:  ‘What do you want here in the House of Rock n’ Roll, Tetou?’

     As the townsfolk invariably mispronounced his own name in a variety of ways such as Divi Traubman, Dewey who fought to be cool under pressure, but despised the principle of mispronunciation, nevertheless broke down from time to time and imitated his enemies.  Even then it was difficult to distinguish whether he had said Teddy or Titty.  Tetou winced but as he had been through it before and now anticipated it he said nothing.

     ‘I just came down here as someone in the same industry to talk music.’  Tetou offered as the cash register noisily closed out another day.

     ‘What’s to talk about, Titty?  You reject the culture of your day for an atavistic attachment to the tunes of yesteryear.  You want to live in your Daddy’s world rather than your own.  Why don’t you go back to KEUGENE?  I live in a different world.’

     Tetou disregarded everything Trueman had said.

     ‘Yeah, well, you know, just because Creedence Clearwater Revival has had five hits in a row doesn’t mean they’re going to go on forever.’  Tetou foamed.  ‘Nobody has more than five hits before they miss.  Even your Rock n’ Rollers.  Just watch, Clarence Clangwater Removal if going to fall on their ass next time out.’

     Tetou who shared the prejudices of his fellow Eugeneans despised the notion of continued success.  He hated prosperity in others.  CCR could have been Johnny Mathis or Andy Willians for all that matter.  Tetou didn’t really care.  The important thing was that any success fade away.

     ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, Titty.  No one has ever gone on forever.  Even your hero Bing Crosby told Pat Boone of the white bucks that he would only be popular for seven years.  That’s how Crosby who knew a hell of a lot more about the cycle than you do appraised it.  Besides Titty, future failure does not wipe out past success.’  Trueman went on misunderstanding Tetou’s real objection.  Tetou on his part was hoping Trueman would affirm his point of view.

     Tetou glared at Trueman.  His kind was only successful in their dreams.  Even then it was only a petty kind of success equal to their abilities.  Brows knit, hands in pockets, legs spread Tetou abusively changed the subject without admitting his defeat.

     ‘Yeah?  If you’re finished here Trueman, come with me.  I want to show you something.’  Tetou ordered.  He tried to cover his lack of manhood by bullying.

     ‘Oh, you want to show me something.  I’m sure anything you’ve got to show me shouldn’t be seen by mortal man…or woman.’  Trueman chuckled, insultingly, laughing appreciatively at his own joke.

     ‘Close this place up and come with me.’  Tetou ordered roughly.  They had created such an image of their own virtue and Trueman’s vice in their minds that they were quite unable to distinguish between fiction and reality.

     ‘Who the hell do you think you are to order me around, Tetou?  You’re nothing but a time salesman for the crummiest radio station in town.  Nobody advertises with you but your stooges.  I’m not going to, so take your schedule and get out of here.  Leave.’

     Tetou realized his error and now cajoled and implored Trueman to come lest he fail in his mission.  Trueman perceived the reason for the urgency behind his voice.  Something’s up.  Trueman thought,  I think I’ll see what.

     ‘Lead on, MacDuff.’  He said in his most contemptuous tone.  ‘Let’s see what you know, Tetou.’

     Trueman turned the key in the lock as Tetou pointed vaguely in the direction of what turned out to be Railroad Avenue.  Tetou led the way to a house that has since been demolished, as though that could destroy a bad memory, for freeway construction.  They stood on the corner beneath a stree light.  The corner lot was vacant.  They looked across the vacant lot at a two story rectangular house.  The house had been divided into apartments above and below.  The upstairs apartment was reached by a staircase along the side of the house.

     What Trueman saw was a long line of people stretching from the top of the stairs along the side of the house and turning down the sidewalk to the end of the block.  Occasionally the line turned the corner.  Those who entered the door at the top of the stairs quickly emerged and raced down the stairs and away.  As quickly as the line moved forward others took a place at the end of the line.

     Tetou gave Trueman a malevolent look of satisfaction as though Trueman were responsible.

     ‘You know what’s going on there, Trueman?’  He said smugly, expecting a guilty reaction from him.

     ‘No, Titty, what’s going on there?’  Trueman replied his derision overcome by wonder.

     Tetou gave him a look that implied:  Coy to the end.

     ‘Do you know lives upstairs there, Trueman?’

     ‘Aw skip it, Tetou, just get to the point.  How can I ever know what you people are talking about?’

     ‘Jim James lives up there.  Do you know what he does for a living, Trueman?’

     Trueman turned to leave.  ‘Aw, for Christ’s sake Tetou, can’t you people ever get to the point?’

     Tetou grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

     ‘I’ll tell you what he’s doing, Trueman.  He’s selling marijuana.  What do you think of that?’

     Trueman’s jaw unhinged as he stopped in his tracks.  He perceived in a flash the entire situation.  He gave Tetou an incredulous look.  Tetou gave Trueman a vicious nod of affirmation.  Trueman realized that Tetou was ignorant of who his masters were.

     ‘What do you think is going on there, Titty?’  Trueman asked with malicious satisfaction.

     Tetou responded with a knowing look at Trueman.

     ‘Someone’s making a lot of money and it’s not just Jimmy James.’

     ‘Who do you think it is, Tetou?’

     Tetou just sneered and gazed at Trueman knowingly.

     ‘Me?  Oh no, Titty, oh no.  I don’t have anything to do with drugs, regardless of what you think.  Do you really think I would be walking around free if I were involved in that?  Do you really think I have contacts to get away with that?’  Tetou blinked.  ‘No, Titty, no, of course not.  Look at that line.  Does this go on every night?  Night in and night out?’  Tetou blinked yes.  ‘Then you aren’t going to tell me that the DA and the police don’t know about this are you?’

      Tetou thought a minute.  ‘They must not or they’d arrest him.’  He said lamely.

     ‘How do you know about it, Tetou?’

     ‘The guys down at the station talk about it all the time.’

     ‘So the owners of the station know about it?’

     Tetou assented. 

     ‘The owners of the station know about and they’re big men in town.  A word from them to the police…hell, it wouldn’t even take a word to the police, all it would take is a TV camera down here and all those people would scatter.  It doesn’t happen.  Doesn’t that tell you something, Tetou?’

     Tetou had realized the truth but had gone into a state of panicked denial.  He was busy rearranging reality to fit his prejudices.  Trueman on his part realized why Tetou had been directed to show him this scene.  Drugs was big business.  At certain points in the distribution line big money was to be made.  The town fathers thought that Trueman was surreptitiously making a fortune from drugs.  They now wished to show him their power to make fortunes without fear of arrest.  As Trueman understood it they were telling him to stick that up his nose.

     ‘You know why the cops don’t bust this guy, Tetou?’  Tetou was sweating from the shock, he weakly nodded no.  ‘Because they’re in on it.  Because they’re getting their share of the Big Money.  Look at that line, Tetou.  How many lids do you think that guy sells every night?  Three, five, ten kilos worth?  You know what that means Tetou?  No, huh?  In business terms that means that there are probably three hundred kilos in transit every month just for him.  He must have ten, twenty or thirty kilos in the house at all times.  There must be a warehouse with at least a hundred kilos in storage.  That’s enough to fill a semi or maybe the trunks of hundred cars.  The cops can’t break this?

     Have you ever read any history, Titty?  I wouldn’t think so.  There is no illegal or subversive organization that has ever existed at any time in the world that wasn’t half spies.  There was no labor union that wasn’t half labor spies.  The Communist Party was always half government agents.  They always shoot for secretary of the organization and they always get it.  Do you believe that half the dope dealers in the country aren’t government agents?  Are you people really so stupid Tetou that you don’t think that I don’t know that half my employees are your own spies?  I don’t know anyone who talks to me that isn’t spying, present company not excepted.  You guys are sick; you never get evidence but you never give up your fantasy.  Now I see why.  You need me as a cover for this.

     A couple of years ago I was taken to see some yo-yos who were conspiring to ‘overthrow the government.’  Do you know how many of his ‘organization’ weren’t spies?  Spies were the only ones involved.

     So the cops can bust this guy anytime they want.  You could bust me anytime if I were doing anything.  So why don’t they bust him?  You got any idea how much money they’re making at fifteen dollars a lid, Titty?  Probably somewhere between two or three million a year.  Who’s making it?  I don’t know many people in town Titty, but you can be sure that several shares are distributed to the DA and cops.  Harry Grabstein and Natty Segal who run downtown are getting theirs.  The TV and radio stations are silent so they must be getting theirs.  You don’t see any ‘crusading’ newspaper reporters trying to expose this, so what do you think that means?  Who the others are I don’t know but you can be sure that at least a couple hundred people are involved.  So you guys control the cops and judges.  I’m impressed, Tetou.  Bye bye.’

20 pages.

     Tetou’s mind was swimming as he dogged Trueman’s footsteps.  For a brief moment before denial secured his mind he realized the truth.  He also remembered the ‘death warrant’ he was to deliver.

     ‘Yeha, well, hey, Trueman,’ he said padding after the rapidly striding figure before him, ‘they want your business at KGEN-TV so they told me to give you this.’  He said holding out a folded paper at Trueman’s back.  Trueman didn’t pause.  Tetou ran after him, catching up he thrust the paper in front of Dewey.  Trueman grabbed it and threw it on the ground in disgust.  Tetou quickly snatched it up running after Trueman.  this time he stuffed it in Trueman’s jacket pocket.  Trueman turned with raised fist in the dark.  ‘Get away from me, Tetou, you scumbag, or I’ll deck you with one punch, so help me God.’

     ‘That’s a certificate for a free weekend at the Hole In Black Mountain, Trueman.  Use it.’  Tetou said, scurrying away into the black having gotten the certificate onto Trueman’s person.  He was able to say that he had accomplished his mission.

     Trueman stormed home to pur himself a drink, dangerous habit, to calm himself so as not to offend his wife Angie by his violent mental agitation.  He had no intention of using his ‘death warrant’; the ‘free’ weekend at the Hole In Black Mountain.  He should have thrown the certificate into the trash but some plebian trait of mind ascribed value to the thing.  He couldn’t bring himself to throw something of value away.  He stuffed it into a drawer of papers.

     He knew that some humiliation had been devised for him at the Black Mountain Resort.  He feared assassination attempts but the notion was unreal in his mind, more a premonition of paranoia then anything else.  Yet he was right to be apprehensive, there was no paranoia involved.

     It had been supposed that Trueman would jump at the offer; use it that very same weekend.  All the preparations for his murder had been made.  When no reservation was made the whole plan remained in suspended animation in the minds of the conspirators.

     They had met some weeks before when it became apparent to them that Trueman had evaded their snares.  When they saw his very apparent increased success they knew then that something positive would have to be done.

     Half by election and half by self-selection a band of four evolved who were entrusted by their community to execute its wishes.  They in turn by a series of chance meetings in restaurants and on streets came to recognize and accept each other as co-conspirators.

     Once they recognized each other a series of meetings was held in the law offices of Joshua L. Babycakes to determine a course of action.  The final decision had been reached the week before the unconsciously held deadline of St. Valentine’s Day on which Trueman had been shown their money machine on Railroad Avenue.

     The four were not of the first water, that is that they were not of the inner circle of the inner circle, but they were of the circle.  They had the same walk and knew the same talk.  There would be no questioning of their decision; it would not require consent.  They were trustworthy fellows.

     Joshua Babycakes had achieved his pre-eminence despite very limited material success.  He was a native of Eugene.  This placed his father and grandfather before the turn of the century.  Oregon towns only developed in the latter quarter of the nineteenth century so that seventy-five to a hundred years of residence gave a family antiquity.

    Babycakes’ family had been in on the landgrab.  They had had a couple thousand acres of high timber which they had sold to the Western Timberlands Corp. before it had become practicable to clearcut the land.  Joshua had gone to the U of O law school where he had somehow found the discipline, or, at least, he had the contacts, to graduate.

     Babycakes was not of a settled or subtle mind.  In one of those incredible twists of the human mind his stumbled over the question of small distinctions.  He couldn’t bring his mind to accept small distinctions.  His character had formed around the nucleus of an incident when he was twelve years old just as puberty shot its growth hormones throughout his body and mind.

     Joshua’s father was a stamp collector.  He had an extensive collection of US stamps.  Not a philatelist’s dream necessarily but enough to knock your socks off.  Joshua had one day needed postage to mail a small package.  Since he couldn’t find stamps in the drawer he got out his father’s stamp collection and sent his addressee a very valuable collection of rare postage stamps.  Well, you can imagine his father’s reaction when he discovered his loss.  It wasn’t visceral, it was genetic.  His A! gene became detached.  His rage was communicated to Joshua as a disease.

     Joshua had never been able to comprehend his father’s reaction.  To him, a stamp was a stamp.  Three cents printed on one was the same as three cents printed on another.  Except that the pictures were different they all looked the same.  Joshua in his turn became chronically enraged; nor did his understanding improve.  He failed to understand why one bottle of wine should cost fifty dollars while another bottle of wine should sell for three.  ‘There, look at the label,’ he would say to himself or anyone chancing to stand by him in a store, ‘They both have the same alcoholic content.  One bottles gets you as drunk as the other.  What kind of fool would take the one for fifty dollars?’

    He therefore concluded that only big fools would pay more than three dollars and he despised ‘fools’ of any quality.  If Joshua Babycakes thought you were a fool he thought you were fair game.  As Babycakes set his own ignorance as the standard of conduct you may be sure that he had yet to find a man who wasn’t a fool.  Therefore in his rage he lashed out at everyone.

     The fact is that most people weren’t fools except in the sense of Puck’s:  Oh, what fools ye mortals be.  People accordingly gave Babycakes a wide berth.

     Notwithstanding his graduation, the fine points of the law eluded Babycake’s grasp.  He was therefore so unreasonable before judges, all of whom he knew well, that he was really not welcome in court.  As he treated his clients in the same way his success as an attorney was very limited.

     He was slowly ruining the estate his father had passed down.  He was soon to use Urban Renewal to buy the properties downtown his father had left him.  They sat vacant and rundown because no one would deal with him after they had met him.

     In his rage however he was dangerous so nobody ever called him.  He was treated with kid gloves.  He was able to use his rage to maintain his position.  He was, in fact, a dangerous man.  His second floor office facing Willamette was enshrouded in perpetual gloom as he never allowed light to enter.  Even his lamp was of the dimmest so that, actually without business, he sat in the dark and brooded.  The room hadn’t been cleaned for years.  Papers dating back perhaps two decades were scattered about.

     Seated with him in this depressing setting was the owner of KGEN Radio and TV, Jeremiah (Jerry) Durkin.  His ownership of KGEN must be qualified.  He had been a salesman when the station was under its former management.  It had been bought by a general partnership headquartered in Seattle about three hundred miles to the North.  Jerry had been offered a ten per cent share in the ownership if he would manage the channel at a salary well below the industry norm.  Jerry jumped at the chance.  He mortgaged himself to the hilt to buy his share.  He was in fact now worth less than nothing.  It was a pleasure to him to be in the company of, associated with the big men.  He honestly had no idea he was a stooge.  He had been in his position for over a year now having realized no material advantages.  By the end of the year he would be on the street with nothing but a load of debt.

     There was a rumor that General Motors would build an assembly plant in Eugene as well as the entry of a couple of other large concerns.  The resultant growth of Eugene would make KGEN-TV a relatively valuable property.  It was decided by the Seattle big men to snap up Jerry’s ten per cent and get him out so as not to have to share the bonanza.  A series of losses were then manufactured for the partnership.  Jerry was not able to meet the levy and thus went to work tending bar.

     If the Seattle people had known the strength of the Little Eugene Party they would have let Jerry alone.  The Little Eugene Party was against change or growth of any kind.  They controlled the town.  Thus neither GM nor any one else was permitted to locate in Eugene.  Even aggressive local concerns were driven out.  The Seattle big men outmaneuvered themselves at fair cost.

     But that was in the future.  For the present Jerry Durkin reveled in his new found position of authority.  His life was a salesman’s dream.  Jerry didn’t realize he was a stooge in this instance either.  He was only included as a fall guy.  He was the expendable one in case anything misfired.  If it all came down, it would come down on him.  But there was actually no chance of that.

     He was a physical contrast to Joshua Babycakes.  the latter was a rough uncouth unkempt man given to wearing his clothes as though he crawled into them.  Durkin was a very precise dresser.  Small and thin he might have been seen as prissy.  He wore a double knit leisure suit in such a manner that the jacket resembled a Nehru jacket.  Even while sitting the opening was only about two inches wide.  The collar was high.  To show an unconventionality that no one would question he knotted his tie four-in-hand rather than Windsor, which latter style was de rigeur.

     Babycakes on the other hand wore a pinkish maroon pair of double knit pants topped by a garishly loud giant houndstooth pattern in the same tones.  His tie may have been knotted in some way or not, it may have been of a color that could be associated with a palette, who could tell.

     Next to Durkin was the Reverend Jim Jones.  I would call Jones a Fundamentalist but the boxtop he sent in for ordination may not even have been affiliated with religion of any kind.  His certificate just made him a generic religious type.  He did use the Bible however.  At any rate the Old Testament which he ostentatiously carried with him had the cover conspicuously torn off so that his Bible, like himself, had one cover missing.  Jones was virtually illiterate like all his kind.  He hadn’t even graduated from high school.  Still, as he said, when he received the call he knew he had to answer it.  His message was vengeance and hate disguised as patriotism and conservatism.  He didn’t lack an audience.

     The fourth member of the party was the Patriarch of Downtown, Harry Grabstein.  Harry was the Jewish member.  He was there to listen and observe for the Community lest anything happen that wasn’t good for the Jews.

     There was no point in describing Jones’ dress; beyond the absurdity of the clerical collar one would be hard put to say he was dressed.  The others were dressed in varying degrees of bad taste.  Harry was the exception.  He was a very meticulous dresser from his carefully combed and parted hair to the glowing polished wingtips encasing his feet.  Wingtips look bad after a lot of wear.  Harry never wore his more than thirty times before they were discarded.

     He wore a pair of charcoal grey pants of the finest wool lined in real silk.  His white shirt was of the finest sea island cotton.  His tie cost thirty dollars, a lot at the time.  It was of a woven tiny latticework design which viewed in one light seemed of one color but with a small shift in posture the recessed areas changed through one or two other tones while the original color always dominated.  It was a masterpiece of deviousness.  The knot was an impeccable Windsor.  The jacket was a magnificent plaid symphony of grays in kashmere.  Harry’s clothes always looked like they had just come back from the cleaners.  An impossibly precise trimmed mustache resided beneath his nose.  His face was stolid, grave and composed but betrayed un undertone of anxiety beneath the facade which indicated a deeply seated insecurity.  His knees were crossed, over which lay his right arm, the hand of which lightly held an unlighted straight stemmed polished briar pipe.  His was a carefully structured appearance to instill confidence.  Harry was, in fact, a confidence man.  Harry, as he smilingly observed the others was quite content with himself.

     Grabstein owned a furniture store downtown, since out of business.  He had helped his father build it.  He was not a good buyer.  His retailing methods, if ever sound, were antiquated.  Still, he was one of only two shows in town.  The other was the House of Segal owned by Nachman, Nahum to any Hebraists reading, Segal.  He was known as Natty.  The two of them regulated the Jewish community, which was of some size in Eugene, as well as controlling affairs downtown.

     The Jewish world at the time was being revolutionized by a crazy Rabbi by the name of Meir Kahane.  Kahane could really talk and write convincingly.  Even if crazy he expressed his ideas clearly and forcibly.  The Jewish establishment disclaimed him and, I think, truly despised him but his impact was immense.  He forced the Jewish establishment to go his way.  He had formed an organization called the Jewish Defense League, or JDL.  Its avowed purpose was to assassinate ‘anti-Semites.’  The extermination of the Jews was a bleeding wound to Kahane and the JDL.  The notion was that if Hitler had been assassinated in the twenties millions of Jews would be alive today.  It therefore behooved the JDL to assassinate any incipient ‘Hitlers’ before these ‘Hitlers’ had a chance to contrive to exterminate the Jews again.  Kahane had no historical perspective.

     Well, of course, several attempts had been made on Hitler’s life but they all had failed.  The attempts hadn’t even been made by Jews so far as we know.  Even then one couldn’t be sure that Hitler would do what he did or even imagine it.  Hind sight is always twenty-twenty.  But, you know,  Hitler was not only one in a billion but he lived in a historical milieu which made his actions possible.  That milieu had been created largely by Jews.  Both Hitler and the milieu vanished into Trotsky’s famous ashcan.  Hitler was no longer possible.  There was nothing for rational man to fear.

     Even though the Jewish Establishment disavowed Kahane the fear of another Hitler pervaded the Jewish mind.  Witness the movies from ‘Hitler’s Brain’ to ‘The Boys From Brazil’ to ‘The Exterminator.’

     Harry Grabstein was afflicted with this paranoid fear.  He and Natty Segal were constantly on the lookout for…’The anti-Semite.’  Now every goi in town had to come to Harry to submit their manhood to him to pledge their troth that they would not become the next Hitler.

     Dewey Trueman hadn’t.  He couldn’t.  He had been outlawed, made a non-person from the outset.  Grabstein had actually expressed his displeasure of the little hippie boy.  He had refused to even discuss renting one of his properties to him.  As a transplant from California Dewey had had only the vaguest notion of who Harry Grabstein was.  He had been pushed in Harry’s direction.  He had been advised of the power of the ‘Jewish Mafia.’  But a non-person has no obligations.  Thus he had never pledged his submission to the Jewish people.  Harry could draw only one conclusion.

30 pages.

     ‘He is an anti-Semite.’  Harry said in a calm voice just above a whisper.  ‘We can’t take any chances of another Hitler developing.’

     You should be laughing but you’re not.  Harry didn’t mean it as a joke but it is funny, even ludicrous.  Dewey Trueman had no political ambitions.  Another Hitler?

     No one of the conspirators even smiled.  They looked at Harry, swallowed and blinked.  To have offered an objection would have been to confess anti-Semitism.  They didn’t even know what an anti-Semite was.  Nobody does.  It has never been defined, legally or otherwise.  The term has no, or had, things have changed since this was first written, no legal status nor should it.  Nevertheless it has immense social status; it is the kiss of death in American society.  ‘He is an anti-Semite.’  He is beyond the pale of society.  No proof is necessary, none is asked for.  Send a torpedo at him.  Sink him.  Does anyone here remember the McCarthy era?

     Thus the decision to kill Trueman had been reached.  The code word placing Trueman beyond the Pale had been uttered.  ‘Anti-Semite.’  Prior to 1950 the gois had placed Jews beyond the pale when the word ‘Jew’ showed up as the religion of the applicant.  Since 1950 Jewish bigotry had replaced goi bigotry.  With the simple utterance of the word ‘anti-Semite’ an American could be excommunicated in his own land by his own people in favor of a foreign and enemy nation.

     The three looked again at Harry Grabstein, blinked again in acquiescence then began to order their minds to justify their action.  It wasn’t hard to do.  Morality had been corrupted by the notion that you have to fight fire with fire.  Dirty Harrys roamed the streets enforcing their personal brand of ‘justice.’  Trueman stood as a symbol of their frustrations.  There was little to do but load them on him and drive him to the slaughter.

     The only one present who knew who he was, where he had come from, where he wanted to be and how to get there was Harry Grabstein.  He could do a fair job of recounting the four thousand year record of the Jews.  He knew the pitfalls and the goals.  His one little candle was burning bright.

     The others were beset by vague fears and apprehensions.  None of them had ever cogitated on anything but ‘beer.’  The American history of the last seventy years was closed to them.  O, they knew heroes and villains.  The knew enough to applaud Roosevelt and hiss McCarthy but beyond that they were out of their depth.

     They were incapable of analyzing the effect of immigration or race on themselves.  All they knew was that White guys were bad and everyone else was good.  White guys had dropped the Atom Bomb hadn’t they?  They knew so little that they thought Werner Von Braun had developed the A-Bomb.  The fact the the A-Bomb was a Jewish development would have been vigorously denied by them.  They didn’t know that Von Braun was a rocket scientist.  Their thinking was so shabby they couldn’t even connect the fact that Von Braun had come to the United States after the Bomb had been dropped.  They thought the jet plane just happened.  Much in the way an egg yolk appears when you crack the shell.

     Communism which was linked to the A-Bomb in their minds was merely a visceral reaction.  A troubling one but an us versus them situation.  It was a matter of moral systems.  We had refrigerators and they didn’t. 

     The emergence of pharmaceutical drugs disturbed them.  Which brings us to the physical manifestation of their fears.  The Hippies.  They had no idea of how the Hippies ‘happened.’  The evolution from post-war Bohos to Beats to Hippies was beyond them.  Those people were all ‘weirdos.’  They did know that boys with long hair disgusted them.  Trueman was a Hippie with hair all the way down to here.

     This fact alone made him a kingpin in the drug trade.  Drugs!  One of the most amusing topics of an amusing period.  The major herbals- marijuana, hashish, opium, cocaine had been around from time immemorial.  I know, Iknow, but heroin is refined opium.  They had all been used in modern times by the well-to-do and Bohemians.  In the sixties they were democratized.  They were disseminated not only among the less and least affluent but sent into middle class neighborhoods.  The herbals would not have been a real problem.  The real problem was the man made stuff, the pharmaceuticals.  Industry had created a whole new class of potent drugs after 1950.  Barbituates and amphetamines had come into existence.  Whew!  The Peyote button and its derivative mescaline had come into prominence to confuse the issue.  Philosophies had even arisen about their use.  Sacred stuff, if you believed all that BS.

     The pharmaceuticals were prescription drugs.  All the men in Babycakes office had used or were using pharmaceuticals.  They had all used barbituates to one degree or another.  Jerry Durkin used Valium to ‘help’ him deal with the stresses of his new position.  In the early sixties when men such as John Kennedy, the President of the United States, were receiving regular injections of amphetamines, Joshua Babycakes had even received a series.  You may imagine the effect of that combination.

     But those uses were prescribed by a doctor and were therefore ‘medicine’ not ‘drugs.’  The kids used drugs.  Nor did one have to go to a doctor to obtain drugs.  With a few chemicals anyone could manufacture any of the pharmaceuticals.  ‘Better Living Through Chemistry’ as the Hippie wags put it.  The best illicit LSD was produced by a guy from Berkeley name Owsley.  Got started when LSD was legal and just didn’t quit after the deadline.

     The Bomb, Communists, Hippies, drugs.  They weighed heavily, misunderstood on their minds.  The worst was LSD.  The drug, or more properly, Hallucinatory, was a fearful entity to them.

     At the time the Hippie war cry was ‘Don’t trust anyone over thirty.’  Many saw the humor in it and had a good laugh.  Many others tooke the slogan very seriously.  Their fears were given a visible form by the movie ‘Wild In The Streets.’  In the argument whether movies are pure entertainment or whether they have an effect on society, this one had an effect on society.  A society which was completely devoid of a sense of humor.  Seven words that could no longer be mentioned in polite company.

     In the movie a Rock n’ Roll singer who it was believed was based on Jim Morrison of the Doors is elected President at an age below thirty.  Already the movie is a farce.  He then proceeds to round up the entire population of the United States over thirty and puts them in a concentration, or perhaps, retirement camp, in which they are kept perpetually doped up from LSD in their drinking water.  On any Sunday afternoon you could visit the camp where they could be seen walking around like zombies.  In fact, their children did just that oblivious to the fact that they would joining their parents in just a few years.

     How hysterical would you have to be to take this movie literally?  Well, listen.  A rumor developed that the hippies would soon pour LSD into the reservoir supplying Eugene’s water.  A watch was established on the reservoir to prevent such an occurence.  Young men were recruited to patrol the shores.  No one came to pour LSD into the reservoir.

     But, it was reasoned, if anyone would do it, Dewey Trueman would.  But Trueman closely watched never went near the reservoir, probably didn’t even know it was there.  Accordingly Trueman was lured out to Dexter Lake where the crystal waters come tumbling down from the mountains.  It was only with a great deal of effort that he was persuaded to leave the car to walk along the shore.  As he approached the shore a hurtling form came from nowhere to throw him to the ground.  As he gathered his senses he perceived six men, or ‘youths’ standing over him.

     One was holding up what he called a ‘vial’ but looked more like a gallon jug which he said held pure LSD that Trueman was going to pour into the water supply.  He said that Trueman was under arrest.  At the sight of the gallon jug of ‘LSD’ Dewey Trueman began laughing uproariously which was unexpected.  The thought of all the fish in Dexter Lake under the influence of that much LSD seemed so comical to him that he couldn’t stop laughing.  It was an incongruous thought but the laughter was misinterpreted by the young vigilantes cum lynchers.

     The transparency of their ruse embarrassed even them.

     ‘Well, we’re not going to press charges this time, but if you try anything like this again, it’s jail for you.’

     Yes, these were strange and wonderful times.  There were marvels and portents in the air.  You didn’t even need LSD or the DTs to see them.  the jug sat on a shelf in Babycakes office as a reminder of how close the city had come.

     Reality had indeed become a blurry vision to their overloaded imaginations.  Unable to relate facts to their existences they attempted to use bluster to balance the scales in their favor.  Politeness, manners and fairness which had never been overly conspicuous in American mores had been completely eliminated in their consciousnesses by the interfaces between the other immigrants and competing ideological systems.  On the one hand they bullied each other in an attempt to maintain their positions while groveling before the various ‘minorities’ who built this great land of ours.

     The Communist and Criminal belief systems had demonstrated the incapacityof law and order in their minds.  The Constitution perverted by hostile elements had become a tool to be used against the very ideals it expressed.  Without any real moral fibre they adopted the criminal methods of their opponents.  As they put it:  They fought fire with fire.

     Thus American society was becoming completely criminalized.  Criminal ethics were the order of the day.

     Trueman had succeeded in spite of all their efforts to foil him.  Thus in their eyes he had blunted their manhood, emasculated them.  They were only capable of functioning within the support of a group.  They all needed the permission or assent of the others to do what they did.  In a metaphorical mixing of vital body fluids, they all had shares in each other.

     The group assigned places and opportunities.  Legion were the number who were waiting pateintly for a chance at their shot which would never come.  In their minds Trueman had overleaped all those waiting.

     Trueman had not only succeeded against their wishes as a retailer, in their eyes he was making it big.  He thus made them feel less virile, less manly in relation to him.  His individual manhood transcended their collective manhood.  They had to bring that Hippie down.

     In a society in which the once dominant caste had been compelled to outlaw ‘bigotry’, or in other words its own innate beliefs, they were left with no class against which it was legitimate to discriminate.  All the other ‘minorities’  could discriminate against them and they were defenceless.  ‘Bigotry’ prevented their retaliation.  The Hippies were a godsend.  They could be hated without fear of reprisals.  They could be discriminated against.  The word creed was quickly eliminated from the litany race, religion or creed.  The Hippies could be cast as inferiors, their creed was not allowed.

     The Hippies took the lowest rung on the social ladder.  Even the Negroes who had prviously been on the bottom could look down on the Hippies who, in addition, were White.  As the Black rhythm and blues singer Bobby Womack sang it:  ‘I’d like to help you Harry Hippie; but how can I when you’re laying on the ground.’  Thanks Bobby but, no thanks.

     Trueman represented all their fears and woes; all their shortcomings and failings.  They loaded him up to be driven into the desert to die for their sins.

     Grabstein had said Trueman must die.  Having made his contribution, played his part, he now sat back to wait for the others to plan and execute the deed.  As with Christ and the Rosenberg’s, he and his fellow Jews would be innocent of Trueman’s killing.

     Jerry provided the method to lure Trueman out of town with the free weekend at the Hole In Black Mountain.

     Babycakes provided the method.  They never allowed facts to interfere with their fantasies.  They thought Trueman must be dealing drugs, therefore he was.

     ‘He named his store after heroin.’  Babycakes mused.  ‘So he’s gotta die by heroin.’

     Jones noted that God sanctioned such a solution as He Himself had said an eye for an eye.  The others looked at Boxtop Jim and nodded.

     It was decided to give one of Trueman’s tires a slow leak which would leave him with a flat somewhere, they envisioned, between the lava flows and the turn at Highway 20 down to Bend.  The Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club was much feared in Oregon.  Sometime after the Angels trashed Hollister, California they had tried to move into Oregon but had been successfully driven out.  It was decided that Trueman was the kind that would hang out with ‘those guys.’  Durkin had read Tom Wolfe, being a progressive sort of guy, and had been astounded at the gangbangs Wolfe had described.  Therefore a group riding motorcycles and wearing Angel-like colors would abduct Trueman and his wife from the road.  To make sure that he couldn’t change his tire before they got there his tire iron was removed from his car.  As a joke a useless four lug iron would be substituted.  Trueman and his wife would be taken into the woods where all would rape his wife while Trueman struggled helplessly.  Then both would be given hot shots.  Their dead bodies would be left to be discovered by whoever might at whatever time that might be.

     During the discussion Babycakes had unconsciously written Connie Francis several times and triple underlined each.

     Boxtop Jim murmured:  ‘He who lives by the needle dies by the needle.’

     Harry took a suck or two on his dry pipe as he contemplated the end of another ‘incipient Hitler.’  The Jews would be safe for another little while.

     Accordingly the ‘death warrant’ had been delivered to Trueman by Tetou.  The conspirators naively believed that their plan would be promptly executed.  But as has been wisely said:  Man proposes, God disposes.  Trueman was suspicious; he didn’t make any reservations.

     Thus the contingent of faux Hell’s Angels wheeled aimlessly about the highway on that Friday afternoon.  The matter remained open in their minds; there was no closure.

     Trueman was a hard worker.  Running his store took all his time.  Wives are seldom understanding of what they construe as neglect.  Angie Trueman was no exception.  She liked the material advantages of success but she didn’t want to pay the fare.  She pressured Dewey to take some time off.  Dewey realized that they had only just begun to make it.  He was fully aware of the precariousness of the situation.  He had his enemies, natural external forces had to be dealt with, internal company forces had to be balanced, he had his own intense personal reactions to contend with.

     Angie nevertheless had to be placated.  Along about early May Dewey bethought himself of the certificate to the Hole In Black Mountain which he had thrown in the drawer rather than the waste basket.  He thought he could be away for the weekend.

     He was still apprehensive but he thought that since he hadn’t used the certificate when intended that their guard might be down.  Still he wanted as complete a surprise as possible.  Thus he called for reservations on the Wednesday previous to his Friday departure.  Word was immediately flashed back.  The conspirators only had time to improvise.

     There were two ways over the Cascades from Eugene.  One was the regular route along the spine of on 126 then down 20 to Bend; the other was a rough seldom used road across the lava beds at the top of the McKenzie Highway.  The Cascades are of volcanic origin.  A large lava flow exists at the junction of 126 and the McKenzie Highway.

     It was decided to lure Trueman onto this road by the lava beds where he would be despatched.  In this case a band of local toughs would be used to beat him to death.  Not artistic, but in administrative murders no inquiry will ever be made.

     As there had been no mental closure a couple of details from the earlier plan were performed automatically.  The tire iron had never been replaced so Trueman was still without a jack.  The right front tire was doctored to produce a slow leak.

40 pages.

     The suggestion of the lava bed route had been made to Trueman.  He had shown interest and said he would take the route.  Indeed, the idea appealed to him a great deal.  He did intend to go that way.

     He and Angie left at noon on that Friday.  His way had been prepared for him.  He was already a TV personality in the area so that there was no trouble identifying him.  His streaming hair would justify any hostility in the rural population who were still years away from adopting long hair in what would be their stringy unwashed fashion.  Folks on the rural routes are the last to adopt a fashion and the last to give it up.

     From the McKenzie Bridge in Eugene’s twin city of Springfield all along the river to the ridge road Trueman was met by unremitting hostility.  People actually lined the road to glare at him.  At the juncture of the McKenzie Highway and 126 the road, really almost a path, across the lava beds was plainly visible.

     Also visible was a row of thugs ranged along the crest at the first flow like a band of indians in a cowboy movie.  As he approached he could see a car parked across the roadway at the far crest of the flow.  He could see the car waiting to be driven across the road to block his retreat.

     ‘How stupid do they think I am.’  Dewey thought.  He knew the answer and dismissed it.

     Trueman saw the handwriting on the wall.  He knew he should turn back.  He also knew that Angie wouldn’t understand nor would he be able to explain it to her.  His enemies always had the advantage because there are few who understand and fewer still who acknowledge the structure of society.  Few are they who have the nerve to look beneath the surface.  Dewey had been born there so he always knew the score.  His rejection of the lava bed route would be construed by his enemies as that he had told a lie.  He had said he would take the road but now he hadn’t.  In their minds he had labeled himself a liar.  They so thought of him and this is the reason why.

     He had many misgivings but plowed ahead along the ridge.  The question is always how far will they go.  Trueman hadn’t yet the experience to be absolutely sure of his interpretation of the details nor could he understand how people who had never met him would do such things.

     The highway was virtually deserted.  The road was his until the turn down to Bend.  He was astounded that there was absolutely no traffic.  On the descent there were no cars before or behind.  A car or two passed on the other side of the road.   The drivers seemed to glare hatred.  In fact they were.  When word was received that the lava bed plan had misfired a couple of people had set out from Sisters and Bend to snarl at him on the highway.

     Trueman and Angie passed Hoodoo Ski Bowl.  Three Fingered Jack conveniently faced the Three Sisters across the highway.  They rolled by the road leading down to the springs of the Metolius River.  The Metolius is one of the wonders of the West.  The river emerges from the mountain side in huge springs which form a significant river in just a couple hundred yards.  It is a sight worth seeing.

     As they descended Trueman’s defective tire began to assert itself.  Trueman had a new Volvo.  The front tire on the driver’s side began to pound, bouncing and hammering.  Trueman had no idea what was happening.  Before he was able to slow down the tire burst as it slammed into the pavement.

     Trueman immediately divined that he had been had.  The fact that it was the left front immediately made his suspicious.  He could see himself on the highway butt out into the roadway to be run down by a passing car.  He kept driving slowly down the road.  He was still some way from Sisters, the first town.  He didn’t think the tire would even stay on the rim that far.  The rim probably wouldn’t stay on the hub.  He’d really been had when as if by a miracle a sign reading:  Jack’s U-Auto Stop appeared by a driveway by the side of the road.  ‘I auto stop.’ said Dewey

     The way was down an embankment a little way from the road.  Trueman thought it dangerous to leave the highway but the lesser of two evils.  He entered the ruts to slide to a stop before a little shack.  Some guy, hopefully a mechanic, was leaning over the fender of an old wreck to the left.  He straigtened up, eyed the Volvo, then bent over the fender again.

     Dewey blew out a breath, opened the door, got out and walked over to the wreck.

     ‘Hi!’ He said announcing his presence.

     He was ignored.

     ‘Hi!’ Dewey repeated.  ‘You work here?’

     The guy straigtened up looking at Dewey uncomprehendingly with his face half averted.

     ‘You Jack?’  Dewey asked.

     The guy twitched once, then said:  ‘No, Bill.’

     ‘Where’s Jack?’

     ‘There ain’t no Jack.  I’m Bill.  I just call it Jack’s because I’m shy.’

     Dewey thought better than to make any jokes.  He thought it better to play it straight and get out of there.

     ‘Can you fix tires, Bill?’ Dewey asked.

     ‘There ain’t nothin’ wrong with these tires.’  Bill replied mystified.

     ‘No. No, Bill, I don’t mean on that car.  I mean on my car over there.’

     Bill looked over at the Volvo and nodded:  ‘Oh sure. Yeah.  Easy.’

     ‘Well, how about fixing that tire?’

     ‘Can’t.’

     ‘Why not?’

     ‘Well, looka here.  See how it’s blown.  That’s one dead tire.  Can’t be fixed.’  He said looking at Dewey as though he were stupid.

     ‘Well, then, how about putting on the spare?’

     ‘Won’t do no good.’

     ‘Why not?’

     ‘This here Volvo’s got one of those new temporary spares.  You know, they only inflate halfway up.  Soft.  You’d never make it into town.’

     ‘Well, here’s an idea.  Can you sell me a tire?’

     ‘Sure.’  Said Bill without stirring.

     ‘O.K.  I’ll buy a tire from you.’

     ‘Well, I don’t have any tires.’

     ‘Uh huh. But you said you could sell me one.’

    ‘Of course I can.’  Bill said indignantly.  ‘But I have to go into town to buy it.’

     ‘Well, OK Bill.  I can’t go anywhere without a tire.  Do you think you could to into town to get one to sell to me?’

     ‘Sure, I could do that.  It’ll take a couple hours, maybe more.’

     ‘OK Bill.  As the saying goes:  I’ve got nothing but time.  I don’t have any choice but to wait.’

     ‘You want me to then?’

     ‘Yes, I do.’

     Bill got on the phone.  ‘Hi, this is Bill from Jack’s Jim.  I’m gonna need a tire.’

     A conversation ensued during which Bill was questioned as to who wanted the tire.  He described Dewey.  Words were spoken.  Bill looked at Dewey around the door with an extra shy grin.

     ‘I’ll be back.’ He said sheepishly.

     Dewey grinned and waved goodbye.  ‘Don’t take your time.’  He jokingly laughed.

     But Bill did take his time.  While he did a car left its garage in Eugene to speed to Jack’s U-Auto Stop.

     The day was nice, even delicious.  A warm sun beamed out of a sky with fluffy clouds lazing across it.  Jack’s was on a little level shelf of land against the hillside with a delightful valley below.  The shelf abutted the hillside about fifteen feet below the roadway.  As Dewey looked at the sharp descent he was uncertain whether the Volvo could even make it up it. 

     Dewey instructed Angie to stay in the car, keeping the door locked.  He was conversing with her through the window when he heard a car slowing down.  He looked up to see a bumper and under carriage as the car lurched into Jack’s U-Auto Stop.  It wasn’t Bill.  Dewey’s fears were confirmed.  He got the keys from Angie to open the trunk to get his tire iron out for a weapon.  He was somewhat dismayed to find the four pronged lug wrench but the not the appropriate tire iron.  The lug wrench was not an ideal weapon.  While he was studying the wrench in a quandary the car slid to a stop fifteen feet from him.

     Autry Outrey got out.  Autry had been given the crash assignment of despatching Trueman and Angie.  Autry stood six-three, trim and athletic.  His black wingtips were immaculate.  He wore his suit pants with precision.  The cuffs just touched his shoes.  The crease was a razor edge.  The pleatless pants rested smoothly and snugly across his hips and waist.  His belt was evenly spaced between the tops and bottoms of the loops.  The buckle was in the exact center of his body.  The waist of his pants formed a perfect circle around him.  They were not higher in the back and lower in the front.  His white shirt, even after just getting out of the car did not billow at the waistline.  His grey shaded rep stripe matching his pants and socks had a perfect Windsor knot.  the collar ends were not starched but didn’t curl.

     Autry was Arrow shirt ad handsome.  He could have modeled for a German postage stamp of the thirties.  His thick, luxuriant mustache which projected beyond his lip about a quarter inch exuded manliness.  It was impeccably trimmed, so fastidiously as to arouse your admiration and suspicion.

     Autry Outry stood eyeing Trueman who stood there looking stupid with the lug wrench in his hands.  Outrey’s gaze went to Trueman’s soft loafers.  He lifted his toes slightly as a sign that hard wingtips were more manly than soft loafers.

     He unconsciously hoped to emasculate Trueman with his shoes.  As Autry eyed the lug wrench he realized that his assignment wouldn’t be that easy.  While others described Trueman as a paranoid they apparently didn’t know what paranoia meant.  Trueman had had his finger on them since being shown the pot shack.  The image that was held by the townspeople of Trueman was, of course, erroneous.  the image that he was an abject coward who would never fight but cravenly beg for mercy was merely a projection of their fantasy.  Thus the notion had been that Autry would put his arm around Trueman’s shoulder and strangle him to death.  Why not?

     Autry had been chosen for the assignment because he had put it about that he had known Trueman well at the U of O.  This was a figment of Outrey’s imagination.  Outrey was a homosexual.  He had formed an intense mental fixation on Trueman, had railed at him but never actually met him.

     Outrey had been turned by a retired army officer who lived on his block.  Autry at eight had been a beautiful boy.  He had been befriended by his neighbor who had seduced him.  His seducer had been a model of military deportment.  The liaison had lasted two years until Autry had been discarded for another eight year old.  Autry had loved and respected his seducer.  It was from him that Autry learned to wear his clothes, trim his hair and mustache.  It was from that man Autry learned his lessons in manhood.  From the day of his seduction his father had ceased to have an influence on him.  His exterior would have been a model for a Marine advertisement.  His interior had been corrupted by his rejection which Autry had never been able to understand.  The pain of it haunted him night and day.

     Autry was still young enough to be seeking another older man as a companion and lover.  That was why he attached himself to the big men of Eugene and was willing, even overjoyed, to do their dirty work.  Within a few years a relationship with an older man would no longer please him, he would seek to duplicate his experience by finding eight year old boys.

     When Autry had seen Trueman in college he was both enraged and in love.  Trueman violated every concept of manhood that Autry cherished.  Dewey had had long hair, wore love beads, shaved clean and worn his clothes in an ambiguous manner with loafers that infuriated Autry.  At the same time he represented the internal Autry to himself.  Autry had thought him beautiful.  He also believed Trueman was a homosexual and ought to respond to him.

     But Trueman was not a homosexual.  He even spoke disparagingly of homos.  Trueman didn’t hesitate to call them fags.  Thus Outrey was faced with the perennial homosexual problem: unrequited love.  He knew he could never have Trueman.  Autry, as a frustrated lover, had taken to hurling abuse at Trueman, as a substitute for affection.  First from around the corners of hallways, then from behind trees, finally from a distance of five or ten feet.  For various reasons Trueman had ignored him.  He didn’t recognize Outrey now.  Autry was dumbfounded.  their relationship was real in his mind.

     Autry’s classically chiseled features that looked so good at rest dissolved into the marshmallow of his interior when he spoke.  His head reared back while in some strange fashion his features turned globular moving up and to the side of his face leaving the center with the appearance of being hollow.

     As they studied each other, Trueman moved to put his back to the far drop off with the shack on his left.  He held the lug wrench tommy gun style, grasping the lower and rear prongs.  As a child he had been floored with a punch to the solar plexus that he had never forgotten.  Unconsciously he intended now to avenge this incident.  It was his intention to thrust the lead prong under the ribs up into Autry’s heart.

     Autry looked at him baffled by the intended resistance.  This wasn’t in the script of his movie; he didn’t know what to do.  He feared the wrench.  His head reared back, his features dissolved as he began to articulate a phrase.  He changed his mind.  The classic Arrow, German postage stamp face appeared again.  Autry looked denyingly at Trueman for a few moments then turned to walk back to his car.

     Unsure of Autry’s intent Trueman dogged his steps with the wrench at the ready.  Without turning his head Autry sensed Trueman behind him.  Autry couldn’t be sure Trueman wouldn’t club him from behind.  He did a fatal thing.  His fear made him take a half skip into a run before he checked himself.  At the signal of submission Trueman stopped following him.  Autry immediately broke out into a copious perspiration.  He had confessed weakness.  There was now no chance he could go through with it.  He had failed the men he respected and loved, expecially his seducer.  He hadn’t been able to perform as a man.

     Within the next few steps his shirt darkened between his shoulder blades.  The sweat poured down the small of his back soaking the top of his pants and down between the cheeks to his sphincter.  Autry Outrey choked back a sob.  He couldn’t face his men in Eugene again.  Unseeing, blind he got behind the wheel, backed up in a roaring cloud of dust to speed East down the highway.  He roared through Sisters in blind panic onto 395.  He lost five pounds in a fast and furious drive from Bend to Boise.

     Shortly thereafter Bill returned to Jack’s U-Auto Stop with a tire.  Trueman stared at the tire in disbelief.

50 pages.

     ‘Why didn’t you get a new one?’  He asked.

     As in the Hank William’s song:  The tire was doing fine but the air was showing through.  The tire was three rotations past bald.

     ‘This was all they had.’  Bill said lamely.

     ‘What do you mean?  In all of Bend they only had this one lousy tire?’  Dewey said indignantly.

     ‘I didn’t go to Bend.  I only went to Sisters.  You either take this tire or you get nothing.  If you get nasty I won’t even sell you this one and can get your broken down car off my property.’

     Dewey saw his bind but he wasn’t going to give in easily.  Bill had already paid for the tire.

     ‘God, from the looks of that tire I would think you would give it to me.  How much are you going to charge me for it?’

     ‘Thirty dollars.’

     ‘Thirty dollars?  I can get new ones cheaper than that.’

     ‘Well, don’t buy it then.’

     ‘No. No.  I’ll take it.’  Necessity is the mother of surrender.

     ‘I know it’s bald and it probably won’t last till Bend.  But as you enter Sisters there’s a gas station on the left hand side of the road.  Go in there.  They’ll fix you up.’

     ‘I’m sure they will.’  Dewey said to Bill, adding to himself:  In more ways than one.

     Angie was not a fearless rider.  She hated the road.  She saw problems when none existed.  She had seen how bald the tire was, which was at least something to worry about.  Thus as they approached Sisters she was anxiously scanning the other side of the road for the gas station.

     ‘There it is.’  She excitedly exclaimed.

     ‘Nooo.  Nooo.’  Dewey said looking back to see the gang shaking their fists at him.

     ‘What if this tire explodes too.?’

     ‘We go into Bend on the rim, the hub.  I know where we are now.’

     He’d also picked up his tail who he noticed in the rear view mirror.  He wasn’t too worried about things in Bend, he didn’t think they would hit him in town.  But he did still need a new tire.

     He pulled into a tire shop off the highway onto the road through Bend to Mt. Bachelor.  He was met with overt hostility.

     ‘I don’t have that size tire.’  He was curtly told.

     ‘Well, can’t you call around.  Someone in Bend must have one.  If not, we’ll be in town a couple days, have one sent from the warehouse in Eugene.’

     The attendant’s boss who was watching with compressed lips heard Dewey and called the attendant over.

     The attendant returned.  ‘I can’t sell you a radial like you’ve got but I got a regular tire that will fit pretty well.’

     Trueman had already spent thrity with Bill at Jack’s and he’d have to replace the tire when he got back to Eugene.  Also he would look stupid with three radials and this oversized tire.  He considered the difficulty of his situation then consented.

     While the tire was being changed Dewey looked down the road toward Bachelor trying to figure out his enemies next move.  He decided it could only be to get him into an accident.  Dewey was learning his way around.  As he passed thrugh the center of town he could see he was being eyed.  He was good on the road.  There was no way to surprise him without hurting themselves.  Of course it was always possible that someone could be found who might not mind hurting themselves or might be too stupid to be aware of the consequences of their actions.

     Dewey made it safely through the core.  He had sped up as he approached the edge of town.  Suddenly a car flahsed out of an intersection in front of him.  He slammed on the brakes.  They don’t if they get hurt, he thought, because if his reflexes had been less quick he would have rammed the car between the wheels killing the driver.

     A car was waiting at the next intersectdion too but Dewey was prepared.  He had slowed in anticipation.  the earlier cars had flashed out and then turned toward town.  At the third intersection the car wheeled out in front of him and stepped on its brakes then floored it.  Billows of acrid black smoke blew out the exhaust.  The driver then immediately screeched to a halt forcing Dewey to do the same.  Dewey knew the game and he knew he couldn’t win but he had to play.  He crossed the center line to pass.  The driver gunned ahead across the line blocking Dewey’s passage still emitting billows of smoke which drifted through the clear air across the blue sky above the neighborhood.  Dewey drew back across the line slowing in anticipation of the driver’s screeching stop.  This time dewey was a few car lengths back.  The drive, thoroughly enjoying himself was laughing insanely.  He was unable to bee Trueman through the smoke.  He imagined that he was right behind him.

     Trueman anticipated the next move also.  A stream of cars was now passing slowly in the opposite direction so passing was out of the question.  His effort would only be frustrated anyway which was the intention.  Trueman had begun some time before to adjust his mentality to their methods.  The thought they were criminal or insane so that whatever they did was characteristic of their mentality.  Their acts were no reflection on himself.  In fact he was developing the attitude of a doctor in an insane asylum.  The attitude infuriated them more.  Dewey hadn’t flown onver the cuckoo’s nest he had landed in it.

     The driver before him now made several false starts.  Dewey remained motionless as the lead car now several blocks ahead of him rocked bac and forth in isolation after each stop.  The driver finally had the sence to use his side mirror.  He was humiliated to find himself alone out there.  He now drove slowly forward.  Trueman had no choice but to follow.  There was no chance to pass as a car came by at thousand foot intervals.   Dewey knew any attempt to pass would be foiled.  All he would do would be to get himself worked up to the point where he might do something stupid.  No car came upbehind Dewey as he drove into the smoke at ten miles an hour.

     Then to his left he saw the sign of The Hole In Black Mountain.  As he drew abreast his escort emitted a horse laugh which he could hear and sped off toward Mt. Bachelor.  The driver turned off the gimmick he had used to create the smoke screen.  His exhaust cleared as he sped away.

     It was quite clear to Dewey that none of this was coincidence.  But, if he told the story everyone would say so.  He resolved to keep the whole trip to himself.  He marveled that these people had no more life to lead than to spend ours, use dozens of cars and spend money in their attempt to torment him.  In its own way it was a supreme compliment to his superior manhood but one which he didn’t appreciate.  He was lost in this reverie as a car edged across the entrance of the lot in front of him.  The car had started too late.  Dewey kept going forcing the other driver to an abrupt stop a hair from the side of Dewey’s car.

      Dewey would have won that one except that Angie began to berate him for placing her in jeopardy.  There was merit in her argument.  It had been a long trip but Dewey kept his temper.  He ignored the obscenity hurled at him as the other car raced through the lot.

     He now looked at the building before him.  It was a conventional two story wooden inn streching some two or three hundred feet along the road.  He’d taken the bag from the trunk before he saw the entrance.  A large black structure closely resembling a cowl had been built over the doorway apparently in imitation of a cave.  Its black constrasted sharply with the natural finish of the building while blending into the asphalt of the parking lot.

     ‘This must be the actual hole in Black Mountain.’  Dewey said with a laugh as the smile on Angie’s face erupted into a matching laugh.

     ‘Business must have been so bad they tried to Disney the place up.’  She said.

     Still laughing they passed through the black hole into the lobby.

     ‘Hmmm.’  Said Angie.

     ‘Yeah.’  Dewey replied.  ‘And this place has a great reputation too.  It doesn’t look like they clean up in between seasons.  I guess they’re trying to save money by not turning the lights on too.’

     There was no clerk in sight.  Dewey rang the bell.  Minutes later he rang the bell again to no avail.

     ‘Hey, hello.  Anybody here?’  He called out some time later. 

     Still no one showed.

     About half an hour later he picked up the bag.  He told Angie that they might as well leave.  As though picking up his bag was a signal a slovenly, surly young woman appeared fromt he office.  She looked at him blankly.

     ‘We’d like to check in.’  Dewey said with mock suavity.

     ‘Do you have a reservation?’  The clerk asked in stilted tones as though she might have failed in finishing school.

     The game was clear to Dewey but he had enough experience to be patient.  He was a long way from home base.

     ‘Oh yes.’  He replied.  ‘Trueman?  We’re here on a certificate from KGEN.’

     ‘KGEN?’  She said blankly.

     ‘Yes, KGEN.  It’s a TV station in Eugene.  I’m sure you’ve heard of it.  Here’s the certificate.  Trueman.  They said to be sure to mention them and who I was.’

     ‘I’m not sure this is any good.’  She said stiffly.

     ‘Sure it is.’  Dewey said grimly.  ‘Just check it out.  We’ll be here till Sunday.  You’ve got time.’

    The clerk looked at him, blinked, then gave up the masquerade.

     ‘You’ll have to carry your own baggage.’  She said.  ‘We don’t have nayone to help you.’

     ‘Or clean up.’  Dewey said snidely, unaware of what was before him.

     The Hole was vacant May not being high season in the skiing industry.  Black Mountain was seriously mis-managed.  It didn’t even do well in the high season except on overflow weekends.  They were led to the most distant room.

     ‘This room hasn’t even been cleaned.’  Angie said indignantly.

     ‘Truly.’  Added Dewey.  ‘The ash trays, look at them,  at least six, they’re heaped with butts.  This room reeks of cigarette and cigar smoke.  The bed clothes haven’t even been changed.’

     Dewey and Angie were astonished to see splotches of semen stains on the sheets.  The floor was gritty as though dirt had been brought in for the occasion.

     ‘Very untidy.’  Dewey said, feigning urbanitywhile being deeply offended at the insult.  ‘Why don’t you give us another room?’

     ‘The resort is full.  This is the only room we have available.’

     ‘Well, clean it up and we’ll be back in an hour.’

     ‘No.  This is good enough for the likes of you.’

     ‘We’ll go elsewhere.’  Angie sniffed.

     ‘Go ahead and try.’  The girl said spitefuly.  ‘There isn’t a available room in Bend for you.  When youcome back this one won’t be here either.’

     Dewey sensed that this was true.  As the sun was setting he didn’t dare attempt the drive back to Eugene in the dark.  He could easily be forced from the road.  He and Angie were stuck.

     ‘Well, loot at those ashtrays and that bed.’  Dewey said tensely.  ‘They’re filthy.

 

     ‘All right.’  She said.  ‘We’ll empty the ash trays and make the bed.  But that’s all.’

     ‘We’ll come back after you’ve changed the bed.’

     ‘No.  I said make the bed, not change it.  You’ve got to take it the way it is.’

     So saying she dumped the contents of the ashtrays into the wastebasket and threw the blanket and bedspread up covering the sheets.

     ‘There.’  She said.  ‘That’s good enough for you.’

     So saying she slammed the door and left them.

     Joshua Babycakes had occupied the room the night before.  As he had anticipated Trueman’s death in the lava beds he had occupied the the bed intended for him the night before.  It was a macabre joke.  In his ecstasy at Trueman’s anticipated demise he had spent the morning masturbating into the empty bed as though he had Trueman before him.  When word had been flashed that the plan had misfired he ordered that the room and bed be left so that Trueman as he imagined would have to sleep in Babycake’s own filth.

     Dewey didn’t know hwo but he intuited the intent.  Angie was so disturbed that she became ill.  Thus Dewey went to dinner alone.  He was the sole diner in the restaurant.  As there was no one in sight he selected a table and took a seat.  Immediately a waiter appeared to tell him that section was closed.  He was led to a table in front of the men’s restroom.

     ‘Oh, come now.’  Dewey said as diplomatically as possible.  ‘I’m not going to sit her.  I’ll go back to where I was.’

     ‘I told you, buddy, that section is closed.’  The waiter lisped severely.

    Well, listen, pal, there’s no one else in the restaurant.  Either all sections are closed or any one I choose to open.  Only one waiter is required.  Do you follow my logic or do you follow any logic?’

      ‘Read my lips.  The section you want is closed.  This is your table.  Take it or leave it.’

     ‘I’ll sit here.’  Dewey said moving over two tables.  The waiter capitulated.

     ‘We get all kinds of boors in here.’  The waiter groaned.

     Dewey never got into arguments with stupid people so he let the comment pass with a snort and a contemptuous dismissal.  The waiter had no shame so he did a corn cob walk into the kitchen as though he had scored a great triumph.

     Dewey ordered without hope.  His dinner was served accordingly.  The food was improperly cooked.  It had just been thrown unappetizingly on the plaate.  Dewey could only imagine what adulteration had been done to it.  It  had been spit in.  Dewey sat looking at it dumbly for some few minutes, the he threw his napkin on the table in disgust and got up to leave.

     ‘You didn’t eat your dinner.’  The waiter said as though offended.

     ‘Not hungry.’  Dewey said.  ‘You can have it.’

     ‘I’m not going to eat that.’  The waiter said with evident disgust.

     ‘See.’  Dewey said ironically, which was, of course, wasted on the waiter.

     He went back to the room to find Angie sitting disconsolately in the chair.

     ‘How are we going to sleep?’  She asked.  ‘I’n not going to get into that filthy bed.’

     Dewey thought for a moment.  ‘They probably forgot to remove the extra blanket, I’ll bet.’  He said going to the closet.  ‘We’ll just have to lay on top of the bedspread.  Oh look, two extra blankets.  One under us, one over us.  Perfect solution to a bad situation.’

     And so they spent the night at The Hole In Black Mountain.  The inn certainly deserved its name.

60 pages.

     They didn’t bother to check out the next morning; they just got in the car and drove off.

     ‘If they’ve got anything to say they can say it to KGEN.’  Trueman said as they drove back through town.  He pulled into a gas station to fill it up.  While the attendant was checking the oill he punctured the radiator.

     Dewey had turned unto the ridge road before he noticed that the car was running hot.  He pulled over to take a look.  He quickly spotted the puncture.  The attendant had made it near the top of the radiator so that while the engine overheated it wouldn’t burn up.  Satisfied that there would be no trouble getting back Dewey lowered the hood to see a car pulling to a stop behind him.  In all his life no had ever volunteered to help him so Dewey realized that his enemies were still behind him.  He hurriedly got back in the car and drove off.

     The rhododendrons were blooming cheerily in the dappled sunlight of the forest as they turned down the McKenzie Highway.  As they crossed the McKenzie Bridge Dewey began to feel secure again.

     It was only Saturday but he decided to stay home until Monday to as not to give the impression that he had been had.  Everyone knew, of course, but Trueman didn’t know they knew.  He was not yet that familiar with the system.

     The ‘free’ weekend had been an expensive one.  Between the tires, the radiator and other repair work he paid out several hundreds of dollars.  He also lost several hundred dollars of merchandise.  Harry Grabstein had had a small collection of classical records delivered to his house.  The employees had helped themselves to merchandise and cash.  Generous discounts had been given to their friends.

     As Dewey walked in Monday they were all in their places which was such a rarity that Dewey immediately guessed the truth.

     ‘How was your weekend?’  They chirped knowingly.

     ‘Hey, it was terrific.’  Dewey said breezily, unwilling to give anyone a triumph.

     ‘It was?  No kidding?  Nothing happened?’  They said incredulously.

     ‘Yeah!  Why not?  You know anything I don’t?’  Dewey replied.

   Dewey didn’t wait for a reply as he mounted the stairs to the office.

     He had just begun to open drawers when Jim James who ran the marijuana operation on Railroad Ave. came in to request to see him.  Dewey had never met James but he came down to see what he wanted.  James had formed a serious relationship with Trueman from television, from the fact that Trueman was prominent in the conversation of the people he knew, because he owned the record store and because James also considered himself a successful businessman.

     ‘Hey, Dewey,’  James said grabbing his hand in both of his as though he really was an old dear friend,  ‘I just came in to say good-bye.  I’ve got to leave town now.’

    ‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’  Dewey said only vaguely aware of who he was talking to.  ‘How come?’

     ‘Oh, they told me it’s getting to hot for the business.  If we keep it up much longer the police will have to act; they won’t be able to hold them back any longer.  So I gotta get outta town.  Well, Buddy, it’s been fun.  See you around.’

     ‘Uh, yeah, take care, see you around.’  Dewey replied amicably waving good-bye.

    With an affectionate wave good-bye to everyone in the store who all seemed to know him, James left.  Astonished at his openness and amazed that James thought him a buddy, Trueman trailed outside behind him.  James went down the street shaking hands with everyone he met, addressing them all by name and telling them it was too hot to continue.  The house would be dark from now on.

     ‘How does he get away with it?’  Trueman muttered to himself.  ‘That’s way too open.  There’s no way to conceal that, not even under the cover of darkness.’

     The citizenry had been aroused over the last few months, not so much by James’ operation as to the outrageous doings in the so-called massage parlors.  Prostitution had began to flourish in Oregon under the guise of massage parlors.  The parlors were owned by combines of various big men in town.  The men they employed to run them were real wild cowboys.  Rivalries had developed.  Parlors were raided by shot gun toting competitiors.  Parlor after parlor had been burst into and shot up.  A couple of cowboys had died.  The last straw had been when one of the managers, as the newspaper had reported, had fallen asleep at the wheel, missed the McKenzie Bridge, gone down a steep embankment, which should have arrested the progress of the car, careened across a hundred feet of sandbank, which was clearly impossible, to drown in three feet of water, which was incredible.  The case was closed as accidental death.   Perhaps his murder was not intended.

     James’ operation had been a casualty of the massage parlor warfare and the accidental death.  James was only a very naive eighteen.  Had he been wiser he would have taken his cash and run for his life.  Instead he became the sacrificial lamb.  After completing his all too obvious farewell tour, his friends gave him a little party, put a thousand dollars in his hand, ten kilos of grass in his trunk to help him get started in California and waved a fond farewell.

     A crime had been committed;  It was necessary to expiate the sin.  Someone had to pay.  The punishment of James would serve for all.  James heart was agow with fellowship and he sped past Roseburg, through Medford and Grant’s Pass to the Oregon border just beyond Ashland.  He was simple enough to think he was going to repeat his performance in Sacramento.  As he crossed the border he didn’t see the Highway Patrol car that whelled off the sideroad behind him.

     He did see the red light in his rear view mirror as it flashed behind him.  The Patrolman didn’t even ask to see his license he just said:  ‘Open the trunk.’  You can hear the train whistle blow in Folsom Prison on the American River just outside Sacramento.  That’s where Jimmy James spent the next twenty years of his life.

     Back in Eugene the conspirators gathered once again in Joshua Babycakes’ office.  There had been great satisfaction in the rape of Connie Francis that had gone off without a hitch.  Trueman had foiled their hopes and dreams.  Babycakes hand fondled his groin as he considered the failure.  A frown crowded the humanity out of his face as he subconsiously acknowledged his defeated manhood.  He cleared his throat as all looked up in anticipation.  But Babycakes was just clearing his throat, he had nothing to say.  Their minds flailed about in the seim-darkness in the Shadow Of The Cross as they sought the next move.

     Is it our imaginations or was the Cross actually installed upside down?

The End Of The Hole In Black Mountain

    

 

 

 

    

 

    

Disco Donn Demands Deliverance

by

R.E. Prindle

Part II-2

     You take your life in your hands when out there in the great beyond on the highway.  It’s a place beyond the reach of the law.  Lawless people drive the highways looking for excitement and adventure.  Lawless people put their thumbs out for the same reason.  The driver never knows who’s getting in the car; the hitchhiker never knows who’s driving.

     Al, who had introduced himself, looked all right but that could change pretty quickly.  Hitchhikers disappear all the time.  Donn, hesitated, reluctant to put his fate in the old man’s hands.

     ‘It’s all right, son.  You’ve got nothing to worry about.  I’m not queer.’

     ‘Sure.’ D0nn said with an ironic smile, accepting both out of trust and weariness.  ‘I’d be grateful.’

     They wheeled into Richland crossing the great Columbia River then down to Pasco and across the snake at the confluence of the two rivers, then east toward Eureka in the orchards and farmlands.

     ‘You know, son, religion can be a cover for real moral anarchy.  A lot of people forget that morality is the whole reason for religion not politics.  If you can’t do a kindness for your fellow man then your religion don’t mean a thing.  Love is the law and I don’t mean mere sex.  It’s a simple answer, it’s a trite answer, it’s an ignored and overlooked answer.  The answer runs at cross purposes to most men’s inclination.  It’s an answer that has to be told over and over from generation to generation.  It’s an answer that should be in every book ever written.  If you ever write a book promise me you’ll put it in yours, Donn.’

page 51.

     ‘Sure.  If I ever write a book, I will.’  Donn glibly answered.  What else could he do.  What an odd request.

     ‘Love,’ the old boy went on, somewhat tediously, ‘By love I mean charity.  Not alms giving, but goodwill toward your neighbor.  Charity in the old fashioned sense of the word.  It is true what Jesus said:  A man must have faith, hope and charity.  The greatest of these is charity.  For if a man hath not charity his voice will be as the sounding brass.  It’s true.  Without kindness your words merely rasp and buzz.  No one will listen to you.  So, love your neighbor, son.’

     ‘I’ve done that before.’  Donn said with a smirk, turning to look out the window.

     By now Donn was hoping the lecture was over.  He saw the validity of the lecture but he could find no application in his past, present or future.  He smiled at the old geezer and shook his head.  At least this guy was better than Zadok and Amirah.

     Al pulled off the highway a couple miles past Eureka to drive about five miles toward the Snake.  There was the neatest, prettiest little farmstead Donn had ever seen.  The square, frame house stood on a little rise surrounded by small trees and bushes.  The house reflected the kind gentility of Al Martin.  As within, so without.

     Within the hour Donn had washed, shaved and was between clean sheets drifting off into oblivion.

page 52.

     Donn was too exhausted to sleep soundly,  He woke two or three times during the night, his mind too numbed to rouse himself from bed, his thoughts too crowded to separate into strands he could analyze.  Morning found him seated at the breakfast table dazed, listless and despondent.

     Al Martin studied him intently from across the kichen.  He said:  ‘You know Donn, keeping this place up isn’t easy for a man my age.  I got a whole bunch of chores needs doin’.  If you help me out you can stay for a week or so till everything gets done.  Can’t offer you more than room and board, but…’

     Donn shook his head yes:  ‘Yeah, Al, that would be great.  I can do that.  What needs to be done?’

     Donn pitched in with good will.  Over the week he worked on his problems while he worked, rather than whistled, for Al.  As he had his last breakfast with Al the worst of the numbness was gone.  He had toughened a little but the future still dismayed him casting a dark pall over his mind.  He had identified Maggie as the culprit.  A growing powerless hatred began to envelope him.

     Al drove him back to the highway, thanked him and dropped him off as the morning heat began to build.

     Al Martin had been a solitary ray of sunshine piercing through the great black storm clouds over Donn.  The respite Al had given Donn served him well; his nerves were strengthened and he had time to make some necessary adjustments to his psyche from his fall from grace.  Grimmer events were now to occur.  The hammer blows of his destiny would not allow him to rise but his descent to beyond the depths of despair would be slower.

page 53.

     Donn had been out there for a couple hours.  The morning sun had turned to an afternoon bake, god almighty hot.  Blistering.  The blacktop wasn’t bubbling but it looked like it was about to boil any minute.  The stuff actually moved beneath Donn’s heel.  Donn still wearing his Disco clothes was drenched.

     ‘Hey, Cowboy, need a ride?’

     It wasn’t a beautiful woman in a Cadillac, it was four Mexican braceros in a beatup old ’61 Chevy.  The question had a sinister tone to it.

     ‘I’m looking for a ride to St. Louis.’ Donn said ludicrously, declining the ride.

    His response was met by raucous laughter.

    ‘Hey, there aint’ no St. Louis around here, man.’

     One of the men, they were all eighteen to twenty-three, got out of the back and motioned Donn to sit in the middle.  In the middle surrounded on both sides and vulnerable from the front.  Not a good hitchhiking situation.

     ‘No, man, no.  Thanks, but I mean St. Louis, Missouri.’  In hitchhiking terms this was a virtual insult.

     ‘Hey, you muchachos hear of this place, St. Louis, Missouri?’

     The query was answered by a chorus of noes and ‘there ain’t no such place as St. Louis, Missouri, man.  There ain’t no such place as Missouri.’  More raucus laughter.

page 54.

     ‘Get in, man.  We give you ride.’  The guy holding the door open smiled, the other three doors cracked open as if the occupants were going to get out.

     Donn got in.  This was not the worst thing he could have done.  Had he not they might have made short work of him with tire irons, knives and whatnot, conversely he might have outsprinted them across the burning desert.  When you’re way out there without hope or friends in alien territory you just naturally have to make difficult decisions.  Donn’s hope was not unjustified.  Nor did he behave abjectly to deal with this difficulty.

     Once in the car the Mexicans became verbally abusive of him.  They called him blondie, ridiculed his mustache and insulted his sexual prowess.

     Then the passenger in the front seat, Juan Perez, who was somewhat vain of his pysique flexed his biceps saying: ‘Hey, man.  See that arm?  I can knock you out with one punch, man.’

     As Juan said so, the driver, Pedro Martinez, swang onto a dirt road leading into the hills.  Donn felt a chill in the un-air-conditioned car but didn’t flinch.  He’d gotten his opening.

     ‘Yeah, man?  Maybe, but you’d never get to land a punch.  I was scientific (he threw the word in for effect) boxing champion at SMU.’

     ‘SMU?  What’s that?’  Juan said, overawed by something he didn’t know.

page 55.

     ‘Scientific Mangling University.  You want to go a round or two with me, stop and car and I’ll show you some real science.’

     Juan was frightened by unfamiliar terms like science and SMU and became apprehensive.  He didn’t want to go a couple rounds but he wanted Donn to show him some of his moves.

     The driver pulled over; they all got out.  Donn and Juan squared away.  As Donn had predicted Juan couldn’t come close to landing a punch.  The Mexicans were duly impressed.  After Donn had shown them a few moves Juan said:  ‘Hey man, for a gringo you’re alright.  Then they piled back into the Chevy amidst more raucus laughter leaving Donn standing among the heatwaves in the field.

     In that heat it was an hour and a half walk back to the highway.  Donn caught a number of short rides.  As the sun was setting he was dropped off just past Tucannon a couple miles from Fort Kwakiutl.  He decided to walk into town.  Fort Kwakiutl was a small town, barely on the map, but it did host a Starlight Motel, a restaurant, a bar and a couple gas stations.  Spoiled by his stay at Al Martin’s Donn decided to stay at the Starlight.

    He checked in, cleaned up and went to the restaurant to eat.  He was relatively relaxed and hungry.  He had a lot of money so he ate heartily.  Ed Quigley sat at the bar watching him.  ‘That hobo’s got some money.’  Ed thought darkly.  ‘I bet nobody knows where he’s at or why.’

     Quigly was a big beefy man.  Though much out of shape, big paunchy belly, he thought he could handle a little guy like Donn.  He moseyed over inviting himself to Donn’s table.  He plunked his beer down on the table.

page 56.

     ‘Howdy, podna.’

     ‘Uh, howdy.’

     ‘Saw ya walkin’ inta town.  You a ‘knight of the road.’

     Donn laughed amiably.  ‘Let’s just say I’m passing through.’

     ‘Oh yeah?  Must be hitchhiking?’

     ‘Yes, I am.’  Donn replied.

     ‘Say, listen, buddy, I gotta proposition for ya.  I’m goin’ inta Boise tomorrow.  If you got twenty for gas I’ll take ya along.’

     Donn thought a minute.  He was weary of the road.  He’d been at it for a couple weeks and he still wasn’t out of the state of Washington.  By now he felt a little more confident.  He was anxious now to get to St. Louis.  He didn’t dare say he was broke because Quigly could see the remains of his dinner.

     ‘I’ve blown just about everything I have here tonight.  Bummed it along the way.  It’s a good chance though.  Could you take ten?  He didn’t want to give the idea that he could afford more.  A few more miles down the road of life and Donn would understand how transparent he had been.

     Quigly looked at him, seemed doubtful, then said:  ‘Yeah, sure, OK.  Ten’s better than nothin’.’

     ‘It’s a deal.’  Donn smiled.

     ‘One thing,’  Quigly said.  ‘I’m leaving early, four in the morning.’

     ‘OK.’  From Donn.  ‘Where are you going to be?’

     ‘There’s a big oak tree two miles outta town.  It’s the only tree that size out there.  Can’t miss it.  Meet me there.  In any case I’ll drive slow so I won’t miss you.’

page 57.

     Donn was up trudging through the night to his four o’ clock rendezvous.  Quigly was waiting for him.

     Injuring our fellow man is quite akin to sexual intercourse.  You work yourself up in pretty much the same way.  As they sped up Hwy. 12 through Delancy Donn had intuited from Ed’s rutting manner what was up.  There was no surprise when Quigly swung into a side road moving between two hills by an arroyo.

     Ed left the motor running.  ‘Alright, Cowboy, now I know ya got money.  Ya don’t eat like that and stay at the Starlight if ya don’t.  Ya can give it to me peacefully or I can beat it out of ya.  It’s up to you; it’s your choice, you call it, what’s it gonna be?’

     Donn opened his door and jumped out.

     Still leaving the engine of his beater running Quigly got out huffily, ‘Alright, son-of-a-bitch, if that’s the way you want it.’

     Quigley’s confidence caused him to over expend his energies too quickly.  Donn played him like a trout on a line util  Quigly, breathless, held up a hand for Donn to wait while he caught his breath.  Donn had a different role for himself than in Quigly’s fantasy.  He moved in giving Quigly everything he had.  Quigly unprepared for the response, caught between gasps, rolled onto the ground.

    As he did something snapped in Donn.  He wanted vengeance for everything; his rape, football, boxing, Maggie’s treatment, everything.  As Quigly fell Donn leaped on him picking up a big rock and bringing it down repeatedly on Quigly’s head until the corpse was nearly headless.

page 58.

     As Donn came to himself there was no remorse.  He was both sickened and relieved.  He was no killer but the release had been very satisfying.  In any case he had no cause for self-recrimination as he had killed Quigly in self-defense.  His conscience was clear, but as a drifter, the preponderance of proof was his, he didn’t have any.

     Acting quickly he dragged Quigly’s nearly headless body over to the arroyo and threw it in.  Fate was on his side as the body rolled under a ledge and wedged in out of sight.  Quigley’s precaution of leaving early lest he be seen with Donn worked to Donn’s advantage.  No one had seen them.

     Quigly’s old beater was still running.  Donn got in behind the wheel, turned the old buggy around and got out on the highway to Boise and beyond to Salt Lake City.

     Mentally Donn tried to sweep the killing of Quigly into the dust bin of his memory as he had his reprehensible sexual relations that he detested.

     He wanted to believe that he had only witnessed the killing but his conciousness rejected the falsehood.  Forced to deal with reality he came to the right conclusion- he had killed in self-defence.  Quigly’s unlucky day.  But justly or not he knew that as a drifter and with the suit back in Portland and assigned to a public defender he was lost.

     It then dawned on him also that in the eyes of the law he was driving a stolen car.  And what a car!  The big beast was a favorite of urban desperadoes; a huge old carcass of a ’63 Olds.  The immense rusty hood stretched out before him to eternity.  The vinyl top was ragged and torn.  The giant trunk lid was held down by a wire.  The worn tires made 100% constact with the road; the tread was gone.  Quigly was no mechanic.  The engine roared around faint rattles coming from diverse places.

page 59

     The interior was trashed, the glove compartment hanging open; seats and roof lining torn, butts all over the floor and even on the seats.  Quigly had customized it to reflect his inner malaise.  As within, so without.  Gradually Donn realized what he was driving.  These were no cosmic wheels; this was no astral vehicle.

     The realization drove all other thoughts from his mind.  His brow knitted; he put the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and gazed about in dismay.  He sat back and tried to look cool.  Revulsion overcame him.  He realizied how low he had sunk.

     ‘There must be some way out of here.’  He thought.

     He made Boise the next morning.  Disgusted with himself and his situation; embarrassed now by the Disco Donn facet of his personality he bought a levi jacket, jeans and a couple sweaters to adapt to his new situation.  Tennis shoes for walking.  In fact Donn shed all the facets of his multi-faceted personality but one.  His multi-facets could only be supported by prosperity.  He reverted back to the Texas gold old boy personality he had when he entered Portland.

page 60.

     Don began to be really apprehensive about driving the big beast but he wanted to make Salt Lake before he aband0ned it.  To make matters worse a patch on the radiator gave way about Brigham City.  He began to make frequent stops at gas stations to fill up the radiator in hopes of cooling the engine well enough to make Salt Lake City.  He steamed through Odgen and into the suburbs of Salt Lake as a blistering heat wave through the fire wall roasted his feet and legs.

     He wheeled into a side street.

 

Guilty Of the Shame

 

We know there’s a dark side

To the moon that we see;

But what’s a little darkness

To the likes of you and me.

-Jesse Winchester

     Donn stepped out of the steaming heap looking at it in vengeful disgust to turn his steps back to the highway.  As he did a pair of blue eyes watched him approach.  The eyes, all the luster having departed, belonged to Sandy Tyler.  Sandy, now well into her thirties, was a refugee from the dolorous broken dreams of the sixties.  Trapped in a state of arrested adolescence, her mind inundated by drugs, she was arrayed in the symbols of the mock poverty of the late sixties. 

     She had once been a very beautiful young woman.  While she sought desperately to retain the vestiges of that beauty against the ravages of drugs and despair only mere glimmers of her former freshness remained.  Superb bone structure prevented her face from dissolving into sheer ugliness.  Beneath her T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of some indiotic post-1975 heavy metal band her once firm high breasts sagged braless down to her belt loops.  Her jeans had the obligatory tears across each knee.  There was a tear beneath each cheek of her derriere which exposed white skin no longer firm or translucent.  Her jeans were tucked into brown suede boots, calf high, turned down.  A certain pride of former glory still clung to her presence.

page 61.

     One might well blame Sandy for a wasted life but the shame was not hers; it belonged to American society.  She had been dragged down completely innocent and against her will with no menfolks to defend her degradation.  In circumstances which you in your comfort would dismiss with a comment like:  Oh well, life’s not fair.

     Sandy had come from Cincinatti, Ohio.  She had come from well-to-do parents who had raised her to be the model of decorum.  She had breeding.  She had been blond and pert with a beautiful figure.  Psychologically she had been as well balanced as one of twenty can be.  Her expectations were those that one would associate with her background.

     She had married Bert Tyler who she had met and fallen in love with at the University Of Ohio.  Upon graduation Bert had taken a job with Standard of California and moved to San Francisco.  This was in 1964 when the subterranean rumbles of massive change could be heard and experienced if not understood.  The times were changing at incredible speed as they usually are when you’re in the middle of them.  Intelligence and precaution were not enough to save you; you had to play dodgeball with the juggernaut and win.  Luck was of the greatest importance.  Luck was not with Sandy Tyler.

page 62.

     Sandy’s husband was something of a rake.  Unresolved wildness lived in his soul.  He wasn’t ready to settle down to middle class respectability.  He suggested that he and Sandy take up residence in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco,  that wicked, wicked city of transients.  Tourists ooh and aah over Baghdad By The Bay.  But beneath the charming exterior of the Bay and cable cars of the City all is sour and corrupt.  The spirit of Tom Mooney and Harry Bridges hovers over the City.  There is a seething hatred and class envy which negates the charms of the location.  All San Francisco is a suberb of Chinatown.  It is no accident that Beatniks and Hippies flourished there.

     The Sixties seethed and boiled with unremitting vigor.  Contrasted to the glitter of the scientific accomplishments of the times, cities decayed into ruin before your eyes.  The Maelstrom whirled all around you.  One had to learn to navigate its currents to survive.  It was wise to avoid the use of drugs in a city of drug proliferation.  Heroin was the least of your worries.  Only junkies used heroin and they are a class unto themselves.  One can look at a junkie and realize immediately that junkieism  is a trap to be avoided.  Cocaine, which has a long history of societal use beginning with its first pusher, Sigmund Freud, was nowhere prevalent at the time.  Cocaine didn’t become common until the seventies.  Marijuana was not yet everywhere but was indispensable to the Underground.  Exotica such as peyote and mescaline and mushrooms were still of a semi-legendary character.

page 63.

     The man made drugs were prevalent.  Amphetamines, barbiturates and LSD were everywhere.  Stanford University advertised in the papers for ‘psychological’ subjects.  As it turned out the subjects were wanted for drug experimentation.  They were given massive doses of LSD.  This gave a certain legitimacy to their use.  After all, the high priest of acid was a defrocked professor from Harvard, Timothy Leary.

     The world of drug use was being popularized and glamorized by the evangel of the generation- the phonograph record.  The psyche of the era cannot be understood without a thorough knowledge of the recorded music and comedy of the era, comedy may have been as important as the music.  The phonograph record was the single most important factor in the lives of the generation except for, perhaps, the psychologically inert.  The generation was raised on records.

     To understand the music, which is to say songs, you have to start with the incoherent  shouting and strumming of a black blues shouter by the name of Huddie ‘Leadbelly’ Ledbettor and follow the chain through the various white blues singers until you end at the Kingston Trio.  From thence Ledbettor’s songs and stylings entered the main stream.  Thus the mind of the sixities generation was conditioned by an outsider’s slave and prison mentality.  Let that Midnight Special shine its ever loving light on me.

     At the same time a group of men were setting about to create the ‘rucksack revolution.’

page 64.

     Here comes a no-no in American letters.  We’re going to discuss imigration in a realistic rather than romantic fashion.  This group of men who sought to influence and undermine American civilization were, with one exception, the sons of immigrants who were reacting to the inconveniences of being foreign elements integrating into an existing social structure.  Jack Kerrouac was a Catholic French Canadian, Allen Ginsberg was a Jew from the Pale, William S. Burroughs was the descendent of the inventor of the calculator who apparently rejected logical thinking in favor of anarchy,  Gregory Corso and Lawrence Ferlinghetti were Italians.

     An Anglo view of the group can be found in John Clellon Holmes autobiographical novel ‘Go.’  They all grew to maturity between the wars when the conflict between Anglo-American society and immigrant society was most intense.  The Anglo-American demand that the immigrants shed their ethnic beliefs and characters created an intense reaction.  Carl Witte epitomized the struggle in his early forties book:  We Built America.

     As the immigrant population equaled or exceeded that of the Anglo-Americans it was perhaps inevitable that they should triumph.  In any event they did.  By 1950 all the trappings of Anglo culture were being torn down to be replaced by symbols that either asserted other ethnic origins or pointedly and often violently rejected Anglo symbols.

     Where formerly immigrants had been rejected and reviled by the Anglos the immigrants now quickly turned the tables.  While the sons and daughters of the Anglos had been brought up to believe in the incredible homogeneity of American society the sons and daughters of the immigrants sought to bring the Anglos down.  The humiliation of Sandy Tyler was the result of those feelings.

page 65.

     The Beat writers, as these men have been called, represented the grossest materialism.  They were all drunks, perverts and drug addicts.  They sought to impose those values on America.  The onslaught was led by Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerrouac.  Both had done time in the bughouse or insane asylum.  Oddly enough the whole group was exposed for what they were long before they became effective by John Clellon Holmes.  Holmes’ premonitory warning was not understood.  Why should anyone worry about a bunch of bums.

     Kerrouac glorified the subculture in ‘On The Road’, ‘The Dharma Bums’, ‘The Subterraneans’ and other novels.  Ginsberg contributed an insane chant called ‘Howl.’  Through their success from 1956 to 1959 they were able to get Burroughs’ scream of hatred ‘Naked Lunch’ published.  He followed this by the influential ‘Soft Machine’ and ‘Nova Express.’

     The Beat writers were well received by the Underground.  Evidences of their cultural impact were obvious in San Francisco and the Bay Area in the early sixties.  They were not so obvious and understandable to the larger society which had heard little of the Beat writers.  As Bob Dylan expressed it: ‘…there’s something happening here but you don’t know what it is, do you…?’

     Dylan himself, who as a recording artist, was a major influence on the sixties, appears to have drawn so much inspiration for his middle period from Kerrouac and Burroughs that he can be described as a post-Beat writer.

page 66.

     The Beat writers originally tried to oerganize the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco but the Beatniks themselves, who came from an earlier period uninfluenced by Beat writers chose North Beach as their headquarters. 

     While the Beatniks dominated North Beach the Hippie culture was being formed in the Haight-Ashbury at the same time.  This culture found expression in the music of the San Francisco Sound.  Marty Balin, no one knows which two swords he carried, and the Jefferson Airplane musical group were establishing the Matrix nightclub while the rock clubs would supplant the jazz clubs of the Beatniks and transfer the focal point of the scene from North Beach back to the Haight-Ashbury.

     In addition to the Anglo-Immigrant conflict the old struggle between the Black Folk and the White Folk was assuming new dimensions.  The Blacks were demanding social equality- whatever that is.  One doesn’t want to generalize excessively where the Blacks are concerned because theirs is also a society of many diverging opinions and attitudes, nevertheless in a sizable majority of Blacks ‘social equality’ involved what is known as ‘the Payback.’  Blacks feel that they are owed something for the indignities placed on them by White Society.  This opinion is shared by a not unsizable group of Whites, so long as some other Whites pay the bill.

     Racial memories are not obliterated in a moment, a generation or even several generations.  Whites seem to have the inexplicable notion that the memory of unjust deeds can be removed by an apology, or checks drawn on someone else’s account.  Whites seem to think that things are thereby cured and resentments will disappear.  Blacks who have suffered grievous injuries with marvelous equanimity don’t believe so.

page 67.

     One of the most humiliating indignities Black women had to endure during the slave era was to be at the beck and call of any White man.  Literally, a White male could take any Black woman by the arm and lead her off to minister to his sexual needs at any time.  If she were the wife of a Black man there was absolutely nothing he could do about it but endure the shame.  So, the Payback involves White women.  Black men demand the same privilege with White women that White men had with Black women.  Everything in life gets down to a sexual offence.

     As there was no social apparatus to suport their hopes and ambitions as their had been for White men, Black men had to enforce their desires surreptitiously. 

     Thus, of a foggy overcast midday, nearly all days are foggy and overcast in San Francisco, Sandy Tyler was walking down Grant St. in North Beach on the way to the laundromat.  She was the epitome of a what a young White woman should be.  She was beautiful.  All eyes turned.  She was innocent.  She walked the streets of North Beach as though they were the streets of her upper class neighborhood in Cincinatti.

     Among the Beats and degenerates, the Blacks and Italians of this very Italian neighborhood her very Anglo dress and style stood out like Jane in Tarzan’s Africa.  Deep racial instincts stirred at the sight of her.  She had been trained to believe that assimilation in America had been complete.  All people were kind.  It is still a myth that most adhere to.

page 68.

     Sheldon Washington, a drug dealer and a huge Black man stood talking on the corner before the The Gate Of Wine Coffee House.  The Gate was a quintessential Beatnik Coffee House of the era.  Despite its name, which came from the Gilgamesh, no liquor was served.  Each night local poets, writers, thinkers and simple complainers held forth from the podium to the assembled multitude.  Unlike the Hippies, the Beatniks were well educated and much intelligent discourse could be heard at the Gate.

     Unfortunately complainers like the said Seldon Washington also inflicted themselves on the audience.  Sheldon had bent the ears of the audience for fifty-three minutes twenty-two seconds the night previous complaining about how a Spade Cat couldn’t walk down the street with a Honky chick without drawing stares.  His argot was so new that half the audience picked up Spade Cat as spayed cat and had no idea what a Honky Chick was.  Perhaps a spayed cat and an honky chick should be stared at.

     But at this moment that Sandy chose to walk by, the Man was being being waited on by his Honky heroin addict.  The addict, thin and unkempt, stood holding his money in his hand eagerly pressing it on Sheldon who was in no hurry to hand him his balloon.  In fact he didn’t have one on him.  the junkie would have to wait a little longer.

      Sheldon stood drawing out the wasted junkie’s agony when Sandy entered the intersection drawing his attention.  Now, Sheldon was one of those Black giants at six-four, two-eighty whose muscalature was concealed beneath the immense smooth expanse of his biceps and chest.  If he just raised his arm and let if fall on your back he could knock you down.  He was wearing a black Italian undershirt over his dark brown body.

page 69.

     Sheldon was so enchanted that he let out an involuntary long low whistle.  A girl of White breeding, Sandy ignored it as she properly should.  Breeding was unknown in North Beach where other standards applied.  Indignant at what he considered arrogance, Sheldon bellowed:  ‘Say mama, that was a compliment to your beautiful booty.’

     Well, Sandy seldom answered to ‘mama’, never acknowledged strange men on the street, let alone Black men, and had she known that ‘booty’ referred to her ass she would have been indignant.  But then, that was Cincinatti, this was North Beach.  Sandy responded by sticking her nose in the air pointedly ignoring Sheldon.

     Washington’s attitude changed abruptly.  Washington belonged to the Black Brotherhood and associated with the Junkie Brotherhood.  In both the individual identity is submerged in the collective identity.  One is immediately on familiar terms with every other member of the Brotherhood.  There are no interfaces.  Thus had Sandy been a Black woman she would have smiled, perhaps shook her booty as a token of appreciation and returned some compliment as to the probable size of Sheldon’s ‘thing.’  That she didn’t angered Sheldon.  He had a very big voice which he now raised to its loudest putting the threat of direct physical violence into it.

page 70.

     ‘Say Woman,’ he bellowed,  ‘where you manners?  When a brown eyed handsome man compliments a pretty woman that woman better appreciate it or she gonna have big troubles in this man’s neighborhood.  You dig?’

     Sandy stopped dead in her tracks, terrified, as she had every reason to be.  At the sound of Sheldon’s voice the Junkie had nearly fallen to his knees groveling before the Big Black.  Other White boys along the street stared lasciviously at the beautiful girl hoping to get some of whatever Sheldon left.  Their eyes silently encouraged her to acquiesce.  Alone and small, never before confronted with such brutal customs, the White girl turned to face Sheldon’s wrath with wide staring eyes.

     ‘I sayed you got a beautiful ass, mama.’  Sheldon bellowed louded than a bass drum.

     ‘T-thank-you.’  Sandy stuttered, terrified, embarrassed and not knowing how to respond to retain her dignity as a married woman.

     That’s better, mama.’  Sheldon said attempting to console and command at the same time.  ‘Now you run along and don’t ever pull that haughty shit again, hear?’

     The White boys on the street snickered confident that Sheldon, the Spade Cat, would take what he wanted and leave the rest of the Honky Chick to them.

     ‘That’s tasty,’ each thought, ‘I’m really going to enjoy fucking that bitch.’

     The promise of America was no promise at all, it was a perverted curse.

      A week later Sandy was walking down Grant on the way to the laundry.  She didn’t know how to preserve her own boogie in The Land Of The Thousand Dances.  She walked close to the buildings rather than curbside.  The Grant St. Grocery lay on her line of march.  The grocery was one of those shallow stores with no back room; rather a section running from front to rear was walled off as a storage room.  Some ten feet or so from the store entrance was an unobtrusive door through which deliveries were made.

page 71.

     As Sandy was passing this door a hand shot out grasping her by the throat and pulling her in.  Taken completely by surprise she was not consciously aware of anything till she lay gasping and sobbing against the shelves where Sheldon Washington had discarded her.

     The scene would haunt her dreams, transformed  into symbolism she could not understand, but which would shield her from some of the shame although the terror had hypnotized her into a different person.  Sheldon, who was a very big man, wanted to teach the Honky Chick a less in humility.  Blue eyes would not secure her immunity; on Grant Street brown eyes ruled.  His method was direct action, straight terror; his intellect was of the crudest but no less effective on that account.  He had merely grabbed Sandy off the street.  Picking her up, she was only 5’3″, 110 pounds, he had shoved his pelvis forward and dropped Sandy on his penis, jiggling her up and down until he climaxed.  He had then just thrown her against the shelves where she fell in a heap. 

     The street which had been empty in anticipation of the deed silently filled as the White boys stepped from doorways, alleys and from behind telephone poles where they had been inconspicuous.  Faces came to windows, eyes staring fixedly on the side door of the grocery.

page 72.

     ‘Now let that be a lesson to you, bitch.  When some brown eyed handsome man give you compliments you give him his reward and don’t give me none of that cheap assed marriage shit neither.  You learn to treat a man right and he’ll treat you right.’

     After this lecture in ethics Seldon’s mind turned to business, for after all a man has to eat, and Sheldon’s other business was pimping.

     ‘Say, bitch, you know you got a tight little ass.  You should put that cute money maker to work for me.  I show you how to live right and tight.  You be wearing diamonds and minks; you dump that Honky cat and come with me.  I show you how to shake that money maker; you don’t be walkin’ so stiff assed down the street no mo’, walk like a righteous woman.’

     Anyone looking for a good time of any kind could always get what they wanted from Sheldon.

     Sandy let out a few incoherent howls through clenched lips as she cautiously rose to her feet not sure of what was yet in store for her.  Her mute rejection was enough for Sheldon.  He turned to the clerk who had been watching through the beaded curtain and gave him a farewell acknowledgment with the shake of a finger.  Then proudly puffing out his chest for the street people he stepped out into the dim damp gloom of Grant St. and sauntered away humming ‘White Port and Lemon Juice.’

     Sandy stumbled out on shaky legs turning back toward Telegraph Court leaning on the wall for support.  Although she could not see them, the White boys slipped unobtrusively back into their holes while the faces in the windows slid back into the shadows.

page 73.

     Sandy’s life irrelevant of subsequent events was shattered.  Her sense of purity and personal integrity was gone to be replaced by a sense of defilement and consuming guilt as though she had been the perpetrator rather than the victim.  A knowledgeable psychiatrist might have been able to help her if she had gone immediately, but probably not for she would have been unable even to tell him the sequence of events.  She couldn’t remember what happened even though she knew what had happened.

     Angelo Toretti spoke quietly to Bert Tyler from behind a cracked open door as Tyler walked from the bus stop on Columbus to his apartment.

     ‘You better watch that little filly of yours, man.  she’s got eyes for that dark meat.’

     ‘What?’  Tyler said, turning in the direction of the voice.

     ‘Ask her who Sheldon Washington is.’  Toretti said with a low chuckle pushing the door shut.

     Tyler was possessed of honky cool.  He had no idea of what the threatening words of Toretti meant.  He was mildly apprehensive.  He gripped his brief case more tightly but he continued on at his normal pace.

     He fund Sandy lying on her back, skirt above her waist, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

     ‘What did you do?’  He began oblivious to the implied condemnation in his words.

page 74.

     Sandy’s response was to  increase her sobs and sense of humiliation to the point where her slender body was so wracked by shaking and pain that it is a wonder she survived.

    Tyler was twenty-two, born in ’42.  He had grown up in the bosom of a prosperous family.  He had been taught that the world was his oyster.  Raised in his upper class neighborhood, he had been advantaged from the cradle to the present.  At six feet, sandy haired and handsome he had received favored treatment through high school and the U.ofO.  While his manners were too fine for his present neighborhood they were much appreciated at the office. 

     His marriage to Sandy had seemed a perfect blending of family, looks and brilliant future.  But beneath the handsom exterior Tyler had a rotten core.  He was self-centered to the point that he was contemptuous of others.  This included Sandy.  She was desirable to him as a showpiece that demonstrated to the world his impeccable good taste and good fortune.  He was not prepared to drag damaged goods around with him.

     He should have known that North Beach was no place for a respectable woman.  But because of his favored youth he thought himself and his possessions beyond the reach of the arrows of fortune.  In college he had used marijuana, LSD and barbituates along with the ever present examination companion, amphetamines.  As he thought himself beyond, or rather, above the dangers that drugs posed, so many of his class did, he had been fearless in their use.

page 75.

     It is probable that Sandy would never have taken drugs on her own but as Tyler was the guardian of her virtue she had followed his lead trustingly.  She still considered the drugs naughty and dangerous but she was already familiar with pot, LSD and downers.  Living dangerously, out on the edge, had been the attraction of North Beach to Tyler.

     Now that he had reaped the fruit of his daring he stood staring down at Sandy.  He was unfeeling and obtuse.  He sensed that his position had been violated, he believed he had been humiliated.  He wasn’t far wrong.

     Remembering Toretti’s words his narrow vision could only conceive that he had almost walked in on Sandy and Sheldon and that whe was sobbing because she had almost been caught.

     ‘Who is Sheldon Washington?’  He asked.

     The question was greeted by additional shaking and sobbing.  Tyler had to make an effort to calm his wife.  It was not easy.  Several hours later, well into the morning Tyler had gleaned the notion that Sheldon Washington had had his wife.  His first thought as a red blooded American boy was to go looking for Sheldon Washington.  He did so the following day having called in to work sick.

     His queries after Sheldon alerted the Spade Cat that the Honky Cat was looking for him.  He arranged to be found.  He ensconced himself in an alley on Montague Street.  There with some white junkies for effect, a couple of Black hepcats around him, he sat on a garbage can waiting.

     Tyler was directed to Sheldon’s throne room.  He marched resolutely into the alley.  As he entered Sheldon rose, hitched up his pants and flexed both arms as though he were stretching.  Both his Black confederates cleaned their nails with switchblades.  The White boys stood around snuffling and grinning.

page 76.

     ‘I hear you lookin’ for me, boy.  Whachoo want?’   

     This was urban warfare for which Tyler was unprepared.  This was not a man to man confrontation which, given the size of Washington he would not have undertaken anyway, but was rather a confrontation of the big battalions against his puny one.  A quick vision of himself lying face-up beaten, cut and bleeding among the garbage cans flashed before his eyes.  He opted out.  He turned and walked away amidst chuckles, laughter and catcalls.

     Nor should he be blamed.  The rules had been changed.  Tyler had not been informed.  His only recourse would have been to stalk Washington and blow his brains out.  This was not feasible to Tyler in his present state of mind. While Washington’s position in North Beach society protected him from identification, there would be no witness come forward to identify him in the event of a complaint, Tyler would be quickly identified.  A jail cell was waiting for him if he tried.

     Unable to endure the humiliation to his wife and his own subsequent humiliation Tyler transferred the blame to Sandy.  Then by shedding her he was able in his mind to shed the double humiliation.  At least he thought he had.

     ‘Did that nigger actually put his dick in you?’  He brutally asked Sandy.

page 78.

     While White boys profess a complete lack of prejudice toward Black Folk, this is only in the social sense.  In 1964 Tyler couldn’t endure the idea that his wife had been penetrated by a Black man qua Black man.

     ‘I didn’t do it, honey.’  Sandy protested weakly.

     ‘All I want to know is wether he put that black dick up you?’

     ‘I- I think so.’  Sandy replied, her mind reeling beneath the horror of the thought of her rape.

    ‘I think so!  I think so!  God, you must know that.  I think so!  Well, that’s good enough for me.  He did.  Well, I can’t stay with a woman who’s been defiled by a nigger.  I’m leaving.  The rent’s paid till the end of the month then you’re on your own.  My lawyer will send the papers by.  I think so!’

     Thus life pitilessly took away Sandy Tyler’s hopes and joys.  She became the victim of social forces of which she was  not even aware of in their true form.  She had been lied to by society.  The American Dream!  What a pack of lies.  Shamed beyond psychological recognition she didn’t inform her parents.  A stranger in San Francisco she drifted into the drugs and demi-monde of North Beach.

     She avoided heroin and actual prostitution but she was heavy into barbiturates and marijuana.  The leering immigrant descendants gleefully passed the Anglo girl from man to man; gleefully taking out the frustrations of sixty years of humiliation at the hands of Anglos on Sandy’s body.

      The Scene shifted from North Beach to the Haight-Ashbury; from the Beatniks to the Hippies; from Cal Tjader to the Grateful Dead; from junk to junk.

page 78.

     The Hippie Movement was the realization of the materialism that Kerrouac and Ginsberg had been pushing.  History may to a very accurate extent be characterized as the war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness.  The ascendance to spiritual perfection being the direction of the Sons of Light while the Sons of Darkness seek a return to the pure materialism of the untutored savage, the feral nature of man.  Materialism is as much a religion as spirituality but over the course of time all visible churches became of the spiritual kind.

     Because of Jewish opposition to the presence of Christianity in public schools the doctrine of the separation of church and state has been interpreted to mean that no spiritual beliefs can be taught in public schools.  This means in practice that no positive ethics can be taught.

     Thus while all eyes are trained on Catholics and Protestants for violations of the doctrine the Jews under the guise of preaching tolerance push their program through the schools.  At the same time the materialists have a free hand preaching materialism as no one understands its nature as the religion of the Sons of Darkness.

     Under the guise of helping the young student understand his sexual nature, courses, which are religious in intent, on ‘Human Sexuality’, undermine spiritualist precepts.  Spiritualists reject the indiscriminate indulgence of the senses while materialists embrace it.

page 79.

     Thus one has the concept of ‘the varieties of sexual experience.’  These include everything from homosexuality to child molestation.  All forms  of sexual expression are considered legitimate expressions of ‘human needs.’

     So, while those who preach self-control in order to create a better world are silenced in the name of ‘freedom’, the classrooms are turned over to materialists who seek to make life hell on earth.  Women are prostituted and men perverted in the name of ‘sexual freedom.’

     The media, movies and TV in particular  have been taken over by the materialists who exclude spiritualists from employment in those industries.  Black list.  On Big Screen and Small Screen they preach total self-indulgence at the expense of all other people.

     As a consequence crime and illiteracy increase geometrically.  The poor befuddled citizenry talk of ‘wars on crime’ which will never succeed as long as materialism is the dominant religion.  Take the religion of materialism  out of the schools and replace it with a spiritualist doctrine seeking the curbing of self-indulgence.  Then crime will diminish.  The war is not a war on crime but a war of moral attitudes.  The war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness.

     Needless to say, crime will never disappear.  Crime and criminals have existed since the dawn of time.  Even then the war of the Sons of Light and Darkness commenced.  Anglo-Americans were governed by the Chivalric notion of Shame.  Not that they didn’t commit crimes but the sense of shame forced them to repent or move out of society.  During the great period of European immigration Jews opposed the notion of Shame with that of Chutzpah.  Chutzpah can be defined as simply the shameless attempt to achieve one’s desires against the will of others by surprising them with extravagant audacity.  If bold enough you may overwhelm their opposition, if not, oh well, you can always ‘apologize.’

page 80

     Leaving Kerrouac aside for the moment, William S. Burroughs lived in New York City.  NYC has been described as ‘that great factory of criminals.’  The description has been given with good reason.  For the city was invaded by the post-Great Revolution society of criminals organized around the philosophy of the Marquis de Sade.  Crime has a philosophical basis in the modern world.  ‘Ending poverty’ would have no effect on crime.  It is not just a matter of illegal activity to satisfy one’s needs.  Burroughs combined this criminal philosophy with the docrines of anarchy which were also prevalent in the Big Apple.  Burroughs’ doctrine leads to complete oblivion.  In form he continues the Jewish Chutzpah by which he was definitely influenced, as NYC is, or was, a Jewish city, into the equation of:  Wouldn’t you?

     I mean, he asks, wouldn’t you kill a little old lady and take her purse if you needed money for a heroin habit.  Wouldn’t you?  Who wouldn’t?  Of course you would if you were a heroin addict, as Burroughs was, needing a fix.  Thus Burroughs in ‘Naked Lunch’ brought the definition of morality down to what the individual needs at any given moment.  If you felt the need the for sex wouldn’t you rape an eight year old girl.  Who wouldn’t?  It was inconceivable to Burroughs that anyone wouldn’t.  If one said one wouldn’t then the logic is that your need wasn’t great enough or you would.  Who wouldn’t?  Thus Burroughs propounded a very destructive version of the materialistic religion of the Sons of Darkness.

page 81.

     Like syphilis the first outburst of the disease was evident in the Hippie movement on Haight-Ashbury.  The sores have disappeared but Burroughs’ philosophy has been spread throughout the social system.  The deteriorization of mankind was very noticeable by the late seventies to the artistic temperament.  At that time a rock band by the name of Devo made the point perfectly clear.  They asked the musical question:  Are we not men? and answered it:  No!  We are Devo.  The point being that mankind had stopped evolving and was retrogressing into devolution.  Devo hit the nail on the head.  Materialism was rapidly destroying the fabric of society.  We  were, in fact, returning to our savage origins.  J.G. Frazer’s ‘civilized veneer’ was wearing off.  Or as W.B. Yeats put it:  And what rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?  The hippies embraced Wouldn’t You wholeheartedly.  They took to drugs like an alcoholic to drink.  Drugs are the antithesis of morality.  Lying and stealing become one’s nature.  A druggie’s word isn’t worth a broken syringe.

     Sandy drifted into this environment as she moved over to the Haight-Ashbury.  Now, she came from a strong Episcopalian background.  She had an affluent past.  The Hippies bubbled up from the urban depths.  They had no strong anything except for the desire to get, to exploit.  As drug addicts they had no chance of succeeding at anything but total failure.  They succeeded at that.  The worst weren’t even human.

page 82.

     Sandy moved from crash pad to crash pad as soon as the toilets filled up and wouldn’t flush anymore.  Filthy rooms filled with filthy mattresses and filthy people.  Toilets stopped up  overflowing with excrement.  As there were no sexual barriers or restraints she was used by any derelict passing through.  She deadened her sensitivities by pretending to revel in the ‘new freedom.’  Drugs and music were exhilarating accessories.  They could turn night to day, black to white.

     But the Hippie scene with no other ethic than sex and drugs and Rock and Roll continued to deteriorate.  Unbridled sex with anyone and anything was the norm.  There were no limits.  Homosexuality forced itself into the breach as legitimate.  Then as the Disco music of the homosexuals came to dominate in 1977-78, Rock music died on the vine.  Without the impetus of music Sandy looked around to find nothing but barrenness.

     Somehow, through the years of degradation she had clung to the ghost of the vision of her past.  No matter what clothes she wore she wore them with a certain stylishness that betokened a nearly forgotten pride.  She had never abandoned her bourgeois dreams.  Now looking over the wreck of Haight-Ashbury her thoughts turned to rehabilitating herself.  As this was impossible in San Francisco she thought to find a refuge in some other part of the country.  Her rape by Sheldon Washington was never out of her mind.  She had had other unpleasant experiences with Black men so she looked for a place where she thought there wouldn’t be any.  For this reason she selected the Mormon capitol because of their alleged aversion to Blacks.  So she had moved to Salt Lake City in the late seventies.  The Mormons are an exclusive people, they don’t take kindly to non-Mormons in their midst.  Sandy once again found herself an outsider.  Rather than kicking drugs as had been her intent she continued to find solace in them.

     During all this time Sheldon Washington prospered.  He had prospered with a clear conscience.  He even considered himself a benevolent figure in the community, which, compared to some others in his line, he was.  Sheldon considered that he as a Black man was only getting back the Black Folk’s own.  ‘As ye sow so shall ye reap.’  he was fond of saying, referring to White Folks.  True.  You must be careful of the seeds you sow.  Whether Sheldon was merely reclaiming his own is left to subtler minds than mine.  Sheldon was strewing his own field with the seeds of hatred no matter how justified he felt.  His victims were not the White Folk that may have oppressed his ancestors they were living people.

     Shortly after Sandy left town a junky with sandy hair and very dark glasses began showing up in North Beach.  At least he had the appearance of a junkie.  He quickly made the connection with Sheldon Washington for his heroin.

     Over a few weeks Sheldon accepted him as just another junkie who had been around forever.  He abused him as he did all his junkies.  On this particular occasion Sheldon made appointments with this junkie failing to keep each.  Someone at each assignation point directed the junkie on to the next.  The junkie resignedly went from place to place.  He was finally directed to go the alley off Montague.  The junkie took longer to get there than he might have for he stopped off at his pad first.

page 84.

     As he turned into the alley Sheldon sat alone on a garbage can.  The Black confederates were gone.  The White junkies were out of sight.  As the junkie approached, Sheldon observed that his walk was rather stiff but as he was a junkie, what was new?  The reason the junkie’s walk was stiff was because a crowbar was suspended from his belt down his left pants leg.  A revolver was stuck in his belt beneath his moth eaten sweater.  His eyes glowed hatred beneath his very dark glasses.  He was not really a junkie; he was an impostor.

     Like a junkie he had his money ready in his hand.  He thrust it at Sheldon holding out his other hand for the baloon. 

     ‘Not so fast, my man, not so fast.’  Sheldon said.  ‘I mean, man, like man, money ain’t everything.  I mean, I am the most important man in your life.  I want you to acknowledge that.’

     The junkie shrugged indicating:  What?

     Sheldon unzipped his fly flopping his member out.  He looked at the junkie emitting only a low chuckle.  The junkie understood.  He began to go down on one knee.  His right hand moved beneath his sweater.  Sheldon had just time to focus on the hole in the blue-black barrel before his brains flew out to mingle with the rest of the garbage.

     The junkie unbuckled Sheldon’s pants and pulled them down rolling the huge inert form unto its stomach as he did so.  Removing the crowbar from his pants he rammed it far up Sheldon’s ass until the tip rested just below Sheldon’s heart.  Throwing the shades aside and discarding the moth eaten sweater he walked out of the alley and was never seen in North Beach again.

page 85.

     The police were baffled but unconcerned.  After all Sheldon hadn’t really been murdered.  He was dead but he was only a casualty in the urban warfare.  Only another soldier who had given his life for the cause.  A casualty in that urban warfare that raged beyond police jurisdiction and control.  A warfare that was beyond the law; one that operated on laws of its own.  All that can be said is that he who lives by the rod dies by the rod. 

     All across the universe the stars stayed the clacking dice of Magic Sam in his hand to look down on such insanity and say:  They ain’t nothing but a heartache and you know they’ll never get over it.  Then, with a shrug, they returned to their games.  Roll the dice with a sound like thunder.

     The junkie, his own heart broken beyond repair blew a kiss from San Francisco to Salt Lake City.  Just another boogie in The Land Of A Thousand Dances.

     Sandy watched Donn as he came up the street.  She recognized someone, who like her, had lost his place in the world.  A hope sprang up in her breast, she was beyond being able to think, that perhaps he and she might find comfort in each other reclaiming in some small degree their place in the world.

page 86.

     ‘Hi there.  What are you doing?’

     Donn paused to appraise her.  He recognized that about her that spoke of a declassee.  As he had no interest in women he attempted to dismiss her.

     ‘I’m going to get something to eat.’  He said brusquely.

     Undaunted Sandy said:  ‘Oh, I know all the good places.  I’ll take you there.’  She said clasping his hand impusively, leading him away.

    Donn could no longer go to the type of restaurant he favored.  He thought that perhaps Sandy knew of some hippie hangouts where the food would be filling and maybe passable.  He allowed himself to be led away.

     They walked for several blocks.  Sandy babbled on along the way hoping to win Donn over.  A strip mall hove in sight.  There was an Albertson’s grocery store at one end.  Donn spotted a restaurant in the middle of the mall.  When they reached the corner of the Albertson’s Donn began to continue down the front but Sandy pulled him along the side and toward the back.  Donn was confused but thought Sandy was aware of another entrance. 

     When they reached the back Sandy pointed proudly at the dumpster and said:  See.

     Donn looked at the huge garbage can puzzled.

     ‘See what?’  He asked Sandy who was still holding his hand.

     ‘Well, see,’  She said giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.  ‘Nobody ever has to go hungry in America.  They throw away tons of good food just because it’s a day or two old.  See.’  she said, grabbing at some limp brownish lettuce, ‘This lettuce is perfectly good to eat.  It’s just a little old.  And it’s free, it doesn’t cost anything.’

page 87.

     ‘All kinds of places are this stupid.  If you want I’ll take to Cheesy Burgers later.  At midnight they throw out all the burgers they’ve prepared but haven’t sold.  Wrapped and everything.  We’ll have to get there early though because everyone wants those.’

     Donn listened incredulously, rudely pulling back his hand.  He wasn’t familiar with underground ‘survival’ techniques.  He wasn’t aware that Abbie Hoffmen had published a whole book full of ideas and scams, all as good as this one.  But he was not yet so low that he would search through garbage cans for food.

     ‘God, that’s absolutely disgusting.’  He said.

     ‘No, it’s not.  Everybody does it.’  Sandy replied speaking for her crowd.

     ‘Well, I don’t eat out of garbage cans and I think anyone who does is absolutely disgusting.’  Donn replied angrily.  ‘You! Get away from me, you filthy slut.  No, don’t touch me.’  He said brushing away Sandy’s imporing hands which sought to hold his again.  ‘Get away.’  He said angrily, turning on his heel.

     Sandy’s rejection by Donn was the last thing that it took to bury her poor heart completely out of sight.  As she stood in the moonlight she sank beneath the burden of accumulated woes of nearly twenty years.  All the crimes perpetrated against her rose up to engulf her sense of decency.  Her last shred of worthiness disappeared.  The world’s guilt entered her soul as her own.  She considered herself evil.  She went through life as an empty shell.  But she was not Guilty of the Shame.  Oh no!  It was society’s shame.  It was our shame.  Repeat aloud:  I (insert your name) am Guilty of the Shame.

page 88.

     Donn found his way to the highway East.  He found a spot to doze a few hours.  Daylight found him alongside US 40.  ‘Denver, here I come.’  He whistled, praying for the best.  This was not Donn’s moment for the best.  He was over a day getting to Fruitland, an interminable number of short rides and long delays.  His spirits sank again.  He had his thumb out just outside of Fruitland when a fifty-eight Chevy pulled over.

     ‘Hi! I’m Kirk Douglas Strachan.’  The driver said extending a soft flabby hand.  He was wearing a black cowboy hat, had a soft pudgy face with black horn rimmed glasses, black cowboy shirt with white piping and black Can’t Bust ‘Ems over black cowboy boots.

     ‘Uh, yeah,’  Donn replied,  ‘I’m Phil Brown.’

    ‘Nice to meet you Phil.’  Strachan said eyeing him like a side of beef.

     This was about ten o’ clock at night.  Strachan was a practiced hand.  He got right to the point.

     ‘Now, Phil, I’m going to tell you how it is,’ he began with the authoritative tone of a movie tough guy,  ‘I like men.  I’m really a tough guy.  Did you get my name, Kirk Douglas Strachan?  Kirk Douglas was a movie tough guy.’ he said, overlooking the fact that Kirk Douglas was still alive.  ‘My mother wanted me to be tough so she named me after him.  I am tough.  Now, it’s your choice, you can either live or die.  Your second choice is obvious, we don’t have to discuss that.  Now, if you want to live you’re coming home with me and you’ll be my sex slave for a week or two.  Now, if you’re good at that I’ll reward you by driving you up to Vernal.  If you’re not you’ll join the rest of my boyfriends.  Got it!  Well, get it, my man!’

page 89.

     Donn was staring at him incredulously, his mouth agape.  Donn looked at this soft flabby creep wondering where he got the notion he was tough except from his mom.  Kirk Douglas Strachan mistook  incredulity as a sign of fear.  Strachan was a murderous fiend.  The ‘boyfriends’ he sarcastically referred to were all buried out in his garden patch beneath the turnips.  There were fifteen in all.  Some he had just blown away with a shotgun others had died lingering deaths.

     Strachan’s mother had named him after Kirk Douglas.  Strachan had studied all the actor’s films.  Except that he was short, pudgy and effeminate Strachan had his Kirk Douglas act down.  He had the same buzzsaw whine that came from the back of his head.  He had even had a cleft surgically made in his chin.  Needless to say it looked ridiculous with his moon faced pudgy head.

     Emboldened by Donn’s open mouthed wonder Strachan continued:  ‘Terrific.  You’ll have a great time too.  Now, I need a down payment right now.  See that knoll just up there.  I’m going to pull behind it.  You’re going to give me a great blow job, then I’ll take you to the ranch.’

     ‘I was boxing champ three years running at SMU.’  Donn said quietly in the Texas manner brushing imaginary lint from his fly.

page 90.

     Oh, a John Wayne type, huh?  Well I’m going to make you get out right here.’  He said skidding to a stop.  He pressed a button, the door flew open and Donn sneeringly got out.  Strachan copped a U and raced back toward Fruitland.  John Wayne trumps Kirk Douglas every time.

     Donn dropped his bag, placing his hands on his hips while he looked up and down the dark road.

     ‘Over here.  Hey, buddy, over here.’  A loud booming voice cried from the wilderness. 

     ‘Over here, buddy, I’m over here.’

     Donn peered out into the darkness.  He could see nothing.

     ‘Come on.  I’ll guide you in.’  The voice cried.

     Donn started walking into the darkness.  As he stumbled along it seemed to him like he walked on an on.

     ‘Man, that guy must have a voice like a foghorn.’  He thought.

     Then he perceived the glow of a fire.

     ‘Keep coming.  I’m right over here.’  The voice coaxed.  ‘All right, all right.  If I hadn’t been out taking a leak I would have missed you.’

     A hand came out of the darkness grabbed Donn’s hand and shook it.

     ‘Hi!  I’m Dharma Bum.’  Bum said proudly.

     ‘You can call me Jack.’  Donn said, taken back by Dharma Bum’s strange name.

page 91.

     Bum led him back behind a small rise where a fire burned in the darkness.

     ‘Dharma Bum?’  Donn asked.  ‘Did I hear you right.’

     ‘Dharma Bum, that’s right.’  Bum replied.  ‘I’m out here seeking enlightenment.’

     Dharma Bum was quite an apparition in the barren mountain night.  He was about six-four high.  Thin but not slender.  He wore a pair of knee high boots, medium platforms with two and a half inch heels, laced all the way up to his knees fitting over form fitting jeans that gave Bum the appearance almost of walking on stilts.  The jeans buttoned with the buttons showing on the outside.  A pink, or dusty plum, flowered vest covered a lavender flowered shirt with enormous billowing sleeves.  It was an outfit modeled after John Hall of Hall and Oates.

     Bum’s face was fleshy, all the features being large.  He wasn’t handsome, plain verging on homely, but carried himself with real leading man verve.  He was topped by a mane of black hair streaked now with silver combed straight back, en brosse, falling to his shoulders.

    He was a child of TV, records and movies.  He invariably saw himself as Batman and others as his Robins.  He had developed the authoritative way of talking which in the movies leaves the bit actors gasping in astonishment at the sagacity and sheer manliness of the lead.  In the same manner Bum tried to impose himself on reality.  Reality not being the movies, Bum had been, as it were, rejected by life.  He was undaunted; New Day, New Script.  As Jim Morrison of the Doors replied when being urged to hurry lest he be too late to catch his flight:  ‘You can never be too late for your own movie.’  Whatever happens is in the script.

page 92.

     Besides money wasn’t a real problem for Bum.  He just wired home to Dad to pay the card.  He was covered for medical and dental care.  Unlike most bums, or homeless, he was in excellent health and his teeth were good.  He was actually cooking baked beans in the can held over the fire with a forked stick, just like in the movies.

     ‘I’d offer you some but I wasn’t expecting company.’  He said with an authoritative chuckle indicating that he knew Donn would understand as he reacted to gasps of astonishment from Donn in the theatre of his mind.  Bum always played to an SRO audience.  Each movement, each word was done and spoken in a stagy manner.  Often there was no necessity for a reply.  Bum merely waited the appropriate time  for the reply in his mental script then continued his next lines.  Not infrequently he overrode the speaker or completely ignored, in fact, didn’t hear, the reply.

     ‘Jack, huh?  Jack?’  Bum said with a wink.

     ‘What?’ Donn said uncertain whether to be apprehensive or puzzled.

     Bum had taken his name from Jack Kerrouac’s novel ‘The Dharma Bums.’  He thought Donn was making a sly joke on Bum’s self-introduction.

     ‘Yeah.  Ya know Jack understood me real well.  Yeah.  Ha, ha.  He wrote my life before I even began to live it.’

page 93.

     ‘Jack?  Jack who?  Me?’

     ‘Jack Kerouac!’  Bum cried incredulously.

     ‘Jack Kerouac?  You mean the guy who wrote ‘On The Road?’  Donn said fishing for the sense as his head swam trying to understand Bum.

     ‘Oh, ho.  You do know Jack then?’  Bum beamed.

     ‘I read ‘On The Road.” Donn said.

     He had read it out of curiosity in college where it had been a life style manual for a certain crowd.  He had detested the book.  It represented everything he despised.  Donn, then as now, wanted the good life, the high life.  He didn’t think hanging around with petty grifters and small time thieves in sleazy bars equated the good life.  Even if you camouflaged your sleaziness with intellectual pretense.

     ‘Great book, isn’t it?  I read ’em all.  That, the Dharma Bums, Desolation Angels, terrific stuff.  I just don’t know how he anticipated my life though.  Eerie, don’t you think?’

     ‘Is that how you got the name Dharma Bum?’

    ‘No.  I am Dharma Bum.  Jack wrote the book about me.

     ‘Didn’t Kerouac write it before you hit the road?’ Donn said unpolitically.

     ‘What the hell you talking about?’  Bum said glaring across the fire suspiciously at Donn.  ‘Didn’t I just say Jack wrote my life?’

     ‘My mistake.’  Donn said wryly, realizing that Bum had only just been beamed down from the saucer.

page 94.

     ‘Damn right it is, fella.’  Bum said in his best John Wayne style.  Then his face formed a reverie as he began talking.  The speech was one he had prepared for the inevitable Time or TV interviewer.  He thought they would catch up to him sooner or later to get his story.

     ‘Yes.’  He began in f0nd reminiscence.  ‘I must have crossed this great big beautiful land a hundred times or more.  God bless this crazy topsy-turvy unbelievable US of A.  Yes, from that fabled Golden Gate of old San Fran to the New York Island, from the tropical shores, actually sub-tropical, he,he, of Key West to the Mesabi iron range up on Lake Superior, I’ve loved it all.  My feet have led me to the tops of the highest mountains, and I mean literally, the tops, I’ve been above Cripple Creek, and down into the depths of amazing valleys, my feet have washed in gorge of the Grand Canyon.  In one day I’ve been to the top of Mt. Wilson and to the depths of Death Valley, the highest and lowest places in the lower Forty-Eight in one day.  I’ve stood with my feet in both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.  Now, what do you think of that?’

     He stopped with a big quizzical Will Rogers smile seemingly looking into Donn’s eyes but actually nearly oblivious of his existence.  Donn was fearful that this night might go on forever.  He cleared his throat loudly speaking piercingly to blow his way into Bum’s consciousness.

     ‘Why did you start doing this?  Why are you out here?’

     This was almost the question Bum had scripted for the Time Magazine interviewer.  He heard and shifted into second gear.

     ‘What am I doing out here?’  Bum said with a rueful shake of his head accompanied by several musing snarls.  ‘Well, I’ll tell you why I’m out here.  I’m a victim of capitalist oppression.’

page 95.

     ‘How’s that?’

     ‘How’s that?  Well, let me tell you how the system really works.  Or, doesn’t work.  Ya know, a guy goes to work for some jerk in good faith, promised that if things work out he’ll be taken care of.  He gives the best he’s got, which in my case was pretty damn good, puts in the best period of his life.  Then he makes the business big and successful for this jerk.  The more money you make for this jerk the more he starts reneging on the deal.  Then when he figures he’s got it made and doesn’t need you anymore- Bingo! you’re gone.  Oh yeah, I know all about capitalism.  Tell that to your readers.

     What a jerk the guy is.  If you ever run into him dump on him.  His name is Dewey Trueman.  I’m a Jew you know.’  Bum added with a significant arch to his eyebrows.

     A the mention of readers Donn thought that Bum somehow knew who he was, or had been, a music reviewer.  The mention of Dewey Trueman threw him off his heels.  He was totally mystified.

     ‘Dewey Trueman?’  Donn said.  ‘Where abouts in this great land of ours did this take place?’

     ‘Out on the coast.  Eugene, Oregon.’

     ‘What does your being a Jew have to do with it?’

     ‘Huh!  Anti-Semitism of course.  It’s always the Jew gets it in the neck.  Always been that way.  Need a scapegoat, get a Jew.  I should have known, I suppose.’

     ‘You say this guy Trueman promised you part of the business?’  Donn asked, his curiosity really aroused.

     ‘Yeah.  That’s right.’  Bum said ruefully.

    ‘So.  What?  You worked for him for five or six years then?’  Donn was familiar with Trueman and to some extent his store.

     ‘Well, it wasn’t quite that long.’

     ‘How long then?’

     ‘Well, let’s see.’  Bum began manipulating his fingers and drawing in the dirt.  ‘Maybe five or six months.’

     ‘Months?’  Donn said incredulously.

     And well he should have for Bum had created a verstion of the events that completely rewrote the facts.

     Bum’s real name was Norm Barsky.  He was from St. Louis.  he had been brought into Eugene to take possession of the business Dewey Trueman had built up.  A record store in Eugene that was very successful.  For the size of the city tremendously successful.  In a small pond the record store had been a big splash.  Trueman was a Hippie.  He therefore succeeded against the wishes of the town fathers.  A couple attempts had been made to assassinate him.  When the last attempt to kill him on the highway by bogus Hell’s Angels had failed the town fathers were at a loss of what to do.  At the same time they, or at least Harry Grabstein, realized that the store was a valuable money maker.  It should be preserved but put into righteous hands.  Grabstein undertook to resolve the matter.  He would appropriate or, in other words, steal the business.    

     So as to evade the appearance of being himself involved he called an acquaintance in St. Louis, Art Barsky.  Art’s son Norm, had just finished school at the University of Chicago, was married, new baby, and could use a good income.  Norm, wife and child were sent to Eugene to receive his inheritance.

page 97.

     It was not to be expected that Trueman would just hand over his business to Norm so a certain deception and ruse had to be practiced.  Norm was schooled by his father while refresher points would be supplied by Harry Grabstein.  The method was quite simple and well tried.  The only obstacle in the way could be the victim’s character.  That was the only variable that couldn’t be controlled.  As Grabstein thought Trueman a despicable Hippie with no character he perceived no problem in bringing him down.

     One may ask why these Jews thought themselves entitled to another man’s property.  The problem was not in the capitalist economic system as Bum sincerely thought but in the Jewish religious system and culture which he would have denied.  A quick survey of the three great crucial periods in Jewish history should provide the intellectual justification.

     Jewish history is a closed field, permitted only to those who have been properly vetted.  As the editor of the Cambridge History of Judaism puts it:  But as the study of Judaism is peculiarly open to emotive interests and unconscious influences which make it highly susceptible to hurtful misinterpretations, no effort to get rid of the blinkers of traditions and prejudices may be deemed superfluous.

    In other words if you don’t see it their way you have no right to be heard.  Nevertheless the truth must be pursued.  The objectivity of historical facts cannot be allowed to be skewed to the advantage of one party to the hurt of another.  Neither valid history or sociology can be approached in such a manner to obtain preconceived results.  Any conclusions are always subject to discussion.  Just as the Constitution of the United States decrees the separation of church and state it also decrees absolute freedom of expression  whether a subject is peculiarly open to emotive interests or unconscious influences or not.

page 98.

     Messianism is the backbone of the Jewish belief system.  The belief is that the natural order of things was overturned when Cain slew Abel.  All of history since then has been the promise of God to bring the Jews into their rightful place as arbiters of the nations thereby reversing the decision of history or, reality.  The redemption of Israel is the purpose of all ‘History.’  There have been three great periods of redemptive or messianic expectations.  On these pivots the Jewish character was formed.

     The first great period was from c. 188 BC to 135 AD.  The second centered around the messiahship of a man called Sabbatai Zevi in the years around 1640-1700 AD.  The third with the Revolution of the Messiah around the years 1913-28.  In all three the Jews were brutally disappointed.

     As the smaller and weaker portion of the greater society the Jews have always felt abused and suppressed, especially as they believe they are the bearers of the true god.  Thus when Israel is redeemed and the roles are reversed all the wealth of the world will belong to the Jews; and the gentiles will be their slaves.

     The initial confrontation was  begun between the Hellenes and Jews expanding into a war between the entire Greco-Roman world and the Jews.  Initially the Jews were successful against the Hellenes.  the Roman world proved too much for them.  In a series of tremendous wars from 66-70 AD when the Temple was destroyed through the amazing uprising in 116-18 to the final destruction of the Jewish state in the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135 AD, the Jews were all but exterminated.  In the hopes of ending the confrontation and destroying the locus of what, by then was the center of perpetual disturbances, Jerusalem was leveled while Jews were forbidden to enter the city. 

page 99.

     Thus in the wars which the Jews characterize as anti-Semitic persecution but which were actually a contest for the dominion of the Roman world, redemption for the Jews was postponed, while Rome was prostated.

     For approximately 1500 years the Jews longed for the appearance of the true Messiah, both Jesus and Bar Kochba having failed them.  After fifteen hundred years of various disasters culminating in the expulsion from Spain and the Cossack rebellion against Poland in 1648 a new Messiah, Sabbatai Zevi appeared in the Asia Minor governed by the Turks.  Sabbatai is the pivot of Jewish history.  Israel quivered in the expectation of deliverance.  As in the 116-18 uprising of the Roman period Europeans from the Pale to England were to be slaughtered.  True, the means were lacking but the will was there.  Once again the wealth of the world was to accrue to the Jews.

page 100.

    End of II-2.  Proceed to II-3 for the continuation.

     At this point the story consists of Part One:  Disco Donn Does Deep Elum and Part II, clips 1 and 2.