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Category Archives: Oregon

 

A Short Story

Who’s Fooling Who?

by

R.E. Prindle

 

     So, about the time I hit graduate school at the UofO the faculty is becoming excerised about drug use.  For some reason, perhaps because my hair is a little long and I wear love beads they fix on me as a prime drug user.

    Nothing can be more ridiculous as any sharp eyed judge of character can easily see, as I never use drugs, in point of fact being of the opinion that America is a drugged out nation.  You see, I can’t figure out where these guys come from.  I mean, you sit in class looking at these guys ant they are flashing green tongues at you, purple tongues, pink tongues and what have you.

     Now, in 1966 we’re still pretty innocent about drugs, not meaning absolutely clean, but you don’t have to be an addict to know barbituate traces.  Half these guys have got spittle between their lips that stretches with the opening of the mouth but never snaps.  Drives you crazy.

     Of course, these people do not think they do drugs because they have a prescription from a doctor while drug abusers get theirs on the street.  That makes the street types dopers  while they take ‘medicine’ to help them get through their very trying days.  It’s the stress of living, you know.

    One can’t talk to them about it either.  I try on more than one occasion to tell them that America is a drug dependent nation.  I mean, Americans believe in their drugs.  You get a little nutty and they drug you to death.  Pills are the only reality they can respect.  You givethem a sugar pill and their mental outlook improves so long as you don’t disabuse them.

     When Tuli Kupferberg says that America is insane; he knows what he talks about.  For extra bucks I serve as a guinea pig over in the Psychology Department.  If these people are not in outer space they are winging through the upper reaches of the ozone layer asking is there land down there.  They have access to everything.  Sometimes it seems like I talk to aliens from a transverse universe.  That’s like a parallel universe except cross ways; makes it harder to jump back and forth.

     Professor Laybont, an MD, psychiatrist, who runs the department is in open rebellion against Depth Psychology.  He is a firm believer in chemical imbalances as the cause of psychological disorders.  He rejects the notion of psycho-analysis.  He does not tolerate any difference of opinion either.  It’s like he takes so many drugs that he is in a perpetual rage, like his subconscious is a red spot in the middle of his forehead.  His movements and gestures are always violent.  He doesn’t walk he lurches.

     For some reason he chooses to believe that psychic trauma have nothing to do with mental disorders; he believes that it is the cause of  ‘chemical imbalances.’  I am not in the department so I can be a little freer in my comments.  I always am of the opinion that if chemical imbalances do exist then cause is the psychic effect of the orginal trauma.

     Maybe I am not clear as may be but I try to explain to him that first you have the trauma, the insult to the Animus or Ego, then you have the psychotic reaction.  In order for the  mind to create the affect in response to the trauma it is necessary for the mind to suppress the secretion of certain chemicals if in fact there are chemical imbalances.

     Laybont fairly shouts at me gesturing in that violent way of his with his fist as though he poinds spikes through railway ties at one blow that it is not true because when you give patients drugs that restore the chemical balance the affects go away restoring the patient to normality.

     I try to explain that the chemical drugs merely temporarily bridge the chemical deficiency but the patient is not returned to normal, that the effect is only a disguise, the mental trauma remains unaffected.  When the drugss wear off the affect returns.

     I mention Freud which he reads as Depth Psychology , this sets off his pile driving gestures again but I try to get through, as I am one patient guy, that if you exorcise the fixation that causes the affect that the chemical imbalance restores itself immediately and the affect disappears.  I try to tell him that the chemical imbalance is a symptom not a cause.

     ‘Shut up!’  He thunders.  He makes gestures to hammer me into the ground.  ‘You are not even in this department.  What can you possibly know?  We do not want you around here anymore, you are no longer a subject.  All your data is unreliable anyway.’

     I lose some easy money as well as my respect for Laybont.

     Boy, it does not pay to be an independent investigator anywhere at the UofO.  Probably Laybont is  laying for me because we have a major disagreement on the cause of homosexuality.  For a guy who rejects Depth Psychology he has this silly notion that homosexuality is caused by the inherent bisexuality of the human.  Naturally he thinks there are chemical imbalances which tend to either maleness or femaleness.  Not male or female but -ness.

     I try not to laugh, I put on my serious face, I try to tell him that homosexuality is a psychotic reaction to emasculation.  Either a boy is molested as a child and reacts by becoming homosexual or that in a major confrontation with another male is defeated so that if one cannot compete as a male one tries to be attractive to males an an effeminate male.

     He shouts violently at me that no that was the bisexual femaleness predominant.  He says it is proven by the fact that when males are surgical emasculates and have chemical female hormone drugs they are actual women.

     My serious face gives way at this inane remark because as I say to him genetics are against this idea.  I argue that a woman is a woman because she has two X chromosomes while a man is a man because he has an X and a y.  No amount of surgery or drugs can possibly alter this fact.

    He looks me square in the eyes and says:  ‘What about Christine Jorgenson?’ 

    ‘Well, what about Christine Jorgenson?’  is the only reply I can make.

     ‘I’ve had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.’  He says with a grotesque wink.  ‘I can tell you she’s all woman.’

     I am not going to tell Laybont that if he makes it with a surgically altered male then I think he is queer but a little later something interesting happens.  This is abou the time I end my academic career sometime in April, May of 1968.

     Things change dramatically the next year when homosexuals come out after the Stonewall Riot but still in 1968 only the most psychically damaged openly demonstrate this state of being.  Even the Doctrine Of Diversity is not well defined at this time; The Doctrine Of State Of Being has not yet even been defined.  So-called transsexuality is burgeoning nonetheless.  The legacy of Christine Jorgenson is growing at an exponential rate.

     A couple of years earlier a pair of Mexican homos undergo that cruel cut together.  They are significant others before who decide to undergo emasculation together so they can find greater opportunites as a pair in their manhunt.  They like to do it at the same time with different men.

     These guys call themselves transsexuals, I suppose as a euphemism, because they do not trans  anything.  Women genetically have two X chromosomes while men have an X and a y.  The only way one can trans the sexes is if doctors can surgically remove your y chromosome  to replace it with an X from a female donor who may be in need of a y.  Even then that would have to be a spermatic X.

     The X in a male is the passive ovate X of the mother so if you take an ovate X from the female donor giving a male two passive ovate Xs you have outdone Mary Shelley in creating a monster.

     Imagine the monsters you create.  Suppose you remove the ovate X from a male to replace it with another y then bound them together with female hormones.  Wow, huh?  Imagine if you put two y chromosmes in a female bound together with female hormones.  It would be to watch the wolfman metamorphose from a human to a wolf.   You can film the whole thing and have a non-pareil porn flick.  The transformation is terrifically entertaining.  You can give the Thing say, twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars as compensation for undergoing the operation and film it then put It on exhibit at twenty dollars a pop and make a fortune.  Where are those sexual entrepreneurs when you need them.

     But back to reality, such as it is.  When you surgically mutilate a male removing this and those, replacing them with a tuck and fold job that will make an automobile upholsterer green with envy you merely have a male with a tuck and fold job.  It’s sort of like putting a Chevy body on a Ford Chassis.  You still have a car but neither one nor the other.  When Laybont says that Christine Jorgenson was all woman that says more to me about his masculinity than Chrises femininity.

     So, these two Mexican converts show up at the UofO in the Spring of ’68.  There use no deceit in obtaining their employment.  They are quite proud of their emasculation.  They do insist that the UofO hire them as, not a pair, but a unit.  Rhymes with eunuch, I think.

     The absurdity that ‘pals’ go job hunting as a unit aside, a concession is made for their ‘State of Being.’  Now hirees they also allow these guys to determine the terms of their employment.

     They are maintenance ‘its.’  They insist, get this, that they clean the men’s toilet, pisser, shitter, whatever you want to call it.  The incongruity of women that clean the men’s toilet is indicated, they counter that as former men they are used to being in the men’s head.  So these ‘women’ go to work to clean the men’s toilets.

     You can take the homo out of the toilet but you can’t take the toilet out of the homo.

     As I understand it they work all over campus but where I learn about it is at the library on the second floor.  I do not participate myself, there are limits to my sexual liberation.  Besides, the mystifying thing to me is the homosexual preference for the toilet.  It’s not really mystifying, after all that’s where the boys are, all those swell masculine aromas of urine and feces.  Umm, adds a piquancy to sex.

     In the seventies after Stonewall when the insanity is growing like a fungus Homos take over public restrooms to make them hazardous if not dangerous places but pre-Stonewall some discretion is obligatory.

     These two guys set up shop in the library toilet.  Things do not so much as get clean as smeared around so that those deligtful aromas assault the olfactory sense with equal intensity from every part of the toilet.

     Now, the question is if you avail yourself of the services of these two guys do you get it from a man or a woman.  I mean these guys make any orifice available plus a couple of their own invention.

     These guys, in this land of unparalleled opportunity as we see demonstrated here and there, create an ideal situation for themselves.  More than ideal, they do not even try for female impersonation.  A lot of these guys work really hard to impersonate women; these guys just clump along like a couple of navvies while they make no effort at a female tone or inflection.  Where is the illusion of femininity; it is like a male with a plastic box between his legs.

     As I am about to have my academic option lapse news of this paradise is officially kept from me but, you know, all you need is a pair of eyes.

     So there I am up in the library watching  a steady stream of my fellow graduate students and professors bound for the toilet door with that eager look and bound of a man who gets his ashes hauled.

     While my fellow academics are denying me the pleasures of the toilet, as they think, I have a good laugh at their expense.  Who was fooling who?

     You know, Tuli Kupferberg was right.  The inmates are taking over the asylum

Finis

 

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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

    

 

 

 

    

 

    

The Swimming Hole

by

R.E. Prindle

Clip 2: Continuation and Conclusion

     While their land was returned to them they had lost all desire to return to their former way of life.  All travel broadens and the sojourn in Boston had been very broadening.  Jorge was embittered and full of hatred for the ‘White man’, but his spirit was also thoroughly cowed.  He always remained humble and submissive before Whites but this was his economic asset.  In many ways he became a clown and entertainer for them.  The response is not unusual when faced by seemingly overwhelming power.

     Benito returned to the States in ’48 no less angry and embittered.  The American Japanese in Japan had been in a difficult position which produced a unique psychological type.  They had been unwanted by Whites.  On the one hand they had not been allowed to become citizens of the United States while on the other the Japanese government didn’t want them as citizens of Japan but wanted to claim them as overseas Japanese citizens.  Thus when Benito among thousands of others returned to Japan for japanification he and they were not trusted or wanted by the Japanese.  They were followed and spied on, which, of course, such spying could have been the normal situation in Japan as it is now in the United States.  The American Japanese had definitely fared better in the the US than the Nisei in Japan.  Generally speaking they were neither here nor there.  As it was expressed they had an American center and a Japanese exterior neither of which was acceptable in the respective countries.

    Thus as the Sukamotos began their import business Benito or Ben as he was now known was well prepared to deal with the Japanese contacts and Jorge, which he now pronounced George, with his attitude was able to deal very productively with his fellow Americans.  They wanted to make amends and Jorge was a lovable guy who seemed to reciprocate their kindness.

page 51.

     In retrospect Jorge could see no reason for the internment of the Japanese.  The internment is a complex issue when one looks into it and the decision to do it was not without reasons.  The PC version is that the reason was purely White bigotry and greed.  Whites wanted all those Japanese iceboxes left behind.  There are some complex economic issues involved that I can’t go into in this novel.

     The reality was far more complex.  It can only be understood in historical perspective.  For two hundred years prior to 1853 the Japanese had closed their borders insulating the country from foreign influences.  When Admiral Perry violated Japanese integrity forcing them into the community of nations at cannon point in 1853 he set in motion a sequence of events that led inexorably to Pearl Harbor.

     The Japanese responded to Perry’s act of agression by aggressive westernization.  They realized the inadequacy of their military, political and social organization to deal with a more advanced system.  The 1860s, ’70s and ’80s were spent educating themselves.  The studied the Western nations noting their strengths and weaknesses.  By 1895 they had successfully attacked their giant neighbor, China, repeating a sixteenth century act, receiving a huge indemnity.  They then challenged Russia for control of Manchuria.  This was successfully brought to a conclusion in 1905 as Japan became recognized as a major power.

     Japanese hatred which by then had become megalomaniacal was then directed against the United States and England.  Americans had further exacerbated the Japanese attitude by a gratuitous act of violence which turned out very favorably for the Japanese.  The Planters who accupied Hawaii established large sugar and pineapple plantations which required large numbers of laborers.  They could only be found in the East.  Mexico was too far away.  The Planters first tried the Chinese.  They didn’t want these colored people to stay but when their contracts expired the Chinese refused to go back to China.

pae 52.

     The Planters then turned eyes on Japan.  They requested, perhaps demanded, that the Japanese give them laborers.  The Japanese having just come out of isolation refused.  The Planters then sent a ship to Yokohama where they forcibly abducted over a hundred persons.  A light went on in the minds of the Japanese leaders.  They weren’t stupid, just short.  Japanese laborers went to Hawaii and they did come back when their contracts expired.  The Planters did pay well; much more than could be earned in Japan.  The laborers lived frugally returning with substantial bankrolls thus strengthening the Japanese economy.  In this sense the US bankrolled WWII in the Pacific much as they are now bankrolling the Chinese by transferring all production to China.

     But each passing year many more Japanese went out than came back.  The Japanese became the largest nationality in the Islands.  Just as the Japanese began to look on Hawaii as their prerogative the Planters became alarmed at the Japanese presence.  In 1896 the Planters rejected a shipload of Japanese sending them back.  A Japanese warship was promptly in Pearl Harbor demanding an explanation.  The Planters turned to the United States with the result that the independent kingdom of Hawaii was annexed to the United States.  The Japanese who thought they had a valid claim to the Islands because, after all, the Japanese were the most numerous nationality , refused to accept the action of the United States.  To this day they feel the islands belong to them.  They almost got them during their late twentieth century period of prosperity.

page 53.

     Bolstered by their success against China Japanese spirits soared, after the conquest of Manchuria the Japanese felt invincible.  They had studied American History.  They had noted that the Americans infiltrated Texas until they had the numerical strength to wrest it from Mexico.  They were in a position to do to the same to America in California.

     Thus about 1900 Japanese began to take advantage of America’s ridiculous immigration policy arriving in numbers.  The White Californians had already experienced one oriental threat.  When the Chinese began to arrive in numbers in mid-nineteenth century the Californians had acted quickly obtaining a Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882.  The cry had been taken up that California was ‘White man’s country.’  There can be little doubt to any reasonable person that if the Chinese had not been excluded the West Coast today would be a Chinese province.  This may or may not be desirable depending on your perspective.

     Regardless of one’s opinion the West Coast was kept an American province.  The Japanese who began to arrive were almost entirely male.  The Californians believed that they were paramilitary troops, especially in the wake of the Russo-Japanese war.  There can’t be much doubt that they were right.  The population of California at the time of the Chinese Exclusion was around a half million and in 1900 around a million.  One doesn’t have to be all that mathematically inclined to realize that a half million Japanese men could cause quite a disturbance.  The Californians lobbied hard to stop Japanese immigration before it attained those numbers.  They were partially successful when Theodore Roosevelt entered into the ‘Gentlemen’s Agreement’ to limit Japanese immigration.

page 54.

     Fearing that an invasion was probable the Californians began a series of legislative acts to harass the Japanese, to deny them access to power.  An antagonism was established which ended only with the conclusion of the Pacific War.  Even T. Roosevelt realized in 1908 that a war between the US and Japan was inevitable.  He gave it thirty years which wasn’t too far off the mark.

     As Japanese power increased so did Californians’ vigilance.  In 1910 Japan annexed Korea.  For some reason the Koreans do not have fond memories of the Japanese occupation.  One imagines the situation would have been the same with the Japanese in control of California.  The Japanese joined in the Great War which meant nothing to them to obtain Germany’s Far East and Pacific possessions.

     The paramilitary troops that came over in the first decade of the century had no women.  If they left the US to procure one they were denied reentry.  Thus the period of Picture Brides began.  In the years around 1920 Japanese women began to arrive which prompted a new series of repressive legislation.  The Californians harried the Japanese like a professional football offense against a high school defense.

    An uneasy truce was established through the thirties as the Japanese ‘illegally’ fortified their newly acquired German islands like Iwo.  When Pearl Harbor was bombed the Californians could say with justice:  We were right all along.  We told you so.

page 55.

     The Nisei, or first generation of Amerian born Japanese, were of a different frame of mind than the Issei or Island born Japanese.  Therein is the real crux of the problem.  Japanese language papers were bilingual, partially in Japanese, partially in English.  Now, the United States government was not all that stupid either.  They read the papers in both languages.  While the American portion was innocuous and innocent the Japanese portion was a blood curdling call to arms to support Japanese worldwide objectives.  Thus, regardless of whether in retrospect the internment was necessary it was justified on the basis of the attitude of the Issei who  Californians had called paramilitary troops.

     After all the Japanese did expect their nationals to revolt in Hawaii supporting the attack.  The shelling of Santa Barbara by a submarine was probably intended for San Pedro which would have been the signal for an uprising in LA much as Homer Lea had warned about in 1910.  So also the shelling on the Oregon coast.  The expectation of the rising was unrealistic  but so was the whole Japanese war plan.

     Within the camps the Japanese nationalists fought for control.  After the war many of the Issei repatriated to Japan.  Whether one wants to argue whether the internment was justified or not, war is hell, mistakes are made.

     Jorge didn’t take a historical view.  He had not been interned but he refused to examine the problem from any point of view but his injured national pride.  None of his subseqent excellent good fortune mattered to him.  Neither the money nor his family was allowed to assuage his anger.  Jorge had married a Jewish woman by the name of Piti.  If anything she exacerbated Jorge’s anger for she added the whole train of Jewish anguish to Jorge’s Japanese one.  Jorge was constantly on the lookout to humiliate Whites in the same manner he felt he had been humiliated.  This meant leasing to novices, acquiring what money they had and then turning them out.

page 56.

     He and Ben were very aggressive in business.  They expanded well ahead of their resources counting on the leniency of their White bankers which they always received.

     At the time they bought the building which they renamed Pilgrim’s Center Portland’s downtown area had gone through massive changes which put it on the brink of extinction.  Dozens of square blocks of high density housing had been leveled to build a freeway bypass on the west of the core area.  Dozens more square blocks to the southeast of downtown had been leveled by Urban Renewal to build office buildings and high rise apartments.

     The Lloyd Shopping Center had been built to the northeast.  A pedestrian mall had been built down Fifth and Sixth which closed some doors because of contruction woes and changed traffic patterns so that some businesses formerly profitable were no longer so.  The rational was that to make an omelette you have to crack a few eggs.  Of course, someone else’s eggs were cracked but the omelet went to other people who didn’t pay for the eggs.  Fairness doctrine.

     There were several empty buildings on Third and Fourth.  Pilgrims, on Tenth, was completely outside normal shopping patterns.  It was at this time the Sukamotos bought Pilgrim’s and Dewey expanded his operation to Portland from Eugene.

page 57.

     Dewey’s success in Eugene had been won against the wishes of the Old Boy Network.  While the Japanese Sukamotos had been given lavish credit and terms, the White Boy, Dewey, hadn’t been able to raise a dime.  All his expansion had been internally financed.

      When he had approached Universal National Bank he had been severely rebuffed.  Brian Ashworth his loan officer, had been instructed by the Old Boys, of which the officers of UNB were pillars, to tell Trueman in no uncertain terms  that not only was there no money to loan him but that he was not even to attempt expansion or else.  Trueman had been so informed.  But what’s a poor boy without friends to do?  Go ahead.

     Dewey approached Tom Adams of Bashaw and Bashaw to help him find a location in Portland.  Dewey knew that B&B was Old Boy but he trusted to his luck for another end run.  The Old Boys played with him.  He was put in the hands of Dorian King, a large property owner in Portland.

     King showed him a couple of his properties on Third and Fourth which no longer had traffic but they weren’t what Dewey had in mind.  He could see that they were suicide locations.  King did have an empty space on Sixth above Alder which was the core of the core.  Dewey eagerly grasped for it but King rented it to a brokerage firm, Barton-Osborne, with the explanation that BO was permanent while Dewey wasn’t.  The joke was that BO went broke and was gone within a year.

     Dewey complained to Adams about the run around.  The papers had gone through on Sukamoto’s building so as a favor to them Trueman was given to them as a gift by the Old Boy Network.

page 58.

     As noted the Jewish Network had labeled Trueman as an anti-Semite because of the hostility of Harry Grabstein in Eugene.  Such accusations are automatically accepted, Trueman had no opportunity for defense or appeal.  As an outlaw he had even no avenue of complaint.  We Americans know how to deal with our bigots.  In reverse Nazism we turn them over to the minorities to torment.

     It is always assumed that if, for instance, one were an anti-Semite that that antagonism is extended to every other ‘minority.’  Thus Dorian King was Jewish.  He had gotten a few kicks running Trueman around.  The Old Boy and Jewish Networks had gotten a few chuckles. 

      All of these people despised Trueman’s abilities.  They thought his success had been all luck.  They didn’t think he had the chance of a snowball in Jamaica to succeed in Portland.  So they thought if the Sukamotos made a few bucks off him so much the better.  In fact expansion might be a way to get rid of him.  Many successful businesses failed in the expansion attempt.

     The Sukamotos were just beginning the conversion of Pilgrim’s into an indoor mall.  The center would require over a year before it was open but as Dewey wanted a large space he was told he could have a corner with an outside entrance in the meantime.

     He was in a hurry.  He was fearful that the record business was about to peak which it was .  Tenth was a nice broad street with plenty of vacant parking at the time.  Dewey said he would take it.  Once again negotiations dragged on and on.

page 59.

     Trueman reported to Sukamoto World Headquarters once a week for over a month.  Negotiations were carried on in broom closets and interrogation like cells, no windows,  with a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.  Jorge and Ben sat across from him over a plain wooden table and wooden chairs.  Ben said nothing staring at Dewey with unblinking intensity.  Jorge was garrolous although mysterious.  He plied Dewey with endless questions but gave out an amazing amount of information about he and Ben, where they came from and where they hoped to go.

     Dewey had Jorge figured at a glance.  His past was as plain on his face as Dewey considered his own to be.  Dewey recognized that they were brothers in experience and acted accordingly.  Oddly enough Jorge was not so astute.  There was a glass wall between him and any White man.

     Finally, the lease having been signed Dewey was led from the interrogation cell to Jorge’s desk.  The desk was in the center of a large dormitory like room surrounded by the desks of the White bookkeepers, buyers and clerks.  Jorge had no Japanese working for him.

     Ben’s desk was to the left a couple feet behind Jorge’s.  Ben took up a position leaning forward from the edge of his seat staring intently into Dewey’s face.  Dewey flashed a grin at him aware of the game.

     He looked ahead of him and there hung conspicuously on a post before his visitor’s chair was a framed copy of the LA evacuation notice.  Dewey who had never seen one examined it closely.  The poster with absurd apologetic politeness requested the assembly of Los Angeles’ Japanese population for transfer to the internment camps all in English.  Dewey knew what it was there for.  After the treatment he had received from the Sukamotos he was spoiling for a fight.  He had the upper hand.  He could easily win the battle but he would lose the war.

page 60

     ‘What do you think of that?’  Jorge asked his test question but he didn’t make a gesture indicating the poster.

    ‘What do I think of what?’  Dewey replied guardedly, wary of a trap.

     ‘That.’  Jorge said, pointing at the poster.

     Dewey recognized a kindred spirit in Jorge.  He realized that they had both suffered the same denial.  It was clear that they were both trying to prove themselves.  Jorge had accepted the role of inferior which he expressed in his clownish persona with the seat of his pants hanging down nearly to his ankles, his sweater with gaping holes in it, his ridiculous scraggly Abe Lincoln beard, his trademark well chewed, unlit stogee and exaggerated manner of speech.

     Dewey was more into aggressive self-assertion as he overdressed in high style fitted suits.  Everything about him offered a challenge to those trained to social acceptability.  He knew that even if Jorge recognized the affinity, which he did but refused to accept, that he would opt to side with oppressor.  Jorge had rather be a successful clown to his oppressors than stand a free man.  Dewey knew what it meant to be a clown for acceptance, traces still lingered in his personality but he sought to exorcise them.

page 61.

     ‘I’ve never really seen one of the posters before.’  He replied amiably.  ‘Not very good art work.  I thought you were from Portland, I didn’t know you were from LA.’

     Jorge ostentatiously cleared his throat.  ‘I’m not.  I wasn’t there.’

     ‘Oh well, what camp were you in?’

     ‘Uh, hum.  I wasn’t in any camp.’

     ‘No?  Where were you during the war?’

     ‘I was in Boston.’  Jorge cleared his throat and looked away.  ‘I was earning my degree from Harvard.’

     ‘Oh!’  Dewey exclaimed, envy flashing through his mind.  ‘Well, then, what’s your complaint?’

     ‘Don’t you think it was terrible what they did to my people?’  Jorge pressed.

     ‘You ever been in the orphanage?’  Dewey threw out irrelevantly.  ‘Well, yes, but there was a reason.’  Dewey said matter-of-factly.

     ‘Sure there was, racism.’  Jorge said sullenly.  ‘The only reason they dropped the atomic bomb on us was because we’re colored.’  Jorge added forgetting his pure Americanism for an instant in favor of Pan-Japanism.

     ‘That is absolutely not true.’  Dewey stated.

     Jorge who had been lounging in his chair lunged upright.  ‘It certainly is.  White Americans would never have used the Atom bomb on White Germans.’

     ‘If you examined the history of the Bomb, Jorge, I think you would find that its destined use was against Germany.  It’s just that the war against Germany ended before the Bomb was ready.’

page 62.

     ‘That’s nonsense.’  Jorge retorted indignantly.

     ‘No.  It’s not, Jorge, just listen.’  Ben leaned closed, Jorge glared at Dewey intently.

     ‘The A-Bomb is wholly a Jewish discovery.  The preliminary work was developed in Germany.  The theory was what the Nazis called ‘Jewish physics.’  They ran the Atomic theorists out of Germany.  The Jews went to England and mostly to the United States.  By the late thirties when Nazi antagonism to the Jews became apparent the Jews had the basic theory for the development of the Bomb, the Super-Weapon, but they didn’t have the means to build it or deliver it.

     After the war started and Hitler’s intent became clear Jewish fear demanded the weapon.  FDR was approached to fund the Atomic program but he failed to see the Bomb’s utility.  Another Jew was detailed by the Jewish government to persuade FDR to fund the program which he successfully did.

     Thus the theory, the implementation of the program, the scientists and even the spies were all Jews.  Just as the Germans were rounding up Jews in Europe so the Jews in America wanted camps established for those who didn’t accept their program.  Or as the Jews call them, anti-Semites.  Now, the Jews didn’t care about America’s enemy, Japan, they were only concerned with their enemy Nazi Germany.

     They had devised incredible punishments for Germany.  Had American power been completely at their disposal they would have had the Germans exterminated.  Henry Morgenthau, Jr., the same patriotic American who gave the Soviets the plates, dyes and paper to print American occupation currency, wanted to turn Germany into a desert.

     Had the Bomb been ready in time they would have.  If there had only been one sample available it would have been used against Germany rather than Japan.  Had two been available they would both have been used against Germany.

    If the Japanese had devised the Bomb you may be sure that would have been racists enough to use it against the US population without any remorse.

     Even then, Jorge, and this is an odd historical fact, the Bombs were deployed over Nagasaki and Hiroshima which were both centers of Japanese Catholicism or Christianity.  So, no, Jorge, there was no racism involved, it was just that the German war was over before the Bomb was ready.  However, they may have been some religious bigotry involved of some sort.’

      Jorge stared at Trueman dumbly.  No White man he had over known had ever defended himself before.  Lacking the information to affirm or argue he just waved Trueman’s discussion away.

     ‘That’s not the only thing they did to my people.’  Jorge retorted indignantly shifting to a different tack and forgetting again that he was a pure American.  ‘In 1906, maybe ‘o5 or ’07 they made the Japanese attend segregated schools in San Francisco.  They said we weren’t good enough to sit with White people.’

     ‘Yeah, I know.’  Dewey said laconically.  He had been a History major and still read.  He knew a little and thought indenpendently, not having been cowed in graduate school.

     ‘Don’t you think that’s terrible?’

     ‘Yes, I do.  I think it’s worse than terrible, especially since a very similar thing happened to me.  But, so what.  No one I’ve ever met wants to hear my story or give me sympathy for a minute.  They say it happens to everybody; just the wear and tear of living.  I can’t give to you who are on their side what you won’t give to me.’

     Jorge sat erect quivering; Ben’s normally impassive expression was turned into a smiling unbelieving sneer.

     ‘How could any such thing happen to you? You’re White.’  Jorge spat out contemptuously.

      Dewey’s mind clicked into place behind the first chamber.  He knew then that he hated the Sukamotos.  Here was a man before him demanding sympathy for what happened not to him but to others of ‘his people’ but refusing sympathy for a harsher reality.  Dewey looked up from under his brows and pressed the crease of the knee of his pants between his thumb and forefinger.

     ‘I was in the orphanage, Jorge.’  He said very quietly, seriously enough to have put Sukamoto on notice.

     ‘That’s nothing!’  Snapped Sukamoto whose mind was so twisted by his own self-pity that he was insensitive to anyone else’s misfortunes.

     ‘No?  Well, it is something, Jorge.’  Trueman contradicted quietly.  ‘I know first hand what you can only talk about as happening to ‘your people.’  That is exactly what is nonsense.’

     ‘You weren’t ever in a concentration camp.’  Jorge said defensively.

     ‘Neither by your own admission were you, Jorge.  You were partying at Harvard University.  The orphanage is a concentration camp.  I’m not sure any ‘American citizen’ was in a concentration camp.  If an American says he was he’s a liar.’

     ‘How about Hitler’s camps?’ Jorge persisted tacitly acknowledging the international character of the Jews.

page 65.

     ‘Well, now, if you want to talk about one’s ‘people’, Jorge, my people were slaughtered in the millions by Nazis, Communists and Japanese.’

      ‘You’re not Jewish.’  Jorge persisted contemptuously and irrelevantly.

     ‘No, I’m not.  But I am Polish…’

     The Sukamotos laughed out loud.  ‘Trueman’s not a Polish name.  Was it Truemanski before you changed it?’

     ‘This is America, Jorge, you’ve got to look behind the facade.  Trueman isn’t Polish but Sepaniak is.  That was my mother’s maiden name.  My mother divorced before I was three.  We went to live with my Polish grandmother before I was put in the orphanage.  So my Polish people were slaughtered by the million.  But I’m not Polish or English, I’m American Jorge.

      What was experienced in internecine European warfare had nothing to do with immigrants who left for America of any those nationalities.  You are of Japanese ancestry yet you told me that you are different from native Japanese.  You are a loyal American you say yet at the same time the Bomb was dropped on ‘your people.’  Well, you’re either Japanese or American.  Jew or American.  You can’t claim dual citizenship.  If so you might as well claim as John Donne:  No man is an island…Send not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.  In that case we are all one, races, nationalities, religions don’t matter.  Which is it?  Take your choice.

     Besides which the orphanage was a type of concentration camp.  We were segregated from the general population and told we were inferior.  We were made to wear funny clothing just as the Jews were made to wear the yellow star.  We were told that we could neither speak to or associate with non-orphans.  In spite of the sacred Judeo-Christian repository of morality which repeatedly inveighs against depriving orphans of their rights we were deprived of our rights.

page 66.

     You, who graduated from Harvard, during the war with Japan, mention the segregation of Japanese children in 1906.  That incident didn’t even go on for weeks, furthermore it didn’t happen to you, Jorge Sukamoto.  As you say, it happened to ‘your people’ who were Japanese citizens, not even Americans.  If you want prejudice, the Japanese didn’t even want Westerners walking on their sacred soil.

     Let me tell you what happened to me.  Me, Jorge, myself, my person, not a hundred years ago or to persons in some far off land, but to me in the here and now in the USA.

     I’ve heard Jews and Italians become tearful because they were once called a kike or wop.  Some tragedy.  We were called worse.  They, at least, had the support of their own community, their Anti-Defamation Leagues, their Mafias or whatever.  We Orphans had nothing!  Not even group solidarity.  We were outside the law.  We belittled each other more than others belittled us which was considerable.  I know you understand that, Jorge.

     The Jews complain that in Poland they had a Jew bench against the wall in school that they were compelled to sit on.  Well, we had an orphan wall against which we had to sit.  Not just one month or one year but all year, every year.  At recess we were compelled to sit on a bench watching the others play.  If we tried to friendly with anyone we were beaten.  We were compelled to use the alleys to walk to school, Jorge.  We weren’t allowed to be seen on the city streets.  If we did venture onto the streets, Mr Sukamoto, we were beaten.  We were beaten, Mr. Sukamoto, and I don’t mean by kids our own size.  I mean grown men ran, dashed across streets to hit us around, driving us back into the alleys.  You don’t know how my heart bleeds for your poor ‘people’ Mr. Harvard Graduate Sukamoto.

     Now, when you were a Japanese at Harvard during a war with Japan were you ever physically assaulted?  I didn’t think so.  Well, who do you think was persecuting we orphans?  No, not Japanese, there weren’t any in the Valley.  But don’t think it was only Anglos, Jorge.  Even as the horrors of the Nazis unfolded some who persecuted us were Jews.  Some were Italians proud to do the dirty work granted them by Anglos.  They were all of them, Anglos or minorities proud, eager to beat up small orphan children.  Yes, the truth is incredible isn’t it?

     Don’t you sneer at my experience, Sukamoto.

     So, sure, never send for whom the bell tolls, I’ve sympathy for you, the Jews, the Blacks.  it’s just that except for possibly the Blacks I don’t think you’ve got a hell of a lot of room to talk.  None of your ‘people’s’ internal histories show that you’re such kind and generous people, you all persecute who you’re able.  I don’t see persecution, Jorge, I just see a lot of rotten people throwing rocks at each other.  So, yeah, I can sympathize with your stupid poster but, so what?’

     ‘I don’t believe you.’  Jorge blurted out heatedly.  ‘That stuff couldn’t ever happen to Whites in America.  This is a White country.  You’re White, not colored.  It couldn’t have happened in America.’

page 68.

    ‘You calling me a liar, Sukamoto?  You think I’d bother to make this stuff up to entertain a non-entity like you.  You’re colored, sure but you’re one of the Old Boys.  You’re treated better than me by the Whites you hate.  They’ve turned me over to you to be exploited.  You think because I’m not dark complected my origins don’t show?

     How do you think I got this hang-dog expression on my face?  How do you think I got this stupid apologetic manner, my infernal politeness to creeps?  The same way you got yours, Jorge.  Only I’m not a wimp.  I don’t go around complaining like a limping, whimpering dog.  I walk like a man, I don’t live my life on my knees before the oppressor like you do, Sukamoto.’

     Dewey was getting a little heated, his voice rose and he began to tremble over his whole body.  He began to actually bounce in his chair.

     ‘Do you know what they used to do, Sukamoto?  I probably know more about fine things than you do.  Do you know how I learned?  They used to take small groups of us to teas in the best homes in the Valley.  They used to show us all their little treasures, indicating the finer points.  They laughed at our gauche manners, then when we were dismissed we were told that this life style, those things, were never meant for scum like us, that we could never have them, would be allowed to have them.  All that imprinted a sullen expectation on my face, my walk, my talk, my behavior.  Not everyone can see it but people in the right places see it and it is a signal to deny me because their class has stigmatized me.  What you see before you Sukamoto is not me but the product of your machinations.

page 69.

     Now, our characters are quite similar, Sukamoto, but you benefit from the treatment the Japanese received during the war.  I have forever been made an outcast.  Why do you think you got me?

     You say this Mr. Whatisname at Universal National Bank has always treated you Japanese kindly; that he’s given you loans that you weren’t entitled to  in amounts in excess of what you were entitled to.  Well, you’re colored and I’m White, Jorge, but I don’t get any loans at all and I’ve got a very successful business.  They just play despicable games with me.  So who’s discriminated against?  Colored boy like you, or White boy like me?’

     But Jorge Sukamoto’s life was bracketed by his self-pity.  He couldn’t sympathize with any White person even though a brother under the skin.  He couldn’t see that as a universal soldier his color didn’t matter.  He was of the the class that persecuted Dewey.  Dewey saw him merely as an Old Boy oppressor not as a colored person.  Jorge couldn’t perceive America in its true light.  He was a bigot.

     ‘I don’t care.  You’re White.’   He limped.

     Dewey got up to leave with his signed lease in his hand, ‘By the way, I’d take that stupid poster down if I were you.’

     Jorge snarled into the holes of his sweater than played his trump.   ‘By the way Dewey,’ he said with a wry smile.  ‘My wife is Jewish.’

     Dewey had an overtrump.  ‘So’s mine.’  He said over his shoulder as he walked away.

page 70.

     Ben got wonderingly from his chair walking slightly ahead of Jorge’s desk where they both watched open mouthed as Dewey left.  They were astounded at Dewey.  Never had any White person been anything but subservient before the poster.  Everything he had said had been new to them.  Not necessarily believable in their eyes, but new.

     That Dewey was an orphan stirred deep prejudices in them of which they were not aware.  In every society in the world orphans having no one to defend them have no rights.  From Ancient Egypt and Babylonia thrugh the derivative Jewish Bible to the present, cutting across all racial and national lines orphans were and are cheated, robbed and denied.  In Dewey’s eyes the Sukamotos were part of the oppressor class not colored or Japanese.  Other Whites ignorant of history, his own history and himself could only understand his hatred of the Sukamotos as racial prejudice.

     The Sukamotos in their turn lost all keenness of pleasure in persecuting Dewey.  If his ‘own people’ didn’t want him he merely had a mercenary value to them.

     As to what Dewey had said, Jorge, and definitely Ben, lacked the background to judge.  Since the Atomic scientists had German sounding names like Oppenheimer and Teller, they assumed they were German.  America had funded the Bomb, therefore it was American.  They could only assume that Trueman was slandering the Jews.

     ‘Have you ever heard such nonsense?’  Ben said.  ‘Of course it was racial, they would never have dropped IT on the Germans.’

     ‘Yes.  We were told that he was a bigot.  What we just heard proves it without a doubt.  He won’t get far.  He can’t make it in an empty building with construction going on around him.  If he does we’ll get him another way.’

     Jorge sought ways to humiliate his White tenants.  Sometimes the means came to him.  He allowed those things to happen reveling in the complaints of his White tenants or, Slaves, as he jokingly referred to them.  When the Center had opened, bums came in from the cold to stretch out on the benches in the Atrium that Jorge had placed about.  Dewey’s and others’ complaints fell on deaf ears as Jorge indulged his bigotry by allowing the bums to stay.

     Customer complaints eventually forced him to action as his Center did have to succeed to repay those more than generous loans.

     The situation that developed in the second floor toilet thus afforded him great pleasure.  Even though Pilgrims Center was billed as a family center Jorge did not respond to complaints.  Mothers unwittingly sent their seven and eight year old sons to use the facility.

page 72

IV.

Why am I stumbling down the highway

When I shoud be rolling cross the skyways

On my

Cosmic Wheels?

–Donovan

 

     As a TV personality Dewey had good reason to avoid public restrooms.  By dint of careful planning he was fairly successful.  He hadn’t used the second floor toilet since the problem there had developed.  But now he had to use what was becoming laughingly referred to as ‘homo heaven.’

     He felt the urge when the hands of the clock read twelve-thirty.  The height of the lunch hour.  He pushed the door open to see one of the most astounding sights he had ever seen.  A fellow was carefully washing out one of the wash basins.  He then opened a package  of dry noodle soup, dumped the contents into the sink, ran hot water over the noodles, pulled a spoon out of his sock and began to eat out of the sink.  Dewey stood transfixed watching in amazement as the stench of the toilet assailed his nostrils.  He recovered himself to find the walls lined with hopeful, expectant faces.

     He wasn’t aware that the toilet had become a homosexual clubroom.  Feeney McReady, immediately on his left, wearing a green plaid jacket with very wide lapels and rust colored elbow patches that extended to the cuff, green and white checkered pants, a tan check shirt and a rust colored plaid tie, volunteered an explanation of the soup eater:  ‘That’s Soupy Feensteen.’  He said approvingly.  ‘He’s the founder of Jewish Queers Against Fascism.  He has his lunch here every day.’

page 73.

     Feensteen interrupted his feeding, straightening up to his full skinny height of five-six to beam a greeting at Dewey expecting some gesture of approval in return.  Dewey, offended, looked away offending Soupy who immediately condemned him as an anti-Semite.

     Not only was Dewey a TV personality but when it became apparent to the Old Boy Network he wouldn’t go bust in Portland they began to take him seriously.  They began an investigation of his past.  It was a singularly clear record except for one peculiar report, albeit a devastating report.  In his senior year in high school Dewey had chanced upon a group of acquaintances who were leaning against a low wall receiving oral sex from another classmate.  Dewey had been told to get in line but he refused.  He was warned that there would be consequences if he refused but he still did.

     The group in their guilt and shame devised a way to reverse the circumstances as people will do.  They arranged a situation at a roller skating rink in which over fifty ‘witnesses’ claimed to have seen Trueman perforning oral sex on a line of boys.

     The Old Boys were so elated by the discovery that even without corroboration of subsequent activity they spread the story as true.  Trueman was asked mysterious questions about how he like roller skating.  As he had never heard the latter half of the story he was mystified by the questions.

page 74.

     Some the homos in the toilet knew the story.  They thus thought Trueman was pretending by not dropping his mask and resented it deeply.

     When Dewey had gone on TV he had made a fatal error.  His method of dealing with his prominence was to assume that if he didn’t act as though he were on TV, not put on airs, that people would treat him in a normal manner.  This simply could not be.  Having made the move it was incumbent on him to adopt a suitable public persona because, like it or not, he was having an effect on viewers who remained anonymous to him.  Nevertheless he acted as though he were unknown.

     An electric thrill went through the homos when he walked in.  He was a hero to them.  Feeney, who was not quite such a beat up hommie as the rest,sacrificed a certain amount of pride hanging around the toilet.  He did it because he was hopelessly in love with the TV idea of Dewey Trueman.  He prayed that Dewey would come in and notice him.  The things we do for love.

     The homos wanted to meet him on their own turf; they wanted to stand by his fire in the toilet.  Who knew, some thought, that he might be one too.  Feeney hoped to impress Dewey with his turnout.

Feeney had the hightest hopes if Dewey would only recognize him.  For the great seer of the homos, Sal Mineo, had said that if you didn’t talk like Marilyn Monroe or wear a dress anyone was possible.

page 75.

     Feeney had his fingers crossed but Dewey paid him only the most cursory attention concealing a smile at his attire.

     Dewey’s attention was next drawn to Vic Laszlo, who was wearing a little house dress that came to mid-thigh.  Laszlo was probably not sane.  His reaction to his childhood abuse was extreme.  He had been totally emasculated, his pride was gone.  Still he tried to justify his house dress.  As Laszlo explained it: You’ll never know freedom until you’ve put on the dress.  Further mental derangement had been caused by the excessive use of cocaine, other dangerouos drugs and alcohol.  The telltale scab hung from his nose as he sniffed uncontrollably.

     Barry Manson standing next to him had his hand up Vicky’s dress holding the cheek of his ass under his panties.  That’s right.  Panties.  Speaking to no one in particular Laszlo intoned:  ‘No one’s ever known freedom till he’s taken the dress.’  Manson smiled approvingly hitching his pants up.  Dewey looked down and away wishing he were somewhere else.

     As Dewey turned the corner of the divider to seek a urinal he spotted Nello Nitti dressed as Marlon Brando in the Wild Ones.  Nitti was flanked by Ben Hale and Chancy Flegenheimer who all grunted deprecatingly at Trueman making contemptuous faces.  They were rebelling at anything society had.

     Back by the stalls Ace Onested, Lou Williams and Dick Bundy stood waiting for the noon time action.  As Dewey stepped up to the urinal a stock broker by the name of Rey Martine raced past him pointing authoritatively at Lou Williams.  They stepped into a stall together.

page 76.

     At that time little Jimmy Grosza took up a position next to Dewey.  Lou Williams in the stall was trying to get into position for Rey Martine.  He was making a racket as he climbed upon the toilet seat pushing Martine repeatedly against the door.  The two cursed each other repeatedly to cover their shame.

     ‘What are they doing in there?’  Eight year old Jimmy Grosza asked looking up trustingly at Dewey.

     ‘Just do what you have to do and get out of here.’  Dewey replied in disgust.  ‘Don’t even bother to wash your hands.’

     As luck would have it Dewey stood there dry, waiting.  ‘Damn it.’  He said to himself.

     Nello Nitti eyed him, bobbing his head and curling his lip in that soft tough guy Brando fashion with his jeans rolled up in ridiculous four inch cuffs.  Can’t Bust ‘Ems instead of Levis.

     ‘Hey! Come On!’ I can’t reach the toilet paper.’  Williams whined from the stall.

    Dewey picked up a copy of the Daily Assassin lying folded on top of the urinal and threw it over the top of the stall.

     ‘Here. Use this.’  He muttered under his breath.  ‘That’s about all it’s good for.’

     As he turned back he noticed that Laszlo had postioned himself so that he could study Dewey’s penis.  Laszlo worked his mouth convulsively as he stared while Manson squeezed his cheek in rhythm.  Dewey groaned audibly activating Nitti.  Nitti abandoned his lounging position in the corner, standing erect.  A cigarette separated his index and middle fingers at the bottom knuckle of his clenched fist as he stood legs apart in his best Brando tough guy fashion.  His boots were too new, they’d never seen a kick stand.

page 77.

     ‘You know what I’d like to do to him?’ He sneered at Hale and Flegenheimer, speaking as though Dewey weren’t there.  He brought the finger of his right hand to a point working them into an imaginary rectum then he balled his fist and holding his arm at the elbow he worked his forearm and fist up and down several times.  Sneering broadly around the toilet he leaned back into corner waiting for Dewey’s reaction

     Dewey knew what the gesture meant.  He’d had it explained lovingly to by Trashman, a dedicated practitioner.  Dewey didn’t know what it had to do with ‘sexual preference’ but it was called, let me be coy, fist fornication.  The hand, fist and forearm were actually pushed a foot or more up the rectum.

     This was what the Daily Assassin was endorsing: base injured psychological reaction.  A defective gene?  In religious terms the homos were failed human beings unable to rise from the mire.  Certainly the religious groups opposed to the legitimization of homosexual behavior as a desirable alternative life style had their failings, but in the theosophical lotus metaphor they were trying to better themselves, to aspire to more perfect behavior.  They were pointed in the right direction.

     In the lotus metaphor the roots of the lotus are sunk into the mire of materiality while the stem rises through the more spiritual murky water to blossom in the light of the spiritual sun above its material roots.  Thus man should try to escape his material origins to strive for the attainment of spiritual perfection.

page 78.

     Homosexuality rejects the notion preferring to wallow in the pleasure of subjecting their fellows to humiliation and degradation.  To be sure, that is what they have known, for in their childhood abuse they were humiliated and degraded by their seducers followed by rejection.  While homosexuals may not be aware of it the seduction entered their psyches requiring endless reenactments in the futile hope of resolving their psychological trauma in that manner.

     But absolution cannot be had in that manner.  One can only resolve the problem by deep contemplation and understanding.

     As Dewey zipped up Ray Martine burst from the stall throwing a twenty on the floor exclaining:  ‘Jesus, you goddamn queers disgust me.’  He raced out the door to escape his disgust with himself as he spat on the floor.

    ‘Musta had a bad day in the market.’  Williams said motioning to Ace Onested to pick up the twenty.  Onested, who wore pink slippers with large pompoms on the toes because it hurt his feet to walk, clanked over to pick up the bill.  He clanked because his pockets were filled with nickels, dimes and pennies.  He wanted the world to know that he was never broke, always had plenty of pocket money.

     Dewey followed Rey Martine out the door.  ‘You guys disgust me too.’  He said aloud to himself.  But Dewey didn’t leave a twenty behind.   His remark was interpreted as ‘homophobe’ rather than a comment about some very disgusting behavior by some very disgusting guys.

page 79.

     Like all social and religious interest groups the homos were very sensitive about ‘defamatory’ remarks but very adept at defamation.  A defamation from which as their status as underdogs there is little defense, or worse still, offense.  Following the lead of Soupy Feensteen of the Jewish Queers Against Fascism they all clicked their heels, raised their arms in the straight armed, open palmed Nazi salute shouting ‘Heil Hitler.’  This was the worst insult they could devise.  There was no opinion but their own; if your weren’t for them you were a Fascist.  Feensteen with a glare of self-righteous hatred brought his salute from the Nazi into the crooked arm, clenched fist Jewish salute silently mouthing, We’ll get you.

     Ben Hale separated himself from Flegenheimer and Nitti following Dewey out.  Trueman had a lead and walked fast so that Hale had to run in short, quick, tripping steps to catch up to him just as Dewey passed through the indoor dining plaza just before his door.

     Hale was a soft pudgy, very effeminate five-eight.  He tripped up behind Dewey and slapped him on the shoulder:  ‘You better watch  your mouth, Mither.’  He lisped.

     Dewey had had enough.  He had endured too much.  He turned in a quiet rage with closed fists.  Hale danced backward out of reach shaking his finger at Dewey.  Self-defense in his mind was a crime.  To oppose the wishes of homos was a crime; any chastisement was to be accepted as just retribution.

page 80.

     Three guys got up from a table advancing on Dewey.  ‘Hey, watch it bud, we don’t want no homophobia stuff going on around here.  This is a democracy and America means freedom.’

     Dewey put his fists down, pointing at Hale and speaking to the three.  ‘Well, your faggot just assaulted me, my men, and that’s a crime.  Don’t ever touch me again faggot, or you’ll learn what democracy and freedom mean to me.’  He said in anger.

     Hale sucked in his breath in mock astonishment:  ‘Did you hear him call me faggot?  Did you hear him call me faggot?  He’s a homophobe alright.  Well he doesn’t have to worry about me coming on to him.  He’s too ugly.’  Hale giggled out a version of the old Oscar Wilde saw.

     God, how can Sukamoto let this go on Dewey groaned to himself in the agony of having to endure such degradation in the name of someone else’s perverted notion of ‘democracy, freedom and justice.’  In fact, Jorge Sukamoto was enjoying it very much.  He saw White boys making fools of each other.  He was actively encouraging it in the name of ‘tolerance.’  The humiliation he observed nearly matched the humiliation he felt from being Japanese in what he saw as White America.

     So, Trashman was even happier at the New Criterion where he could duck into the toilet between servings of food to feed his lust.  For truly, as Isaiah predicted, He ate and was never satisfied.

     Attorney was fired from the New Criterion for theft.  But while there he met Linda Delmurkwasser who gathered there with her friends regularly.  The Digiorgio sisters who owned the shop were not lesbians proper, but libertines; they were game for anything, anytime, anywhere, anyplace with anybody.  They swung in every possible direction.

page 81.

     Because he had taken the money Trashman didn’t hold his firing against Trueman.  He had taken the cash partly from desire and partly to see how far he could push Trueman.  His seduction, as with most homos, had not been entered on a conscious level, nor even, properly speaking on the subconscious level but in a level of unaware understanding.  He, and they, had been given a very sneaky surreptitious first strike.  He, and they, had been seduced at a young age when they had no, or very few, defenses.  The good heartedness of their love offering had been betrayed and rejected when their ‘lovers’ cast them off with great derogation.  This attitude entered their minds as normal behavior.  Thus a surreptitious first blow coupled with derogation and humiliation became their standard of correct conduct.  But as Trashman and the homos were totally unaware of the basis of their homosexuality they denied the impetus claiming that they had always felt like they were girls.

     Thus in his confrontations with Trueman Trashman as the aggressor had set conditions so that win or lose the first blow would always insure the upper hand.  Psychologically and practically two wrongs do not make a right but a third does, at least in one person’s mind.

     In his subterranean way he was conducting a manhood test in the hopes of reversing his old defeat as an eight year old.  If he got away with the offense he had a double win and doubly proved his manhood against the ‘hetero’ who had injured him.  If he lost he still had the five hundred dollars and had put Trueman through the wringer.  In his eyes he was still the better man.  His ‘seducer’ was the loser.  It was queer but an integral part of the homosexual psychology.  His frustration was almost ‘genetic.’

page 82.

     The firing aside, what preyed most on Attorney Trashman’s mind were what he considered his defeats over the gauze pants and the Master-Slave T-shirt manhood tests.  He had no hope of recapturing his manhood in endless tests.  Each loss exacerbated his frustration.  He then engineered yet further tests against which by their surreptitious nature there could be no defense in the hope that he could rectify his blunted manhood by winning.  But by the very underhanded nature of the tests the wins could never be satisfying.  He was condemned to chew and chew and never swallow.

     Attorney’s theft had been both revenge and yet another additional unsatisfying manhood test.  While he had kept the five hundred dollars he had been fired.  In a further effort to reverse the tables Attorney told eveyone that the reason he had been fired was because he had refused to take the polygraph.  When the polygraph became illegal Delmurkwasser who was seeking ‘revenge’ because Trueman hadn’t cooperated with the lesbians over the covers began to see how she could cast Trueman in a criminal light.

     She discussed the story idea with her editor, Mingo Miybriy, who gave her the green light in the interests of ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ and ‘democracy.’  The term ‘democracy’ was beginning to assume the meaning it now has of the Dictatorship Of The Marginals.  In other words the inmates were taking control of the asylum while the ‘good men’ abstaining from doing nothing cheered them on.  Or as Yeats put it:  the best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

page 83.

     Linda took Trashman’s statements at face value.  She already had her article written but she wanted to interview Trueman so she could make attributions to him and smear him ‘in his own words.’  She had called several times but Dewey declined to speak to her, let alone be interviewed.  Dewey had learned the hard way not to give out interviews.  In most cases the interview only gives the interviewer the right to attribute in one’s own voice without recourse.  Paley and Murrow’s hatchet job on McCarthy had a profound effect on journalism.  Trueman could smell the odor of the hatchet, or perhaps, a ballpeen hammer job.  Both Trashman and the lesbians sought to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

     Trueman had been raised to believe that both sides of a story must be presented by a paper.  Thus he felt secure that he had quashed the article.  But Mingo and Linda followed ‘Revolutionary justice.’  They believed Trueman guilty and that was enough Law for them.

     By publishing the hatchet job the Daily Assassin abdicated all title to respect by becoming a partisan rag.  Attorney Trashman was a vile criminal.  Linda Delmurkwasser was little better.  As for the Assassin…

     Yet a major metropolitan paper used its public unregulated power to represent the goals of these despicable people while trying to destroy a man who was productive, decent and honest.  What a perversion of values.

page 84.

     The Assassin would further castigate decent folk who formed a group to present heterosexual views.  They formed simply to protect their children from these sexual predators.  They too wanted freedom from harassment in this democracy of ours.  Rather than wallowing in the mire they were attempting to rise toward the light.  Order or chaos must rule, any condition in between is merely transitory.  As the medieval writer, the worldly Heinrich von dem Turlin said:  When two men play at dice both cannot win.  No, one life style or the other must prevail.

     The AIDS epidemic began shortly after these incidents.  The homosexuals were hit and hit hard by this seeming specific malady.  With the elation of the Candy Store Era gone and the grim reality of death before them the exuberantly sexual record covers that had caused Dewey’s problem disappeared over night replaced by sober geometric designs and sombre colors.  The lesbians’ problem was properly an internecine homosexual quarrel.  It had nothing to do with the heterosexual male.

     In the general sense the Daily Assassin promoted the forces of evil over the forces of ‘good.’  Materiality over spirituality.  The paper was no longer disinterested; it became an organ of homosexuality.  Heterosexuals would henceforth be defamed and reviled never being able to present their views.  The last had become the first.

page 85.

     The story had been a successful smear against which Trueman had no recourse.  The Assassin would not give him a retraction.  When he called he was given to low level employees, janitors and maintenance men who arrogantly told him:  ‘You had your chance to tell your side and refused it.’  When he tried to protest they merely hung up.  Dewey knew better than to show up at the offices where he could be arrested for ‘disturbing the peace.’  There is no court of appeals with homosexual justice.

     Trueman’s attorney, Pig Bowser, a great slab faced lawyer who earned his nickname in high school football because he filled a space in the line as big as a prize pig, refused to file a suit on his behalf so that the Assassin had no fear of retaliation.  The Old Boy Network to which Bowser was beholden ensured that the paper was immune to law suits.

     This mass of experience was but ill-digested and half understood by Trueman.  It filled his mind with a strong sense of injustice which he could not articulate.  As he grasped not so much for words but concepts to frame a reply to Harcourt, Owney Madnum greeted Brace over Trueman’s shoulder.

page 86.

     ‘Hey, Big B.’

     ‘Hi there, Owney.  How goes it?’

      Owney ignored Dewey, pretending he wasn’t there.  Harcourt was a second generation, Madmun a third generation Oregonian.  Owney’s family had the Oregon Pacific Press Co., which was a very large printing company in town.  Owney occupied a sinecure in upper management.  He was enabled to live in fair style.  His swimming pool would end up costing as much as his house.

     Native Oregonians despised all immigrants.  They viewed themselves as a sort of Israelite, a chosen people living in the only spot on earth worth inhabiting.  But the accomplishments of their neighbors to the North and South which far exceeded their own left them with a terrible inferiority complex.  They compensated by belittling California and Texas in particular.  In general they believed all others spoke with an accent.  The whole South thus came under ridicule even though Eastern Oregonians spoke with a pronounced Western drawl and pockets of people such as in Lebanon had a real hillbilly accent.  In a word, they were bigots.

page 87.

     They saw themselves as innocents in a world of depravity.  Their vanity led them to believe that Oregon would be crime free but for immigrants from California and Illinois.  Dewey would have been contemptible as an immigrant alone.  He was not ‘Oregonized’ in the slang of the times, but as the owner of a successful business he was exploiting Oregonians.  He was treated somewhat as a Martian invader.

     As he owned a record store, that meant to Owney as well as Harcourt that he was selling drugs in a big way, else how could a record store owner afford to live in the neighborhood?

     Now, the drug issue was a complicated one.  Brace Harcourt’s use of drugs was considered medicine.  Owney also used prescription drugs on a regular basis.  He snorted cocaine.  His differentiation was that he thought that Trueman supplied addicts who couldn’t afford the stuff so they stole to support their habit.  Owney could afford his cocaine and therefore used drugs recreationally.  He could stop anytime he chose, while ‘addicts’ couldn’t.

     Trueman, as Owney believed, dealt with the underworld  while he acquired his dope from a lawyer friend downtown with connections.  The lawyer’s connection bought from the head of maintenance at Stein and Cohn’s Department Store.  Owney’s connection didn’t even talk to the maintenance chief as he placed his orders and had his stuff delivered to the office by a courier system that functioned more or less openly on the streets of downtown.  Thus, Owney imagined that he was ‘clean’ while the role he projected on Trueman was ‘dirty.’  Owney despised Trueman as both an immigrant and a drug dealer.  Owney held him beneath contempt.

page 88.

     Trueman had never met Owney but he now addressed his back:  ‘Uh, your contractor says you plan to build your pumphouse on my property.’

     Madmun went on talking to Harcourt as though Dewey hadn’t spoken.

     Dewey pushed Madmun’s shoulder with his open hand.

     ‘I said your contractor says you plan to build your pumphouse on my lot.’

     Ignoring the shove Madmun scanned the sky as if looking for the source of the voice.

     ‘You heard me.  Are you?’

     Owney was in perturbation.  He didn’t want to acknowledge Trueman but he was compelled to answer such a question.  The shove had given him notice that he had better.  Looking across the street over Harcourt’s shoulder and speaking into the air as though to himself, he said firmly so as to avoid contradiction, ‘Yes, I am.’

     Dewey was incredulous.  ‘You are?  What do you mean, you are?’

     Madmun made him repeat the question, then still looking away he replied:  ‘Hell, yes.  It’s only about eighteen inches and you’re not using it for anything.’

     Dewey was familiar with insolent effrontery but the bland usurpation of another’s property passed all understanding.

page 89.

     ‘Look…’ Dewey didn’t use Madmun’s name because he didn’t know it.  ‘…your trucks are already passing over my property without my permission…’

     ‘They aren’t hurting anything.’  Madmun interrupted.

     ‘…but don’t build your pumphouse on my property.  Whether I’m using it or not, it’s mine, don’t build on it.’

     Owney turned toward Dewey looking over his right shoulder and head pretending not to see him while he had him in the periphery of his vision.  He gave no answer one way or another when Harcourt came to his assistance by saying:  ‘Well, see you later Owney, I’ve got to go now.’  Breaking up the discussion.

     As said, Owney was incapable of intellection.  He did not know right from wrong; he only knew that for his plans to work he needed eighteen inches of Trueman’s property, although as an immigrant he thought that Trueman had no rights.  He would have attempted the usurpation of the space regardless of who his neighbor had been.  He was simply incapable of social responsibility.  After his pool was built he poisoned the roots of a fine old maple on Harcourt’s property because the prevailing Southwest wind blew its autumn leaves into his pool.

page 90.

    V.

I’m going away, yes today,

Behind the wheel of a stolen Chevrolet.

I’m going to get a little high

And see if I can hotwire reality.

-Jackson Browne

 

     Owney leaned out over the mirror on his coffee table to watch himself as he scooped cocaine from the little etched crystal bowl with his twenty-four carat razor blade.  As he fined the crystals out with the blade, arranging them in two lines, his gaze came back to him, not troubled, for Owney didn’t have the intelligence to be troubled, but slightly befuddled.

     The pool expense was running up.  Owney had envisioned the completed pool, not the steps leading up  to it.  He had made no provision for the excavated dirt.  His contractor now informed him that transport and disposal would cost him several thousand additional dollars.  His house was less than six feet from the property line but his feeble intellect imagined that the dirt could be backed against his foundation.

     Owney’s wife, Toni, sat across the room listening to him.  She put a little pile of cocaine on her figer as she was at that age where peering into her reflection showed little lines that she wished weren’t there.  She sniffed the little pile into her right nostril, relieving the pressure on her left nostril as she did so.  As her eyes refocused she said:  ‘Well, Owney, I don’t think there is room beside the house for all that dirt.’

page 91.

     Owney, who had taken one of the rolled up hundred dollar bills from a little smooth ball shaped crystal vase as a tube to snort up the two little lines, having finished the right, pulled the hundred dollar tube from his left nostril.

     Toni’s words rattled from one side of his brain to the other as he tried to organize them into a coherent meaning.  Sitting back, he finally grasped the meaning through his exhilaration:  ‘Well, we can dump it on Trueman’s lot.  He’s got a lot of room he’s not using for anything.  Use it or lose it; that’s what I always say.’

     ‘He’s already told you he doesn’t want you to use his land for the pumphouse, Owney, don’t you think he’ll object to having his lot covered with your dirt?’

     ‘We need to build the pumphouse the way it is.  How’s he going to tell.  Besides once we get it up it’ll be too late.  It’ll be legal.  If we dump the dirt on his lot, same thing.  What’s he going to do about it, punch me out?  Not likely, I’ve been in Viet Nam.  And if he does, I’ll have his faggot ass thrown in jail.  We knew how to deal with his kind in Nam.’  Owney said making a pistol of his right hand.

     ‘I don’t think he’ll punch you out either, Owney, but he might file a law suit.  You’d be clearly in the wrong and have the extra expense of moving it again.’

     ‘Why?’

     ‘Why, what?’  Toni asked, startled.

page 92.

     ‘Why would I clearly be in the wrong?  Once it’s done it’s legal.’

     Toni explained to Owney that the pumphouse should be set back six feet but if they got it built without Trueman objecting the law wouldn’t require them to tear it down.  Owney extended to notion to mean that, if built on Trueman’s property the law couldn’t require him to tear tear it down; from there he extended the principle to mean that anything done could be gotten away with.  He went back to snort the another line.

     ‘Well, Owney, the law looks at things in a funny way.  You know, as a legal secretary I see these things happen a lot.  The law isn’t fair, they just will rule against you.’

     Really?  Boy, that’s rotten.  I know a lot of people too.  Well, I’ll ask him.  He probably wants to level his lot.’

     So, with what passed for close reasoning in Madmun’s mind he approached Trueman who was standing in his backyard with his German Shepherd, Savage, waiting for the big dog to do the natural thing.  His lot dropped thirty feet from Camelot to Cambenic.  The sharp drop from Camelot leveled into a small plateau.  this fell away sharply to Cambenic.  Owney dashed across the lot and scrambled up the drop off.

     Savage, sensing Madmun’s innate hostility lunged forward with the serious sounding growl of the Shepherd descending into a deep throated aggressive bark.

     ‘Whoa.  Down, Savage, down.  Come here, my good dog.  Sit, mighty fella.’

     Savage sat leaning against Trueman’s right leg, tense and quivering, lip curled back.

page 93.

     As an opening card Madmun threw in:  ‘If that dog bites me, Trueman, I’m going to shoot him.’

     ‘Poison’s more your style, buddy.  He’s defending his property.  You shoot him and I’ll shoot you.  Now get off my property.  Furthermore keep those trucks off my property from now on.’

     Madmun remembered what he had come for.  He followed up his opening with this non-sequitur:  ‘You’re a pretty good guy Trueman.  Listen, I’ve got a deal for you.  Won’t cost you a thing.  You know, my wife and I look out at your lot from our window there and see how it falls away here where I had to scramble up.  Damn near fell too, I might of had to sue you.  We got all this dirt they have to remove from our lot.  I’ll tell them just to come over and dump it here.  Fill this in for you, make it look pretty good.  I won’t charge you for trucking it over.  It’s free.  Free’s a pretty good price.’

     Dewey looked at him dumbfounded, while Owney apprehensively eyed Savage who shifted restlessly on his hindquarters.  Dewey had a quick mind, he was not only capable of intellection he had a remarkably analytic mind.  In the first place he almost emitted a scornful laugh at Madmun’s stupidity.   The amount of dirt coming off Madmun’s lot would more than fill Trueman’s.  Heaped around the trees, they would all die.  The peaks and valleys of the heaps would make it impossible for the equipment to cross Trueman’s lot.  Besides Madmun would never adhere to any agreement.  Trueman was already resentful of all the liberties Owney was taking.  Already an outlaw with no civil rights his only recourse with Madmun would be to file a lawsuit that might be loaded against him.  He knew that if he did a new load of opprobrium would be dumped on his head.  His reputation as a ‘rotten guy’ would be increased.

     ‘People would think you were a pretty good guy..’  Owney began interpreting Trueman’s delay in answering shrewdly. 

     ‘Oh yeah?’  Trueman interrupted, transmitting his anger to Savage who shifted aggressively increasing the intensity of his growl.  ‘Either that or they’d think I was your fool.  No buddyjack, I don’t want your dirt on my land.’

     Madmun was incredulous.  ‘Don’t be a bigger fool than you need to be Trueman.  I’m giving you a golden opportunity here.  This much dirt would cost you hundreds maybe thousands of dollars.’

     Savage responded to Owney’s tone by straining against the leash, while his growl increased in intensity as his fangs drew apart.

     ‘I’m going to give Savage a golden opportunity if you don’t get off my land now, jerk.  We’ll see if you can even handle a gun with what you’ve got left for a hand.’

     ‘God, you’re a prick Trueman.  I can see why people say the things about you that they do.  Goddam, what a asshole.’

     Owney Madmun retreated.  He still wanted to just dump the dirt on Trueman’s lot but Toni dissuaded him.   Still, rather than pay to have the dirt hauled, Owney instructed the workers to shovel the dirt against his foundation.  Then, not so much because he thought Trueman was that stupid but because he thought himself that clever, he ordered the workemen to feather the dirt gradually out over Trueman’s lot.  Dewey noticed.  He spoke to the workers forbidding them to come on his lot; they spoke to Madmun who was then forced to the expense of hauling it away.  He blamed Trueman for the additional expense.

page 95.

     The excavation completed and, in the fact of Trueman’s refusal to permit him to use his lot for access, Owney had no choice but to have the concrete poured from above on Camelot.

     The concrete work done they began to build his pumphouse.  He built according to his original specification on Dewey’s lot.  In addition, to enlarge his patio he extended a terrace to within a few inches of Trueman’s house.  The house was set back ten teet from the property line.

     Trueman couldn’t believe Madmun’s effrontery.  He knew his only recourse would be the law.  He trembled inwardly at the thought.  In his whole career in Oregon he had fought desperately to steer clear of the courts.  His enemies had fought just as hard to get him involved legally.  As an outlaw Trueman was routinely denied his civil rights.  He knew tht he would be denied and possibly in all circumstances.  He knew that his opponents had no sense of shame or pride.  Even in a clear cut case such as this he thought the law would be perverted to his injury.  Nor were his fears unjustified.

      He dreaded to approach Owney.  His rage and sense of injury, not to mention insult, through injustice now dominated his mind.  His sense of defenselessness gave a snarling whine to his justified indignation.  Owney, on his part, believed he could tough it out, that nothing would come of Trueman’s indignation.

page 96.

     As a native Oregonian he knew that he had the power to slander Trueman so that not only would no one talk to him, which was his status already, but so that he would find it impossible to even contract services let alone have the work done honestly, correctly and economically.  To ensure that Dewey knew, he had anonymous figures tell Dewey where he stood.  In the meantime he refused to answer the door and hung up the phone without a comment.

     Dewey had taken a lot of abuse over the years without complaining, knowing that complaint would only lead him into a morass from which he could never extricate himself.  But this was such a gross violation of his rights, such a tremendous indignity that he could not let it pass unchallenged no matter what the consequences.  He left a note advising Owney to respond or else.  Toni advised Owney to respond as she, not understanding the pervasiveness and depth of the animosity against Trueman, knew that in court Owney must surely lose.

     Trueman’s note had advised Madmun that he would return at six the following evening for an answer.  Madmun chose to tough it out.  He thought he held all the aces.  The social consequences of challenging him would be too much for Trueman, as his crowd advised him.  As his crowd said, meaning Trueman, when you know you’re going to be raped just lay back and enjoy it.  Owney thought that when push came to shove Trueman would buckle.

     Dewey rang Owney’s bell at six.  Owney’s voice came through the door:  ‘Who is it?’

page 97.

     ‘Your neighbor, Dewey Trueman.’

     ‘What do you want.’

     Dewey fought to control his rage at this additional insult.  His voice always high under stress, became a piercing shrill soprano.

     ‘Open your door so I can talk to you.’ 

     ‘No.’  Owney said, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter.  ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it through the door.’

     Dewey took several seconds, close to a minute, to seek control of himself before he could answer, then he didn’t say what he intended to say.  Instead he strangled out the word:  ‘Get your pumphouse off my property and move that terrace back.’

     ‘What?’  Said Owney, trying to enrage Trueman to the point where he could call the police.

     Overkill always calmed Trueman.  ‘You heard me.’  He said, his voice dropping back to Irish tenor level.

     ‘Don’t give me any of that Trueman.  You don’t have the right to abuse me just because you can’t hold your own.  This is a rough and tumble world; only the strong survive.  You’re not using the land, I am.  Use it or lose it, that’s what I always say.’

     Dewey saw the futility of trying to deal with such an idiot.  He simply turned and walked away.  He had no choice but to hazard the law.

     ‘So what’s your problem, Trueman?’  Owney shouted through the door.

     ‘So, what’s your problem?’  He repeated still receiving no answer.

     He pulled the door open to find the porch empty.

     ‘The nerve of that son-of-a-bitch.’  Madmun said to himself.  ‘I was talking to him.’

page 99.

VI.

Standing like a hobo in the morning rain,

Staring down the rusty tracks

For one more train.

God knows why a man should have to live this way,

But I ain’t got no choice

Unless I die today.

–Mickey Newbury

 

      ‘Quite frankly, Trueman, I don’t see that you’ve got a case.’  Pig Bowser said with studied matter -of-factness.

     ‘I don’t have a case:’  Dewey repeated blankly.  ‘Do you mean to say that in Oregon it’s legal to steal another man’s property?’

     ‘No, I don’t say that.’  Bowser said, idly pushing a couple drawers of his messy desk open and shut.  ‘But do you know this word- evidence?’

     ‘Yeah, I know what evidence is, Pig.’  Dewey said with repressed anger.  ‘The evidence is my lot.  I already told you that he built a terrace to within a foot of my house.  His pumphouse is partly on my property.  He admits it.  What better evidence do you need?’

     ‘Well, I’ve got your word for it, oh, and your word is good with me Trueman, unfortunately a court might not offer you the same indulgence.  Do you know this word?  Survey.’

     ‘So?  We can get a survey.

page 100.

     ‘Well yes, but we don’t have a survey, do we?’

     ‘Yeah, we do, Pig.  We’ve got the survey from when we bought the house four years ago.’

     ‘That’s old now.  It could be contested.’

     ‘What?  Contested? It’s nearly brand…I can have a new one taken now.’

     ‘Well, then, by all means do so, my boy, by all means do so.’  Bowser said with mocking exuberance, flinging his fat legs into the air.

     ‘Yeah.  OK.  I will.  So file the suit and I’ll get it done.’

     ‘Oh, no no, I’m not going to put myself out on limb for you.  First you give me the results of the survey, then, if everything is proper, I’ll file the suit.’

     ‘Sure, Pig.’

     ‘Well, I have a divorce case waiting.  So, it’s been fun, at least it has for me, but all good things must come to an end.’

     ‘Divorce case?  Boy, Pig, are you so desperated for business you still have to take cheap divorce cases?’

     Bowser was stung because regardless of what he told Dewey his level of competence did not rise above divorce cases.’

     ‘Oh, this a favor for an old friend.’  Bowser lied.

     ‘You aren’t named as a corespondent are you Pig?’  Trueman joked eyeing Pig’s more than protuberant belly.

     ‘Be serious.  Be serious.’  Bowser replied with false benignity.

page 101

     Dewey did not yet have that much experience with lawyers.  Under the best of conditions the legal relationship is difficult.  But the Old Boy Network was shameless.  In Trueman’s mind if you accepted a client’s money you served the client’s interests.  Bowser had been assigned to Trueman by the Old Boy Network to subvert his interests.  A lawyer of the meager talents of Bowsen had to do dirty deeds to earn the crumbs thrown his way as a reward.

     Trueman knew this.  But bad representation is still better than no representation.  His status was a major improvement from Eugene where he had been unable to obtain any legal representation at all.

     He had been in the same class as the Wobblies of the first quarter of the twentieth century.  That labor organization had been so thoroughly detested and hated that no lawyer in the entire Northwest would represent one of them.  They were denied their civil rights completely.  Like them Trueman was not only denied legal representation but he had been unable to obtain any essential service like accounting or even insurance.

     After his expansion to Portland he represented a large enought sum to admit of plundering.  Even then, at first, he had been unable to obtain adequate accounting.  He hated, by nature, to ask help of anyone but, indesperation he had turned to his Eugene landlore, Hymie Dickstein, who worked out of Portland.

     Dickstein was a successful property owner.  He had paper holding in Washington, Oregon and California in excess of a hundred million.  He was a power in the American Jewish Committee and the ADL.  All of the Jewish organizations had offices in his buildings.  He was also of the inner circle of the Old Boy Network but not a power among them.

page 102.

     Notwithstanding these attainments he was held in low esteem because of the grasping nature of his public deeds.  He had recently purchased the Adolf Kraus building.  This was an art deco building decorated with real gold leaf.  Gold can be beaten down to a thickness of one molecule so that the gold leaf on the Kraus Building represented very little gold.  Dickstein did not know this so that he had the building stripped of the leaf.  He ended up with a bill for several thousand dollars and an ounce of gold and the enmity of innumerable people.

     While deeds such as this held Dickstein up to ridicule he was nevertheless a power to be reckoned with.  Thus Trueman stepped squarely into the web by asking for his help.  Not that that really mattered; his movements were closely monitored anyway.  The Old Boy Network could and did see that he didn’t get good service.  This way the plunder could be kept in the club.

     Dickstein had suggested one of his tenants by the name of Dots Cerou.  Dots was a certified CPA. Dots was recklessly pundering Trueman offering little and charging much.

     There was no hope that Trueman would ever be able to obtain a bank loan but, as insurance, Dots turned out such erratic monthly statements that no lender would consider such a request.  Dots had Trueman paying twice the taxes he should have been.  Through Dots the Old Boy Network had Trueman referred to Pig Bowser on some business matters.

page 103.

     Trueman was aware of the situation at all times, but he had no alternative.  No one would touch him without permission.  Any who would were totally incompetent or crooked.  His choice was to be plundered or robbed.  He was the goose who layed the golden eggs.  He had to make the best of a bad situation.

     Dewey’s worst fears were now realized.  It was clear to him that Bowser would betray his interests as much as he could, nor would he be subtle about it, but blatant.  Dewey understood his disadvantage.  He knew he could be controlled by his lawyers better than he could control them.  The specter of the humiliation of defeat in court on what should have been an open and shut case would be too great a challenge to his manhood even if the odds against were a thousand to one.

     Fearful of this great humiliation he chose first to suffer a smaller one.  He dreaded to approach Madmun again.  When he did Madmun chose to believe that he was dealing from weakness.  He sneeringly dismissed Trueman through his door with a ‘See you in court.’

     Dewey had enough experience to know his total jeopardy.  Dewey was afraid of the results of a new survey.  He had worked for a surveyer in Eugene.  That surveyor, after accurately determining the lines ahd altered them to his client’s specifications.  Trueman already had the survey from the purchase of the house but Bowser had informed him that he wouldn’t accept it, he must go to the expense of a new one.

     In real desperation and fear he tried to get the original surveyor to date the survey with the current date or athenticate its accuracy.  that surveyor refused to guarantee his owrk.  He refused the task again because as he said:  ‘I don’t need your kind of trouble.’

page 104.

     Trueman showed the old survey to the new surveyor, Tom Robbins.  Robbins said:  ‘Hmm, well, they make a lot of mistakes on these things.  Can’t go by that.’

     Dewey laughed out loud.  He thought:  If you can’t trust one survey, why should you trust another?  But he wisely failed to voice his humor.

     Instead he said:  ‘They built the house based on this survey.  See that.  The house is ten feet from the property line all the way down.  Nothing has ever been changed or contested.’

     As a joke he was given a duplicate of the original survey and charged for a new one.  At least, he thought, I’m secure on the survey.

     Pig Bowser filed a suit on receipt of the survey.  A court date was set.

     Bowser plundered Trueman mercilessly.  He ran up immense bills at the rate of fifty dollars an hour.  Trueman was under the impression that whatever work was done by the firm was at that rate.  Bowser would call in one or two other attorneys to sit through two or three hour bull sessions that were unrelated to legal matters.  Each attorney charged fifty dollars an hour but Trueman was given a bill for only the gross amount.

     On the day of the trial Dewey showed up at Bowser’s office in a state of worried trepidation.  He had never been in court before.  He had expected Bowser to brief him on points of law and procedure.  Bowser had declined on the basis that that was coaching.  Coaching was illegal Bowser said and something so unethical he would never do it.  Trueman was admonished to never make the request again.

     Upon arrival he was greeted by Riley Gurgate who announced that he would represent him.  Riley Gurgate explained that the was fresh out of law school.  He admitted that he hadn’t been briefed on the case and had never been in court before.  With lawyerly gallows humor he laughingly joked that it was tough on clients for lawyers to get experience this way but that no better system had ever been discovered.

     Dewey was aghast at the insult.  He began to realize just how easy it was for a lawyer to sabotage a client’s interests.  He sought Bowser only to find that the office was empty and there was only ten minutes to get to court.  Trueman’s mind was in a turmoil on the walk up to Judge Eugene Springfield’s court.  Once there he was awarded with a phenomenal stroke of luck.  Owney Madmun heading his wife’s advice was too embarrassed to appear.

     Dewey had attained a great deal of notoriety because of his television ads.  But because he had been outlawed, excluded from clubs and civic organizations, no one actually knew him.  Everyone wanted to see him up close and live.  Because they had invented the most preposterous character for him they approached him with revulsion and contempt.

     The kindest thing that could be said of their attitude was that they believed Trueman to be an extroverted publicity hound.  Trueman was an original believer in targeting his audience.  He saw no sense in trying for the approval of people who would never buy his product.  He used a style of humor in his ads directed at this primary market.  The human was not accessible to everyone.  Actually his ads were parodies of the Oregon mentality.  Many thought the ads and himself outlandish, even ‘wacko.’  But as Trueman interpreted these people’s ability to judge anything accurately he dismissed their opinion.  Unfortunately for Dewey the only people who approached him were his detractors.  His admirers admired from a distance.

     Now they had the beast in the middle of the ring.  They meant to crack the whip to see how he could jump.  Judge Sprinfield ordered him to the stand.  Instead of finding an extroverted wildman Dewey showed himself to be shy to the point of crumbling.  He held his head down, fact turned to the wall.  He answered question is a thin, high, barely audible voice.

     The psychological battering he had taken as a child in the second grade had rendered him incapable of facing a crowd.  The subconscious memory of the hatred of his classmates gathered around him in a threatening half circle paralyzed his mind in all similar circumstances.  Not understanding why he couldn’t respond as he knew he should.  He sat on the witness stand cringing before his interlocutors.

     The contrast between this reality and their expectations brought gasps of surprise and a pleased laughter from the audience.  Springfield’s expresseion as he gazed condescendingly down on Trueman betrayed his feeling that he considered Dewey’s response unmanly.  It was.  It was the response of a seven year old boy before the force of condemnation of his classmates.  Dewey’s chagrin was further compounded by the fact that in both cases he was the injured party.

page 107.

     As Owney hadn’t showed Springfield had little choice but to award the decision to Dewey.  Trueman received a four thousand dollar award plus Madmun was required to remove his pumphouse, terrace and dirt.  Riley either forgot or neglected to ask for costs so Trueman was saddled with those.  Dewey never saw the four thousand which disappeared into thin air although Owned paid the amount.

     Trueman’s testimony had been given in such a listless manner that contradicted the aggressive impression of his TV ads that Owney’s lawyer took heart.

     He thought that he could manipulate Trueman and the proceedings in such a way that he could make it appear that Owney had Trueman’s approval for the use of the land.  He got together with Pig Bowser who agreed to let Gurgate sit silently while Truncate went about his business.

     To reopen the proceedings would need Trueman’s consent.  Bowser said he had his client under tight control, no problem.  He then went to work on Trueman at Trueman’s expense for a new trila on the basis that Owney had had conflicting obligations and couldn’t attend the first trial.  How to express the bitter chagrin in Trueman’s heart at such base betrayal.  But, this is how lawyers operate in Portland.

     ‘Where was Madmun’s lawyer, Pig?  He could have showed.’

     ‘I don’t know, Trueman.’  Bowser said reproachfully.  ‘Why do you ask things I can’t explain.  I only think it’s fair to give him a chance to tell his side.’

     ‘You think it’s fair?’

     ‘Yes, I do.’

     ‘Well, Pig, if you think it’s so fair I’ll tell you what.’

     Bowser’s eyes rolled slightly to the upper left in synch with his heads slight tilt as a faint smile of triumph was disguised on his lips.  He thought Dewey was going to go for it.

     ‘If you indemnify me 100%, absorb your fees and legal costs and any other expenses I might incur, I’ll do it.’

     ‘You have to be crazy, Trueman…’

    ‘If you think I’m crazy Bowser what do you think I think of you?’

     Well, why would I do what you ask?’  Bowser finished.

     ‘If you won’t, I won’t.  I tried to accommodate you though.’  Said Trueman shifting the onus back to Bowser.

     Neither Bowser, Truncate or Madmun would accept total defeat easily.  There had to be some way to recover from Trueman’s victory.  Madmun had removed the terrace and pumphouse immediately but he didn’t want to go to the enormous expense of removing the dirt.

     Bowser in collusion with Truncate and Madmun attempted to shame Trueman into abandoning that part of the award.  Trueman in the hopes of softening the defamation he knew was going on agreed to abandon the claim.

page 109.

     ‘I knew it.  I knew it didn’t really matter to you, that you were just causing trouble.’  Bowser said causing Trueman’s attempt at goodwill to turn to dust in his mouth.

     In the light of Trueman’s inexplicable behavior on the witness stand Owney was chagrined that he had taken Toni’s advice and lacked courage.  Keeping Trueman’s conduct in mind he and Tone set about to recover his loss and erase the humiliation.

     Several feet of Trueman’s property had been covered with dirt excavated from Owney’s lot.  Trueman by not enforcing the court decision had, if effect, given them permission to have dumped the dirt on his lot or so Owney and Toni reasoned.  Madmun had used some of the dirt to fill in the front of his own lot.  In so doing he had fanned out firther on Tureman’s lot there than alongside his house making a rounded mound.

     Tone interpreted the law to mean that if they landscaped this area they would have title to the improvements thereby filching title to the land from Trueman.  Owney would thereby redeem what his considered his humiliation in court.

     Owney knocked on Trueman’s door hoping he would step outside without his dog who he heard growling behind the door.

     ‘Hey, get on down here, I want to show you something.’  Owney commanded.  Previous to Trueman’s appearance in court Owney although he despised Trueman had nevertheless been in awe of his achievement.  He had felt inferior to Dewey.  Since Trueman’s appearance and the ‘real’ Dewey had appeared he feld his awe had demeaned himself.  He now assumed a dominant attitude not different from homosexual lust.  In fact, he a desire toshow his dominance by mounting Trueman.  This attitude came through loud and clear to Trueman who bared his teeth in response.  Trueman, in his turn, saw Madmun as soft, flabby, spoiled rich moron.

     Trueman turned to reenter his house.

     ‘Busy, don’t have time.’

     ‘Well, for Christ’s sake, man.  This is in your best interests.  Get on down here.’

     Dewey thought he better go see if Madmun was upto something else which it soundled like he was.

     ‘You get on down there Madmun.’  Trueman ordered harshly in his turn.  ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

     Madmun too offence but as he was trying to rob Trueman he swallowed it, leaving.

     ‘Here, now, just imagine this.’  Madmun said throwing his cuffs with his best snake oil charm.  ‘This isn’t going to cost you a dime and you’re going to get all the benefits.’  Toni, who had joined her husband smiled approvingly.  ‘My wife and I will pay to landscape this whole section.’  He said, foolishly pointing to the dirt he had heaped up on Trueman’s lot.  ‘It will be just beautiful for you from your deck.’

     ‘Your name is Mad-man isn’t it?’  Dewey asked.

     ‘Madmun.  Yeah, why?’

     ‘No reason.’  Dewey said musingly.  ‘Don’t do it.’

     Owney opened his mouth to speak.

     ‘Don’t do it.’ 

page 111.

     ‘Yes. Now, you just listen to me…’  Owney began gesturing the beginning of an artistic curve.

     Dewey wasn’t going to listen.  He made a quick decision without shifting his feet.

    ‘I’m putting up a fence in a couple days.’  He said drily.

     That particular response wasn’t in Owney’s projected scenario.  His projection of ‘reality’ had been quite different.

     ‘A fence!  A fence!.’  He squealed as the statement broke through his thought pattern.  ‘Why that will ruin the neighborhood.  No one else has a fence.  Why you?

      ‘How many times a year do you touch down Madmun?’  Trueman asked in all sincerity.  ‘I have to go to court to get you off my property.  You’re trying some ploy to get my property now and you ask, why me?’

     ‘What are you talking about?  Go to court to get me off your property?  I haven’t been in any courtroom.’

     Dewey studied Owney cooly.

     ‘This guy is either trying to be a frustrator or insane.’  He thought.

     Actually Madmun was neither.  He jus so narrowly interpreted his self-interest as to have no idea of the effect on other people.  He didn’t have a clue.  It may be true that nature abhors a vacuum but somehow nature overlooked Owney’s mind.

     ‘The anwer is no Madmun.  I’ll be putting up the fence soon.  I’ve got to go now.’

     ‘You know, everybody is right about you.  You’re a real prick.’

     ‘If everybody does say that then you’re all talking about yourselfs.  You’re all talking about yourselves.’

 

     The next morning Angeline was reading the Daily Assassin.

     ‘Oh look Dewey.  Here’s another article about how prostitutes from Illinois and gangs from California come here to take advantage of the innocence of trusting Oregoniana who know nothing of such behavior and don’t have natural resistance.’

     Well, Darlin’ it’s just like they tell me.  It’s just the wear and tear of living.  If they can’t stand the heat stay out of the kitchen.’

Finis

This story takes place in the mid 1970s in Portland, Oregon. About 100 pages.

The Swimming Hole

by

R.E. Prindle

 

…the only service to God is not to be evil.

–Hermes Trismegistus

Each man is his own absolute lawgiver, the dispenser of glory or doom to himself, the decreer of his life, his reward, his punishment.

–Idyll Of The White Lotus

Hey, Friend.  Wake up! I’m throwing rocks at your windowpane…

Scott McKenzie

 

     Owney Madmun looked across the table at his wife Toni.  ‘I’m going to put a swimming pool in the backyard.’  He said emphatically.  ‘How about that?’

     Owney spoke impetuously as he always did.  The notion had occurred to him just then as he looked at a picture of a pool in the Assassin and his mind was firmly made up.  It was as though the pool already existed.  In his mind it did, without the intervening steps of planning and execution.

page 2.

      ‘Just like in the paper here.  Solar panels and all.  Cutting edge of technology.  Save the ecology.’

     ‘Sounds terrific.’  Toni said, adding a touch of polish to the edge of her nail, third finger, right hand.  ‘Let’s get started.’

     Toni was Owney’s second marriage; he her third husband.  Owney was thirty-five; Toni twenty-eight.  She was one of those party girls who traded on their looks.  She was much faster than Owney, but she was considered so desirable that in the frenzy to win her third time favors Owney’s financial status had bested several of his fellows.  He had the means; Toni had the ways.

     She was not strikingly beautiful but she had one of those taut firm, fully packed, well formed bodies, without being overly shapely, that drives some men mad.  There was not any real affection between them.  Owney had gotten one of the most desirable women of his group while Toni had gotten an ample meal ticket.  Owney was a well-to-do nephew.  Financially he had been a good catch.  Toni, who had no desire at the time to lose a good thing, not having another one ready, deferred to his opinion by habit.

     And so Owney nodded over to her and set about to build his pool.  There were serious obstacles to the construction of the pool but Owney with his complete lack of intellection gave them no mind, which is just about how much he had to give.  His main problem he was told was that his lot was not the right configuration for an economic installation.

page 2.

     Owney’s house was on a hillside lot in Portland, Oregon.  He lived in a section called the ‘Cams.’  All the streets in the subdivision began with the syllable Cam after the developer’s son.  Cambenic descended from the hillside from the main road which was called Cam.   Camelot angled off to the right and down the hill to rejoin Cambenic which had descended and curved around.  Cambria crossed Cambenic just before it rejoined Cam.  Cambridge Court angled off Cambria.  Owney’s lot reached from the upper street, Camelot to the lower street, Cambenic, twenty-five feel below.  His house faced the lower street, Cambenic, while the backyard reached up to Camelot.  A sharp drop of fifteen feet graded up to his back porch.  The lot was inaccessible to the West from his neighbor Brace Harcourt’s lot.  To the East, Owney’s house sat less than six feet from the line with Dewey Trueman’s house.  Trueman’s house faced Camelot leaving a gap between the backs of the two houses just big enough to drive a truck through.

     The sharp drop of Owney’s backyard would have to be terraced.  Thus the dirt from the terracing and the excavation of the pool would have to be lifted up to Camelot Street.  The catch was the backhoe couldn’t be got down the incline and if down couldn’t be got back up without a crane.  Owney was told that the cost would be prohibitive.

     Owney thought it could be done cheaper.  The hoe and trucks would just fit between the back of his house and Trueman’s.  If the equipment was brought up Trueman’s backyard thousands of dollars could be saved.  The contractor agreed that the job could be done much more cheaply that way, but he wasn’t sure that Madmun’s neighbor would approve.  Owney told them to go ahead, he would take care of it.  Owney didn’t bother to consult Trueman because he didn’t think that anything he did was Trueman’s business.  Besides, he thought, let him see Trueman try to stop him.

page 3.

     Dewey Trueman awakened from a sound sleep as the grading equipment roared and lurched below his bedroom window onto Madmun’s lot.  Dressing, he looked out at Madmun’s presumption.  He was indignant that Madmun hadn’t consulted him.  While he sat brooding a knock came on his door.  He was greeted by Madmun’s contractor.

    ‘Listen, I’ve been in things like this before and I don’t like it.  I don’t want to get started and have to stop.’  He said, beginning in media res.

     ‘Who are you and what are you talking about?’  Dewey asked with just a trace of irritation.  It seemed of late that everyone Dewey talked to spoke in broken disconnected thoughts.  One incomprehensible non-sequitur followed another.

     ‘Who am I?’ said the contractor rearing back incredulously, as though everyone should know him.  ‘I’m Owney Madmun’s contractor.’  He said omitting his own name.  ‘Say, if you’re not interested I don’t have to tell you.  After all, this is for your own benefit.’

page 4.

     Dewey was in a certain amount of turmoil over the trucks plus he hadn’t had his coffee yet.  He remained patient in the face of such obtuseness.

     ‘All right, all right.  You’re the contractor who owns the trucks next door?  What is it?’  Dewey asked, thinking that he would ask for permission to cross his lot.  Dewey had never met Owney.  He didn’t even know his name.

     ‘Well, Owney’s going to build his pump house on your land.  I want you to know so you can do what you have to.  I don’t want trouble.’

     Dewey was dumbfounded.  He forget about the trucks.  ‘Oh, no.  Build on my lot?  I’ve never heard of such a thing.  You must be mistaken.’

     The contractor looked at Dewey indignant that Trueman found his information preposterous.  ‘Well, I’m telling you the plans call for him to build the pump house eighteen inches onto your property.  there, I’ve told you.’  He finished Oliver Hardy style.

     ‘Thank-you.’  Dewey replied, still dumbfounded.  ‘I’ll talk to him.’

     Dewey found it incredible that a man would usurp another’s land.  The next day he was standing on Camelot looking down at the lot line.  As he studied the layout of the pool it seemed clear that the pump house would definitely have to be right on the property line instead of set back six feet as the law required.  Dewey didn’t know that Madmun thought of the law as something to be disregarded or baffled.  The law was for other people;  Owney’s self interest was lawless.  ‘There are no rules.’  He would say reflecting a popular Oregon notion.

page 5.

     ‘Well, what do you think?’  Brace Harcourt said, spitting at Trueman’s feet.  Harcourt lived on the corner lot where Cambenic and Camelot divided.  He was sixty-nine, stood six-four, dyed his hair black but was trim and athletic looking.  He had a slight resemblance to Ronald Reagan which he cultivated.  He was just retiring from SSSAP, one the bigger advertising firms in Portland.  He was contemptuous of and hated Trueman although he knew him in only the most casual way.

     Trueman owned the biggest record store in the city, Chrystalship.  Dewey spent vast sums on advertising on radio and television all of which he handled himself.  Dewey spent more than most car agencies or any of the big retailers.  In the retail hierarchy, record stores were classed well below car dealers and retail chains.  Dewey was thought presumptuous if not insane.  In the envy he aroused it was definitely thought that he was too big for his britches.  Retail is as full of penis envy as any other industry.  Thus, Solly Valentine’s, a chain with a dozen huge general merchandise and grocery stores in Portland was shifting money from its newspaper advertising onto TV and radio so that the large firm would have a greater electronic presence than Dewey’s much smaller almost miniscule company.  In many ways, Dewey’s presence was a bonanza for the electronic media although they were too myopic to see it.

     Trueman wrote his own ads, doing the man on camera work.  Naturally Harcourt and the people of the other ad agencies despised and belittled Trueman’s work because they thought his account belonged by rights to them.

page 6.

     As Dewey owned a record store, Harcourt believed that Trueman was deep into drugs.  At that time it was universally believed that record stores were covers for drug operations.  In TV shows the addicts always went into record stores to buy drugs.  As on TV so in real life apparently.  In actuality one of the refrains in the music business was:  ‘Sex, drugs and Rock n’ Roll.’  But neither Dewey or his firm had anything to do with drugs.

     Harcourt’s son was something of a ne’er-do-well in his father’s eyes.  Harcourt suffered a great disappointment in his son Brice.  To explain his disappointment, withour incriminating his own rearing, he invented the story that Brice suffered from brain damage because someone had put drugs in his drink at a party.  Not being a clear thinker, but needing a scapegoat, he believed, not thought but sincerely convinced himself, that as Dewey was associated with records and therefore drugs, Dewey was responsible for Brice’s ‘brain damage.’

     That was a great leap, for Dewey had not even been in town when Brice suffered his alleged ‘brain damage’ but by the late seventies Americans no longer believed in logic or even validation of their notions.  If they thought it, it must be true.  In point of fact, Harcourt’s son considered himself an artist and lived what he considered to be the artist’s live.  So?

     Harcourt spat at Trueman’s feet every time he saw him.  Trueman had spoken to him about it previously.  Harcourt had been taking barbituates for twenty years ‘to calm his nerves’.  The drug had deteriorated his mentality so far that he was unconscious of spitting.  Since he was not conscious of doing it, he was even capable of denying it with the evidence before him.  Trueman had no choice but to think him the most brazen of liars.

page 7.

     Trueman pretended he hadn’t heard Harcourt distinctly.

     ‘What’s that Mr. Harcourt?’  He said with some irritation but politely in defference to the other’s age, but definitely, he thought, not his merit.  As he held Harcourt in some contempt he refused to call him by the nickname Harcourt preferred.  He liked to be called the Big B, or just B.  Dewey thought the guy was so insolent he should have been a waiter.

     ‘I said, what do you think?  Open up your eyes. boy.’ Brace said naming the wrong organ.

    ‘I see you’re as irascible as ever old buck.  I think it’s going to cost him lots of money with little return.  How many days a year can you use a pool in Portland?  Two?’

     ‘Oh, that.  I dont’ mean that.’  Harcourt replied, sneering down his nose at Trueman.

     ‘Well, Mr. Harcourt, you don’t really think I can read your mind, do you?’  Trueman asked.  ‘What then?’

     ‘I see your dirt is being spilled all over you.’

     Dewey was confused by the reference.  He thought Harcourt was referring to the excavation.

     ‘Uh, well, I’ll talk to him about it, Harcourt.’

     ‘Him?  You mean them.’

     ‘Them?  Them who, Harcourt?  What the hell are you talking about?’

page 8.

      ‘The paper.  The paper, boy.  They’re showing you up for the crook I always knew you were.’  Truculently spilled from Harcourt’s mouth.

     Dewey blew out his breath bringing his hand to the back of his to work out the riddle.

      ‘The paper?  Do you mean the Daily Assassin and that story a couple weeks ago?  What about it?’

     ‘Using lie detectors is against the law, boy.  Guilty, you’re guilty, just like I always thought so.’

     Dewey passed his hand from the back of his head across his face as the whole unpleasant two or three years of confrontation jumbled through his mind nearly undecipherable in its compressed psychic code.  He had only the most meager notion of how to intrepret the whirling maelstrom of events.

     The story Brace Harcourt referred to had been printed by the Assassin two weeks previously.  A year before the State legislature had passed a law forbidding the use of polygraphs by private agencies.  Trueman had employed an agency for employee testing prior to the law.  In an effort to live up to its name the Assassin was making an effort to assassinate his character.  The paper had printed the story about his use of polygraphs without making clear when.

     The Daily Assassin was now the sole paper in town.  It was the result of the combination of the Oregon Daily Hatchet and the Portland Daily Assassin.  the Hatchet was named in reference to George Washington, who, with his trusty hatchet in hand couldn’t tell a lie.

     The ownership, which was in New York, shied away from calling the combination paper the Daily Hatchet-Assassin, in which name there was a certain amount of ironic humor and truth.  They settled on the Oregon Daily Assassin which most accurately reflected the attitude or  Mingo Miybriy, its editor. 

page 9.

      Mingo believed it was her responsiblity to assassinate the character of anyone who failed to meet her standard of political correctness.  All was done in the spirit of the biblical promise to the Israelites:  I will bless them that bless thee and curse them that curse thee- or fail to bless thee.

     The article had been written by a lesbian to anathematize Trueman who had run afoul of the homosexual community.  Not only was the Assassin pro homosexual but their quarrel with Trueman had further ramifications.  Trueman was on the list of persons to be given the silent treatment because of the social unacceptability of his Hippie background and his association with the record business.

     Even more fundamental was his refusal to advertise in the paper.  Trueman had put all his advertising dollars into the electronic media which did a terrific job for him.  The Assassin was aware that Castle Records in San Francisco ran a double truck every Sunday in the Chronicle.  This represented a very nice piece of change.  They projected the same scenario for themselves and Chrystalship.

page 10.

     The Daily Assassin was now a monopoly.  In the best of circumstances they were arrogant, haughty and condescending.  In addition their obvious contempt for Trueman was so insulting that he coudn’t do business with them and maintain his self-respect.

     The electronic media were competetive, sympathetic to the product and more attentive to his needs.  Trueman had no need for the paper’s services so he treated them as contemptuously as they treated him.  They being the larger business found him merely presumptuous.  The management seethed in resentment.  They longed for his store to be replaced by Castle which was aggressively expanding across the country.  While it would be extreme to say that the paper could put him out of business it was in their power to assassinate his character.  Their story was slanderous with criminal intent.  It had obviously been successful.

     The story had its origins in events beginning three years earlier.  These years were as tumultuous as any in the tumultuous history of the United States.  Fostered by the immigrant past of America every ethnic group, social group or even viewpoint was operating with autonomous desires.  In varying degrees they attempted to operate as entities above the law of the land.  In other words they attempted to transfer the determination of justice from the many to the few.

     The attitude would become most clearly expressed with the anti-abortionists of the nineteen-eighties and nineties during which individuals took it upon themselves to assassinate doctors who performed abortions.  These people were still capable of claiming to be against capital punishment.  Their argument was the hoary one that ‘God’s’ law is higher than man’s law.

page 11.

     In the same manner lesbians and homosexuals began to twist society and law to meet their specific needs as opposed to general needs.  They declared themselves a minority that in some manner was being deprived of its rights.  Not a clear argument but it passed.  Following the Jewish model of the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith they began to intimidate publishers and broadcasters  who wrote or spoke unapprovingly of homosexuality.  They began the process of choking off objective study of homosexuality.

     Homosexuals are men.  There is no physical difference between homosexual and heterosexual men.  Homosexuals figure among shot-putters and football linemen.  They number powerful businessmen, judges and lawyers.  They are quite capable of taking care of themselves without special protective legislation.

     In the act of soliciting sexual favors from heterosexual men they are sometimes punched out.  But then a man who called a policeman because he had his ass grabbed would be thought ridiculous or unmanly.  The manly thing is to punch one’s assailants lights out.  A very large percentage of homos are masochists, which is a psychological corollary of violation, who desire a beating.  If it may be said that heterosexual men have an unreasoning hatred of homosexuals then the reverse is also true.  As the Bible says of Ishmael, his hand is raised against every man and every man’s against him.  To enfranchise one group of men over the other is to tilt the playing field.  If homosexuals can’t compete on a level field they should stay on the sidelines.

page 12.

     Contrary to these public declarations homosexuals are not discriminated against unless they adopt a weird persona, wear dresses or speak like Marilyn Monroe.  Most people are unconcerned about sexual orientation so that it is impossible for them to distinguish homosexuals.

     Homosexuals thus form a species of secret society.  They are, in fact, a brotherhood.  To be a brother in good standing is absolutely essential.  Thus one’s independence is destroyed; one must conform or face ruin as one can have no sex life having made oneself inaccessible to women.  Of course, there’s always sheep.  In the work place the heterosexual functions as an independent individual.  One or the other group must control the work place and establish its mores.  The homosexual brotherhood having solidarity must easily gain control of the workplace. 

     Even though forced to be covert, history is replete with homosexuals in every line of endeavor.  The arts are an especially favorable field for homosexuals.  Especially the record business.

     Homosexuals came out of the closet in 1969.  the open practice of homosexuality progressed rapidly to enter what is called the Candy Store Era of homosexualtity.  By the late seventies before AIDS choked it off the Candy Store Era was in full swing.  Being a ‘guy’ was openly indicated.

     During the sixties many record performers began to hint that they were homosexuals, or, at least bi-guys which as an intermediate step was considered more acceptable.  Such nonsense as:  ‘Why should I exclude one half the world from my bed?’ was prevalent.  Earrings began to appear on men.  The outre clothing fashions of the Hippies lent cover to garb not so discreetly feminine.  There was an effort made to make skirts acceptable for men.

page 13.

     By the late sixties artist’s began to discreetly acknowledge the truth.  By the mid-seventies it was openly proclaimed; by the late seventies proudly so.

     The unalterable fact of the matter is that homosexuality disgusts and revolts men who aren’t homosexual and, more importantly, those who refuse to acknowledge their own infirmity.

     As the seventies progressed the vitality which had characterized Rock n’ Roll began to fade away.  As it did homosexual entertainers came to the fore as heterosexual interest faded.  Groups began to simulate fellatio on stage.  This in turn drove heterosexual men away in disgust.  At the same time overtly homosexual Disco music began its rise driving Rock n’ Roll into further eclipse.  Thus the record market was decidedly tilted toward the homosexual influence.

     Homosexuality is a psychotic reaction to sexual abuse.  The victim is psychologically emasculated.  Hence homosexuality is expressed in gross pornographic imagery and practice.

     Because mankind never wishes to assume responsibility for its actions an objection may be raised to the notion of psychotic reaction.  Early in man’s development the belief was that the stars guided men’s actions.  When the astrological theory became untenable people wished to believe that their anti-social actions were caused by possession by evil spirits.  Demons, or the devil made them act against their inclinations.  Society even went so far as to empower people to exorcise the demons.

page 14.

     When science came to the fore after the Great Revolution, the idea that man himself was responsible for his actions became dominant.  The science of psychology developed the notion that man could alter his behavior by plumbing the depths of his psyche.

     This view caused an extreme reaction as people rejected the notion of personal responsibility.  Oddly enough science was called into play to nullify its own discovery.  Anti-social behavior was caused, some said, by brain tumors.  Failing brain tumors, then a chemical imbalance in the brain.

     Recently these theories have been thrown overboard in favor of genetics.  Genetics is a tough, imprecise field.  No one can actually prove that genes influence behavior; no one can actually disprove it at present.  To placate the skeptics believers claim that the defective A1 gene has to be activated by an objective event.  Once activated, of course, it can’t be deactivated.  Not even by chemicals that might restore the balance.  One accepts the theory on faith or not.

     The believers claim that psychotic behavior such as alcoholism, homosexuality and criminality is caused by the defective A1 gene.  Thus from the stars to the A1 gene man refuses to accept responsibility for the inability to control himself.

     Nevertheless homosexuality is expressed through a violent demeaning attitude toward sex.  This attitude began to dominate the record industry by 1976.  The attitude was perfected when the Disco rage took over  the industry, dominating it for several years.  Songs celebrated homosexuality.  Whole records celebrated it.  Homosexuals still couldn’t show it on the beach but they could do it on record covers.  The gay group, The Village People put out a twenty minute song entitled:  The YMCA which coyly celebrated the homosexual joys to be found there.  Oddly enough the Y never called for the record to be suppressed which they certainly had the right to do.  The Beegee’s recorded the double entendre: More Than A Woman To Me.  Sly and obscure enough to go unrecognized except by the initiated.

     The Headhunters were on the move.  Nowhere was the aggressive attitude more explicit than on the cover art.  Giorgio Moroder who, had been using the Black woman, Disco Donna Summer, as a cover for his projections, stepped into the open issuing records under his own name.  His ‘Knights In White Satin’ threw down the gauntlet for the straight males of the world.  The cover art featured Moroder fronting a bunch of ‘guys’ dressed in white satin lounging around a gleaming white toilet.  The toilet is the focal point of the homosexual ideology.

     During the Candy Store Era public baths became gathering places for homosexuals.  Essentially large toilets Portland had at least two of them.  Thus anytime night or day a lonely homo could joust with fellows in the toilet.

     The symbolism of ‘Knights In White Satin’ is clear.  In the Arthurian corpus Lancelot, the most formidable knight of his or any day, issues forth from under the lake dressed in white satin on a white charger with white accoutrements.  White is Gnostic symbolism for the color of purity and grace.  The Wonder Rabbis of eighteenth century Neo-Hasidism also wore white satin as chosen and leaders of the chosen.  Thus Moroder was saying that homosexuals were the best men preferred by God.  The Homosexual Revolution was on.

page 16.

     But, in point of fact, homosexuals are only the chosen losers.  When they were emasculated as children or during the course of their lives they became dominated.  They had been compelled to submit.  The humiliation of submission, forced submission, is too much for their psyches.  Hence they turn to a vicious brutal attempt to reverse their roles. Within the brotherhood ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ practice sado-masochistic rites.

     Among heteros, with whom they cannot compete they wage interminable warfare.  Unable to confront masculinity they lie, sneak and cheat hoping to gain the upper hand by subterfuge.  Since they cannot hope to win on their own merits they seek the State to give them a handicap in laws which suppress the superiority of heteros.  They seek a handicap that makes heteros submit and allows homosexual dominance.

     As emasculated men they can no longer act as whole men.  Thus they love the very idea of manhood which they have been denied.  They study men; watch them, bringing all the most admirable traits together in an impossible cartoon image of manhood.  Thus the Village People posed as ‘macho men.’  They adopted stage personae of the most virile men; but they were merely actors playing a role.

     While the knights of old sought dominance by charging across the greensward with their lances leveled to sink the point in another’s flesh so Moroder and his brotherhood charged across the toilet with a different lance leveled to sink it in their brother’s flesh.  Headhunters shoulder jousted down the street trying to prove their dominance of others by walking into them if they didn’t step aside.  Defective A1 genes or mental disturbance?

page 17.

     Cover designs frequently accentuated the sado-masochistic elements of this dominance-submission.  the fire down below expressed the sickness above.  Homo separate themselves into ‘boys’ and ‘girls.’  Male dominance over female submission in its most brutal form.  Thus a Disco Donna Summer was a surrogate for Disco Giorgio Moroder when homoseuxal songs refer to girls they mean submissive men.  Women on cover art are surrogates for men.  When they are meant to be women they stand with ardent longing around a male who ignoring them altogether has no use for them.  ‘Boys’ are more than a woman to him,

    By one of those twists of fate Pilgrim’s Center in which Trueman’s store was located was on Stark St.  The homosexual center of Portland was on a wedge of streets that began where Stark and Burnside met at Twelfth St. widening as it approached the river.  Most of the homo hangouts were in this wedge.  The Great Gotham Hotel anchored the wedge on the triangular block that began it.  The Gotham had been converted into a bath house of which the toilet was the community room.  God help the hetero who stumbled into the place to stay or eat at the restaurant.

page 18.

     Just up the street was The Mama Tried.  Across the street was the Darby Ram.  Both were homosexual restaurants and bars.  Above the Pilgrim Center between West and East Park was Daddy Cool’s on the corner.  An empty space, which was soon to be filled inervened.  next to that was the Black Bottom, a place owned by a little Black guy about five feet four who went by the name of Jimmy Jack Speedo.  Another hangout, the Bottom Half was up on Yamhill and East Park.

     The Pilgrim’s Center and Chrystalship were thus in the Homosexual center of the city.  Concomitant with the ‘coming out’ of the homosexuals was the coming out of lesbians.  Even if they couldn’t show it on the beach they could demonstrate anywhere.  Suddenly two girls would stop in the middle of Dewey’s store and begin tounging each other for long slobbery minutes.  The lesbians too were looking for a fight.  They needed some way to draw sympathy for their psychological infirmity.

     The femininst movement was at one of its historic peaks.  The women’s movement was sensitive about how women were portrayed in art.  The enemy to the homosexuals, the lesbians and the women’s movement was the hetorosexual male in lesbian minds.  While censoring references to themselves they felt free to voice the most bigoted sentiments about whole men or even balanced women.

     Thus, while the sado-masochistic cover art was perpetrated by homosexual interests, heterosexual men were blamed for it by the lesbians.

     Trueman, who really loved the record business, watched with dismay as the homosexual element with their pornographic approach to cover art came to dominate the industry.  He was already in an unhappy frame of mind when the storm burst directly over his head.  The lesbian sisterhood chose to make cover art a social issue.

page 19.

     They needed a vehicle to bring their plaint to the fore.  Both Trueman and Chrystalship loomed large in their minds.  Sex, drugs and records filled the void of their minds.  They identified Trueman with the ‘ruling class.’  They neither knew of his origins as an orphan, the least privileged of any caste, nor did they understand that he was an outlaw with no status with the privileged class.  When Trueman had told one of these beat up femmies of his origins he had been called a liar because, as she said, he couldn’t have built the business he had if he had come from an orphan’s background.

     His supposed prominence and the size and actual prominence of his store made him the natural target.  Dewey’s own attitude as the matter developed was more confrontational than diplomatic.  He gave what he had gotten in life.  Neither attitude would have mattered as the former would have exacerbated the situation  and the latter circumvented it.  The only possible solution with bigots is submission.  The situation was so far from the American ideals of his youth that he was incapable of putting things into a historical or social context.  His original conciliatory attitude soon developed into a confrontational one which set the tone of the dispute.

     The mere frustration of their wishes was enough to drive the lesbians to extreme measures.  They decided to begin gently with Dewey.  Over the course of a few weeks various lesbians stopped Dewey in the store to complain about certain record covers.  Dewey could, and genuinely tried, to sympathize with them.  He didn’t like the direction cover art was going either, but for different reasons.  When they insisted, he would give the reasonable counter that this was a world he never made; he wasn’t present at the creation and no one had asked his opinion since.

page 20

     They thought Dewey was part of the ‘white male power structure.’  In their minds he was indued with great powers.  Dewey was amazed that they thought he was capable of having the covers withdrawn.  Dewey tried to patient with them.  He explained that he, too, didn’t like a lot of the covers, not necessarily the ones they objected to.  He showed them the Giorgio Moroder cover which offended him greately but bothered them not at all.  He showed them several other homosexual and lesbian covers.  He showed them the selection of Olivia records.  The Olivia label was a lesbian label with lesbian lyrics and photos.  He tried to explain to them that America was a land of free speech which protected the right of all to express any point of view.  He tried to explain…

     But they were narrow and single minded in their zeal and bigotry.  They pointed out that he could refuse to sell records of which they disapproved.  He pointed out that homosexuals themselves were designing the covers.  Many homosexuals were part of the ‘White male power structure’ as were many lesbians.  He tried to show them that the world was not a heterosexual plot against homosexuals.  He pointed out that it would be suicide for him to refuse to stock the records that they or any other group might object to.  He pointed out…oh, but it goes on and on.  Reason cannot influence bigotry.

page 21.

     Finally the lesbians began to mutter about ‘justice.’  Dewey pointed out that the law was on his side.  ‘Law! Law! We’re talking about justice man, not Law!’

     Justice in a well ordered state is the prerogative of the state not individuals or sub-cultures.  But, at this time in American history sub-cultures frustrated with the greater culture began taking ‘justice’ into their own hands.  They became vigilante lynch mobs.

     They also wanted maximum publicity for their beliefs, none for the other.  So, one night between ten and twelve, Linda Delmurkwasser and two confederates entered the store.  Linda, like a female Charles Manson, supervised as the others slashed a hundred offending covers with criss-cross designs using nail files and left, smiling triumphantly at the lesbian behind the counter who gave them the high sign.

     Over the years Dewey as a retailer had to deal with many inexplicable occurrences such as razor blades concealed among the records or tear gas sprayed into the air conditioning vents.  Retailers are compelled to suffer an endless list of such petty but potentially dangerous crimes.  Spiteful religious people had been mashing half eaten ice cream cones between records for months.  In the crush of happenings when Dewey had the covers pointed out to him he marked it down as yet one more bizarre occurrence and forgot about it.

     The lesbians had expected Dewey to go to the p0lice so that they could make a row about the covers.  Sure that the action would be top news they had planned to step forward, explain their terrorist action and vindicate their cause before the world.  This could be big, they thought.

 page 22.

     When nothing happened they printed an account of in the Sapphite, their monthly paper.  Linda Delmurkwasser, who doubled as an agent provocateur for the police as well as being a lesbian had already informed the police.  She now brought the article to their attention pointing out that this time the lesbians had gone too far.  While the police had a benign attitude toward infra community crimes, perhaps because the lesbian article boasted of taking ‘justice’ into their own hands, which was an infringement of the police prerogative, they thought to offer Trueman a hand.

     Linda Delmurkwasser was also a reporter for the Daily Assassin.  In her role as double agent she would be able to give the lesbian views maximum exposure in the event of legal action.  A Sergeant Pappas called Trueman to advise him that they had read the article.

     ‘Now,’ he chuckled, ‘we can only let you people go so far before these things get out of hand.  So, we can take action in this instance against those lesbians if you want it.’

     Trueman was well aware that he had been outlawed.  The police did more to hurt than help him.  Any offer of assistance from the police made him suspicious.  He ran through the bag of tricks looking for the setup.  He couldn’t imagine one besides he had completely forgotten the incident.  He told Sergeant Pappas that the incident had never happened, no matter what the Sapphite said.  Pappas was dumbfounded.  They thought he was lying but couldn’t understand why he was protecting the lesbians.

page 23.

     Linda Delmurkwasser was also disappointed.  She sat down, tapped the table with the fingernails of her right hand twice as a new plan entered her head.  She had connections at KGRU radio.  It was the gangbuster number one station at the time.  KGRU Radio was staffed predominantly with lesbians and homosexuals.

     Trueman, in his conversations around the station discussed record covers in the terms of artwork.  Moderns always disparage the present in favor of the past.  His opinion was therefore disparaged.  But, he pointed out, the art of the past has been presorted for moderns.  The worst had disappeared into the trashcan of history; only the best has survived.  The thrill of the present, he would say, waxing enthusiastic, is that some is good, some bad, some in better taste, some worse.  The joy of it all is sorting through the material to select that which is best, or at least, to your taste.  Besides, he would say, there is such a flood of material that little of it will be remembered no matter how high the quality and the quality was high indeed.  So much was being done today that was equal to or better than anything done in the past.  In Philistia his notions flew right over the heads of his listeners who believed that anything in the past was better than anything in the present.  Trueman was willing to expound on the subject to anyone who would listen.  The boy did like to talk.

     Linda was sitting around the New Improved Granny’s Sewing Circle and Enlightened Cafe snorting a few lines when several lesbians from KGRU came in.  They greeted each other and began discussing the problems of the exploitation of women by men which soon turned to the portrayal of women as sex objects in art which devolved to record covers.  Dewey and his beliefs entered the conversation.  The notion of making a news item of cover art occurred simultaneously to each.  It was a true group epiphany.

page 24.

     KGRU news, or a ‘roving’ human interest team, called Trueman explaining that they wanted to do a special on cover art.  His store was perfectly arranged for such a TV story.  Unlike most record stores which shove bins against the walls, Trueman’s bins were in the center of the store.  Shelves seven feet high lined his walls displaying a thousand albums face out.

     Trueman was neither blind, stupid or slow.  He knew that the station was heavily homosexual.  He was aware of the lesbians’ attitude t0ward the covers.  As he was under a ban of ‘dynamic silence’ from the establishment he knew that something was afoot to discredit him.  But, if they wanted to film record covers, he told them to go ahead.

     Dewey knew exactly what they would do.  When the crew entered they immediately focused on the cover the lesbians thought was most controversial.  The record, which had a very tame cover, was Montrose’s Jump On It.  The cover featured a coy abstract design that could be interpretated as part of the midriff and thighs of a human being.  Or it could be interpreted as a two dimensional abstract design.  It could also be interpreted as a derriere and thighs.  The content was actually provided by the title and one’s prurient imagination.

page 25.

     Artists being the quirky little tricksters they are had merely provided an implied sexual innuendo, there was no indication that the design represented a woman. Homosexuals were very busy at the time putting all kinds of ambiguous designs on covers that at first glance seemed to be women’s anatomy.  One’s prurient interest aroused, on closer inspection the picture would turn out to be the juncture of a man’s arm and chest upside down made to look like cleavage.   Thus supposedly the sexual line between male and female was obliterated.  The picture ‘proved’ that a man could be aroused by another man.  This was real locker room stuff; women were not invited.  Unwilling to be duped, when Dewey looked at the Montrose cover he saw a picture of only colors and a two dimensional abstract design.  Ideologically one could see a unisex crotch.

     The TV crew was lesbian and homosexual.  As Dewey stood watching Linda Delmurkwasser motioned him over.

     ‘Dewey?  It is Dewey, isn’t it?’  She said pretending not to know so as not to have to acknowledge his existence.  ‘Come over here, Dewey, and give us some of your comments on this here ‘art.’  Linda was one of those egocentrics who thought that if she didn’t like it it wasn’t art.

     Dewey had a policy to never be on camera when he couldn’t control the content.  He was certainly not going to offer himself as a sacrifical lamb to this crew.

     ‘You don’t think I’m going to be on camera with you, do you?’  He asked staring absentmindedly across the store reciprocating Linda’s disrespect.

page 26.

     ‘Yes, oh yes.  We want you and your opinions as the important element of this picture.’  Delmurkwasser cooed in that lesbian parody of feminine coquetry.  It is interesting that homos and lesbians who are reacting to the same characteristic in men evidence their reaction in opposite ways.  They both worship the idea of manhood.  Homos despise themselves but are capable of an adoring caricature that is better than the original while lesbians despise women rejecting all their ways in favor of a manly style they cannot obtain.  Dewey smiled at Linda’s parody of of a coquette.

     ‘No, no, no.’  Dewey replied.  ‘Photograph whatever you like but I’m not going on camera.  I thought you had your own story written.’

     ‘Well, then, this won’t work.’

     ‘I guess not.’

     Frustrated again the lesbians lost their ability to concentrate.  No new ideas were forthcoming.  Then one Saturday night Linda, Casey Wingit and Donna Dancin, two newsperson women from KGRU, were at the Disco Deep Elum where they ran into Clint Devery, the morning jock on KGRU.

     Newsperson women may seem like a gross redundancy, which it is.  First the sexual revolution demanded unisex titles, so newsperson replaced newsman and newswoman.  Then sexual preferences reasserted themselves.  Unable to go back to ‘sexist’ newsman or newswoman the term was strung out to newsperson guy or woman.  Thus language is corrupted by well-intentioned stupidity.

page 27.

     Disco Deep Elum was the largest, fanciest disco in Portland.  Discos were the bacchic churches of homosexuals.  There they could party, revel and show it till the cows came home, provided they come home before 2:00 AM when the state liquor laws take effect.

     The central feature was, of course, the giant ball of mirrors rotating in a dazzling display of lights.  The layout was a large square thirty feet high.  The dance floor curved from right to left with the tables on the perimeter out to the walls.  The disc jockey and his nonstop multiple turntables were in the right back corner amid a blaze of spotlights.

     As homosexuality is centered on dominance and submission the men’s toilet was given fantastic prominence.  This was a toilet that homosexual dreams are made of.  The toilet door was high on the right wall fifteen fleet above the floor.  A long narrow rampway, not wide enough for two abreast led from behind the turntables up to the toilet door.  Banks of spotlights illuminated the ramp.  The ramp and toilet was the focal point of Disco Deep Elum.  It was where the real action was.

     The game of dominance and submission was played out on the ramp.  When a ‘knight in white satin’ went to the toilet another knight might take it in his mind to challenge him.  When the first knight came out of the toilet the challenger raced up the ramp.  One or the other party must give way in those shoulder jousts or a confrontation must result.  Thus to the thudding of one hundred twenty beats to the minute, that’s two beats per second, in the full glare of hundreds of spotlights the ‘better’ man vanquished the other before the whole Disco Deep Elum.  This was the real show.  A ‘manly’ pecking order was established.  Here was the very essence of genetic A1 homosexuality.

page 28.

     Linda, Casey and Donna were snorting lines bought from one of the numerous dealers in the place- you’ve got to get up to get down, disco buddy- and talking about things to Clint when their frustration over record covers came up yet again.  Clint had a fecund mind to go with his sense of justice.  He had just about finished explaining to them how a row could be got up by picketing Chrystalship when there was an uproar on the toilet ramp.

      Terry Trenkar had seen Billy Botman head up the ramp to the toilet.  They were both macho men of good size.  ‘I’m going to show that guy’s chicken shit.’  Trenkar muttered under his breath.  Bill Bailey at the turntables picked up the on the incipient psychodrama with the telepathy of a born irritator.  His adrenalin soared.  As the previous record had ended he picked up a tape he had set to a disco beat of ‘Big Balls In Cow Town’ by the great Bob Wills.  As Trenkar grabbed the rail and pulled himself up his first few steps, Bailey set the already high volume up a notch.  At this signal all eyes turned toward the ramp.

     Bill Botman came out of the toilet to be surpised by Trenkar coming up the ramp like a steamroller for the shoulder joust.  Botman wasn’t going to give way.  He edged over into Trenkar as they slammed together.  ‘Big Balls In Cowtown’ was turned up another thundering notch as Botman and Trenkar grappled fifteen feet above the floor now featured along with the music and dancing.

page 29.

     With a heave Trenkar raised Botman up and thrust him over the rail.  Botman grabbed the lapels of Trenkar’s shirt trying to pull him over too.  Bailey turned the volume up yet again.  The mirror ball began to quiver as well as rotate sending shafts of spectrums in every direction.  The struggle assumed titanic proportions in the intense noise and light.  Trenkar pulled back his fist to belt Botman.  As he did so Botman let go of one lapel to grab hold of Trenkar’s abundant hair.  He took a fist in the head as he put his weight into pulling Trenkar over.  Trenkar’s scream as his scalp tore loose from his skull was lost in the pounding thud of one hundred twenty to the minute.  He involuntarily pitched over the railing landing head first with what would have been a sickening thud if it could have been heard.  It was eerie.  You knew there was noise from the scuffle but the volume cut you off from reality.

     Botman who was wearing cowboy boots landed on the side of his heel giving his ankle a violent twist.  Looking over at Trenkar in the thunder whose head was crushed into the floor butt in air, Botman thought he was dead.  Rising to his feet Botman hobbled out of Deep Elum as fast as he could go.

     In the sequel Trenkar who had lost fair and square, so to speak, refused to abide by the result of the trial by combat.  He appealed to the homo community for sanctions against Botman.  As the spectacle had been performed under lights before the world the community just told him to get lost.  Trenkar then tried legal charges but strange to say there were no witnesses.  It ain’t easy being a macho guy.

page 30.

     Their plans having been formulated Linda, Casey, Donna and Clint issued out into the street as Bill Bailey played a mix of his own of Lonnie Donegan’s Dixie Darlin’ and the Beatles Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds set to the one-twenty beat.  He called the result, Disco Darlin’.  He had only combined other people’s creative efforts but with cool effrontery he considered himself the creative equal of the incomparable Lonnie Donnegan and The Beatles.  Unfortunately Bill was way too far out ahead of the crowd that night.  His effort failed with a thud and a half.

     Outside Clint and the girls stood watching as the ambulance carted the ‘Knight In White Satin’ away.

     ‘Wow, wasn’t that terrific?’  Donna shouted in awed tones her ear drums still numbed by the volume inside.

     ‘Yeah.  I never guessed it would end that way.’  Casey yelled as though she had been watching a TV show.

     ‘Yeah, man! Deep Elum’s a boffo place.  You can always count on action like that.’  Clint finished.

 

     Dewey was driving to work the following Saturday when Clint Devery announced during the news break that there would be a lesbian desmonstration against Chrystalship beginning at noon.

     ‘That’s not news!’  Dewey said aloud.  ‘You can’t announce riots before they happen.  That’s incitement.  Besides I didn’t pay for that announcement.’

     Dewey knew Devery from having taped his radio commercials at KGRU.  He stopped at the station to get an explanation.  Devery contemptuously and silently shrugged off Dewey’s question.  There is little you can do in such a rebuff.  If you get angry your anger will be used against you.  Devery was expert in homosexual confrontations, but he…oh, that’s another story.  Devery had the advantage and the microphone.  Had Dewey pleaded with him he would only have demeaned himself.  Whatever he did he could only draw the chuckle.  Trueman had already gratified Devery by responding to the message.  He merely turned and walked away.  Devery leaned out the door of his cage watching Dewey’s retreating figure.  He reached down and gave his penis a little loving squeeze as he emitted a squeal of delight because, in his mind, he had triumphed over Trueman’s manhood and asserted his own.

page 31.

     But forewarned is forearmed.  Dewey knew what they wanted.  He worked out three probable scenarios.  He knew that they didn’t have a news story; no one really cared what lesbians thought of record covers.  He knew that on TV he would get more sympathy than not.  At best lesbians represented a small fraction of women’s opinion even if they had captured the women’s movements and spoke as if they talked for all.  As a non-person Dewey knew the authorities would never let the story reach the tube. Too much free advertising.  All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and be cool.

     But Dewey had emotional problems of his own.  The psychological compression of his childhood experience had begun to decompress rapidly at the first sign of his success.  Dewey had had his orginal personality murdered on the recess yard in the second grade.  The patchwork personality he had put together amid the constant psychological battering from second grade to graduation was rapidly deteriorating.  Dewey was aware of this and aiding the process.  He was working desperately to regain his original personality or develop a suitable alternative new personality.

page 32

     The constant battering he was taking as an outlaw was taking its toll.  He knew that whatever he gained something would be lost.  He was prepared to gain himself if he lost the world.

     He was intelligent and incredibly tough mentally but alone in what might be described as behind enemy lines.  The only thing that would make the lesbians’ demonstration would be a visual confrontation between the demonstrators and himself.  He wouldn’t leave his store.

     The demonstration was more wish than reality.

     There were only half a dozen lesbians who showed up to protest.  Linda Delmurkwasser and her friends who had jobs to protect watched from across the street and down the block.  Only one cameramen and one sound man from KGRU were used.  They intended to overdub commentary at the studio.

     The six who showed waved their signs and chanted but to their dismay they were totally ignored  It was, it is, very difficult for homosexuals and lesbians to generate sympathy except in the abstract.  No one wants to go ‘queer.’

     Many women were openly contemptuous.  Some who had no intention of entering the store did so in spite.  There were many who thought the demonstration was merely a publicity stunt of Trueman’s.  Frustrated outside the demonstrators decided to invade the store.

    The store was very busy as it always was on Saturdays.  As a good field marshall Clint Devery had several knights in the store alert to the situation who would have the advantage of directing the flow of events.  As anonymous operatives their homosexuality concealed their acts would appear as disinterested or nonpartisan if anyone actually noticed what they were doing in the confusion.

page 33.

     Dolly Vargas burst into the store, threw her sign on the floor, climbed up on a rack wearing a house dress worn over levis with big combat boots to begin declaiming; ‘Listen people…’  People being the magic word that unites all ‘right thinking’ people behind the orator.  ‘Listen, people, do you know you’re supporting sexism?’  She screamed over the loud speakers from which bellowed the Rolling Stones ‘Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown.’

    In point of fact the customers couldn’t relate buying their favorite records with sexism.  Most of them thought they were watching a promotional stunt as Dewey was considered to be a publicity hound.  Had Dewey been dispassionate the knowledge would have been cold comfort for it was publicity he did not seek.

     Dewey was at the other end of the store from Dolly.  As he turned at the sound of her voice, Bobbye Dorley rushed through the left entrance behind him to push him hard in the back.  She was followed by the cameraman hoping for a violent response from Trueman.  When Dewey turned the first thing he saw was the cameraman.  Dewey knew that the cameraman would know his responsibilities.  As politely as he could with Bobbye clawing at him he asked the cameraman to leave.  A request isn’t an order so the cameraman smiled and filmed on.  Dewey ordered him to leave.  An order is something to be resisted.  The cameraman began to give Dewey an argument when a coordinator understanding the jeopardy to the station grabbed him by the arm directing him to the door.

page 34.

     Turning back, Dewey found Bobbye Dorley screaming insults into his face.  Dewey sensed the presence of Devery’s Headhunters more than identified them.  He could practically feel their hands on him as he tried to back away from Dorley.  He kept his hands at his sides as he knew that if he raised them he would be blindsided to the floor by one of Devery’s anonymous terrorists.  After that who would know.

     His requests to his employees to call the police were ignored.  Dewey managed to extricate himself from Dorley so that he got into the back to call the police.

     The police, who were observing just down the block, were prompt.  Asked to leave the lesbians refused.  They insisted that the store was a public place.  Perhaps, but a riot is illegal anywhere.  They refused to listen to the policeman’s explanation that a store is not a public place but only open to those wishing to do business there.  Order was restored only when the police began threatening to arrest any who wouldn’t leave.

     The lesbians, who  arrogated justice to their affliction, found any opposition unjust.  Opposition was not a difference of opinion in their minds but a willful disregard of justice, never mind law.  Thus they believed that Trueman and the police were in criminal collaboration to defeat their idea of justice.  Trueman was condemned in their system of justice as an inveterate and willful malefactor.  As he would not bend to their will he became in their eyes an ‘arch-homophobe.’  Work on the implications of that word for a while.  As a criminal homophobe Trueman must be punished.  Trueman was therefore entered on the homo and lesbian blacklist as an enemy.  Borrowing ideology from the Jewish network they would bless them that blessed them and curse them who wouldn’t bless them.

page 35.

     Trueman was already blacklisted by both the Old Boy and Jewish Networks.  All his efforts would now by thwarted by the Homosexual Network.  The word was put out to harass him at every step.  Ordinarily his picture would be put out and he would be tailed so that wherever he went the tail would notify his contacts that Trueman’s requests should be frustrated as much as possible.  As Trueman was on TV the picture was not necessary as everyone could recognize him on sight.  An eye for an eye.  If he would frustrate their efforts then they would frustrate his.  Hate is such a terrible thing.  Don’t you agree?

     The homosexual and lesbian network was a formidable network.  A member must comply or be expelled.  Homosexuals and lesbians are distributed throughout society in every profession and on every social level.  They function as a secret society.  Even if one could identify each one there would be no way to defend oneself as, along with Blacks, Jews and Women they have arrogated to themselves the role of the innocent victim.  Legal and social prejudices are in their favor.  In the workplace they can and do create infinite difficulties for ‘homophobes.’  Bear in mind that all that is necessary to be classed as a homophobe is to be neutral.  With the current advances in technology there is nowhere in the world that one can evade the toils of the homosexual or any other network.

page 36.

     Dewey soon found that his difficulties increased to the point where it was impossible for him to get good service.  He was treated most disrespectfully at all restaurants, waiter staffs being entirely homosexual.  Urine, feces, spit, semen and drugs were placed in his food and drink.  He began to be sick the day after eating out.  He resorted to making reservations under assumed names which did him no good as he was easily recognized at sight.

     The Old Boy Network had been tampering with his cars for years.  He had bought a car from Leuni Cadillac.  They had disconnected his back brakes, destroyed his emergency brake and set the engine to idle at forty miles an hour.  No one in town would correct the idle, Trueman wasn’t aware of the brakes.  He was laughingly told that all Cadillacs were designed to idle at that speed.  As he was still struggling with this problem, which was actually attempted murder, offenses against his car began to occur regularly.

     More importantly the lesbians and homosexuals decided Trueman was making a fortune off them.  This must be stopped and at least some of the money recovered.  The American way would have been opening their own store going into competition with him.  But the American way was fast disappearing.  The constitutional guarantees are an impediment to the doctrine of Political Correctness to which the advocacy of homosexuality is fundamental.

page 37.

     It was not enough to compete with him.  In their minds he had ‘stolen’ profits from them.  He must be cheated and robbed as they, in their minds, had been by him.  The money must be recovered.  Rudy Walling did set up a small shop between Daddy Cool’s and the Black Bottom called Reddy Rudy’s.  The name was more than a double entendre.  On one hand it traded on the electric industry’s trademark of Reddy Kilowatt.  On another it had the implication of the homosexual’s being always ready for sex.  On yet another it was a reference to Little Richard’s lyric:  Tutti Frutti, I want Rudy.

     A very curious campaign of sabotage against Trueman began.  Every effort was made to undermine his operation.  Homos and lesbians filtered in to dominate the staff.  In the Candy Store Era before the advent of AIDS very heavy homosexual proselytization was conducted.  Frequently one could identify men who had been recently seducees by the Headhunters.  A concentrated campaign was conducted to seduce Opie Wooley Trueman’s manager.  As Wooley was a cocaine addict and weak minded the task was not too difficult.  Wolley’s loyalty was transferred from Trueman to the homos.

     Reddy Rudy’s inventory was then transferred from Chrystalship to his store on a daily basis.  It was a homosexual’s dream.  They were screwing Trueman  from behind and he didn’t even know it.  The staff practiced offending the customers, trying to drive them away.  Trueman found to his dismay that his male customers were being solicited.  Leo Levi without looking up to identify who was before him tried to solicit Trueman.  When Trueman fired Levi eight of the staff quit in protest while charges of discrimination were attempted to be filed against Trueman.

page 38.

     Trueman’s turnover, always high, became ferocious.  Some hired in the morning left at lunch and never came back.  A week or two became a long term employee.

     Trueman, who was not aware of the nature of the problem was baffled by what was happening.  The morality he had been raised with was no longer valid.  Something was happening but he couldn’t identify it.  Actually it was a stage in the war between Judeo-Christian morality and Revolutionary morality.  The disciplined Judeo-Christian behavioral ideals were being replaced by the self-indulgent undisciplined ideals of the Revolution.  The Constitution was falling before Revolutionary Political Correctness.  The embattled Catholic and Protestant forces either couldn’t identify the problem or were powerless to resist it .  At any rate there was no evidence that the problem was comprehended at all by society.  There was only a call for a larger police force, an even more invasive State.

     The old ideal of freedom of speech was being replaced by a system of censorship imposed by the PC factions.  The world was dividing into Us and Them.  Semites and anti-Semities, homos and homophobes, Black Racists and White Racists, factionalists against universalists.  If one belong to the former groups one had freedom to belabor one’s opponents; if to the latter one was automatically guilty of anti-social behavior.  One’s opinion became invalid and criminal.  While censorship was theoretically deplored the notion of censorship applied only to the right to publish pornography.

page 39.

     Trueman was of the old school of American thought.  He saw no harm in anyone saying anything they wanted.  Words are cheap; only deeds count.  While he sensed a change in the direction of American mores he was not quick enough to identify the problem.  While Trueman was not so ardent in his belief that he would defend to the death anyone’s right to say what they chose he believed they had a right to say it.  He didn’t censor his record inventory.  The inventory represented all shades of opinion.  Irish revolutionaries with absurd clandestine style even sold him records by the Wolfetones.  Wolfe Tone was an eighteenth century Protestant Irish revolutionary.  The Irish were so insular in their beliefs that they were aghast when Trueman placed the records prominently in view in the racks.  They quite seriously thought he would be arrested.

     Trueman took the broad view, the lesbians didn’t.  While he carried the covers to which the lesbians objected he also carried the Olivia label of lesbian artistes.  He carried the whole line as a service to the audience as only one record by Chris Williamson had any commercial value.

     The lesbians decided that Dewey shouldn’t be allowed to carry Olivia.  The ‘profits’ should not go to benefit a person they considered a proven male chauvinist pig and homophobe.  Dewey suddenly found that he couldn’t get his orders filled.  He couldn’t get anyone at Olivia to come to the phone and his rep was always in China or Siam.

     Politically Correct groups were beginning to do real violence to political and social ideals as found in the Constitution.  They had no tolerance for opposing points of view while demanding unconditional acceptance of their own.  In the actual context of law the lesbians’ act was illegal but as the Olivia line had little commerical value Trueman let the issue drop while retaining a lingering sense of resentment.

page 40.

     All of these groups harbor large numbers of mentally unbalanced individuals who find legitimization under the cover of the group organization.  Their sense of right and wrong is so skewed in favor of their ideological ‘justice’ as to be indistinguishable from criminality by traditional standards.  many of these lesbians were outraged that ‘their’ music still remained in a ‘bigoted homophobes’ shop.  Thus one day a mentally overwrought, hysterical Sally Ferguson marched into Trueman’s store, scooped up the remains of the Olivia section and marched defiantly out the door clutching her precious cargo to her breast.  The sympathetic lesbian at the counter gave Sally an approving high sign as she marched past.

     Trueman, who watched his inventory very closely, was mystified by the disappearance of the section, although no one would tell him what had happened.  The word of Sally’s action spread throughout the lesbian community to their general satisfaction.  The lesbians of course had close ties to the Women’s Movement.  The story when told to women not involved in the lesbian movement didn’t receive the same sort of approval.  In fact the story elicited strong disapproval as it was, after all, theft.  Certain of the lesbians reflected on this disapproval.  While they still didn’t think it wrong to expropriate their records from a homophobe they wished to absolve themselves in the eyes of the normal women.  To rectify matters the Olivia rep was authorized to issue Trueman a credit for thirty dollars.

page 41.

     ‘Mr. Trueman sir, we’re very sorry for what happened.  Even though we’re not responsible here’s a credit for thirty dollars.’

     Dewey looked at the credit a moment, then said:  ‘Your friend took a hundred fifty dollars worth.  I can’t accept a credit for thirty dollars.  Besides which unless you give cash the credit is worthless.  You won’t sell me records and if you did your people would only steal them back.  So thanks for a meaningless gesture that is probably only meant to absolve your people’s guilt.  Keep your credit and a pox on you and yours.’

     The rep, who was really a pleasant person but caught up in an ideology no different than Judaism, Communism or Nazism was overweight by thirty-five pounds, dressed in long johns, bib overalls and the ubiquitous combat boots with turned down socks went by the name of ‘Belle Starre.’  She thrust out her lower lip which quivered slightly.  She and her fellows needed to expiate this guilt.  Trueman was refusing them their hypocritical satisfaction.

     Belle Starre turned with heartbroken rejection from Trueman.  She could now understand, she thought, how cruelly inconsiderate a man could be.  He really deserves his reputation, she added to herself.  As the passed the front counter she laid the credit on the desk.  She would at least be able to say that she left the credit at the store.  Trueman wouldn’t be able to honestly deny the fact; the lesbian behind the counter was her witness.

page 42.

     With the removal of the Olivia catalog the lesbians could think of no other way to draw Trueman into a feud over the covers.  It was a pyrrhic victory but Trueman had successfully sidestepped the issue.  The lesbian and homosexual communities still continued to work against Trueman’s interests.  A steady campaign of vilification was carried on.  Closet homosexuals who passed for straight carried the slander to all levels of society.

     The lesbian and homosexual communities had been in the van of the effort to  have the polygraph tests made illegal.  Interestingly enough neither honest people nor criminals object to polygraphs.  It is only the sneak and cheat who objects.  It is they who have something to conceal.  At the same time homosexual groups were parading their ‘sexual preference’ they were terrified that they would be discovered through polygraphs.  They made an issue of ‘invasion of privacy.’

     When the use of polygraphs for employee testing became illegal Trueman became, ipso facto, criminal in their eyes.  Closely after polygraphs were outlawed Linda Delmurkwasser conceived the notion of writing an article for the Assassin exposing the ‘real’ Dewey Trueman while concealing the ‘real’ Linda Delmurkwasser.  The goal being always to present a subjective need under the guise of objectivity.

     It is in the interest of any group pursuing a political agenda to infiltrate the news reporting agencies.  From within they can slant reporting and influence editorial policy toward their ends.  Of course, at the same time it is necessary to prevent any dissenters to their opinion being employed.  Actual ownership is unnecessary.  Lesbians and homosexuals had such a presence on the Daily Assassin that the paper no longer tried reporting the news objectively but was solidly in the homosexual camp.  All homosexuals were portrayed as saints while all  ‘homophobes’ were devils.  The paper openly endorsed homosexuality while conducting a terrorist defamatory campaign against anyone who voiced doubt or opposition.   The ‘freedom loving’ editor of the Daily Assassin, Mingo Miybriy, herself a closet lesbian who only indulged her passions on business trips and with pros who were paid, actively encouraged Linda to remove the blot on Oregon’s decency in the name of freedom and equality.

page 43.

     Linda knew Attorney Trashman, Attorney was his given name, who had been employed by Chrystalship.

     Attorney was a pasty faced sadist.  He died his hair jet black, greasing it into curls long before the style became fashionable.  He had been with Chrystalship an incredible eight months before he had been fired.  He had been a constant source of irritation.

     Trashman had taken full advantage of the Candy Store Era.  He was so active he merely went from one case of gonorrhea to another.  He had become so sensitive to penicillin that his doctor required him to wait an hour for possible reactions before releasing him.

     Trueman had sent him home on two occasions.  Once when he came to work wearing gauze pants with no underwear discharging copious amounts of gonorrheic pus.  The second time Attorney and another employee, Jim Frascatti, came to work wearing T-shirts emblazoned Slave and Master.  Frascatti who wore the Slave shirt was also searing black plastic manacles with a couple links of chain as bracelets.

     The second dismissal had caused a jarring argument about Trueman’s alleged bigotry and homophobia.  Trueman would have fired Attorney over either incident but he feared that if Trashman filed a suit the Old Boy Network would take delight in judging against him.  Also the reaction in the homosexual and lesbian communities would have been such that he wouldn’t have been able to walk across the street without interference.  This was almost the status quo as it was.  The homosexuals as the saying goes had him over a barrel.

     Atttorney Trashman was severely mentally unbalanced.  He decorated his bedroom with various harnesses and sexual devices.  He even had a real straight jacket stolen from Salem.  One wall was a display of ballpeen hammers from the tiniest to the largest.  Attorney delighted in a story he told of a pick-up being led into his bedroom.  The guy took one look at the hammers, turned in fright screaming:  Oh no.  Not me you don’t, I’m game for anything but not those hammers.’

     Attorney Trashman lingered on while employees turned over at a ferocious rate.  Trueman did not have a single dependable employee.  His so-called managers became mere conduits to carry out instructions which they failed to do.  When his manager quit Dewey was forced to give Trashman a chance.  Dewey had forgotten that he had sent Trashman home but Attorney continued to nurse a grudge against the ‘bigot.’

page 45.

     Drugs were the bane of Trueman’s existence.  Not that he used them but everyone who ever worked for Chrystalship was deep into them.  They argued that they needed drugs to get them through the day.  They thought they performed better under the influence.  During the Candy Store Era drugs were conspicuously everywhere.  The record indistry had deteriorated so badly that not only did the perverts control production and design but the reps used marijuana and cocaine to corrupt store employees.  Now, that means that the manufacturers supplied the wherewithal to purchase the drugs.

     Trueman’s purpose in having polygraph tests had been to keep out drug dealers and heroin addicts.  His great fear was that the efficiency of the store would be destroyed if drug dealers and addicts got the upper hand.  He spent a lot of money for nothing.  Opie Wooley was already there.  No sooner had he hired the polygraph administrator than Opie had corrupted him with free cocaine.  It seemed to the easiest thing to do no matter who the target was.

     Trueman had also had a confrontation with Hannah Cohen of the Big Carrot Record Group over her lavish distribution of cocaine to the employees.  Hannah had stoutly defended her ‘rights’ and refused to desist.  The resulting confrontation with Warren Morley, the sales manager of Big Carrot, had resulted in Hannah’s being sent back to LA, hardly a punishment to her, while Trueman had his credit cut off permanently.

     When he subsequently found his former employee from Eugene, Dobby, who now worked as rep for Individual Artists Group, trading records for cash with Wooley to buy some touring group cocaine he didn’t make anymore phone calls to the credit manager, he just told Dobby not to do it again.  Oddly enough it never occurred to him that Wooley was selling the cocaine.  Wooley had a clean polygraph test.

page 46.

     Between drugs and sex Dewey was revolted by Attorney’s habits of which Trashman kept him fully informed.  Still Attorney was the only employee with any seniority.  Dewey believed that Trashman was dishonest, therefore he made it a condition for Trashman’s advancement that he take another polygraph.  Attorney reluctantly accepted.

     Trashman was a thief; he failed the polygraph.  As one would expect of someone with ballpeen hammers on his bedroom wall Attorney was cooly insolent in denouncing the reliablitly of the tests.  Trueman was in a quandary.  The campaign against the polygraph, given maximum publicity and endorsement by the Assassin, was close to success.  The lesbian assembly woman, Greta Lafrenniere, would put the bill through in three month’s time.  Trueman was almost simple in the goodwill he bore people.  He probably would have given Attorney another chance anyway but as he was under heavy abuse for using the tests plus their imminent banning he did keep Attorney Trashman on.

     A week later five hundred dollars under Trashman’s supervision disappeared.  Through no one else had the opportunity to take it, Trashman cooly and contemptuously dismissed the notion he had taken it.  Nor would he discuss the matter further.

     Trueman took the matter as a test for dominance; he had no choice but to fire him.  Trashman then warned Trueman not to make trouble for him or else, making a hammering motion to emphasize his words.  As an Outlaw Trueman had no recourse to the law so he had to suffer the humiliation.  Unwilling to let matters rest there Attorney actually sought a lawyer to sue Trueman for defamation of character but was unable to find an attorney to represent him.

page 47.

     Trashman had then gone to work for the New Criterion Coffee Shop on the second floor of Pilgrim’s.  As the Candy Store Era progressed the homos became more bold.  Many and wondrous were the stories about the scene in New York.  One such influential story was that there was a place in the Big Apple where at lunchtime a man could put his penis in a hole in a curtain in a certain location and an anonymous party would minister to his need.  Partially in response to this story the locals made the second floor toilet their social club; the place was not so anonymous as the hole in the curtain.

     This was a hideous situation in a family shopping center.  It would have been an easy matter to restore order.  But the situation was complicated by one of those ugly little realities in American life that no one wishes to acknowledge.  Racism.  Pilgrim’s Center was owned by Jorge and Benito Sukamoto.  In terms of human interest stories the Sukamotos had an astounding one.  It is almost a shame to skim over it so briefly.

page 48.

III.

You sit there a cryin’

Right in your beer.

You think you’ve got troubles?

My friend listen here…

Now, there stands a blind man,

A man who can’t see.

He’s not complainin’

Why should you or me?

Don’t tell me your troubles,

I’ve got enough of my own.

Be thankful you’re livin’

Drink up and go home.

Freddie Hart

     The Sukamotos originally came from Nagasaki one of the two Christian centers of Japan.  They were Catholic, their family had been for three hundred years.  The Japanese had been converted by Portuguese and Spanish priests.  Hence Jorge and Benito were named after Iberian Catholic saints.  Both had been born in Japan.  Persecuted for their religion the Catholic Sukamotos responded to the governments request to emigrate to the East Pacific Rim.

     Entry to the United States by the twenties was impossible for them so the Sukamotos elected to go to South America.  They were destined for the Japanese colony in Brazil, but having landed in Peru they drifted up to Colon, Colombia.  They did not find Colombia congenial so they cast longing eyes toward the United States.  Father Ishi was an enterprising sort so gathering up his wife Eleanor and the boys he entered Mexico where he found a way to be smuggled into California.  Not really more difficult then than it is now.

page 49.

     Ishi wanted to farm but the Californians had passed a law forbidding ownership of land to non-citizens.  They also passed laws preventing the Japanese from becoming citizens.  Not so different from the way Japanese treated aliens.  All depends on which foot the shoe is on. 

     Ishi therefore, ignoring his consuls requests to stay in LA kept moving northward to Oregon where Japanese could own land.  By the late thirties he was a successful truck farmer.  He, Eleanor and the boys worked hard on the land.  Jorge and Benito excelled by dint of hard work at school.  In 1938 Benito was sent back to Japan to acquire a Japanese veneer.  He was trapped there after December 7, 1941 for the duration of the war.

     Jorge entered Harvard in September of ’41.

     In the Spring of ’42 the  order came for the Japanese of the Western Defense Command to be interned away from the Coast.  Camps were established in Colorado, Idaho and the desert regions of California.  It is erroneously believed that all Japanese were interned.  Japanese in the Heartland and the Eastern Defense Command were not disturbed.  Any Westerners who had a place to go were allowed to go there.  Thus Ishi and Eleanor joined Jorge in Boston where they worked at good paying jobs in defense plants.  Continuing to live frugally they returned to Oregon with more money than they had when they left.  Plus Jorge had his Harvard degree.

page 50

    End Of Clip 1, go to Clip 2 and Conclusion

Disco Donn Demands Deliverance

by

R.E. Prindle

Part II-5

     So I get this inspiration and jump and say ah yes, but all gods are one,  Jews, Christian and Muslims all worship the same god.

     So much for ecumenism, man.  Boy, did they come down on me.  I couldn’t believe it.  You won’t believe it.  They actually jumped up and down screaming at me that I’m disrespectful to their august persons, that I’m a bigot, a troublemaker, a disturber of the peace, I oughta be kicked out of school and so on.  They were disgraceful but I’ve found the older you are the geekier your act.  Screw ’em.  So they don’t have the balls to kick me out of school but I can read the handwriting and besides I have enough of so-called higher education.  I don’t have to be told what to think and that’s the only kind of education they’re capable of giving, the stupid Fascist bastards.

     So next thing you know, here I am bussin’ with the band from Charlevoix.  Hey, come on, have a swig, you’ll feel better.  With any luck you’ll look better.’

     Big Daddy’s story about himself was accurate but like most people he wasn’t aware of his major influences.  Raised in different circumstances Big Daddy would have been a very different person, maybe a couple hundred pounds lighter.  America’s story has become one of eating disorders.  He hadn’t made himself what he was, he was the product of his environment.  Congratulate yourself America.  The beating and hammering he took combined with the closing of opportunities to him by the racial and immigrant situation prevented his aspiring to success in the corporate world.  The same forces blunted his manhood so that on the one hand he sought redemption in homosexual adventures while on the other, in addition to being a clown, he became a fool.  Shut out by ‘polite society’ of his own race he had nowhere to turn but inward, or to strike out in blind rage.  Screamin’ Big Daddy Gargantua’s response was a combination of the two.

page 201.

     Big Daddy was an intelligent man.  He was even immensely talented.  He knew a great deal about music.  He was not original, but he was as gifted at arranging as the best at any point in musical history. The Bull Lee Band played some terrific sets.  As a dance band which means everything is played loud, no dynamics, they could go through four or five songs in a twenty minute set without anyone noticing rhythm changes.  The dances just fluidly moved from one song into the next.  Big Daddy was really hep to the rhythm section.  He learned from both disco and reggae how to play the melody off the beat.  The band could start with Question Mark And The Mysterians ‘Ninety-six Tears’ and combine it with Doug Sahm’s ‘Mendocino’ before slipping into ‘Unchained Melody’ and ending with the Rolling Stones’ ‘Get Offa My Cloud.’

     It may be difficult to visualize if you weren’t there but after six beers, a couple joints and whatever with a hot Sorority Sister on your arm I’m here to testify that there was no incentive to come back to earth.  I mean, MAN, that was done with four distinctive beats but you never knew where the changes happened.

page 202.

     In the fifties when big Daddy was small Kerouac and Burroughs began proselytizing society to their vision of anarchy.  Kerouac made the wider societal impact but Burroughs’ message hit hard in the music business.  All kinds of groups were named from his books.  Bull Lee was Kerouac’s name for Burroughs in ‘On The Road.’  The name was also punning as in ‘Bully Band’ meaning terrific in the Teddy Roosevelt sense as well as ‘Bully’ in the conventional sense.  ‘Steely Dan’, a very successful group was named after the dildo in ‘Naked Lunch.’  The Other Half, The Insect Trust, The Soft Machine and many others took their names, inspiration and philosophy from Burroughs.  They pushed drugs and homosexual anarchy.  The goal was to burn the ballroom down, tear it all down until society reflected their own inner reality which was a barren desert.

     Big Daddy didn’t even have to think about it, Burroughs made perfect sense to him.  Since Big Daddy rejected the cant of what passed for formal education he turned a deaf ear to school but drank in Burroughs.  He understood Burroughs’ comic strip style of writing perfectly.

     Wherever Big Daddy and the Bull Lee Band played drugs showed up in abundance.  There would be plenty on the SMU campus after the band left.  Big Daddy and the band preached foolishness from the bandstand.  When Big Daddy got going he moved his big belly around in monumentally foolish fashion.  When he was honkin’ sax he could swing the sax up and down to the right and left while he got his belly going up and down to the left then switch back and forth.  You had to be there.

page 203.

     The Bull Lees were as good as any band going.  They never got a contract for two reasons.  First, Big Daddy was terrified of success.  He’d rather complain about the injustice of the system than put his ego on the line.  Second, they were a copy band.  Big Daddy could arrange like crazy but he couldn’t compose.  No original material, no contract.  Augie Myron and Johnny and Jack did go on to successful careers in other bands though.

     So Big Daddy was on a collision course with the vanishing point.  But in the meantime he was thoroughly enjoying himself.  He offered Donn a drink again.

     Donn had been refusing Big Daddy for hundreds of miles but he broke down and took the pint from Cunningham.  The travelers, expecially a couple prim ladies had been complaining to the driver for hours.  But the driver was loath to take Big Daddy on.  Big Daddy knew this.  He also knew the driver would jump on Donn.  thus he cleared his throat loudly as he openly passed the bottle to Donn.  The driver braked the big bus to a stop.  Opening the door he stalked down the aisle to Donn:  ‘Alright, Buddy, that’s it.  There is no drinking on my bus.  Off! Now!’

     Big Daddy softly smiled:  ‘Sorry about that pal.  Come on by in Big D, I’ll see that you get in.’

page 204.

     Donn Stepped off in Plano to spend the next two days hitchhiking into Waco.

VI.

Out In Oregon

     Donn in his misery had almost forgotten that Oregon existed except for his nagging apprehension of Maggie Spingold.  In Donn’s absence many plots had come to fruition all in the same summer and fall.  Albert Morley had been driven from the state, Richard Dick had been railroaded into prison, Dewey Trueman had been driven from business and E.L. Shaddai had been destroyed.

     Albert Morley had displeased the Old Boy Network, most probably because he wasn’t a ‘team player.’  In other words he pursued his own goals for his own benefit regardless of the wishes of the Old Boys to pursue his goals for their benefit.  They have their plans and one is supposed to subordinate one’s desires to theirs.  One is supposed to wait one’s ‘turn.’  They will determine whose shot it is, not you.  Morley had seen his opportunity and gone for it.  He had founded a small electronics firm.  Through constant harassment he had fled the state to set up in North Carolina.  There he was to prosper.  From there he sent letters to the Daily Assassin complaining of the Old Boy attitude.  The Old Boys didn’t care, they just laughed.  After all they had won.  Morley was in North Carolina.

page 205.

     Richard Dick was a more curious case.  He was a Native Oregonian.  He had enjoyed a career as a minor sports figure.  After a lengthy minor league career he had actually played in two games as a Yankee.  The pinstripes must have a remarkable effect on a man because Dick considered himself an important man about town.  He wanted to be a member of the Grammercy Club which was hopelessly beyond his reach.  He couldn’t even obtain membership with the other twenty thousand in the Multnomah County Athletic Club.

     He was a wild and crazy guy.  He liked to think of himself as dancing madly backward on a sea of air beyond the edge.  His imagination was spent devising startling escapades.  Angered by his rejection he tried to offend his rejecters as much as possible.  Thus he opened a restaurant called Dick’s In with only one N.  That drew gasps of astonishment and notoriety.  But the attention had failed after a few months while not giving him any acceptance.

     He then opened a second restaurant called Dick’s Out.  Once again gasps of astonishment.  In the nature of his enterprise no one would work for him who was in the least respectable.  He therefor had recourse to the street girls who ran the streets of downtown.  These girls who slept in the underpasses and wherever were mostly fifteen and sixteen.  Runaways, naturally, they knew nothing of hygiene or even cleanliness.

     Had Dick been conscientious in running his restaurants he might very well have made at least an adequate living from them.  There were plenty of people rooting for him.  But he was unable to apply himself to the details of day to day affairs.  The restaurants were draining his resources.  In an attempt to save himself he opened yet another; a juice bar based on the model of the movie ‘A Clockwork Orange.’  This evil movie which is followed by a series of rapes and crimes everytime it is shown was hated by anyone of good sense.  This time Dick thoroughly outraged the Old Boys while offending thoses who had been sympathetic or neutral.

page 206.

     The juice bar failed ignominiously leaving Richard Dick with only his Dick’s Out.  Devoid of defense, the Old Boy Network moved in on him.  They followed the time honored method of sex and drugs.  Dick was desperate to recoup his finances.  Being short on morals as well as sense he was more than open to selling cocaine.  Shoot, ask John DeLorean.  An Old Boy was given a kilo to sell Dick.  Needless to say as soon as the money and dope changed hands the arm of the law grabbed hold of Dick.

     He had no money for a lawyer which was of no consequence as he would not have been properly defended if he had so he took a public defender.  The thing was obviously a clear cut case of police entrapment which Dick should have been able to beat.  Now at the mercy, or rather, in the clutches of the Old Boys, the Daily Assassin gave his story full coverage.  To show the full extent of his degeneracy he was depicted as the seducer of fifteen and sixteen year old girls.  Reading the Assassin one would have thought these girls were the virgin daughters of the ministry rather than girls who had sold their charms for drugs from the age of ten on.

     As Dick had wanted to be among his persecutors he suddenly realized the extent of his perfidy.  He honored their desires by being sincerely contrite and remorseful.  They gave him ten years in Salem anyway.

page 207.

     The third feather in their cap was the destruction of Dewey Trueman.  There was nothing overly dramatic in his elimination.  The Sukomotos, his landlords, had refused to give him an option to renew his lease.  While they had promised renewal and not to worry six months before the expiration date they pulled the rug out from under him at renewal time.

     He was offered suicide locations at high prices which he declined.  All three Networks wanted to see him in jail also.  He was offered sex, drugs and stolen merchandise, all three of which he had the character to decline.  Absolutely frustrated they had an old homosexual, George Grandios, befriend him.  Dewey didn’t know that Grandios was a homosexual but seen in George’s company the maxim of guilt by association applied.  Very interesting how homosexuals can defame a man by their presence while decrying society’s lack of tolerance.

     To gratify their desires at least vicariously Grandios lured Trueman to King David’s Delicatessen.  King David’s was an old tradition in Portland.  Their former location had been demolished.  They were moved into the brand new Justice Center as the jail was humorously named.  Talk about a suicide location.  Grandios sat Trueman down amongst a group of homosexuals at the very moment that Richard Dick was being sentenced inside.  A veritable parade of Old Boys, straight and gay, minced by the table as though in disguise with big smiles on their faces.

page 208.

     Finally in the glorious Summer of Vengeance the arch-homophobe, so-called, Earl Shaddai was brought down.  The problem with Earl was that there was no convenient handhold to bring him down.  He led a spotless life.  There were no glaring sexual peccadilloes.  He had nothing to do with drugs.  He was just a hard working self-respecting County Commissioner.  He had rejected the blandishments of sex and drugs.

     His constituency was well pleased with him as he was strictly following the heterosexual platform on which he had been elected.  While he had no control of the school board he was using whatever influence he had to prevent the teaching of the parity of homosexuality with heterosexuality while discouraging the hiring of known homosexuals.  Earl’s activities ran counter to the desires of the Homosexual Network which wanted their disease taught in grade schools as an acceptable alternative to heterosexuality.

     There seemed to be and there was no legitimate way to get rid of Earl.  The only possible way was a character assassination.  Behind the back sniping and a whisper campaign, two of the usual tools, would have taken too long and most probably would not have been effective.  Earl had too many followers who could couteract such piecemeal defamation.

     What is involved here are two conflicting points of view.  If in the democratic political process one doesn’t ascribe the notion of right and wrong to either side what one has is a ‘democratic’ decision on the part of the voters to reject homosexuality much as one might vote to reject the sales tax.  The voters had spoken.  But, as the voice of the people ran counter to the wishes of the Old Boy, Jewish and Homosexual Networks democracy had to be defeated by autocratic means.  The will of the people had to be perverted.  In America this is called Democracy with a Big D.

page 209.

     Interest groups in Oregon, and presumably throughout the country, repeatedly circumvent the will of the people.  Thus there is a conflict between the people and the Dictatorship of the Marginals or as Richard Bernstein calls it in his book:  The Dictatorship of Virtue.   No matter what the expressed will of the people may be these self-selected censors annul it.  Thus even though Oregonians approved of capital punishment such sentences are thwarted by these censors who, one must believe, think that democracy is wrong although they hypocritically defend it.

     As regards Earl Shaddai the question now arose of how to dispose of him against the will of his electorate who supported him wholeheartedly.  The action taken while not to be unexpected was so boldly in defiance of propriety and indeed, the law, as to take one’s breath away.  Indeed, to leave one gasping.  Not since the Star Chamber proceedings of Thomas Cromwell had such a proceeding occurred.  Well, maybe the Gestapo or KGB, Mossad, CIA but those are the exceptions that prove the rule.  The Oregon Daily Assassin had always been used to indicate the acceptability of certain individuals.  If the Assassin had been shameless in the past it now passed all bounds of decency.  It now printed a two page article denouncing E.L. as nothing less than a hypocritical arch-homosexual and for that reason unqualified to be a County Commissioner.  The hotel bit mentioned earlier was dredged up.

     The Assassin presented absolutely no evidence to support their contention.  It only vilified Earl not even for blemishes but for things they considered ridiculous.  The manufactured testimony of ‘witnesses’ was given uncontested credence.

page 210.

     Earl was vilified for being from Texas where he received his degree from the then defunct University Of Plano; as humerous a college name as ever existed, the paper made capital use of it.  Plano, North of Dallas, is where Donn was ejected from the bus.  The university records were now kept in the basement of the ex-president’s home in New Jersey as if this fact reflected somehow on Earl’s abilities.  The testimony of a list of narcs, agents provocateur and hitmen were produced to prove Earl was a homosexual.  These people were employed by the Old Boys against all their targets.  Morley, Dick and Trueman knew all by name as did many others.  In print the fact that they were stooges went unmentioned.

     Earl’s trip to the Great Gotham Hotel with Donn Contrales was, from a careful reading of the text, the only incontrovertible fact in the whole denunciation.  Witnesses claimed to have conducted Earl to hotel rooms where he watched, he wasn’t accused of joining in, homosexual orgies.  The article’s message was found in the last paragraph which said in so many words:  This is what we can do to any ‘homophobe’ out there.  We are going to recall E.L. Shaddai and we don’t want to see him re-elected.  Now, there is a perfect example of ‘democracy’ in America.

     There was no way for Earl to retaliate.  He couldn’t sue because no lawyer would have represented him and if one had no court would have admitted such a ‘frivolous’ suit.  As with Cromwell’s Star Chamber he was allowed no recourse.  This was homosexual ‘democracy’ in action.   Thank-you, Mingo Miybriy.

page 211.

     Earl was recalled.  He gamely went from door to door explaining the situation.  He even got a respectable vote but the message not to re-elect him had been too clear.  Too many jobs were at stake.  The Dictatorship of the Marginals had thwarted the democratic process, ‘Virtue’ had won.  The multitude was blissfully unaware.  As was Donn in his misery.

VII.

Down In Texas

     Donn’s parents welcomed him back.  He was their son.  The rest of the town was not so forgiving for Donn had left reviling the town swearing to shake its dust off his feet and its imprint off his soul.  Nevertheless Donn felt much more secure believing he had placed a barrier between himself and Maggie Spingold.  There is a great deal of truth in today’s axiom:  You can run but you can’t hide.  Even with the less developed electronics of the day one could not only be followed but anticipated anywhere in the world.

     One may be sure that famous fugitives such as Abbie Hoffman or the Weathermen were not long out of sight of the authorities.  As they were fugitives in hiding they had already been neutralized.  They daren’t commit further crimes lest they give themselves away, blow their cover.  Why go to the expense of trying them and storing them in expensive prisons?  They weren’t marauders after all but political criminals.  As the federales say:  we could have picked them up anyday.

page 212.

     Donn wasn’t hidden either.  Maggie had anticipated a return to Waco and the folks back home.  Where does a man at the end of his tether go?  The Homosexual Network informed Maggie of Donn’s arrival within hours.  Nor was it Maggie’s intention to leave Donn in peace.  He intended to make his life miserable until Donn was before him on his knees.  The majesty of Maggie had been offended.

     After a couple weeks rest Donn, relaxed and refreshed, confidently went to seek employment suited to his tastes.  There was none of that to be found in Waco.  Donn had to find normal employment.  His parents and his own self-respect demanded it.  In his mind he daren’t step outside Waco.

     He had little choice but to accept a laborers job.  He had no difficulty obtaining construction work.  There he experienced little harrassment for several weeks.  But then it started; Maggie’s slander campaign kicked in.  The story of his arrest for buying child snuff films was quietly circulated amongst his fellow workers.  People began to discuss the topic of child molestation around him.  It seemed as though that was the only topic they were interested in.

     Donn began to have problems with his truck.  Expensive problems.  His battery went dead a couple times; he blew a head gasket; his driver side turn signal went out repeatedly; he was compelled to drive around with a cracked windshield.  Every time he turned a corner it seemed that a police car was around somewhere.

page 213.

     Worse still, accidents started to happen around him.  A falling paint can narrowly missed him.  Pipes accidentally were swung head level as he walked by.  Donn was uneasy.  If he hadn’t believed himself a wanted man he would have moved on for whatever good that would have done him.  The complacency with which he had begun on his return home now vanished as his mood darkened and deteriorated under his treatment which seemed more than coincidental but could be attributed to ‘paranoia.’  Maggie’s influence was even indcated by remarks others made behind his back which he was allowed to overhear.

    Then it happened.  He was nudged off a scaffold.  He took a header in the dirt.  It was only from the second story but he threw his arms out to break his fall thereby breaking both his forearms.  The crack of the bones one after the other was heard across the construction site.

     The cast on each arm meant that Donn was unemployed.  He now had all his time to dwell on his problems.  All the despair he had been resisting for so long rushed in upon him from all four sides overwhelming his mind.  He was close to hitting bottom.

     Waco is deep within the Bible Belt.  The zaniness of the fundamentalists was everywhere about him.  Donn had always disparaged Christianity.  That was one of the things that he had hated about Waco.  But as his mind sank beneath his woes he became receptive to the idea of Christian salvation.

     Its very atavism began to appeal to him.  Unable to deal with reality he slowly began to take refuge in God.

page 214.

     The whole notion of God is a product of man’s adolescence.  When man first learned enough to emerge from pure savagery he began to develop the Gnosis.  Unable to understand himself and his environment in a scientific or rational manner he interpreted and explained himself in metaphysical terms.  Nor is this phase of man’s intellect to be despised.  Except for its attribution of supernatural forces as cause early man’s explanations can be interpreted to roughly conform to scientific explanations.

     The Gnosis itself developed in all areas from China to Egypt.  Its focal point seems to have been somewhere from the Indus Valley to Mesopotamia.  Certainly until the time of the Jewish transportation from Jerusalem to Babylon the Gnosis evolved in an unrestricted manner, innovations coming from where they would.  There was only one Gnosis of numerous variations.

     The transportation of the Jews in 586 BC changed all that.  The Jews’ reaction to their transportation put a kink in the Gnosis that was to affect it drastically about eight hundred years on.

     Realistically, in the terms of the time, the Israelites and Judahites were a back country people, rustics, rubes.  While Christians accept the Jewish account of the magnificence of the first temple it must in reality have been inconsequential compared to the magnificent edifices of Egypt, Babylonia and even the coastal cities of Phoenicia.  After all, if the biblical account is true Solomon mortgaged parts of the Jewish nation, which he had to surrender, to build it.  The temples of Egypt and Babylon reflected the accumulated wealth of millennia.

page 215.

     The spirit of the Judahites was already crushed by their military defeat as they trudged along under the eyes and spears of their conquerors on the long, long walk to Babylon.  When they arrived the splendor of the walls, the gates, or any building must have made their temple appear insignificant further demoralizing them.

     For the first time they came into direct contact with the Gnosis in one of its most active centers.  Thus, crushed militarily, in awe of the architecture and dwarfed intellectually the Jews were made to feel insignificant in their own eyes.  In effect they were thoroughly emasculated.  Who cannot feel their despair in Isaiah’s depiction of his fellows slinking along city streets thinking someday our roles will be reversed.  Someday we will be where you are now and you will be where we stand.  Is it any wonder that the Yahweh of the Pentateuch crashes around in a perpetual rage.

     And so the Jews created an alternative Gnosis that predicted just such a restitution.  They created a special God; this God made them his special people; he promised them dominion of the world.  He promised to reverse the situation.

     For centuries this silly doctrine had no real effect on the world.  But as the Jewish belief system was challenged by the Hellenic belief system the Jews in turn challenged the Greco-Roman world for dominance.  The result was the second kink in the Gnosis:  Christianity.

     Christianity took the Jewish notion of the Gnosis into the surrounding peoples which enabled the viewpoint to directly challenge the main stem of the Gnosis.  In the resulting struggle the narrow intolerant view of Judeo-Christianity was actually able to suppress and outlaw the main stem of Gnostic speculation.  The result was disastrous to the Jews who became a pariah people but their Semitism in the form of the Catholic Church dominated first the Mediterranean world and then Europe for millennia.

page 216.

     Over the years the Catholic Church accommodated the main stem of the Gnosis by adopting several of its tenets in a modified form.  The Isis and Osiris myth gained precedence in the persons of Mary and Jesus at the expense of the Jewish Father figure of Yahweh.  Reconsider Freud’s Totem And Taboo.  The Puritans adopted the savage Jewish form of the raging Yahweh thus subverting the main stem of the Gnosis in Catholicism.  The Christianity of the Bible Belt was formed on the insane Yahweh model rather than the Catholic version.

     The main stem of the Gnosis, this irratinal mode of thought, survived the suppression of Judeo-Catholicism surfacing and reorganizing in the wake of the French Revolution.  Eliphas Levi, a Frenchman who adopted a Jewish name, made the first reorganization of the Gnosis while Madame Blavatsky following him put it into the form under which it now exists in its many variants.

     But the scientific mode of thought which showed man’s advance from adolescence into adulthood emerged triumphant from the Great Revolution casting Gnostic thinking into an atavistic role.  Still the Gnostics, or Theosophists, as they are now generally known, were in a better position to confront Science than Judeo-Christianity.

page 217.

    In their modification of the Gnosis the Jews had their tribal god create the world approximately fifty-seven hundred years ago.  The Gnostic version deals with untold millions of years as with evolution.  Its doctrine of worlds and races of man allows it to adjust its doctrines to scientific discoveries.  Gnosticism does not have a static system whereas Judeo-Christianity does.  Thus as Science has progressively invalidated Judeo-Christian beliefs the two faiths have been driven deeper into a corner from which they cannot escape without abandoning their faith.  They therefore became cranky and crazy whereas Theosophic faiths are just spacey.

     Waco is preeminently Protestant Judeo-Christian.  Now one advantage of Judeo-Christianity is that when the world becomes too much for one, one can always immerse oneself in God in place of going absolutely insane.  God becomes a sort of retreat from reality.  Thus the mind instead of breaking bends beneath the weight sloughing the pain off into vague notions of universal love.  Once the source of irritation is removed the mind can recover.  Broken a mind may never be reclaimed.

     Thus, one Sunday morning Donn hit bottom moving out over the void.  He looked down and found he was suspended by an invisible thread.  Disco Don Contrales had found Jesus.

     He was walking down the street that Sunday with his encasted arms held up in front of his chest in a cross shape for comfort.  As he walked he passed a house from whence issued sounds from a phonograph.  He heard the song sung by Jesse Winchester, the greatest of the sad sack singers.

page 218.

     Jesse sang:

Live is just too short for some folks,

For other folks it just drags on.

Some folks like the taste of smoky whiskey,

Others think that tea’s too strong.

Now, I’m the kind of guy who likes to ride the middle,

I don’t like this bouncing back and forth.

Me,  I want to live with my feet in Dixie

And my head in the cool, blue North.

It ain’t…life ain’t nothing but a breeze.

     Well, it was a cold, chilly wind blowing all the way  from the Great Divide down Donn’s collar that Sunday.  His mind didn’t register the lyrics but the longing of the lyric agitated all the anxieties he felt.  Thus his mind was more or less prepped as he passed the Ancient Rock Of Ages Presbyterian Church.  As he stood on the corner waiting the the light to change the sound of one hundred eighty properous complacent voices wafted out like a zephyr on the cool morning air:

    Just a closer walk with thee,

O, Blessed Savior set me free.

       The voices had none of the wild ecstatic shouting of the Negro Gospel singing against their desperate plight but the calm reassuring tone of those secure in life and pleased with their place in society.  It was this promise of peace that drove Donn into the arms of the Lord.  Like a wave of hallejujahs from heaven the balm of love and forgiveness swept over Donn, not that he had much reason to love or forgive Maggie Spingold.  Suddenly standing in the bright light of his epiphany he knew that what he had to do was to get on the bus, return to Portland and beg Maggie’s forgiveness on his knees.  If he had to go to prison, so be it.  Down as he was in Texas he hoped to be up in Oregon.

page 219.

     The fervor of his conversion upon him, all his pain just a memory, Donn began his trip back to Portland, forearms held before him, the very next day.

VIII.

You Can’t Be Late For Your Own Movie.

     Donn’s sense of misery was swept away by the illuminating light of Jesus.  His pain disappeared as he lost himself in the wondrous love of the savior.  His heart was light as he boarded the bus to Portland to redeem himself with Maggie.  In his movie he saw himself apologizing to the Magus to be received with forgiving joy as a long lost love come home.  As he rode along with his encasted arms crossed before him he broke out into little bubbling laughter from time to time as he envisioned the reunion.

page 220.

     He maintained a state of bliss as the bus rolled across the beige tones of the Southwest into LA.  There he changed buses for Portland.  He had the misfortune to board a local.  Over the Grapevine to Bakersfield.  Then up I5 to Fresno.  In Fresno a man took the empty seat beside him.  Donn turned a beatific smile on him, his face shining.

     The man looked back; first with a distant but not unfriendly look, then his face set in a mask of frozen hostility.

     ‘This jerk is a Christian.’  Dean Long intuited.

     Dean Long was a militant athiest of the old school.  He hated anything that smacked of religion.  He knew all the tried and true diatribes against the Bible.  He could rant and roar about the preposterousness of the parting of the Red Sea and the Virgin Birth with the best of them.  He wasn’t educated in either mythology or Theosophy.  His whole argument was the standard rejection of miraculous events;  reason against superstition.

     However he was studied in Geology.  He read many many scientific journals.  He had developed an hypothesis on the Earth and Solar System.  This hypothesis, quite naturally, flatly contradicted the natural history of the Bible.  As religious people accept the Bible to the letter, and will even argue it so, this leaves them open to ridicule.

     Not unlike Screamin’ Big Daddy, The Mankato Kid, The Roving Gambler and many others Dean Long was frustrated by the censorship imposed on him by minorities.  Like the others this left him no recourse but to turn on his own kind.  In Dean Long’s case his victims were White Christian and Christianity.  In one of the great paradoxes of American society Genesis is a Christian text that can be ridiculed and reviled while as a Jewish text it cannot.  Thus the same heritage can be legitimately denied Christians while allowed Jews.

page 221.

     In the same manner a Jew can immerse a cross in a bottle of urine and display it as a work of art while if a goi were to immerse a Mogen David in the same solution it would be blasphemous and ‘anti-Semitic.’  Both cults were religions beneath the contempt of Dean Long but as one was above criticism to him he turned with redoubled savagery on the other.  Donn’s bliss was now to be shaken.

     ‘What are you so happy about?’  Long asked savagely.

     ‘I’ve found Jesus.’  Donn replied blissfully.

     Long’s internal satisfaction can’t be described.  It was somewhat like the Halcyon days of Greece sandwiched between two winter storms.

     ‘Ooooh.’ Long cooed with a deceptively approving smile.  ‘So, you’ve found Jesus, the great love man.’

     ‘Yes.  I’ve finally discovered his truth and it’s wonderful now, I don’t hurt anymore.’  Donn said turning his eyes upward, staring rapturously at the ceiling of the bus.

     ‘Ohhh- you’ve discovered the Truth, hey?  You take every little word from ‘the mouth of God’ as fact then?’

     Donn had merely gone crazy, accepted Jesus as his savior, but he hadn’t thought about the actual Bible.  He had rejected that as fable long ago but now he was caught with one foot on either side of the abyss unprepared to defend himself.

page 222.

     Long on his part knew the Bible through Methodist eyes.  He had considered study of the Bible and its milieu beneath his dignity.  Nor was he aware of the narrowness of his point of view.  He was completely unaware of how the Methodist understanding differed from the Catholic or Jewish.  For that matter he was unaware of differences of interpretation from Congregationalists through the Portestant sects down to the Southern Baptists.  In his mind God was God, that is, the Father.  Jesus assumed the role of dependent son while Mary was merely the woman who bore him.  The modified Goddess cult of the Catholics was unknown to him.  In fact, he unconsciously despised Catholicism from its rivalry with Methodism.  He had many many unresolved religious notions which he kicked under the table when he became an atheist.

     He now turned venomously  on Donn expressing his hatred of anything Christian.  ‘Well, I got news for you buddy, the world never was destroyed by water and it won’t be destroyed by fire.  What do you think of that?’

     Donn blinked.  While it was true he had rejected the Bible as fable he had also always accepted the received notion of the Flood and he uncritically received the notion that the world would next be destroyed by fire.  Like most of us he had never examined or analyzed the obvious contradictions in his mind.

     There was that in the vicious arrogance of Long that offended him deeply.  Had he not been in a mental fog he would have pushed Long back.  But now, his curiosity was aroused as the implication in Long’s statement had been that he did know how the world was going to end.

     ‘No fire?  How’s it going to end then?’  He mumbled.

     Long was ready.  His contempt for Christian Donn Contrales had no bounds, which by the way Christian was a new facet to the many faceted personality of Donn.     Long was essentially a coward but with both Donn’s arms in casts he was bolder and more savage in is rhetoric than he would have been with a hale Donn.

     ‘Well, this is a scientific explanation that won’t square with divine dispensation that you believe in but see if you can understand this.

     All is one, there is only one matter, but matter has many forms from gaseous clouds to huge incandescent masses like our sun and the stars.  Our solar system has examples of all forms.  the Earth and the Sun are identical in composition, as is the Sun and Mars and Uranus and Jupiter, as those planets are with Earth.  The Sun is incandescent solely because it is so huge that the forces of gravity heat it to incandescence.  Jupiter is gaseous because it is large enough that gravitational forces atomize it but aren’t strong enough to make it burn.

     Mars has no molten core because it is so small that gravitational pull is slight.  By a lucky accident for man the Earth is of such a size that the gravitational pull is strong enough to keep the core molten while allowing the crust to form.

      Uranus which is nearly twice as large as Earth is molten to the surface while the process of exuding an atmosphere is the same, Uranus is so far from the Sun that the gases freeze upon emission enveloping the planet in an ice crust.  The heat is so intense however that hot spots exist where the ice covering actually melts.

page 224.

     The Earth because of its much closer proximity to the Sun has developed a life allowing atmosphere which doesn’t freeze.  But this is merely an accident it has nothing to do with God.  There is no God.

     Are you capable of following the argument so far?’  Long asked arrogantly.

     Donn nodded yes.

     ‘Now, as to how the world will end.  The core is molten, the crust is hard.  The crust therefore slips around on the core.  Because the Earth is a ball floating in space, rotating from East to West the land mass will evntually all rise to the North.

     The mechanism for this is tectonic plates.  Don’t know tectonic plates?  Well as the crust rests on the core it isn’t strong enough not to fracture.  The crust is fractured into several large sections.  These sections are called tectonic plates.  They move in relation to each other.  For instance the North Pacific plate inches North every year.  The movement causes the Earthquakes around the Pacific Rim.  Along the edges are slip faults where the plates slide past each other.

     Where the North Pacific plate meets the Arctic Plate on the south coast of Alaska the North Pacific plate is subducted below the Arctic Plate.  As it does the Arctic Plate scrapes off large amounts of matter which accumulates in the Aleutians and the transverse mountain ranges of Alaska.  Now, if you look at the globe you’ll notice that the land mass makes a perfect circle around the pole.  This means that the land mass has moved as far North as possible.  Thus the Plane of the Ecleptic is about 24 degrees.  In other words the immense weight of the Northern land mass has toppled this rotating floating ball 24 degrees toward the Sun.

page 225.

     The East Coast of Africa is moving North as well as the North Pacific Plate.  Now, when the weight in the North becomes sufficient it will incline the North Pole even further toward the Sun.  As proof I offer Uranus, which because it is molten already has a pole inclined almost directly at the sun.

     So, you see, by a natural process this world will become uninhabitable, except for possibly a very narrow band, when the Earth inclines to say, 40 or 50 degrees.  So now what do you say about the end of the world, Christian?’

      Donn sat arms crossed eyeing Long askance.  Even if he had been able to deal with Long he wouldn’t have had the knowledge to either deny or affirm but in his crazed mental state he didn’t even have the power to assimilate what Long had said.  He said nothing, which infuriated Long.

     ‘Damn, I despise you Christians.’  He vituperated.  ‘You people are the epitome of ignorance.  Look at you.  You don’t even have what it takes to argue with me.  No, I know what you’re going to say; don’t say it.  You’re going to say God wouldn’t let that happen.  Fire perhaps, but not that.  Yeah, yeah, I know I can’t prove there isn’t a God, but you also can’t prove there is.  God, you disgust me.  You make me sick to my stomach.’

     Long made a retching noise.  At that time the bus pulled into the Modesto station.  Long was bound for Sacramento, but he made a dramatic gesture.

page 226

     ‘You make me so sick I don’t even want to be on the same bus with you.  I’m getting off here.  I’ll catch the next bus into Sacto.  Goodbye and wise up, Christian.’

     Donn’s euphoria was shaken but was quickly reasserted.  He swung his feet up on the seat resolved to let no one else sit there.  No one did.  He was unmolested into Portland.

     Donn half expected the police to be waiting for him as the bus pulled into the Portland station.  The police weren’t there but one of the Old Boy agents provocateur watched Donn from a distance.  He needn’t have been so discreet because Donn totally absorbed in his resolve to contact Maggie wouldn’t have noticed him even if he had known him.  Even if Donn had known him and been spoken to he would only have gushed the love of Jesus all over the guy.

     Donn did not waste any time.  He immediately seized a phone in the bus station to call Maggie for an appointment to see him.  Maggie told him to come to his office the following morning at ten.

     Maggie showed up at his office at eight to begin to prepare for his triumph.  In his vanity he believed Donn was going to acknowledge his power.  That was Maggie’s movie.  Maggie’s office was very fine.

     There is a major difference between the offices of Jews and gois.  The goi office if nearly always plain, utilitarian and business like; just as on the average they dress with much less taste and expense than the Jews.

page 227.

     There is actually something almost barren in the goi approach.  A Jewish businessman always has objets d’ art to display his culture.  Very Freudian.  The office is always tastefully designed, probably by an interior designer.  The offices always contain religious symbols.  If one were to walk into a goi’s office to see Christian symbols one would immediately walk out.  Perhaps it is that Jewish religious symbols are less known to gois.  Maggie had a Mezusah beside the inside of the entrance to his office.  As with all Jewish businessmen he had built a religious shrine into the East wall of his office.  Often they are merely an arrangement indicating the Jewishness of the tenant.  Many are little alcoves built into the East wall.  Maggie’s was actually a little chapel big enough to contain a table and chairs for eight.  Against the curved back wall he had a large framed picture of Moses in his most raging pose; long flowing beard flying in the tempest; his mouth twisted in hatred.  A sculpture of the same pose sat on a table in front of the picture.  Between the two was a huge Menorah with seven massive sockets for candles.  Maggie signed all his documents and held all his serious discussions in this shrine under the watchful eyes of the wrathful Moses.  If you asked him what the alcove meant neither he nor nor any other Jew would tell you.  They would fob you off with vague mutterings and change the subject.

     Maggie meant to celebrate his triumph in the shrine.  He pulled the table and chairs out arranging them in front of the South wall of his spacious office.  The office itself was twelve hundred square feet, larger than many people’s houses.  Maggie’s massive ornately carved desk was against the West wall.  Five chairs were strung across its front.  As Maggie’s chair faced East he was always watching Moses over the shoulder of whoever he was talking to.

page 228.

     To supplement his huge desk a three foot wide shelf stretched from the windows on the North to the entrance of his complete bathroom on the South.  The toilet was in black marble with gold fixtures.  In itself it was eight feet by twenty; it would have made a magnificent bedroom in any teenager’s house.  If you were sufficiently important to Maggie he would allow you to urinate in his toilet, otherwise he sent you down the hall.

     Just inside the entrance was a large oak chair.  It was so huge and ornate with what appeared to be cabalistic symbols carved in its crown that it seemed incongruous beside the bathroom wall.  The chair was on casters.  Maggie now rolled the monstrous thing to the back of the shrine in front of the Menora and the two representations of the insane Moses.  The chair wasn’t actually a chair, it was a throne.  Maggie believed he was from the line of King David.  He put a little footstool in front of it, fluffed a couple pillows and placed them carefully on the throne.  Then he leaped up, bounced up and down a couple times smiling gleefully in anticipation  of a perfect morning.

      Then he took a shower.  He scented himself all over with a scent of Frankencense and Myrrh, took off his wig of golden straight hair and placed a curly one on his head.  The effect was somewhat like a senescent Orphan Annie.  He put on a white linen top, placing a gorgeous blue robe with gold bordering on top of that.  He tied it closed with a silken gold cord.  He modeled for himself in the full length mirror.  Aw, beautiful, he thought.

page 229.

     As has been said Maggie was a nickname for Magus, a belief in himself which he had carefully cultivated.  Maggie had done a fair amount of reading but he certainly was not at the adept level.  Besides he perverted the Gnosis for his own personal needs.

     He had developed a rationale for his homosexuality which made him, in his eyes, a part of the godhead.  The Gnosis is an immense and diverse body of religious speculation.  The Jewish contribution of the Kabbalah and Zohar is but a small fragment.  Under the Judeo-Catholic suppression the Gnostic sects were much more influential among Europeans than they are now that the Catholic censorship has been is ineffectual.  Since the Revolution the Gnosis has blossomed once again in America to the vigor it enjoyed before the Judeo-Christian suppression in Europe.

     Among the versions of the Gnosis the problem of sex is treated in various ways.  But the thinking is that the godhead is neuter.  Thus in its first emanation it becomes the Universal Androgyne or, in other words, it is bi-sexual in the sense of participating in the attributes of each sex.  From there it evolves in the second emanation into the concept of distinct male-female duality.

page 230.

     Maggie had no patience with the genetic explanation of homosexuality and he totally rejected environmental causes.  He saw himself as the Universal Androgyne.  He actually believed himself a part of the godhead.  He had been married forty years and did have a son who he had exiled to Boston.  He hadn’t had relations with his wife since the conception of his son.  He had thereby satisfied his the bi-sexual aspects of his beliefs and given himself an adequate cover.  The rest of his life had been devoted to satisfying his homosexual lusts.

     He mounted his throne to await his triumph which was five minutes away.

     Donn walked, almost ran, in his eagerness to reach Maggie’s office so that he could tell the joyful news of his redemption and beg Maggie for his forgiveness.  He entered the swinging doors of the Miriam Building.  Miriam was the name of Maggie’s wife while she thought he had considerately named the building after her.  Miriam was also the name of the wife of Moses.

     Donn stepped into the elevator ecstatically touching the lighted space for the fifteenth floor with his little finger.  Already in an excited frame of mind his brain spun uncomprehendingly as the elevator sank to the basement rather than rising.  As the doors parted Donn stepped between them his head spinning to look out into the varius bric-a-brac stored in the basement.  Three men smiled sardonically at him; one was cleaning a revolver, one was honing the blade of a knife while the other was taking practice swings with a baseball bat.

     The doors began closing and opening as the rubber bumpers retracted from his shoulders.  Slowly Donn realized where he was; he stepped back quickly into the elevator allowing the doors to close.  His ecstasy was somewhat shaken.  It would be hours before Donn realized the warning.  As for now he didn’t even realize that the elevator whisked him non-stop to the fifteenth floor without his having pushed a space.  Maggie was showing off his power.

 page 211.

     Donn was greeted by Maggie’s secretary, Ann Powers.  The tone of cold condescension was almost more than Donn could bear.  Donn knew of Ann.  She had been with Maggie for fifteen years.  The relationship was so close that many thought she served as Maggie’s mistress.  But Donn knew, as the Homo Network knew, that Ann was merely what is called a fag hag.  She enjoyed being around homos because she wanted to be around men but she was incapable of having relations with them.

     Through pursey lips and cold eyes she indicated an ashtray containing several checks.  Donn thought she was indicating a chair and sat down to wait.

     At the time it was customary for well-to-do hot shots to show their contempt for money by placing several hundred dollars bills in a receptacle in plain view in their living rooms.  The notion was that they could well afford to lose the hundred dollar bills if you were so contemptible as to take them.

     Donn had had a laugh at an acquaintance of his who had done the same with dollar bills.  The connection between the money and the checks lying across the ashtray was too distant for him to make the connection.  Actually Maggie was taking less of a chance than the guy with the dollar bills; the checks would have been difficult to negotiate and easy to replace.

page 232.

     ‘Look at Mr. Spingold’s checks that he just leaves lying around so casually.’  Ann said exuding heavy respect as she pronounced what was to her the sacred name.

     Donn was in no condition to shuffle through them so Ann held them before his eyes one by one.  They were dividend checks.  To show his contempt for, or perhaps lack of need, of money there were checks from AT&T for three successive quarters for six thousand and change each.  An IBM check for eight thousand plus and a couple UNB checks for a couple thousand.  When Donn had acknowledged them Ann, her eyes shining triumphantly indicated the door with her long middle finger meaning Donn could enter the august presence.  Athe same time she pressed a buzzer to alert Maggie to prepare himself.

     As Donn stepped through the doorway the door clicked shut as if by magic.  Turning in surprise Donn saw the Mezusah but not knowing what it was he didn’t rub it.  There was a sort of foyer leading into the main room.  Entering the room Donn looked eagerly behind the desk.  As there was no one there his eyes searched the room to find Maggie seated on his throne in the alcove.  Maggie resplendent in blue, white and gold was sitting head tilted to the left leaning lightly on his arm his middle finger forming a dimple in his cheek a la Shirley Temple.

     ‘Well, Donn,’ he said gazing with satisfaction at the pitiful figure before him, ‘How have you been?’

     ‘Oh, Ed, I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.’

     ‘Really, Donn?  How’s that?’

page233.

     ‘Oh, Eddie, the most wonderful thing has happened.  I’ve taken Jesus Christ as my personal savior.  I’ve found the forgiving grace of the Lord.  Through him I’ve been born again.  I’ve got you to thank for my redemption.  If I had let you in that night I would never have found Christ’s love.  Still, I know how rude I was and I’ve come in Jesus’ name to ask your forgiveness.  Say you will, Eddie.  Say you will.’  Donn ended somewhat breathlessly, his face aglow with what can only be presumed to be the divine love of Jesus.

     ‘Oh, you’ve found Jesus.’  Said this scion of the Anti-Defamation League, this pillar of support for the American Jewish Committee.  ‘You’ve found Jesus.’  He repeated distastefully his anger and resentment mounting.

     ‘Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself, Donn.  You’ve put an end to your own suffering by finding salvation in Jesus.  Well, what about me?  What about my suffering?  Do have any idea how much it hurts to lay your precious love at another man’s feet and he won’t even open his door, at the very least, to dismiss you?  Do you have any idea how much you made poor little Eddie Spingold suffer- O self-important Disco Donn Contrales?  I, Eddie Spingold, came to your door to offer my love while you hunt around garbage cans behind discos looking for God only knows what kind of contemptible affection.’

     Maggie had gone into a pout, twitching his earring.  He looked up at the picture of the demonic Moses beard flying in the hurricane, mouth distorted as he hurled what?  Imprecations at the boiling clouds of the raging Jehovah of the Dark Sky?  Eyes bulging Moses glared into cloud cuckoo land at the God of a Thousand Names in the Land of a Single Dance.

page 235.

     Maggie went on.  ‘And now you who have suffered nothing in comparison to mine, Donn Contrales, you come back and tell me that you have excaped suffering in your Jesus while the wounds of me, Eddie Spingold, are open and bleeding?  Well, it won’t be that easy Mr. Disco Donn Contrales.’

     Maggie turned his head petulantly to the right fingering his ring and pouting in the general direction of Yahweh of the Dark Sky.

     ‘Oh, Ed, I know, I know.’  Donn said in the emotinal delerium of his religious and sexual quagmire.  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I did you wrong.’  Donn continued, gleaming white casts crossed before him as he got down on knees before Maggie.  Donn, a disciple of the God with one name in the Land of a Thousand Dances.

     ‘I’ll do anything Ed, anything I can to correct my error.’

     ‘Well,’ said Maggie flipping his gown open.  He was a real blonde.  ‘See if you can raise that man from the dead.’

     Donn did as he was bidden and indeed, lo and behold Lazarus arose from the tomb.

     And then Donn took the seed of death into his body for the seed of death was in Maggie.  At this time the AIDS virus was throwing a terror into the homosexual community.  The epidemic was reaching its apex in media attention.  Dire reports were being broadcast that within ten years or by the turn of the century incalculable millions, both hetero and homosexual would have to meet the dark visaged boatman.  While the heterosexual world considered AIDS a homosexual problem the news media obligingly prophesied that not  only homosexuals but millions perhaps tens of millions of heterosexuals would die too.  It was never explained how heterosexuals would contract the disease in such numbers except through the dirty needles of heroin addicts and blood transfusions.  Thus the news media gave the impression that homosexuality, heroin use and blood transfusions from homosexual contributors were universal problems not just problems confined to distinct minorities of the population.

page 235.

     When the term homosexuals is used one thinks only of the priss down on the corner but AIDS threw real terror in those immensely successful and rich men who saw not only their pleasures curtailed but terminated permanently.  A chill breeze blew down the halls of Congress.

     Presently, well after the turn of the century, the problem appears to be not even close to what was predicted.  Tens of millions haven’t died, heterosexuals are unaffected.  The concept of unbridled sex has however been extended down to the grade schools.  Something has been accomplished anyway.

     Maggie was used to making many trips to San Francisco to indulge his passions.  There in the early days of the emergence of the disease he had contracted it.  The period of incubation was over.  The disease had been active for three months.  Maggie knew he had the disease but like so many others he believed that if he had it, others ought to have it too.  Why should he suffer alone.  He, nevertheless, did not advise Donn that he had been exposed.

page 236.

     ‘Well, Maggie,’  Donn began, arms still crossed against his chest, presumptuously believing that he had made things right, ‘I’m glad you have forgiven me.  Because now I’ll to go to jail on that pornography charge when the police pick me up because I just don’t have the money to defend myself.  But at least I’ll feel better knowing that things are mended between we two.’

     ‘Not so fast, Donn.  Did I say I’d forgiven you?  I think you have much more penance to do.  But as a token of my good will I know a little about those ridiculous charges against you.  I’ve always believed that they were trumped up.  I’ll talk to the District Attorney to see just what evidence they have against you.  You will give me your word that you are innocent, won’t you?’  Maggie was a consummate actor and an accomplished liar.

     ‘Oh, Ed, as Jesus is my savior, I swear I knew nothing about it.  They just told me I had this package and I only took it for that reason.  I had no idea, Ed.  I promise.’

     ‘I belive you, Donn.’  Maggie said with a confidence born of true conviction.  ‘I believe that someone did set you up.  Well, you’ll need a job to support yourself, I suppose?’

     ‘Oh, yes, sure.  I’ll go down and talk to Mingo.  I’ll get my old job back now that you’re behind me.’  And Porsche he unconsciously added to himself.

     ‘Oh, no.  I don’t think that’s possible Donn.  Especially since you’re still under a cloud of suspicion.  But, I’ll tell you what.  I know a lot of influential people.  Oh, say, do you know Louis d’ Angeli?  He owns a whole string of service stations.  I’m sure I can get you a job pumping gas.

page 237.

     ‘Pumping gas?  Oh, Ed, I…’

     ‘Well, Donn, you’re going to have to keep a low profile while I’m dealing with District Attorney Naro.  This is for the best, trust me.  Besides you still have to expiate your sin against me.  Don’t forget how I’ve suffered.’

     Fifty percent of Donn’s religious conversion had fled with Maggie’s statement that he could get the charges quashed, so he was somewhat reluctant to take the pump jockey job.  Yet, as he was unaware that there were no charges, he thought it best to go along with Maggie.

     At the time there were four stations at the corner of Scholl’s Ferry and Hall.  Two of the four were owned by D’Angeli.  Donn was made to buy his uniform and installed in one of them.  The job may have been low profile but the location was not.  The corner was one of the busiest in the Portland area.  It  controls the approach to the Washington Square Shopping Mall.  All of West Portland passes through on the way to shop.  In fact, Donn was Maggie’s prize and he was on display.

     Donn was at the mercy of all of his enemies.  A single ‘Filler ‘er up, Boy.’ was enough to destroy his day.  When someone like Shakey Jake from the Disco Deep Elum drove up on a motor scooter, belched in his face, ordered a gallon of gas while proceeding to berate and belittle him, Donn was quite beside himself.  The great Disco Donn, the ex-eminent local music critic led a most miserable existence.

page 238.

     Donn protested to Maggie who advised him to keep a ‘low profile’ while Maggie quashed the charges.  In the meantime Donn was required to participate in humiliating sex relations with Maggie and his friends.  Most were very high up in the social hierarchy.  It was among them that Donn for the first time began to realize how corrupt society actually is.  He overheard bits and pieces and some whole conversations that revealed many secrets to him.  Certain bits and pieces of humor at his expense gradually opened to him a correct idea of who had set him up.  Gradually he grasped that the big joke was that no charges had existed against him since he had left town.

     This truth, when he realized it, savaged his mind right and left while it seemed that he had been kicked in the stomach.  He had a burning desire to confront Maggie with the information.  But while he was at the beck and call of Maggie, Maggie was capable of seeing him at his own will.  Maggie, who well knew the purpose behind Donn’s repeated calls refused to come to the phone.  To torture Donn more he had his hours increased at the service station so that Donn was working twelve hours a day seven days a week.

     Nevertheless, Donn caught him early one morning.  Donn expressed his anger and resentment.  He ended by telling Maggie that he could take the service station job and shove it.  Maggie listened with a bemused expression on his face then calmly informed Donn that he had indeed set him up, what could be done once could be done twice.  Donn as a repeat offender could expect little mercy from the court.  He added further that he was still suffering from Donn’s rejection of him.  He didn’t think that Donn had yet expiated his sin against him.  He added that Donn could quit if he wanted but he could be sure that he would only find the job Maggie wanted him to find or none at all.  With a sweet smile Maggie reminded him of the tribulations Donn had suffered the last time he had taken flight.  Maggie advised Donn to stay patiently on the job.  Perhaps something better might come up, Maggie didn’t know.

page 239 

     Donn realized the powerlessness of his situation.  He went into a state of mental shock.  His color drained.  His lips formed a thin narrow line.  He turned slowly to get in his car looking back scowlingly as he did so.  Maggie smiled him a wan smile, shrugging his shoulders.

     Business is a tough way to make a living.  There is no one to go your wages.  Your life style can only be supported from your continuing profits.  No matter how good it looks from the outside those profits are tenuous.  There are constant reverses, drains and damages.  A business requires constant on hands management no matter how the owner may kick at his responsibilities.  Real Estate people like Maggie are constantly everextended as they attempt to multiply their holdings on bank loans as rapidly as possible.  Few businesses can be done other than on OPM.

     The period under consideration was one of severe economic downtown.  Commercial vacancies were high.  In addition to business problems it is common to speculate in the stock market.  Most of Maggie’s investments were sound but he also pursued all the fantasies of Wall Street.  Many of these went sour in a big way.  Overall Maggie in these years was a net loser rather than an accumulator.

page 240.

     Illicit business has a greater profit margin, while losses can be better anticipated.  As illicit business requires police protection to exist, people like Maggie are in a very good position to arrange things.  Thus the drug business was managed on a share basis.  The dealers were unmolested while the major share of their profits went to the Combination.  The only drug busts that occurred involved freelancers and Wild Boys.

     In addition the massage parlors and porn shops provided a steady cash income.  Since the massage parlors were usually in neighborhoods there was very active opposition to them from the residents.  Eventually, as in this period, active citizenry was able to close them down.  They would of course survive and emerge in a different form.

     So that Maggie was able to sustain his life style, support his wife’s rather extravagant needs and those of his distant son, he needed this illicit cash regardless of business conditions.

     As it happened the porn shops in town were under Jewish control.  The main one was in the Oldtown area- The Pink Prowler.  Maggie and his fellows always hired a goi to front for them as manager.  As they treated them badly the managers always rebelled, cleaned out the till and really headed South to the fleshpots of Vegas, Reno and LA.  The most recent of these departees had set up in Vegas leaving the Prowler managerless.

page 242.

     Maggie was certainly intelligent but it didn’t take a great big flash of inspiration to suggest Donn as the man’s successor.  Maggie summoned Donn to apprise him of the good news of his release from the service station to a more ‘executive’ position.

     The ravages of AIDS were showing on Maggie, Donn knew that AIDS had been transmitted to him.  Maggie’s formerly plump little face was becoming thin and drawn.  Donn was watching this with a quiet rage.  He was honoring the code by keeping quite.  Maggie now outraged and enraged Donn beyond the limits of exasperation.

     Donn had always had a seething resentment at the nature of the charges against him.  Although they were not far from the truth Donn was only involved in a particular form of pornography which he had intellectualized into, shall we say, an ‘art’ form.  He did not consider his tastes as being the illicit kind.  He distanced himself from the object.  Porn shops were quasi-illicit.  Running one was degrading.  One was completely outside polite society; Donn still cherished hopes of gaining re-entry.

     Thus when Maggie explained the nature of the opportunity Donn threw caution to the winds.

     ‘Goddamn you, Maggie.  I’ve got AIDS because of you and just like you I’m dying.  You don’t have more than a year or two left.  What are you going to tell people Maggie, that you’re a fucking faggot with evil habits or that you died of ‘pneumonia.’  You don’t want anyone to know you’re queer do you, Maggie?  They’d all sneer up their sleeves and say they always knew- even though they don’t see anything wrong with you.  You know how fags turn on their own, don’t you, Maggie?  How is it, Maggie, that we think homosexuality is legit but everyone is destroyed by it when it becomes known.  Hell, you don’t even have to be queer.  Look at what you did to Earl Shaddai.  You know what kind of posthumous reputation you’ll have when the world know, Maggie?  Shit!’

page 242.

     ‘Donn, I would advise you to consider your words.  Or…’

     ‘Or what, Maggie?  You’ll kill me.  You already have.  I’m a dead man.  You’re a dead man too, Maggie.

     ‘Your end could be comfortable Donn, or…’

     ‘Did you hear me, Maggie?  Take a look at these.’  Donn threw a sheaf of pictures at Maggie which would leave no doubt in the viewer’s mindof Maggie’s sexual preferences.

     ‘Yes.  I snuck these pictures of you and you’re going to be known as a fucking faggot who knowingly spreawd death unless I get mine.  They aren’t going to name any streets after you, Maggie, my man.’

     Maggie disdainfully flipped through the telltale photographs.  He didn’t want the world to know he was homosexual and more importantly that he had knowingly spread the disease.  He hadd intended to leave the notice that he died of ‘pneumonia.’  He did want a street named after him.  He shrugged his shoulders at Donn as though to say:  What’s the holdup.

     ‘I’ll tell you what I want Maggie and you’re going to give it to me or else.  I want my old apartment back just exactly like it was before you destroyed it.  I want my Porsche…’  He sobbed at the memory of the scene on the highway in Washington.  ‘And I want two hundred fifty thousand cash and my medical bills paid.  Or else.’

page 243.

     Maggie pursed his lips, looked coyly askance at Donn with chin down then flirtatiously flipped his chin up.  His busy mind was devising ways to stall Donn at minimum cost.  He would cheat Donn beyond the grave if he could.

     ‘Or else, Maggie.’

     ‘I guess you’ve forgotten my name is Mr. Spingold?’  Maggie arched, suddenly realizing Donn had been calling him that derogative appellation, Maggie.

     ‘Shut up, you old fairy queen.  Give me what I want or else.’

     Now it was Maggie’s turn to shudder at the necessity of receiving humiliation.  A thin film of perspiration covered his forehead, foam flecked his lips.

     ‘Hmmm.   Give me some time Donn, dearest.’

     ‘Now, Maggie, now.  Now! Now! Now! Write me a check.  Get me my apartment.  Call up now and buy a Porsche for me.  Right now! Or else when I walk out of here these pictures are going to be showing up all over town.’

     Maggie most seriously did not want to go down as a socially negligent homosexual who had infected God knows how many other men.  No matter what the justification of homosexuality, homosexuals despised themselves as inferiors.  Only the desperate advertised their homosexuality.  Maggie waffled.  As one of the walking dead he knew that it would be impossible to offset the charges.  His power on earth was already a shadow of itself as knowing eyes apprised his imminent demise.  Maggie’s nature was not to give in.

page 244.

     ‘Now, Maggie, now.  The Porsche.’

     Maggie reluctantly called to order Donn a Porsche.  That done Donn gave Maggie instructions and warnings.  He advised Maggie that he would be at is office every morning at ten to check on his progress.  Maggie gave Donn a check for then thousand which he said was all he had in his account.  He was half lieing. 

     The fear of expose gripped Maggie’s mind.  He very reluctantly fulfilled Donn’s demands but the did.  The tenant of Donn’s old apartment was turned out souring her outlook on life.  The apartment was restored as closely as possible.  Although it was impossible to replace all the records Donn insisted on a clean import copy of ‘Interstellar Overdrive.’

     Maggie was very reluctant to settle the quarter million on Donn Donn threatened and bullied.  He finally hit on the right formula by threatening to reveal the real Maggie Spingold after his death.  Maggie was terrified at the thought of being known as a pederast and what in subsequent years would be treated as willful murder.  Maggie had knowingly passed AIDS on to at least two dozen men.

     Thus Maggie passed the threshold of the great mystery of death to await the great gittin’ up morning when he would return from the other side in his full glory.  Maggie had his remains buried in Isreal in preparation for the great event.

page 245.

     Donn’s will to life had been quashed by the events of the preceding two or three years.  He no longer took delight in anything.  The Porsche sat in the parking lot month after month as Donn lay around his apartment.  His spirit was gone, he made no attempt to resist the ravages of the disease.  He sought no medical help.  He just sat and waited.

     Then, on one very fine spring morning as the sun peeked through his open window, Donn’s body went limp as he lay in bed.  His soul departed.  It fled through the open window into the glorious sunshine.  Disco Donn Contrales was no more but the world had not yet done with him.  While Donn had kept his owrd and not revealed the nature of Maggie’s disease, Maggie, seeking the last word in vengeance as his kind always does, reached from beyond the grave to smear Donn.

     As arranged beforehand the Daily Assassin used Donn as the centerpiece for an article on the perils of AIDS.  Before and after pictures were displayed.  It was believed that Donn had contracted the disease in his notorious sexual pranks among the garbage cans behind the now defunct Disco Deep Elum.  The disco had died with the AIDS epidemic also.  As the capstone of the article a posthumous pleas for tolerance and understanding of these unfortunate victs of hideous disease was printed from the king of altruists, Edward G. Spingold after whom a street had recently been named.

     The era was over.    

    

    

 

Disco Donn Demands Deliverance

by

R.E. Prindle

 

The Stars Play With Magic Sam’s Laughing Dice.

J. Hendrix

 

Roll the dice

And it sounds like thunder.

Roll the dice,

Hit the bottom

And you feel no pain.

Roll the dice

And it sounds like thunder,

Ain’t it the truth,

It’s a fool’s game.

-Steve Harley And Cockney Rebel

 

     Donn Contrales was at the apex of his success.  He was only a hair away from the beginning of his nadir.  Donn had just about everything he wanted within his grasp.  Since the accession of his computer he felt himself a free man for the first time.  In his role as pop and classical record reviewer for the Daily Assassin Donn no longer went into the office, he sent his reviews over the phone lines.

     By so doing Donn had fallen into the trap set for him by Jose Wellspring who sold him the computer at a very advantageous price.  Wellspring hadn’t really done Donn a favor, the computer was used, it had been repossessed.  Both Jose Wellspring and Donn Contrales were homosexuals.  Donn had offended Jose by not inviting him to a record party for the pianist, Clement Coxe.  Coxe was himself a homosexual.  Jose had thought of a plan to punish Donn.  He knew of Donn’s desire to be ‘free’, of his aversion to going to the office.  Jose understood that failure to do so would subject Donn to competitive pressures whereby he might lose one or the other or perhaps both his posts.  He very slyly planted the thought in Donn’s mind that the computer would free him of the necessity of reporting the office on a daily basis.

     Donn had taken the bait.  Now, in February 1980 he had made only brief appearances at the Assassin since November of  the previous year.  He arrived at his apartment in a bustle to get dressed for a speaking engagement with the Women’s Westside Auxlliary.  He breezed through his door casting a glance over at his computer noticing that he had an email.  It was from Mingo Miybriy, the editor of the Assassin informing him that he had been relieved of his pop music duties.  Those reviews, the communique read, had been transferred to a younger man who was, presumably more in touch with contemporary youth.

page 2.

     This news made Donn angry, he was insulted, nobody was more in touch with contemporary youth than he.  But he failed to give this premonition of disaster the consideration he should have.  Donn was much too confident of his fate, of his own importance in the web of destiny.

     ‘I’ll have to send an email telling Mingo to get rid of the guy.  That’s my territory.  There’s no one more in touch with youth than me.’  Donn thought, ‘But first I have to go shine on these society bitches.’

     Donn, was a cocaine habitue, he would have rejected the term addict, as the stuff was recreational rather than compulsory; he was living his life in a euphoric haze.  He had become entirely divorced from reality.  In his vision of himself as an all powerful deity he had alienated many people.  Some were too inconsequential  to hurt him in his prosperity.  Some, one in particular, he should have taken care not to offend.  That one was a man by the name of Maggie Spingold.

page 3.

     Maggie was a very powerful man, not only in Portland, Oregon which is where this story begins, but on the entire West Coast.  He was even influential in certain national circles.

     Like Donn he was a homosexual.  He was one of the five or ten most powerful individuals in the Gramercy Club.  The Gramercy was composed of two hundred of the most successful men in Portland.  This was still 1980 and women had not yet forced entry into these men’s preserves.

     Maggie’s real name was Edward G. Spingold.  He was descended from immigrants from the Jewish Pale who had emigrated in the 1890s.  Spingold was not the original family name but his family of Uroffskys were assimilatively inclined, they wanted a name that was more American sounding than Uroffsky.  When the Jews of the era took ‘American’ sounding names they invariably chose names that implied success or high standing.  Thus the many Golds, Goldbergs, Goldwaters, Goldschmidts, Goldens, Silvers and Silvermasters.  Goldberg actually incorporaes two success images- Gold and Mountain- or perhaps Mountain of Gold or God, or a high peak of inestimable value and purity.

     Spingold to the Uroffskys implied the ultimate of success, the ability to make gold.  The oddity of the name to ‘Americans’ was never obvious to them.  When their baby boy was born in 1920 they named him Edward for the line of kings of England, Edward VII having just died, and G for a seemingly superfluous Gold.  Although Gold in this instance was to imply the purity and magnificence of God, Gold being the color of the sun, the emblem of God.  Thus Maggie’s real name was Edward Gold Spingold.  If ever a name was prophetic it was for the Spingolds in general and Maggie in particular.  They and he were adepts at acquiring lucre.

page 4.

     The ‘Maggie’ by which Maggie was known, behind his back, was not a diminutive of Margaret but rather a familiarization of the ‘Magus.’  Maggie had fostered the reputation that he was an adept in the Jewish Kabbalah.  this was somewhat of an exaggeration  as there were any number of mystical adepts in town, both goyish Theosophists and Jewish Kabbalahists who could run circles round him.  But wealth and chutzpah can befuddle many minds; Maggie had sufficient quantities of both.  He had the reputation of being a Magus.

     Maggie belonged to all three of the great networks.  He was important in the Old Boy Network and paramount in both the Jewish and the Homosexual Networks.  He was a silent founder of the Homosexual Anti-Defamation League and a power in both the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith and the American Jewish Committee.  In his capacities in the Homosexual and Jewish groups Maggie had a direct interest in censoring and controlling how and what the Daily Assassin reported on both groups.

     Thus he passed an occasional hour at the Daily Assassin updating Mingo Miybriy on any changes on how the Jews wanted to be represented and deploring the terrible homophobia which marred American society.  He had seen Donn’s reviews in the paper which had done nothing for him but the sight of Donn had electrified him.

     Donn was blond and just this short of being really handsome while actually epitomizing the macho man.  His black brush of a mustache contrasted dramatically with his blond hair.  His air of oblivious self-confidence made him doubly attractive to Maggie.  The little gold earring in Donn’s left ear conveyed the necessary information to Maggie.

page 5.

     He shoulder jousted Donn in the hallway giving him the excuse to apologize and strike off an acquaintance.  Donn, who knew a love bump when he received one was extremely flattered by the attention of such an important man.  Maggie took Donn’s effusiveness as a declaration of love, not that that mattered.

     Maggie found Donn’s address and subsequently showed up at Donn’s door at three o’ clock in the morning ready for sex.

     Maggie had chosen a Saturday night, or rather, Sunday morning.  Between Donn’s drug (or perhaps substance abuse, he also used alcohol) use and sexual exertions on the previous evening he was thoroughly exhausted.  Besides he had just arrived home and virtually collapsed on his cot.  This evening though Maggie had quietly said through the door:  ‘It’s me, Eddie.  Ed Spingold.’  The name hadn’t registered in Donn’s disorderly mind.  Even if it had he would have arrogantly dismissed him.  As it was he testily said: ‘I don’t a give a f- who you are.  It’s three o’ clock in the morning.  Get the f- out of here.’

     Maggie thought that Donn owed him at least to open the door, admit him and then courteously explain his incapacity.  Donn, on his part, knew that once in it was impossible to get one out.  Maggie had taken the slight badly.  He had begun to plot  revenge as he turned from the door.  He was a powerful man; his resources were many.  Donn would find a surprise in his emails on his return from the Westside Ladies, while his response from the women would be out of synch with his previous experiences.

page 6.

     But for now he entered his apartment in breezy spirits to hurriedly don his Classical Donn attire.  He quickly grabbed a black gabardine suit and threw it on the cot.  He plopped his patent leather pumps on the floor while seizing a pair of hose to replace his socks.  The hose were a most elegant sheer black nylon that rose over his calf to rest just below the knee.  He quickly rolled the tops down, washed his face, splashing it with Royall Spice after shave to please the ladies.  He changed into a white shirt draping a red paisley tie around his neck as he suited up.  His Windsor knot was fine but not impeccable as he closed the door behind him.

     Unbeknownst to Donn Maggie Spingold had placed him on the blacklist.  Naturally any society denies the existence of a blacklist but only a fool takes such denials at face value.  Previously all doors had been open and all welcomes for Donn had been warm if not hot.  Now the ponderous machinery of society was being activated to exclude him.  Donn found fewer Westside Ladies in attendance than he expected.  Many of the leading lights were missing leaving him to address secondaries and fillers.

     Donn knew next to nothing about classical music and even less of its history.  Today his address contained banalities about the aging of the old guard soloists and the lack of emerging new performers.  Usually he was met by rapt attention as his good looks, fine presence and prepossessing form solicited, but today two of the ladies coughed continuously while one in the back row, where those in front couldn’t see her, stifled yawn after yawn repeatedly.  In their way they were breaking up the lecture, a little more politely than the Communists used to do to the Fascists and vice versa.

page 7.

     Donn was puzzled but he finished his lecture and opened the discussion.  After a rude comment from the yawner, Peggy Belton had, not so much a question but a point.

     If Donn knew little about Classical music, with a couple exceptions, his auditors knew even less.  Classical music is less a group of afficionados than a cultural club.  The classics represent a social ideal to them of cultural superiority rather than musical appreciation.  Most have never heard of, say, Buxtehude, Fux or Hummel and for that reason would never buy a record of their compositions.  The average classicist has heard of little but the three Bs.

     Most of them think that Chamber music is a form like a fugue or a sonata; nor can they be educated except by an authority figure.  Peggy Belton was at the bottom of this class.

     She began:  ‘Donn.  Donn.  Tell me, what can you do about this horrible man, Dewey Trueman?’

     As the question was so inappropriate Donn had to stifle a laugh.

     ‘Dewey Trueman? Dewey Trueman?  Do you mean that fellow who runs that record store downtown, Peggy?  That Dewey Trueman?’

     ‘Yes!  That’s him.  The very one.  What are you going to do about him?’

page 8.

     ‘Well, but, Peggy, what does he have to do with the old guard or emerging talent?’

     ‘That’s just it.  I bought a record in there two weeks ago by the classical composer, Ludwig Beethoven.  Have you heard of him?  He’s a wonderful composer.  I hope he writes lots more.  And I bought his Seventh Symphony.  It was a faulty recording.  I still have it because that man wouldn’t give me my money back.’

     ‘Beethoven wouldn’t give you your money back, Peggy?’

     ‘No, not Beethoven.  Stop your giggling girls.  Dewey Trueman wouldn’t give me my money back.  He told me that’s how it’s supposed to be.’

     ‘How’s that, Peggy?’

     ‘Well, first off the music is terribly noisy like Mr. Beethoven would never have composed it.  Then, you know what?  It starts off really quietly than builds up until it’s just terribly deafening then all of a sudden it gets real quiet again.  One can’t even listen to it.  Do you know what that man said when I took it back to him?  He said that those were crescendoes and dimuendoes and that was the way Mr. Beethoven intended it.  He must have thought I’m totally ignorant because he was smiling all the time.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  I want my money back and I want to know what you’re going to do about this Trueman fellow?’

     Most of the women were giggling in their handkerchiefs.  Some covered up their mirth by saying:  ‘That terrible man.  That terrible man.’  Donn hadn’t actually listened to the Seventh as it is one of Beethoven’s least popular symphonies so he had little idea what Peggy was talking about.  Taking his cue from the others he pretended to stifle his mirth.

page 9.

     As the question really called for no discussion of the Seventh he attacked this fellow Trueman, who was littled loved by the Daily Assassin as he didn’t advertise in it.  Donn had previously written an article deploring Trueman’s classical selection as being too large to examine while extolling the other store for having ‘manageable’ selections.

     ‘Well, there’s little we can do directly to that fellow you mentioned Peggy, but I can assure you that everything is being done indirectly that can be.  All I can advise you to do is not to purchase from him again and maybe he’ll go back to wherever he came from, if any will actually claim him.  Hopefully that place is not on this planet.’

     ‘Yes, but Donn, he’s got the best selection of classical music in town.’

     ‘Yes, Peggy, but its very virtue is its defect.  Its size is just too unmanageable for the average intellect.  So that’s my advice, shop elsewhere.’

     As there were no further questions and someone had forgotten refreshments the meeting dispersed.  It was mid-afternoon when Donn returned to his apartment to find a new message on his computer.  Having lost his pop music position he was now suspended as classical reviewer.  He was ordered to report to Mingo Miybriy immediately.

     ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough.’  Donn said to himself as he flopped down on his cot to mull over the significance of the message.

page 10.

     II.

     …all of them, like children of the night,

everywhere wild, everywhere lost,

everywhere loveless, faithless, homeless.

All with some terrible flaw

Against which even nature rebelled.

-John Clellon Holmes, ‘Go.’

     Maggie Spingold was a powerful man.  He was a vindictive man.  He avenged anything that he considered a slight.  He was open to affronts, encouraged them, invented them when they weren’t there.  He never acknowledged an alleged affront or slight or openly complained.  He never openly avenged an alleged affront, imitating his god he worked in mysterious ways.

     When Donn refused him admittance at three in the morning this was what he considered not only a slight or an affront but a violation of homosexual law, of which it was the last.  For him to offer his love was, in his mind, a gift of incomparable, not value, but worth.  Its refusal was incomprehensible and subject to stern judgment with no remission of mercy.  Donn was to get the back of Maggie’s left hand.

     Donn’s dismissal from his duties as pop critic was merely the first of a series of steps of increasing severity.  All events are foreshadowed.  Had Donn perceived his reception by the Westside Ladies correctly he might just as well have left town then.

page 11.

     As it was he got up the following morning.  Ten o’ clock sharp found him climbing the third floor stairs to Mingo’s corner office looking out at the University.  Normally there was little delay in his getting access to Mingo.  Today at eleven-thirty he was just getting up to leave when Mingo breezed into the ante-room in that pert assertive manner that ‘strong’ women then used as though she were just getting into the office.

     ‘Hi, Mingo.  You wanted to see me?’

     ‘Donn.  Donn Contrales.’ Mingo said as though he had returned after a long absence which was not far from the truth.

     ‘How long have you been waiting?’

     ‘Oh, hour and a half, Mingo.’

      ‘Gary,’ Mingo said to her Black male secretary, ‘why did you leave Donn sitting there like that.  You knew I would’t be in till now.’

     Gary smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  All three knew that Mingo was prevaricating.  When Gary had flashed her that Donn was about to leave she had slipped out the other door of her office to enter the anteroom.

     ‘No harm done, Mingo.  What was it?  Just that I’m fired?’

     ‘Step into my office Donn, it’s more serious than that.’

     Donn was intent on Mingo as they spoke, he didn’t notice that her other door was ajar.  Behind the door, listening gleefully was Maggie Spingold.  He wanted the fruits of this stage of his revenge.

     Mingo reached into her lap drawer, picked up a little folded packet and flipped it across the desk at Donn.

page 12.

     ‘What’s this, Donn?’

     Donn was mystified.  He’d never seen it before, he was canny enough not to pick it up.  But he did recognize what it was.

     ‘I don’t know, Mingo.  What is it?’

     ‘By the way Donn, don’t be so familiar.  Call me Ms. Miybriy.’

     ‘Am I fired?’  Donn asked.

     ‘Yes.’  Mingo sniffed.

     ‘Then, Mingo, I’ll call you what I please.’  Donn said asserting his independence.

     ‘Open it up, Donn.’

     ‘Mr. Contrales to you Mingo, and no, I’ve never seen it before.  I don’t know what it is.  What is it?’

     ‘For someone who’s never seen it before, it came out of your desk.’

     ‘Whether it did or didn’t, my desk is in the newsroom.  It’s accessible to anyone.’

     ‘That happens to be a packet of cocaine, Donn.  It came out of your desk.  We know you use it and sell it.  We believe you left it in your desk by mistake.’

     Donn saw through the set-up.  They weren’t going to get him on this one.

     ‘You can believe what you want Mingo, but I didn’t put that packet in my desk and you can’t prove I did.  Besides since you just handled it it’s got your fingerprints on it.’

     Mingo blinked realizing her error but continued on doggedly:  ‘The circumstantial evidence is strong against you Donn.’

page 13.

     ‘You may have circumstantial evidence but not against me, Mingo.  I saw you take that packet out of your drawer, not mine.  That’s all the circumstantial evidence I see.  I have no reason to believe that was ever in any drawer but yours.  You have no evidence against me.’

     Maggie coughed on the other side of the door as a signal for Mingo to give it up.  Donn leaped to his feet to pull open the door.  As he grabbed the knob he heard the outer door in the room slam.  By the time he got that door open the hallway was clear.  When he tried to reenter Mingo’s office he found the door locked.

     He stormed around to the anteroom only to find that door locked with Gary staring through the glass door at him placidly.  There was nothing for it but to make a fool of himself or leave quietly so he left quietly.  He passed two police officers on the way down the steps who had been called in anticipation of the arrest.

     The fact of the matter was that the seventies were over.  The eighties had begun.  AIDS had put a scare into the hard partying orgiastic homosexual community.  The large orgies were being discontinued, the bathhouses were closing down.  Consequently consumption had fallen.  The wide open drug dealing of the seventies had suddenly become conspicuous.  The loading dock station of the Daily Assassin had been discontinued.  Maggie had had shares in the traffic.  The station had received some notoriety.  The thought was to give the police some credibility by breaking up that ring.  Donn was to have been the scapegoat.  There would have been no end of ‘witnesses’ and plenty of ‘evidence.’

page 14.

     Maggie had been disappointed by Donn’s unexpected presence of mind but he was a resourceful man.  He knew more tricks than Houdini.  Before he played his next card however he gave Donn three or four months to suffer.  Needless to say there was no job in Portland for Donn save menial tasks.  Actually there was nothing comparable in Donn’s mind for  what he had lost.  The only suitable job in his mind was as a TV news anchorman.  He probably would have made a good one too.  He had the looks, he had the style.  Obviously he couldn’t get in.

     Cocaine dealing was off limits to him now and not knowing what else to do he began living off his savings.  Pride kept him from the unemployment line.  As always a capable wheeler dealer he was able to score a couple of deals.  But as the slander machine got into high gear he found those opportunities dry up.

     Doors closed all over town.  Having lost his status he lost his immunity.  He began to have flat tires on that wonderful Porsche.  His windshield was cracked.  Ordinarily he would have had it replaced immediately, now he was compelled to drive around advertising his shame.

     Other homosexuals who remembered him from his high flying days spat at his feet continually.  He was slammed into from behind only to turn and find no one there.  Guys shoulder jousted him on the street trying to pick a fight.  No more love bumps.  Donn wasn’t used to it.  He didn’t know what it meant to be an outlaw.  His confidence began to disintegrate.  He took to walking defensively.  With these evidences of malaise Maggie chose to strike his killer blow.

page 15.

      All events cast a shadow before them if one can only recognize it.  At three o’ clock in the morning Maggie knocked on Donn’s door.  Donn who hadn’t been sleeping well lately was lying on his cot, head deep in his pillow scowling at the ceiling.  At the sound of the first rap he raised his head to scowl at the door wondering who in the heck that could be. 

     ‘Who is it?’ He said through the door.

     ‘It’s I.’  Maggie said expecting Donn to recognize his voice from their last encounter months before.

     ‘Who the hell is I?’  Donn said irritably.

     ‘Me.  Ed.’ Maggie said pointedly, in his mind, dropping the diminuitive to indicate to Donn that they were no longer on intimate terms.

     ‘Ed, who?’  Donn demanded crossly.

     ‘Ed.  Ed Spingold.’  Maggie said indignantly.

     This time Donn thought he had better open the door.  They had never actually met except for the love bump, but by now Donn understood who Maggie Spingold was.  He was sorry he hadn’t let Maggie in the last time.

     Maggie stepped into the apartment like a Captain stepping aboard ship, with a deprecatory nod at Donn.  Donn flicked on the light to reveal Maggie in all his splendor.  Maggie was prissy edging toward precious in his appearance and mannerisms.  He was sixty years old at this time.  His golden hair had thinned uniformly so that standing close one could see through the sparse follicles but from a few feet away his hair looked more full.  While Maggie was thin his face had the sallow soft pudginess of the aging homosexual.  It would be wrong to say he had jowls yet there was a perceptible sag to his cheeks.  His nose was straight and moderately fleshy.  His pursy mouth had a pronounced red-black color.  His face was powdered slightly, no lipstick.

page 16.

      A vain man, Maggie   had a wardrobe two or three times as extensive as Donn’s huge collection of clothes.  Maggie shopped all the clothiers from Rome to Beverly Hills.  Today he was wearing an outfit from a now defunct clothier in Beverly Hills by the name of Eric Ross.  His personal salesman, Bonford, had put him in a fitted jacket with brass buttons.  Bonford had described the color of the jacket as ‘aubergine.’  Aubergine is an eggplant but the color was not so purple, more of a medium burgundy.  He had a light grey shirt with a cream colored tie.  Tan gabardine pants.  His shoes were a peculiar combination of styles, loafers with tassels with a wing tip.  Maggie must have wished to project a hard and soft image at the same time.

     As he didn’t wish to disfigure his appearance with unsightly bulges he carried his personal effects in a little leather pouch.  He bent his little finger through the strap loop, holding the bag in his right hand just below his heart.

     Maggie coldly appraised the room.  This was not the first time he had been in it.  In fact he was intimately familiar with it.  He had a key.  While Donn was out he had often come to lounge around the apartment lovingly touching each thing.  He had even put on Donn’s underwear so that a part of his essence would be next to Donn’s private parts.  He knew the computer, the records, the video on Donn’s TVs.  He had even discovered a dark secret beneath Donn’s pile of undershorts.  His love had compelled him to even make excuses for that even though he had misunderstood its meaning.

page 17.

     They stood eyeing each other; Donn with a cold hostility at being disturbed at three by a man who Donn’s sixth sense told him boded him no good;  Maggie with the hot indignation and hatred of a scorned lover whose sense of majesty had been offended.  Maggie could never forgive Donn for having turned him away.  Turned him away not only against the rules of homosexual mores but he, Edward G. Spingold, the self-proclaimed  Magus, a scion of the House of Judah and a power in the Old Boy Network.  In a word, the prize queen of his the subculture.

     He carried a book under his arm as a gift for Donn.  He presented it.

     ‘What’s this?’  Donn asked.

     ‘That’s a copy of a book you should be acquainted with.  It’s by a Frenchman.  Jean Genet.’

     ‘Our Lady Of The Flowers?’  Donn read the title uncomprehendingly.

     ‘Yes.’ Maggie went on.  ‘It’s about his prison adventures.  You may be able to put it to good use.’  He finished with a sly wink.

     ‘What’s that to me?’  Donn replied blinking uncomprehendingly.

     ‘Oh well, it’s about his gay adventures too.’

page 18.

     There was something in Maggie’s manner that irritated Donn.  Without making a move his posture gave the impression that he was about to slug Maggie.  Acting solely on intuition Maggie stiffened, standing erect, chin out to receive the blow like a true masochistic martyr.

     Had Donn punched him it would have changed the course of events for punching is a surrogate for intercourse.  Maggie would have forced a spat but their relationship would have been cemented.  Maggie would have thought Donn cared and further that he was a real man.  But Donn knew who Maggie was.  Fear of his power made Donn hold his punch.  The initiative passed to Maggie.

     He chose a pompous, almost irrelevant lecture as a response.  America is a lawless society.  The only law is satisfying one’s desires at any cost.  Yet in some zany way the law is revered.  Maggie had interpreted Donn’s desire to hit him as the resort of the lawless.  This set him off on a lecture in which he made a lengthy quote from the autobiography of Ralph Chaplin.  Why he would have bothered to memorize it is anybody’s guess.  He said to Donn:  ‘You know Donn, the law is a valuable thing as well as a sacred thing.  We Jews know that only by curbing our instincts that a better society can be created.  Thus we hedge all our actions by the 613 prescriptions of the Law.  Even your people have belatedly realized this.  Let me quote to you from the autobiography of Ralph Chaplin:  ‘Remember the old days, when we talked so much about freedom?’  Bugs asked me.  ‘Well we had freedom on that Godforsaken Metacombe- freedom from everything but our own cussedness.  It added up to something that we didn’t like and couldn’t take.  This is how it happened.  We received our regular checks from the government and, having nothing to buy with our dough, we gambled.  There was no law, no church, no jail.  We even refused to build our own latrines.  We were free men- rebels, by God!  Soon menial work was beneath our dignity.  We got into the habit of fighting after dice and card games, first with our fists, afterwards with clubs or knives.  Killing became common.  No one’s life or money was safe.  Prostitutes from the islands, greedy for our dough, swarmed in upon us.  After that we fought over women.  There were more killings.

     When the hurricane reached us, some were glad; others didn’t give a damn.  They were too far gone with rotgut booze and syphilis.  Maybe it’s better to live under the laws of God and man, after all- what do you think?’

     ‘Well, what do you think, Donn?’

     ‘What?  What’s all that supposed to mean, Ed?  I don’t even know who the hell this Ralph somebody is.’

     ‘You don’t get it?  Well, show me around then.’  He commanded.  Maggie’s brain was filled with a vision of a perfect world governed by the laws which he himself was incapable of observing.

     ‘Well, look left and right, it’s a small place, Ed.’  Donn said standing in his T-shirt and shorts.

     This was no answer to Maggie who had on previous occasions spent more than an hour over each item let alone making a tour of the apartment.

     ‘No, Donn.  Show me around.’

page 19.

     ‘W-well, Ed.  This is it.’  Donn stammered mystified.

     ‘No.  Start with the computer and show me around.’

     Donn moved hesitantly to the computer.  Looking at Maggie intently and uncertainly he said:  ‘This is my computer.’

    ‘Do you like it?’

     ‘Oh yes, very fine.’  Donn said moving to the stereo and records in response to Maggie’s indication.

     ‘Uh, Ed.  This is my stereo and records.’

     ‘Do you have any favorite songs?’  Maggie asked severely, aware of the answer.

     ‘Yes.  Several.’  Donn replied moving toward the bathroom door.

     ‘No.  I mean what is your favorite song.  Don’t you like something called Interstellar Overdrive by Pink someone?

      ‘Y-yes, I do.’ Donn said surprised that Maggie would know.

     ‘Play it for me.’  Maggie commanded.

     Watching Maggie intently Donn selected the record and moved the needle over to the last cut.

     Maggie nodded approvingly.

     ‘What kind of video do you have on your TV set?’  Maggie asked coyly.

     ‘Oh, nothing really.’  Donn evaded.

     ‘Turn them on.’  Maggie commanded.

     Donn snapped the living room TVs on.

      ‘All of them.’  Maggie said forgetting himself as he moved into the bedroom while his eyes filled with tears and a pout took possession of his face.

page 20.

     He thought forlornly about things that could no longer ever be.

     Donn was very surprised that Maggie knew he had four TVs but it was possible that he had seen them as he looked around the apartment.  While Donn was flipping on the TVs Maggie walked over and  fingered the support of the cot that hid Donn’s stash.

     ‘Hmm.  Looks a little worn here.’ He said musingly, concealing a threat.

     Donn looked around sharply, alarmed.  Then as he looked at the cot the support did look a little worn.

     ‘Um, yeah, the cot fell apart a couple times.  I’ve been meaning to get a new one.’

     Donn paused a moment looking at Maggie, then he shrugged:  ‘Well, Ed, what do you want?’  Donn meant what kind of sex.

     ‘Do I want?’  Maggie replied.  ‘I want nothing.  What do you want?’

     ‘Well, Ed, when somebody comes by at three in the morning…’

     ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been here at three in the morning.  Do you have time for me today?  You didn’t before.  Do you think I’m some tramp, or whore who show’s up at men’s doors begging for sex?’

     ‘Oh, no.  Of course not, Ed.  I never thought that.  It’s just that I’d just got home.  I was out all night.  I was hung over and exhausted.  I wouldn’t have been any good anyway.’

     ‘You should let me be the judge of that.’  Maggie said, his voice quivering, his cheeks shaking and tears beginning to run down his nose.

page 22.

     Donn reached out to draw him to himself but Maggie petulantly twisted away like a sixteen year old girl.

    ‘No.  It’s too late now you bastard.  When I wanted you you didn’t even have the time of day for me.  I wanted to be in your arms and listen to the night.  I thought you had certain charms and I thought the time was right but you couldn’t spare me a little, not even a little bit of your love.  Maggie sobbed, closely following the the lines of a song he had heard only once and with divided attention.  Remarkable.  ‘Now, you’re going to be sorry for it.  You’ll come to me on bended knees before it’s all over and beg my forgiveness.’

     Then with all four TVs silently simulating fellation on their screens to the sounds of Interstellar Overdrive Maggie marched out slamming the door behind him.

     Donn was astounded.  Now thoroughly awake he knocked the cot apart to get his cocaine.  He sniffed a couple lines spending the rest of the night sitting before his computer staring out the window for the rising sun wondering what it was all about.  The next day would be the first day of the rest of his life.

     Half dazed and uncertain of what he was doing Donn finally got out of his apartment at ten.  As his head was still swimming from the visit of Maggie he decided to walk over to the University Station for his mail.  Donn kept a box as he didn’t want anyone to know his address.

     Donn wouldn’t have noticed them anyway but in his condition he was totally oblivious to everything.  But if had been aware he would have noticed the plain clothes police in the lobby.  As usual they stood out like sore thumbs wearing their clothes like disguises peering out from their skulls as through bushes.

page 23.

     Donn grabbed his mail.  As he did so the clerk said:  ‘Oh, Donn, we’ve got a package for you.’

     Donn went to the counter absent mindedly taking the plain manila envelope with no return address tucking it under his arm.

     ‘You’re under arrest.’  One of the cops said taking him by the arm.

     ‘Under arrest?’  Donn said.  ‘For what?’

     ‘For this.’  The officer said tearing open the envelope to show Donn a child pornography video and a child snuff film.

      Donn’s being sank to his shoes.  He actually did turn a whiter shade of pale.

     ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I didn’t order those.’

     ‘Tell it to the judge, my boy.  Come on, we’re going downtown.’

     Once again Maggie was placed advantageously to watch Donn booked and jailed.

     ‘The ignominy is yours, you bastard.’  He thought, thinking how he had transferred his shame at being refused back onto Donn.

     Donn spent the night in jail.  He was released the next day on his own recognizance to find a lawyer.

     Dazed and wearied by the preceding events Donn forewent climbing the stairs two at a time as was his wont standing disconsolately in the elevator instead.  As he emerged from the elevator he was stunned to see his apartment door standing open.  Already dazed, his mind reeled as with churning stomach he entered his apartment.  The police would blame it on ‘vandals.’  All of Donn’s possessions had been destroyed.  His TV screens had been broken out.  His computer looked as though it had been hit with a sledge.  His records had been overturned spreading across the room.  The Pink Floyd record was on the turntable but neat little crosses had been ingrained with a chalky substance at precise intervals which made the cut unplayable.

     As he entered the bedroom he noticed a scorched band across his wardrobes.  Perversely it was all wearable but with the equivalent of a black armband on the exposed sleeve indicating that he was a dead man.  His shoes had been broken.  His cot too had been smashed.  The end stood loose, the cap of this stash projected.  But when Donn withdrew it it was empty.

     Then Donn saw the secret that had been hidden under his undershorts.  It was a picture of Adolf Hitler.  It was lying on the floor with a knife driven through the nose at precisely the place Donns penis would have been as he lay on the cot.

     Donn was mystified.  It seemed like a strange thing to do.  Maggie who had desecrated what had formerly been a shrine to him had completely misunderstood the significance of the picture.  He, of course, attributed the possession of the photograph to anti-Semitism.  Like all Jews he exaggerated the thought gvien to Jews by the goyim.  Actually Donn never thought of Jews.  He was unaware even that Maggie was a Jew.  While Hitler stood as the symbol of the anti-Semite to Maggie, to Donn he was the symbol of the god of destruction representing the turmoil in Donn’s own soul.  Hitler represented to him the ability to destroy the world that had destroyed him.  So Donn in the nether reaches of his mind wished destruction on those who had made him what he was.  There was no vengeance for that too awful.

page 25.

     Donn’s rape by his uncle had completely destroyed his self-respect.  It had meant the destruction of his world forever.  It stood as comparable in his mind to the saturation bombing of Hamburg or Dresden.  After his rape his soul resembled to him the shattered and twisted rubble of Europe after the Nazi defeat.  Donn’s soul thrilled at the notion that Hitler had had Paris wired to be blown to bits.  He was glad the order hadn’t been carried out but in his mind’s eye he could see Paris in ashes.  It was this about Hitler that thrilled him.  The man had almost done it his way.  He had almost overturned the evil that the world had placed on him.  And he was doing it in a constructive way by ridding the world of Communism.  Failing that he had wreaked havoc on those who had wreaked havoc on him.  It would have been so easy for them to go along with his plans in the East. How perverse France, England and the US must have seemed to him.  It was that in Hitler that Donn appreciated, revered, adored.  That he kept Hitler’s picture under his undershorts was no coincidence.  No more a coincidence than that Maggie should find the picture as he chose a pair of Donn’s shorts to put next to his weenie.  The connection between the penis and the brain is a mysterious one.

 page 26.

     Thus Maggie, to whom the rest of mankind was inconsequential, saw in Hitler only the instigator of Jewish destruction.  Even though Maggie shared Donn’s innate fear and loathing, he was able to turn the destruction of his people to a sort of positive use while Donn suffered only its negative effects.

     Dumbly, acting instinctively he released the picture from its pinion to destroy it before the police arrived.  The police had only shrugged when they arrived, for what could they do as they said.  Under the best of circumstances they stood little chance of locating the culprits; now to do so would be inconsequential. 

     Closing the door behind them, Donn stretched wearily on the canvas of his army cot on the floor, pushing the stuffing back into the slashes on his pillow, he flipped it over and lay down his weary head.

     God, he thought, what did I do wrong?

     Donn’s life had been completely shattered.  His mind reeled beneath the blows coming from whence he knew not.  For the nonce he couldn’t imagine who had set him up with the child pornography.  He could understand how the goods may have been sent in his name by anyone but he couldn’t understand the knowing leer on the face of the clerk or the presence of the police.

     He would have lain around in his despair for weeks but the pressing need to find a lawyer to keep himself out of jail drove him from the apartment.  The days were reaching their apex in length as he went forth.  He knew Jerry Lang of Lang, Ingalls, Adams, Rank and Smith.  Lang’s was one of the most prestigious firms in the city.  Donn knew the importance of image, he had no desire to go to some unafilliated ‘nice guy.’

page 27

     The receptionist’s smile turned to a frown as the reply came back from Jerry Lang.  She coldly motioned Donn to a seat saying the Mr. Lang would be out shortly.  Donn wasn’t used to the freeze out.  Within five minutes he was on his feet.

     ‘Which one is Jerry’s office, I’ll just pop in.’

     ‘When Mr. Lang is ready he will come for you.’  The receptionist said coldly, aw heck, icily.  ‘Please remain in your seat.’

     ‘Oh, Jerry and I are friend…’ He began.

     The receptionist pointed coldly to the chair.

     Time passed slowly.  Rebuffed again after fifteen minutes Donn thought to storm out but then the numbing realization of his predicament robbed him of volition.  He sat and sat.  After a full hour Lang strode into the waiting room with that solicitous, overly sympathetic manner of the put-on artist.  He was a consummate lawyer.

     ‘Sorry to keep you waiting Donn buddy, but I…well, you know?  What can I do for you Donn?’  He said with the air of one who already knows the situation as he slid behind his desk.

     As was usual in knowledgeable attorney’s offices he had one chair beside him behind the desk and another chair in front of his desk.  Normally he would offer his client the choice of either.  If the client took the confidential chair beside him then the interview would be conducted in a more sympathetic manner; if the client took the confrontational chair opposite him the interview would be more businesslike.

     Donn didn’t know the protocol but it didn’t matter, Lang motioned him into the confrontational seat.  Donn’s problem, which was news in Lang’s circle, was already a hot topic with him.  Maggie had spread stories of Donn’s TVs so that Lang was predisposed by these rumors.  Donn wasn’t aware of how the Networks actually operated even though he had been a peripheral of them.

page 28.

     ‘I’ve got a serious problem.’  Donn began.  ‘I was arrested two days ago.  I was charged with receiving child pornography through the mail.’

     ‘Really?  What kind of pornography?’

     Donn frowned and winced, ‘Child snuff films.’

     ‘You mean the kind where they actually kill children before the cameras?’

     Donn nodded yes.  He shouldn’t have.  He didn’t know what was on those videos.  He had never seen them.  He hadn’t even seen the titles or cover pictures as the envelope had been confiscated before he had had a chance to open it.  But as he knew what snuff films were he only assumed that that is what they were.  He’d temporarily forgotten Terry Roberts had gone to jail for ten years for buying baking soda.

     ‘Oooh, that’s very bad, Donn.’

     ‘Oh, hey, I didn’t do it.  You don’t think I’d do something like that?’

     ‘Well, it was mailed to you?’

     ‘Yeah, but anyone could do that.’

     ‘Yes, I know, but when we checked- nothing personal, but we’d have to investigate this thoroughly Donn- when we checked the manufacturer the next thing you know we’d have your credit card number and the order in your handwriting.’

page 29.

     ‘That’s impossible…’  Donn flustered.

     ‘Well, we’d have to see, Donn.  You know, this is not the kindof case I really like to handle, but I’d do it for you, Donn.  You know, they’ll want to make an example of you to stop this sort of thing.  They’re going to throw everything at you.  This is going to be very expensive.  I’d guess forty or fifty thousand dollars maybe more.  Possibly lots more.  Do you have that kind of money, Donn?  Can you give me a twenty thousand dollar retainer?’

     Donn very nearly went into shock.  His face drained of color as his jaw went slack.  He breathed stertorously as his head slowly wobbled back and forth in indicate, no.  The indication wasn’t even meant for Lang.  It was more like a silent scream for help.

     ‘Well then, Donn, I can’t help you.  I’d like to but I can’t.  I don’t work for nothing.’

     Lang held his open palm to the door showing Donn the way out.

     What the hell are friends for?  Donn thought as he stumbled out into the unseasonable ninety-eight degree heat.  He was about to learn the meaning of friendship.

     He had to control the feeling of convulsions as he the full nature of his predicament hit him.  Tens of thousands of dollars for something he hadn’t done?  Donn’s nervous agitation plus the heat soaked his clothes through.

     His body drained of strength.  His reflexes disappeared as he drove back to his apartment.  His ankles shook uncontrollably as he walked across the garage.  Unable to do the stairs even one at a time he rode the elevator.

page 30.

     His mail for the last couple days lay on his smashed computer unopened.  To allay his despair he picked them up.  The top piece was his Visa bill.  He remembered what Lang had said.  With bated breath he tore open the envelope.  And there…there before his eyes was the charge slip from Ace High Publications.  Someone had charged the videos to his account.  An involuntary sob broke from Donn’s chest as he reached for the phone book.

     He knew Don Barger who worked for Carter, Harley, Exner, Agatson, Turner and Snyder.  The firm didn’t have quite the same cachet as Lang’s and Barger wasn’t a partner but he was good.  Donn made an appointment.

     A microphone had already been concealed in the mouthpiece of Donn’s phone by Maggie.  It transmitted to a voice activated tape recorder in Maggie’s possession.  It not only recorded Donn’s phone conversations but picked up any conversation in the room or even any monologues Donn might have with himself.

     As in keeping with custom the receptionist took his name and number and advised that they would call him back.  The firm then checked around to find Donn’s status before they called him back.

     Thus that evening when Barger dined out with his family at the Multnomah County Country Club he happened to run into Maggie.  While it was common but unspoken knowledge that Maggie was a homosexual, Don Barger, in the obtuse socially acceptable manner was ignorant of the fact.  Barger was privately opposed to homosexuality.   As it was not politic to avow such an opinion he discreetly kept his silence.  He was also the father of a twelve year old girl and an eight year old boy.  He was frantic to protect them from baleful influences.  He was a sworn enemy of drug users and sex abusers.

page 31.

     In the course of their brief converstation Donn’s scandalous arrest was mentioned.  Maggie, who was aware of Don Barger’s opinions let out that Donn was a homosexual and the nature of the videos.  Barger’s smoldering reaction let Maggie know he had hit his mark.  Maggie bid him a pleasant goodnight.

     Donn never knew what hit him.  He was ushered right in but Barger had his arm up finger pointed toward the door before Donn had said a word, nor was he even offered the confrontational chair.

     ‘I’ve seen the arrest report.  I’ll need a retainer of fifty thousand dollars to handle the case.  You don’t have it?’  He said without pausing for an answer.  ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll have to bid you a good day.’

     Donn was dumbfounded.  Frozen in his tracks, his mind reeled.  He intuited the impossibility of finding decent representation even if he did have the money.

     He gasped:  ‘But I have to have representation.  How will I get it?’

     ‘I’d check our Charlie Pooter.’  Barger said.  ‘He may be able to do something for you.  Once again, good day.’  All the time with his finger pointing to the door.

page 32.

     Donn stumbled out of the office, down the hall and out before the elevators.  ‘Charlie Pooter?’ He thought.  Charlie Pooter?  That guy doesn’t even defend people, he just negotiates for the lowest possible sentence.’

     Indeed, Pooter for years had been taking the petty drug cases, guys busted for a joint or two or a gram or less.  It was agreed between he and the court that he wouldn’t defend his clients but settle for whatever sentence the judge wished to impose.  Now Donn was being shunted to him for sentencing.  Donn could see clearly which way the railroad ran.

     The elevator deaccelerated to stop with thump which was how Donn felt.  He’d hit bottom.  He stepped out of the elevator to cross the lobby.  As he approached the doors, as if by chance, Warren Mogulson accosted him.  Mogulson worked for the Assassin.  He was a nasty little man.  His brow was perpetually knitted in advance recognition of the little indignities the world would inflict upon him.  He carped at everything.  He began the next day’s griping in his dreams.  Sunny or wet, the day’s weather was a matter of grief to him.  His shorts were either too tight or too loose.  Living in a food paradise in which fresh strawberries were available six months of the year, frozen ones year round, Warren complained that there wasn’t an adequate choice of food.  He had a choice between range fed, corn fed, or chemically fed beef but he still beefed on endlessly.  Gripe, gripe, gripe, grind, grind, grind,gnash, gnash, gnash, endlessly, endlessly, endlessly.

page 32.

     His mind was tied in knots, none of his thoughts could proceed in a straight line.  He lived to inflict his grief on others.  Any little sneaky injury he could do, he did.  He did it for pleasure.  It was he that Maggie has used to place the cocaine in Donn’s desk.

     Maggie liked him.  They had somewhat the same conception of self.  They both had a prissy conception of being well dressed.  Warren wore high waisted pants with those belts of a matching fabric with the little brass grommets.  They both tried to wash their psychological dirt by being overscrubbed.  Warren usually made a good first impression.

     Today Maggie sent him to gather Donn’s reactions and intentions.

     ‘Oh, Donn, imagine meeting you here.  What are you doing these days…now that you’re no longer with the Paper.’  He couldn’t resist the dig.

     ‘I, oh, I, had to see someone.’  Donn said evasively trying to brush Mogulson off.  Donn had no use for him; being of a euphoric temperament himself Mogulson only brought him down.

     ‘I’ll bet I know.’  Warren burbled on.  ‘You were seeing a lawyer about that little trouble you had.’

     ‘Well, yeah, I…’ Donn began in a sickly troubled manner.

     ‘Come on, Donn baby, let’s go have a cup of coffee and get some of this off your chest.’  Warren always had more than enough time to glory in other people’s troubles.

     Donn wanted to split but unaccustomed to the pressure, he needed  to talk to someone.

page 34.

     ‘I didn’t do it.’  Donn said weakly as they walked up to the nearest national burger chain, which also passed for a restaurant.

     ‘Of course you didn’t, Donn.  At least you didn’t do anything wrong, at least I don’t think you did.  After all, it’s all genetics.  We’re only realizing our destiny.  Why shouldn’t it be filmed?  Don’t you just hate those homophobic bigots?  What right do they have to interfere in another man’s pleasures?  God knows those nasty heterosexuals have their faults.  They’re not perfect either.

     Don’t they know what damage they do to themselves when they repress genetic needs?  The fuss they make about eight year old boys realizing their destiny.  Don’t they know nature’s bounty?  There’s a million  more in the womb at any given time.  God!

     Warren was talking loudly so others could hear.

     He was trying to give Donn the character of a child abuser.  Those who heard would transfer his expressed sentiment to Donn.  Warren was talking sincerely for himself at the same time however.  As a pederast he favored young virgin boys.

     ‘I mean, after all, our third sex is genetic.  One is born a homsexual whether one realizes it or not.  A man’s real nature is imprisoned by a lot of blathering social expectations.  It’s part of the the heterosexual plot against us to keep us from realizing our true nature, from enjoying life as only we know how.

     After all, all we are doing is freeing the true child when we accept their love.  After all , isn’t freedom what America’s all about?  Freedom from that Medieval moral claptrap?  I liken it to sculpting.  I mean, how would anyone have even known those four presidents were concealed in Mt. Rushmore if they hadn’t been blasted out?  It’s like that marvelous sculpture of the Christ by Da Vinci in which the Christ in the stone is only half released.  The real man has to be full sculpted.  Why shouldn’t boys be affirmed in their true nature and be educated as one of their own sex.  The third sex.

page 35.

     I mean…’  Warren was capable of going on for hours in this manner but Donn interrupted him:  ‘Enough, Mogulson, enough.  Stop.  I don’t want to hear it.  Everybody is listening.’  Donn got up to leave, Warren pulled him back down.

     ‘Alright.  Don’t be rude.  So what are you going to do?

     Grief at his predicament overwhelmed Donn.  In a moment of anguish he made up his mind and blurted out his intention.

    ‘I don’t know.  I guess I have to leave town.  They’re going to put me in jail.’

     ‘When will you leave?’  Mogulson asked eagerly overjoyed at this success.

     ‘Right away.’  Donn said, wiping a tear away.  ‘I’ll leave tomorrow.’

     ‘Where are you going?’  Mogulson persisted.

     ‘Oh god, I don’t know.  Leave me alone, Mogulson, get away from me with your obscene chatter.’

     Warren scurried away with a hateful backward sneer at Donn.  He had partially succeeded, he could report back to Maggie that Donn was going to jump.  He smiled a smile of satisfaction at Donn’s discomfiture.

page 36.

     Dismissing Mogulson from his mind Donn raged over his legal predicament.  He was innocent of this charge but unable to defend himself for lack of cash.  Even then why should he have been required to spend cash, enormous sums, to clear himself.  Disco Donn Contrales who had never worried about fairness before lamented that it wasn’t fair.

     Well he had to leave, that was clear.  Perhaps if he were to be caught in another state, he thought, the evidence against him wouldn’t be so compelling; perhaps he could exonerate himself that way without the enormous expense.  But he didn’t want to be caught.  Too chancy, besides he knew these guys all hung together.

     With fair presence of mind he had withdrawn his savings of several thousand dollars issued in travelers checks.  He threw his credit cards away so his movements couldn’t be traced from them.  Then he went back to his apartment to pack his few undamaged belongings and rest.

     As the morning sun streamed through the window Donn had made up his mind to head North to Seattle to plan his further course.  In addition to his cash he still had his cosmic wheels, the Porsche, which he thought he would be able to sell for a good price if he ran out of money.  Such thoughts as renewing his expensive insurance in the future hadn’t occurred to him.

     Donn’s spirits lifted somewhat as he sat behind the wheel of his magnificent car that expressed less than the real Disco Donn Contrales as a specious imitation of him.  He threaded his way across town to take 205 at the Everett access.  His apprehension was acute as he joined I5 and inched along in the morning traffic toward the Interstate Bridge.  He scanned the highway for police constantly.  He felt a sense of relief as he touched down in Vancouver on the Washington side of the bridge.  The Vancouver traffic thinned out as he forced his way through North.  Then after Mill Plain he was able to open the throttle some until the open highway to Seattle beckoned.

page 37

III.

On The Road

 

Get your motor running,

Get out on the highway,

Born to be wild,

            Born to be wild.

Mars Bonfire

The highway is for gamblers.

-Bob Dylan

 

     The French homosexual, Marcel Proust, spent several thousand pages in an attempt to prove the superiority of homosexual lust over heterosexual love.  His thesis was that heterosexuals surrender their personalities to a lifelong bondage in exchange for doubtful sexual privileges while homosexuals retain full autocracy while satisfying their lust in brief encounters in back alleys or wherever convenient.

page 38.

     Proust was a great student of ritual.  He described with great clarity of detail the means and methods of homosexual encounters but he lacked psychological depth nor was he ever able to explain the origins of homosexuality.  In his eyes homosexuals lived carefree unfettered lives.  I’m sure homosexual marriage would have been incomprehensible to him.

     Disco Donn was now learning what the denial of one of those casual carefree encounters could mean.  Because of his denial of one such demand he was being pursued and driven to the depths of despair by a disappointed applicant.  Donn had known the law of the lawless brotherhood; open the door and assume the position.  He hadn’t the power to refuse while Maggie Spingold had the power to make him repent his arrogance.

     Now, behind the wheel of his  cosmic vehicle, his astral wheels, as he imagined, safe out of Oregon, Donn relaxed behind the wheel snuggling into his seat, lulled into a euphoric state by the exhilaration of his purring engine and the open road.  He didn’t notice the bear in the air keeping pace with his progress down the highway.  Washington at that time kept at least one helicopter patrolling I5.  One of these now followed Donn up the highway.  It was aided by the transmitter placed on the bumper by Maggie’s hitman.  A car trailed Donn about five miles back.  The car had a shortwave.  Its code name was Next Year.

     Donn’s agitation was slowly subsiding when a large blotch of crankcase oil spewed out behind the speeding Porsche.  With earsplitting noise the pistons cracked and shot out the block.  Donn’s astral wheels rolled to a stop right here on Earth.  They would never wheel him down the Betelgeuse Bridge no more.

page 39.

     The Bear transmitted the news to Next Year who pulled to a stop to receive further instructions.  Donn understood his situation immediately.  He had been sabotaged.  He no longer had transportation and his cash reserve was thereby destroyed.  He would have to leave many thousands of dollars on the apron of the highway.

     Men don’t cry and Donn didn’t, at least not externally.  Inwardly he spent five minutes in total grief before he got control of himself and disgustedly grabbed his bag to get out on the highway with his thumb out.  As luck would have it the car had coasted to as stop at the Mossyrock exit, US 12.

     Donn, who was faced with a quick decision abandoned his notion of going to Seattle preferring to get off the main highway.  He walked the offramp up to Twelve to stand in glum expectation of a ride.  Twelve isn’t the best hitchhiking road in America.  It leads across the Cascades between Mts. Ranier and St. Helens into the deserts of central Washington.  There was only one good highway across the state to Spokane and Idaho.  The only other good road led back to Oregon.   Donn didn’t know and he wouldn’t have cared if he had known.  His only thought at the moment was to avoid being picked up by the police.

     He thought he was being pursued.  In fact the charges would be quietly shelved.  Maggie’s objective had been attained.  A trial might possibly have exposed the frame which might lead to who knows where.  The police would not pursue Donn but his disappointed lover would.

page 40.

     There he stood in his grey silver toed boots, grey pants, waiter cut grey jacket, shades and grey flat hat.  Out of his element he cut a ludicrous comic figure by the side of the road.  He was oblivious of the fact.  Donn’s heart nearly stopped when a black Porsche identical to his own came off Interstate 5 to stop in front of him.   Maggie was truly vicious.  The door accommodatingly flew open.

     ‘Hop in.’  Said a smiling voice.

     ‘Yeah, thanks.’  Donn said.

     The shining Porsche splashed out on Twelve.  The driver smiled over at Donn.

     ‘You ever driven one of these?  Great car.  You’d love it.  Just point it in the direction you want to go and it’ll go there.  Incredible suspension.’

     ‘Yuh, I’ve ridden in one.’  Donn said ruefully.

     ‘I’m taking this little buggy to New York.  How far are you going?;

     Donn should have given an evasive or false answer but his hammered state of mind and joy at his luck prevented his seeing the obvious ruse.  He hadn’t known where he was going but with the prospect of a through ride things clarified themselves.

    ‘St. Louis.’  Donn said.

     ‘St. Louis?  No kidding?  How lucky can you get?:  Why St. Louis?  What are you going to do there?’

     ‘TV anchorman.’  Donn replied matter-of-factly not realzing how ludicrous that sounded coming from a hitchhiker in what now could be seen only as very eccentric garb.

     Donn, not yet used to his status of knight of the road, leaned back unaware of his preposterousness.  In any other driver it would have raised a smile but his host, the same as had been following him, Next Year, took it all in seriously as he was acquiring the information he had been sent to obtain.  It no longer made any difference what Donn did on his way to St. Louis, his reception would be prepared when he got there.  Nor is it likely that had there been an opening for a TV news announcer in St. Louis Donn would have been refused; he was good looking, confident and personable.  Personable to the extreme when he turned it on.

     The driver having now obtained the information he needed became amiable.  He and Donn got along famously.  The car climbed into the mountains, Ranier on the left, the stump of St. Helens on the right.

     The lake at Mossyrock slipped by as the afternoon warmth was negated by the air conditioning.  A few miles beyond Packwood the driver suddenly realized that he had failed to turn off the sprinkler.

     ‘Oh, damn, I’m going to have to go back to do that.’  The driver smiled ruefully at Donn.  ‘Sorry, buddy, you’ll have to get out.  Sorry ’bout that, old pal.’

     The car made a U leaving Donn by the side of the road away out there.  You don’t know how far out that is until you’re standing beside an inhospitable road with your thumb out.  The afternoon heat still shown on the mountain crests.  The scenery was stunning there in the woods, but Donn didn’t notice it.  He stared glumly up and down the road.  There isn’t that much traffic on Twelve and what there is is mainly short hops.

     The sun went down on Donn as he stood away out there, solitary, silent and glum.  When one wonders how alone you can get; Donn’s situation was a fair approximation.  No matter how hot the day it gets pretty cold up there at night.  The sparse traffic ceased completely.  Cold and disconsolate he shouldered his bag and started walking just to keep warm.

page 42.

     Donn’s boots weren’t made for walking.  It didn’t take long for his feet and legs to start howling.  In despair Donn threw down his bag, sat on it, put his head in his arms and roared and bellowed.

     He sat in the pitch black night for hours oblivious of time.  He heard the roar of an engine in the distance laboring uphill.  It sounded like a big eighteen wheeler, an old one.

     Even though the truck had been some distance away when he first heard it he had just gotten to his feet when its headlights penetrated the darkness of the uphill slope on which he stood.  Donn edged out into the roadway the better to be seen.  As luck would have it the driver was lonely and pulled to a stop.

     It was an old, old rig.  Not a cab over, its long snout protruded before the windshield.  It might have been a White or Mack but any identifying insignia had disappeared long ago.  The color was either rust or brown.  The driver was pulling two empty gravel bottoms.

     Donn gratefully leaped in.  Putting the truck through its innumerable gears the driver regained momentum.  The truck roared so loudly you couldn’t hear yourself think.  The driver wanted to talk.  Donn was obligated to do so.  Groggy from lack of sleep, exhausted by anxiety he tried to shout over the engine.  Unable to be heard he had to scream.

page 43.

     As the driver came down the mountain he let the big rig roll.  It was the most terrifying ride of Donn’s life.  The sides of the bottoms flapped and banged behind him.  The truck careened down the highway at breakneck speed seemingly pushed by the bottoms beyond anything but the driver’s ability to steer it.

     ‘How do you stop this thing if you have to?’  Donn screamed at the driver.

     ‘Don’t know.  Never had to.”  The driver shouted back with a complacent smile enjoying some kind of trucker humor.

     ‘Jesus.  Can’t.’  Thought Donn.

     Donn heaved a sigh of relief as the driver pulled over just after leaving the Douglas Wilderness Area to let him out.

     Beat and tired he stood by the side of the road trying to collect his thoughts.  Then he grimly realized where he was.  He was standing in this burning desert with the sun rising.  July in the desert is no picnic.  This was where the Wobblies had been packed into sealed rail cars in July to be transported hundreds of roasting miles across the central desert of Washington and Oregon.  They hadn’t had any water then; Donn hadn’t had anything to drink since noon the previous day.

     Hands on hips Donn stood looking up and down the highway kicking dust all over his beautiful grey boots with the silver plates.  Suddenly he realized how quickly one got seedy away out there.  His boots were dusty, his clothes rumpled.  By the end of the day he would be smelly, if he lived.  For the first time he realized how ridiculous his outfit was.  He wished he had regular clothes.  He looked around for some sign of running water but found nothing but scorched desert.

page 44.

     At ten he began to get uneasy.  At eleven, as the heat began to build he got desperate.  Just at that moment a car appeared in the shimmer to pull over.  It wasn’t a mirage.  The back door flipped open.  The car was an old jalop.  Some big huge sedan dating back to the thirties, possibly a Ford V8.  The car was enormously roomy.  Donn could stretch his legs all the way out without touching the front seat.  There was just enough room on the seat for him.  The other side was piled high with junk.

     Donn pushed his bag into it staring at the assortment of articles with wonder.  He had been engaged in this for two or three minutes when, mouth open, he turned his eyes forward.  His eyes were met by a ragged leering countenance.

     ‘Hi!  I’m Zadok, this here’s Amirah.  We’re Cristins.’  Zadok said from deep in his throat.  ‘How about you?’

     ‘I’m dying of thirst.  You wouldn’t happen to have a drink of water, would you?’  Donn croaked, holding out his hand in anticipation.

     ‘Water?  You need ‘living’ water.  All I gots still water.’  Zadok said meaning that he couldn’t give Donn the spiritual ‘living’ water of Jesus.  Donn thought he meant that he didn’t have carbonated Perrier.

     ‘That’s alright.  It’ll do.’  He said, motioning for the water.

page 45.

     ‘Hand me the water.  I’m dying of thirst.’

     Zadok paused then passed back a full half gallon jug.

     ‘Ya always gotta have this kinda water out here, especially further out, ya never know when ya might break down.’

     Donn gulped a couple slugs, skull aching from being up all night.  His feet were killing him.

     ‘Well?’  Zadok pressed.

     ‘Uh, oh yeah, excellent water.  Thanks.’  Donn nodded.

     ‘Well, ya gonna answer or not?’

     ‘Answer what?’  Donn said, having forgotten the question.

     ‘Well, you Christin’ or not?’

     Donn wobbled.  He hadn’t felt the need of the grace of god since perhaps he was twelve; on the other hand he had never formally rejected the notion of god in his mind.  He really didn’t know for sure in the circumstances.

    ‘Not a very devout one.’  He replied equivocally and prudently.

     ‘Well, ya better git devout.’  Zadok said thrusting his jaw at him.  ‘And right away.  Do ya know what’s gonna happen?’

     Donn will be excused for taking the sally as some kind of threat.  Actually Zadok was just a blunt speaker.  He and Amirah were pretty crude guys.  His speech concealed reams of suppositions and explanations left unspoken.  Donn not understanding the notions behind the question sat erect, compressed his lips and shook his head ‘no’ ready for anything.

     ‘He’s comin’ back real soon.  You’re gonna get left behind if ya don’t shape up.’

page 46.

     ‘Oh yeah, when?’  Donn said comprehending and disgusted at his momentary apprehension.

     ‘Real quick.’  Zadok said vaguely.  ‘Me’n Amirah here is real Bible students, we got it all figured out.  We got ourselfs a commune of like believers.  We live out in the Rattlesnake Hills where it is His comin’ back spot.  Wanna join our commune?’

     Both Amirah and Zakok were rough, mean, ignorant boys who kept moving from the center of society to the fringes.  Partially by inclination, partially because they were forced out.  They had had a fair chance, coming from the bottom half, but they wouldn’t take the chances offered them and they rejected the discipline necessary to take advantage of them.  Somehow they, or Amirah at least, had learned to read well enough to puzzle through passages of the Bible.  Apparently only a minimum reading skill is necessary.

     As they were unable to function in the complexities of society they had gradually found their way out into the desert when no one else wanted to be.  Each was convinced that he was destined to make a mark on the world.  Through movies and TV they projected themselves on all the leading tough guys and men of action.  Their lives were lived through a haze of movie euphoria.

     Along the way they had picked up several women by whom each had had a passel of children.  These plus a couple male hangers on formed their ‘commune.’

     These guys were rought tough men given over entirely to the gratification of their vices.  Interpreting the Bible in such a way that they personally had dominion over the beasts of the field and the birds of the air.  As the anointed of god all men, women and children were subject to their use and abuse.  Consequently they indulged their sexual fantasies with any of the women, children and men of the commune.  Zadok and Amirah were pretty vile guys.  But… Holy.

page 47.

     Donn had all the trappings of culture.  These guys revolted him.  He wasn’t afraid but he should have been more wary.  He decided to play with them.

     ‘Hey, Zadok, you know that you use ‘ain’t’ improperly?’

     ‘So!  I ain’t no snob.  So what?’

     ‘No. No.  I don’t mean you shouldn’t use ain’t; I mean you use ain’t improperly.’

     ‘What the hell you talkin’ about?  Ain’t’s aint.’

     ‘No, it ain’t.’  Donn sparred on.  ‘Ain’t is a contraction of am not.  Therefore it can properly be used in I ain’t but it is improper to say you, he, we or they ain’t.  Just a small point.  I thought you’d like to know.’

     Zadok and Amirah had no idea what Donn was talking about but any display of learning they didn’t have was a put down to them.

    ‘I told you so…’  Amirah whistled under his breath.

     Zadok nodded.  ‘Yeah?’  He said to Donn.  ‘Well argue with this son-of-a-bitch.’  Zadok snarled flopping a big .45 pistol over the seat back, cocking the hammer as he did so.

     Donn was from Texas.  He didn’t flinch.  This fact made a big impression on Zadok.

page 48.

     ‘Hey, put that thing down, man.  I was just trying to help.  It was just small talk.  Relax man.’

     ‘I’ll relax when a anti-Christ like you is outta my car.’

     ‘I heard that.’ Amirah said as he found a dirt road leading to god knows where.

     They had already gone through Yakima and were out on the Rattlesnake Hills road when they turned off.  They dropped off several miles out into the desert hills and left him.  Fortunately for Donn he held onto the water jug.  The sun was blazing down.  Donn decided to wait for nightfall to walk out.  He got down into the shade of an embankment and waited.

     By nightfall Donn, who had been dozing on and off was too weary to move.  He was too weary to make a decision so he sat there cold and miserable throughout the night.  It wasn’t sleep but it was rest.  He was alerted to the coming of day as the advance glow from the sun’s rays mingled with inspissated gloom of night.  The light particles increased in force lifting and driving away the darkness like fog being absorbed by the air as it warmed.

     Dispirited but thankful to be alive Donn finished off his still water, pushed himself to his feet and began the trudge back to the Rattlesnake Hills road;  fortunately he hadn’t encountered any rattlesnakes.

     Those boots troubled him mightily.  By the time he reached the road his feet pained him greatly.  Luck was with him this morning.  He had barely put his thumb out when a clean obviously well maintained but old car pulled over to offer him a ride.

page 49.

     ‘Terrible place to hitchhike son.  Whatever possessed you to take this road.  There ain’t nothing on it for fifty mile or more.  You could die out here easy.  This heat’n all, no water.’

     Donn sat there trying to come up with a plausible answer.

     ‘I don’t know.  I had a ride and this is just the place they dropped me off.’

     ‘Not very Christian folk were they?’  The driver, Al Martin, commented.

     ‘Well, they said they were, but I guess not.’  Donn smiled ironically.

     ‘You just goin’ up to the Tri-Cities?’  Al asked.

     ‘No. Further.’

     ‘Hmmm. You know why I stopped to pick you up, son?’

     ‘Christian charity, I suppose.’

     ‘That’s no joke, son, and that’s part of it.  No, there was just something about you that said you were a fine boy who’d had a streak of bad luck.  Am I right?’

     ‘I’m hardly a boy, sir.’  Donn responded somewhat testily.

     ‘Well, son,  I’m seventy-six years old and I hope you’ll allow me some of my fantasies I’ve entertained since I was a boy.  I always wanted to be kind and fatherly.’

     ‘Oh yeah, sure.’

     ‘You look pretty beat.  You look like you could use a break today.  I got a place up here in Eureka, that’s on the other side of the junction with the Snake.  You can stay for the night, clean up, get some rest if you like.’

page 50.

    Go to continuation at Part II-2, Disco Donn Demands Deliverance.

    

 

This is the story of Disco Donn.  The story take place in the late seventies.  Today is 5/17.  I put up ten pages a day so the story will take about 25 days to put up.  Read along or wait.

Two Episodes In The Life Of Disco Donn

by

R.E. Prindle

Table of Contents

1.  Disco Donn Does Deep Elum.  20 pages.

2.  Disco Donn Demands Deliverance 200 pages.

I.

Disco Donn Does Deep Elum

Interstellar Overdrive

Pink Floyd

Ain’t it the truth,

It’s a fool’s game.

Steve Harley

     Come see.  The night was dark; the city was not.  The night was also stormy, but it was the mild off again, on again drizzle that descends in a gentle fine mist from the solid overcast skies of Portland, Oregon.

     The lights of the city pitched up against the low hanging clouds reflecting back again in a red infernal like haze.  The moon was yellow but it was above the clouds where no one could see but the passengers on the big jetliners cruising along at eight miles high.

     Contributing to the light storm of Portland was the giant light frieze of Disco Deep Elum deep in Goose Hollow.  A score of phantom dancers depicted in tens of thousands of colored light ball gyrated back and forth in simulated ecstasy, their electric spirits undampened by the laughing rain.

page 1

     Beneath them on the glittering pavement live partyers flowed toward this great sybaritic church dedicated to sexual gratification.  In imitation of Hollywood, Sid Epstein, the impressarion had pressed his hands, feet and nose into the concrete.  The DJs had done the same, some substituting lips and suggestive drawings for Sid’s use of her nose with the two little lines next to it.  So far none of the citizenry  had been coaxed to leave an indelible record of their existence on Planet Earth as Sid and the others hoped.

     Goose Hollow had at one time been one of the loveliest areas of Portland but 26 had sliced it in two with its six lanes of asphalt elevated above the Hollow’s floor.  What was left was a ruin in which on the West side up against the reservoir sat Disco Deep Elum.  If one had been sitting on the dam of the reservoir looking down into the service area behind Deep Elum one would have seen how some of the other half passed their leisure time.

     For there lounging among the garbage cans were some eight or nine young men; hommies, just thoroughly beaten up hommies, guys who got their kicks through fatal crashes, mass murders and the like.  There among the dented cans, the fetid smells, the little puddles that might at one time have been water, probably something else now, they stood idly far from each other, jealously incommunicative, sullenly waiting, waiting…hating and despising themselves and all that pertained to them.  Would the redeemer ever come?

page 2.

     Come see.  Donn Contrales was busy putting on the finishing touches of his toilette.  Donn lived at 3211 W. Park not too far from the art museum in one of the most charming streets in Portland.  The Park Blocks extended from the University on the South end for several blocks to the Gramercy Club at the North end.  The Gramercy was where the Old Boy Network headquartered to determine the shape of things to come.

     Donn Contrales lived on the fifth and top floor front of the Short Arms Apartments.  The Apartments, brick faced, austere, yet somehow relaxed in a state of excitement, as the Oregon Tourist ad once ran, in architectural styling.  He looked out his window into the tops of the lofty elms filling the block wide strand separating Ease and West Park.  Down through the trees the greensward below shown up.

     Donn’s apartment which was a kitchen, living room, bedroom and bath was furnished in a peculiar spartan manner.  The floors were of a fine old hardwood uncovered except by two small Persian style rugs in the living room one beside his army cot in the bedroom.

     The furniture of the living room consisted of a small wooden bench not unlike a church pew, a fairly large flat oak desk which held Donn’s new computer, and a matching oak chair.  As Donn was both the classical and pop music reviewer for the Oregon Daily Assassin, the States leading paper, there was a set of shelves four high and about six feet long flanked by MacIntosh speakers with the amp and turntable to the left side.  A TV and VCR stood before the kitchen door while another guarded the bedroom door.

page 3.

     The light pink painted walls were decorated with pictures of Donn in various sizes and poses in various states of deshabille,as well as reproductions of his signature.  The bedroom walls were decorated in the same manner with a couple of nudes of himself.  A collapsible army cot was placed against the middle wall beneath a four by six full length reclining nuce of Donn that he called the Naked Mojo.  As the apartment had only a small closet there were several rolling department store clothes racks against the walls that contained a wardrobe for each facet of Donn Contrales multi-faceted personality.

     There was a lot of out there and Donn didn’t want to miss any of it.  These were the late seventies.  America’s years of prosperity, TV, Movie and Recorded Musical fantasies and endless yammering about some mirage that no one ever saw called the American Dream had produced the psychological type named Donn Contrales.  As can be seen he even spelled Donn with two enns to express his individuality and superiority to the scene he both loved and professed to despise.

      Reality to Donn was the movie screen.  Society had passed from the notion that all the world’s a stage to all the world’s a movie.  Real life had lost hits consequence, or so it seemed to Donn.  People acted out destructive fantasies as though they were only characters in a movie that could be set aside after the show while the actors resumed their former status.  There were people who actually went to prison only to discover to their chagrin that their movie was real life and that they could not resume their former existence.

page 4.

     Donn could separate his roles from such dire consequences, but he did want it all.  All was of course what Donn could see and feel and he could not see far or very clearly or feel much.  Unlike most of his contemporaries who went around roaring that cliche Donn was capable of getting most of ‘it’, as he perceived it, if not all.  He was capable of adopting a convincing and appropreate persona for each of the many facets of his many faceted personality.  Hence his extensive collection of wardrobes.

     He had some good Harris tweeds for his appearances at the Daily Assassin which gave him a very solid yet sporty appearance.  He had some nice black suits with patent leather pumps for his classical music persona.  And of course some wild stuff for the disco.  Donn himself was a pretty good looking guy.  It was peroxided of course but his tousled shock of blond hair couple with a black mustache, full from nose to lip and from just beyond the corners of his mouth gave him a aresponsible but devil-may-care facade.  His face was symetrically square, nice smile and his eyes twinkled blue.  He was slightly long in the body and thick in the thighs but he knew how to dress around these defects.  At five-nine it may be fairly said that when Donn stood up before the ladies’ auxiliaries todiscuss the glories of classical music that a very satisfied body of women sat before him.

     The feeling was not mutual.  Donn’s desires ran in other channels.  Donn was a militant homosexual.  He wasn’t in the closet but he was discreet.  He saw the utility of appearing straight but not narrow.  He was an ardent advocate of tolerance, which is to say that he thought homosexuals should be deferred to.  He had seen too much of the results of bigotry here in the twentieth century he was fond of saying not to deplore homophobia.

page 5.

     Yet he employed the means of bigotry he professed to deplore.  He thought it necessary to censor adverse opinion and exterminate the opposition.  The Daily Assassin thrugh its editor, Mingo Miyriy, who was herself a closet lesbian and several high ranking editors and employees were in the forefront of this homoseuxal revolution.  They were determined that it should triumph in Portland and throughout Oregon.

     Donn was currently employed in the Assassin’s attempt to destroy a heterosexual County Commissioner by the name of E. (Earl) L. Shaddai.  Earl had been elected by an Eastside constituency that was fearful of homosexuality, or as Donn would say, didn’t know its asshole from a hole in the ground.  Earl had pledged his voters that he would do the best he could to contain it.

     The homosexual community was up in arms at his election.  They would tolerate no oppostion to their goals, although nominally tolerant.  They wanted E.L. Shaddai removed from office.  One might say there was nothing they could do about it, Earl was in office and it appeared that he would have no difficulty in being re-elected.  There was nothing fair and square or legal that could be done about Shaddai but as Hitler observed:  Everyone forgives a successful crime.

      Donn had been used, was being used in setting Shaddai up for the fall.  While modern political man professes to despise Hitler they love his methods.  Donn had befriended Earl in his facet as daytime pop music editor which was much less formal than his classical facet and more sporty than his office facet but less outre than his night time disco facet.  He had betrayed the friendship by asking Earl out to dinner.  The Community was establishing a character for Shaddai.  Oddly enough they were going to destroy him by making it appear that he was one of them but a hypocrite.  Consequently Donn take Earl to the Great Gotham Hotel.

page 6.

     The Hotel was a homosexual bath house.  The place was run very discreetly so as not to risk interference by religious groups or the police.  Not all homosexuals were allowed in on it and, if any, virtually no heterosexuals knew what went on behind its doors.  The dining room was along the West wall facing the public rooms.  The public rooms were the showers, pissoirs and stools.  Donn disappeared just after entering leaving Earl and an attractive young guy in a bath towel who showed up to cross the public rooms together giving the appearance that Earl was taking his date to dinner.

     Earl was stunned at the sight of naked men lounging around while one guy who was urinating flashed him a big smile over his shoulder.  Earl turned in disgust to rush from the place only to find himself stranded as Donn who had insisted on driving was gone.  Laughter, jeers and catcalls followed him down Stark as he headed for the city’s premier hostelry, The Oregon Trail, and its cab stands.

page 6.

     Nevertheless Earl could not honestly deny that he had to the Great Gotham.  Any explanation could be denied by Donn and several witnesses.  A step had been taken to establish his character as a homosexual. 

page 7.

     For this night Donn’s facet was Disco Donn Contrales.  For this one he had a terrific macho cowboy outfit, for Donn portrayed the macho man.  For this one Donn didn’t put his pants on like an ordinary guy, one let at a time.  The pants were very tight, very form fitting.  To get the leg proportions right the thighs had to be cut very snug; thus Donn sat on his army cot putting both legs in at the same time.  He had to work his pants over the thighs very carefully.  Standing up he forced his fly shut turning to look at this reflection in the full lenght mirror.  ‘You’ve got your mojo working tonight, you hunk.’ Donn exulted to himself.  Actually his fanny was a little too flat but he blinked twice and it fleshed out.

     Satisfied, he felt the need for a coke break.  Donn was a very aware guy.  Working for the Assassin he knew exactly how the police powers were used.  Consequently he left nothing lying around his apartment.  He reached won and knocked the ends of his cot apart, shook a vial of cocaine out of the hollowed out frame strut, tapped out a couple lines, then carefully replaced the vial, reassembling the cot before he imbibed.  Disco Donn shook his head in glowing anticipation.  He was about to mount his cosmic wheels and roll around heaven for a bit.  He was about to make his vision of himself a visionary reality.  The cosmic power shot up his nose penetrating his brain like the divine arrow of God, suffusing his brain with a flow of intense omnipotence.  His mental vision of himself seemed perfect.  He was the God/Man.  He before whom all should fall.  He saw all, knew all and understood all.  It was all his, others used what they had at his sufferance.  He would brook no contradiction.  For these few blessed moments his life shone.  Everything he had ever done seemed right.

page 8.

     He flicked on all four VCRs.  Instantaneously the same four videos appeared on the screens.  Endless non-stop performances of fellation lubricated the screens.  The recond was already on the turntable. ( This was pre-CD)  He flipped it on moving the needle over to the last cut, Interstellar Overdrive by Pink Floyd.  His song.  The powerful rumble of the strident notes and chords reverberated through his soul.

     He sat down on the his cot to pull on his boots.  Thoughts crowded through his brain, not in any order or sequence.  Disco Donn could obviously not support his life style on his income from the Daily Assassin.  He glowed with satisfaction at the thought that with his new computer he could transmit his articles direct to the Assassin; there would no longer be any need, he tought, to go into work.  This invention would leave him more time to augment his salary by other means.  This included selling cocaine.

     Donn was a key figure in a network that included a couple cells at the Assassin.  It was run off the loading dock.  Get it?  That was an in joke.  The Loading Dock.  It was right next to the Loading Zone. (Wink, wink) Mingo Miybriy was not involved, nor could it be said that the Assassin Corp. was involved, but it could also be said that Mingo and management were totally oblivious to the fact.  It was just expedient to not notice or make embarrassing equiries.  Many companies had cells that were either unknown or ignored.  Or, possibly used.,

page 9.

     Donn had a box of demo records to take down and sell, too.  He recieved thousands of records a year.  It was impossible to listen to them all, he chose what looked most promising or what he had been directed to, often with gifts of cocaine from the record companies, and sold the rest.  Then around the corner of his mind he glanced up at one the screens, he remembered a memory that gave him grim satisfaction.

     There had been a rock and roll singer in town by the name of Terry Roberts.  He wasn’t either a good singer or a good rock n’ roller but Donn had developed a crush on him.  He had pursued him relentlessly but Terry, who had girlish good looks was adamantly hetero.  He wouldn’t have anything to do with Donn.  In fact he made several churlish remarks about ‘fags’ that Donn took expecial offense at.  Well, Donn thought, if you won’t go down on me you’ll go down nevertheless and you’re not going to like it at all.

     Terry did like his cocaine.  Donn could and had supplied him.  Rock n’ rollers aroused the antipathy of a lot of people.  A large part of the population wanted to see rock n’ rollers behind bars.  Donn agreed to sell Terry a couple grams.  Donn didn’t show with the coke but a nark did.  Terry was busted and given ten years for buying two grams of coke.  The joke was that it wasn’t cocaine but baking soda.  Terry’s attorney didn’t ‘think’ to check so Terry went up for buying baking soda.  As Donn thought Terry was having a very bad time in jail.  He’d lost his front teeth on the first day.  Within six months he would be found hanging behind the prison furnace to the intense satisfaction of all concerned.  More than one way to skin a cat.

page 10.

     The images danced on the screen, Interstellar Overdrive penetrated the walls.  Donn stood up.  His grey snake skin boots with the tuck and roll on the instep, silver plate in front, silver plate behind were resplendent.  The sheen on his grey gabardine pants was perfect.  His white cowboy shirt was immaculate, his string tie perfection.  Donn put on his belt with the huge silver buckle that covered his midriff.  the buckle depicted a cowboy astride a bucking bronco.  I’m the cowboy that ain’t never been throwed, Disco Donn exulted.

      He slipped into his grey cowboy jacket that looked somewhat like a waiter’s jacket, then he stepped over to the mirror to fluff up the back of his hair.  That done he picked up his mirrored sun glasses that the reflected the world back n itself while allowing him to see it.  He squared his round brimmed flat topped grey hat on his head fluffing the hair out behind again.  He paused for a moment to collect himself on his cosmic wheels, then made sure to turn off his videos.  The stereo had already shut off automatically.

     Donn went back to snort another couple lines, washing the residue down the drain to as to leave no trace.  He stood up, took a deep breath, as he seemed to elongate into the stratospher.  He was eight miles high.  He thought he could see the big yellow moon behind the clouds just like the folks on that big mainliner up there that goes from sea to sea.

page 11.

     Come see.  Disco Donn stepped out of the elevator into the parking garage beneath the Short Arms Apts.  He paused striking a heroic pose as he glanced left and right calmly adjusting his mirrored sun glasses.  Between his dark, glasses, the protruding brim of his hat that nearly rested on his glasses and the gloom of the parking lot it was amazing that he didn’t trip over his own feet, but he walked with the steady purpose of a movie cowboy coming up the street at High Noon over to his shiny black Porsche.

     It was amazing, he thought, that the auto manufacturers of this world should design a car that so perfectly matched his character.  It was more, he thought, than a coincidence.  With a certain awe for their prescience, he sincerely believed  they must have known that he was there.

     He opened the door, then standing with one hand on his door top the other atop the vehicle, one foot on the rocker panel he gave one more significant glance around the garage before ducking into his vehicle- his Solar Chariot, his Astral Wheels.

     The firing of the engine, the roar of power, somehow meshed with the cocaine running round his brain to boost him to yet a higher plateau.  His being was filled with euphoric exultation.  As he waited for the gate to rise wahich seemed to rise in icrements of millimeters, retrace its increments and rise again, Donn waxed philosophic.  He exulted in his power and the control of his world that he felt.  It was all in knowing how to use what you got, he thought.  It was uncanny how without any training or forethought he just knew what to do.  It was just his destiny to be great.

page 12.

     Cocaine and sex- take just two examples for instance.  He could use either to create or destroy, he thought.  If he liked you, which meant that you went along with his desires, you could share blessed exalted moments with him.  If he didn’t like you, well, Terry knew about that as well as two or three girls who had not treated him with the respect he deserved.  Now, their pride gone, they begged for cocaine for which they had to give him more than money.  Could it be said that Donn was running a string?  Boy, that’s harsh, hey, maybe he just needed a favor for a friend from time to time.

     So with sex.  That homophobe E.L. Shaddai was going to be destroyed on the accusation of homosexuality, yet he, Disco Donn Contrales could practice it with immunity.  It was almost weird, thought Donn, shaking his head in wonder.

     Disco Donn was no longer of this world as the cocaine lifted his mind beyond awareness of mundane affairs.  The gate banged up as Disco Donn leaned back his head in a manic grin of unvoiced laughter.  He roared out into the street unaware of possible pedestrians or traffic.  Fortunately the street was clear.  But then as yet he was not moving fast.  His world was slowed down so that at 25 miles per hour he seemed to sailing through it.  Indeed, all else seemed to be frozen in time but himself.  The wet pavement glistened black and silver beneath his headlights.  Rays of light bounced from the buildings, ricocheting into the pavement against opposite walls and back again or else escaped into the stratosphere.

page 13.

     Disco Donn was no longer of this earth.  He had even left his Solar Chariot behind as he mounted his Astral Wheels to climb aboard the Betelguese Bridge far out into the light year starshine of the great and limitless void.

     Elated he recalled the lines of a Donovan song which made him tilt back his head and roar with laughter:

If shitting is your problem

When you’re out among the stars,

The intergallactic laxative

Will get you from to Mars.

     Mars?  Mars hell, he thought, I’m on the cosmic transmission belt taking the riches of Earth to Betelgeuse at faster than the speed of light.  Faster than the speed of light?  Oh, oh he thought, if this is an expanding universe maybe the bridge will separate from Betelgeuse before I get there.  What a cosmic leap that would have to be.  Warp five burst from his mind.

     He had been insensibly speeding up as his fantasy dominated his mind.  He had flown through a red light at Jefferson and Fifteenth totally unawares.  Now as he was about to plunge the pedal to the metal for War Five the lights of Disco Deep Elum loomed before him.  Like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator his mind plunged from his Astral Wheels and entered his terrestrial vehicle.  Reflexively his foot moved from the gas pedal and slammed on the brake.

page 14.

     Disco Donn was somewhat short of Warp Five but he was definitely over the speed limit.  Fortunately a Porsche can corner on a dime so Donn was capable of making a right turn, at right angles that is, into the parking lot of Disco Deep Elum.  Why was there an empty parking space directly ahead of Donn in the crowded parking lot?  Why, because he was Captain Disco Donn Contrales of the Space Patrol of course.

     Donn, somewhat breathless from his midnight ride into the far reaches of outer space found it necessary to sit for severral minutes while his brain caught him and he could remember where he was and what he had come for.

     Donn Contrales was from down in Texas, a state I dearly love.  Given his temperament his youth had been difficult; not hard, but challenges of which the less than successful handling had been costly to his psyche.

     The central fact of his existence was of course the rape which had set the terms and conditions of his homosexuality and subsequent life, of which, more in a moment.  Secondary was the fact that while Bob Wills may still be king in Texas, football is the foundation of the universe.  Donn didn’t have the temperament for football.  But he had been of good size for his age and it had been demanded that he play.  Donn thought he had better things to do with body than be speared under the ribs with a helmet with forty-two gold stars on it.  But he had played and the memory of that spearing lived with him every day.  His ribs hurt just to think about it.

     At SMU Donn, thank his lucky stars, couldn’t make the team, or maybe he didn’t try that hard.  He did take up boxing for reasons that weren’t too clear to him, but had to do with his rape.  He’d been OK.  He had been the intramural middleweight champ.  He wasn’t in the same class with anyone named Suger but he could handle himself.

     The hits he had taken in boxing rankled him too.  He liked to hit but he didn’t like to be hit.  So, his rape, which was a suppressed memory, the football, the boxing was a hammering that conditioned his attitude toward sex.

 

     Come see.  Now, look over there.  Around the corner, down the long backside of Deep Elum to the service area where among the garbage cans they’re still waiting, waiting…patiently waiting, hoping for a deliverer.

     These are the ones who have abandoned hope.  they have lost all aspects of dignity and self-respect.  They have chosen the garbage cans as their assignation place because they feel like human garbage.  They have made garbage their symbol.  While some old shields used to have a lion rampant?  These guys would have had an old dented garbage can rampant.   They had been beaten, stripped, pushed down not only the straight world but by their fellow homosexuals, until now their only shred of human dignity is to conceal their hopes of dignity behind a shield of compusive lying.  Their only hope of obtaining parity is to conceal everything behind a shield of lies where prying eyes cannot deride them further.  They won’t even tell you their names.  They are know by innumerable aliases.  One may injure their bodies but without their correct name one can’t reach their true selves.

page 16.

     Nello Nitti leans against the wall with Brando leathers, aloof and disdaining his fellows, as the ‘Man.’  Chancy Flegenheimer, who has been dancing nervously back and forth for hours is known as Frisco tonight.

     Over picking through the garbage cans, tearing open plastic bags, looking for a choice morse. or two is Soupy Feensteen.  Soupy retains his own name because he has attained the somewhat specious dignity of being the founder of the Jewish Queers Against Fascism.  O, look, he moved aside some lettuce and has found a whole drumstick, not even a bit out of it.  His eyes light up as he lovingly brings this delicacy to his lips.  God has been especially good to him.

     Bullet Bob studies the water streaks on the wall.  Some fresh, some surviving from the weeks of constant rain, some terminated in long deltas of mold.  Stands of putrid water interlace with the higher levels of the asphalt.  Bullet Bob looks down to see his reflection in a little puddle of fetid water when an electric thrill goes through the assembled ‘girls.’  It was as though they split in two and came together again at his appearance.

     Down the long backside of Disco Deep Elum the grey eminence of Disco Donn Contrales could be seen, fire seeming to flach from mirrored sun glasses as though from his eyes.  Insterstellar Overdrive still rumbled in is ears.  But Disco Donn could easily carry two tunes at one time in his multi-faceted brain.  As he slowly paced off the disatance between the them in measured steps at a measured pace with all the drama of John Wayne walking into town with his saddle at this side he sang a verse of the old Slim Whitman song, Rose Marie, in a sardonic fashion.

page 17.

     Oh Rose Marie, I love you,

I’m always thinking of you.

Of all the ‘Queens’ who ever lived

I’d choose you

 To rule me,

My Rose Marie.

page 17.

     He chuckled and sang at the same time in anticipation of his confrontation with the ‘girls,’ for Disco Donn believed he was one supremely clever guy.

      They watched his slow approach with bated breath, half joyfully, half apprehensively, swallowing hard for one never knew what ‘he’ might do.  What ‘he’ would do or who ‘he’ would choose.  Frisco stopped dancing, the Man remained leaning contemptuously against the wall.  The others with the exception of Soupy Feensteen stood tensely waiting.  Soupy was too proud to nitice the stranger; he contined his search for delectables.

     Then He stood before them silent, unsmiling, commanding, overpowering them with His superior presence.  They felt small.  They felt insignficant.  They felt dirty.  They stood trembling in anticiption, waiting for Him to speak, make a gesture.  He said nothing, he did nothing, he stood there immobile relecting them back on themselves from his silver eyes.  A faint smile flickering on his lips compelled them to speak first allowing Him to keep the upper hand.

page 18.

     Frisco was in awe of the Presence.  The grey was beautiful against the lowering skies and under the floodlights.  The glasses made Donn seem mysterious.  Frisco knew the game, he swallowed what passed for his pride.

     ‘What do you want?’ Frisco muttered, looking down and away.

     His question was met by a deep chuckle.  ‘No.  I think the question is what do you want?’ Disco Donn said sententiously pushing his glasses up with his middle finger.  His leer gave Frisco hope.

     Frisco jammed his hands into his pockets rendering him defenseless, looked down and glanced over at his buddy, the Man, against the wall.

     ‘Do you want it?’  Disco Donn demanded.

     The lump in Frisco’s throat was too big to speak around.  He nodded dumbly.

     ‘Well, it’s there.  All you gotta do is reach out and take it.  You do know where it’s at, don’t you?’  Disco Donn forced out in guttural as the rut overtook him.  ‘Well, don’t you?’

     Frisco shook his head yes in open mouthed wonder as his glance went around the garbage cans from eye to eye.  With a kind of wondering awe he put out his had to lift the immense belt buckly to unzip Donn’s fly.  Anticipation dominated his mind,  his breath was coming heavily when he heard and then felt the fist smash into his cheekbone and the musty wter on the pavement seep through his dirty jeans.

page 19.

     Disco Donn was reenacting what he couldn’t remember:  his rape.  In that long ago time he had helt the fist of his uncle come out of the blue for no reason he could understand.  His innocence had been ripped from him and cruelly thrown back in his face.  His uncle saying:  ‘I’m going to do to you just what was done to me.’ had beaten him so that his eyes were black and blue, then grabbing his ears his uncle had manipulated his head in fellatio.  Then throwing Donn back down he said:  ‘You better tell everyone that you got those black eyes from tripping and the stairs and sliding down them on your nose.’ that Donn would do.  Than as he turned to walk away he said:  ‘God, you queers disgust me.’  By ‘queers’ of course he meant himself as well.  He, like Donn, was capable, sincerely, of denying the act as soon as it was done.

     With his uncle’s words reverberating hin his ears, Disco Donn pounded Frisco around the eyes until they were black and blue.  Then  as though repeating an oath behind his uncle’s dictation he intoned as he hd many times before and would many times again:  “I’ve done to you just what was done to me.  You better tell everyone that you got those black eyes by tripping on the stairs and sliding down them on your nose.’

     Frisco lay choking and sobbing as Disco Donn pulled and pushed his head back and forth by the ears.  Donn who was squatting lost his balance several times wetting the knees of his pants.

page 20.

     Having finished he threw Frisco’s head away from him and stood up, zipping his pants.

     ‘You queers disgust me.’ He repeated after his uncle.

     Frisco lay sobbing as Shaky Jake stepped our from among the garbage cans.  Shaky Jake looked like he souldn’t be alive.  He was five-two and so emaciated from personal neglect that he didn’t break a hundred pounds; maybe he couldn’t even hit ninety.  His body was wracked by the perpetual rounds of gonorrhea and antibiotics.  He had no resistance to diseases.  He sniffed and coughed uncontrollably from a cold that had begun six months before.  He wore a pair of black jeans with zippers everywhere.  the cuffs were zipped tight around his ankles; he had zippers on the knees, his thighs, pockets, across both cheeks, it was hard to tell where the zippers ended and the pants began.  He even had zippers on the sides of his shoes.  The top button of his pants was open and the fly half unzipped, no underwear.  He wore a leather jacket that was also covered with zippers.  He wore it open, no shirt.  Various chains hung from his shoulders down his legs, crisscrossing his body and anywhere that they didn’t  make any sense.  Shaky Jake didn’t care about this or that.  There was nothing in his mind but chagrin and remorse for his seduction.  shaky’s seduction had been gentle and loving creating a wonderful feeling in him, but his subsequent rejection had been cruel and brutal destroying whatever masculinity Shakey might otherwise have salvaged.  Around his neck he wore a sign that read:  Red is a mean, mean color.  Nobody had ever been able to figure it out and Shakey Jake wasn’t capable of telling them its meaning.

page 21.

     Now, standing well out of Donn’s reach Shakey sternly admonished:  ‘Heh ma’.  Whas wrong witchoo.  You can’t come back here in our domain and do that.’

     ‘Can’t I?’ Disco Donn asked in his most quiet and commanding tone.

  ‘No!’  Shakey Jake expleted.

     ‘Why not?  Are you going to stop me?  Do you want some of the same?’  Disco Donn laughed motioning Shakey Jake forward.

     Shakey Jake took a brave stance shaking his finger at Donn:  ‘Don’t think I couldn’t.  Your just lucky the law won’t allow me.’

     Donn laughed contemptuously:  ‘The law won’t allow you?  How’s that?’

     ‘I’m Black Belt.’  Shakey Jake said.  ‘My hand’s are dangerous weapons and they’re registered with the police.  If I were to kill you, which I surely would, I would be charged with first degree murder rather than self-defense.  So you can consider yourself one lucky hombre.’

page 22.

     Donn laughed again but the was stymied.  He couldn’t reach Shakey Jake and he wasn’t going to demean himself by chasing Shakey around.  In frustration he made a feint against the Man against the wall.  Nitti in his hurry to escape tripped over his own feet tumbling onto the putred wet pavement ruining his leathers.  Donn laughed again turning to leave.

     But as he turned the sight of Shakey’s sign:  Red is a mean, mean color, triggered a series of synapses in his mind.  visions passed through his brain with violence and speed as though he were standing on the ties as big ten wheeler blew past.  The roar of the engine, the force of the wind from the drivers and giant wheels blew him back.  He saw all but remembered nothing distinctly.  The vision was one of himself with a sign saying:  Red is a mean, mean color around his neck while he thought he saw his uncle with Donn’s goands on a chain around his neck.  The red blood from from the testicles dripped down his uncle’s shirt.  For a brief instant he understood what Red is a mean, mean color meant.

     Then a miracle occurred.  The memory of his rape had been suppressed with minutes after it had happened and been converted into a fixation with symbols Donn could not understand.  Now the corridlor of his memory which contained the incident opened and for a very brief moment allowed Donn to witness the scene of his rape being reenacted.  If Donn had been able to retrieve the memory and retain it he might have freed himself from his curse.  But as he turned to enter the corridor in his mind to see better the entrance oozed shut.  As Donn tried to push his way through the soft tissue a voice seemed to say:  No. You cannot enter here, the drug has blocked your way.

page 23.

     Overwhelmed by his emotions and the cocaine, Donn’s head swirled, he staggered a step and then regained control of himself.  As he walked, somewhat unsteadily down the long backside of Disco Deep Elum the words of an old Hank Snow song came into his mind which expressed his fears and his hopes:

No use to deny

I wanted to die

The day you said we were through.

But now that I find

You’re out of my mind

I can’t believe that it’s true,

I don’t hurt anymore.

     But if his relief was real it was only temporary.  the next tune that would come to Disco Donn’s mind as he opened the door of his Porsche would be:  ‘It just keeps right on a hurtin’ every minute of every day.’  No, Donn’s relief was not just a motion away.  It couldn’t come from powders, pills or bottles.  For just a fleet moment it was there before you but the drugs kept if from you.  Now, if undertaken, it would require years of analysis.

 

     Come See Donn Home.  As the door of Donn’s identity swung open Interstellar Overdrive ricocheted out of his mind.  The cocaine’s expenditure from his system dropped Donn down to Earth hard on his silver plated heels.  The soft persistent drizzle again began placing little stinging cold droplets on Donn’s hot hand.  His euphoria could no longer support this facet of Disco Donn’s many faceted personality. 

page 24.

     He flipped his mirrored sunglasses onto the passenger’s seat.  The memory of what he had just done came back to him as a vision of something which he had just seen.  He believed he had witness the brutal act but he wasn’t aware that he had done it.  It filled his heart with sadness that such criminal homophobia could exist in such a beautiful world.  It made him angry.  Donn thought he should do something about it.  He eased out of the lot as an ambulance pulled from the curb in front of him.

     Frisco/Chancy Flegenheimer reported the incident to the police as though a man had leaped from a car and assaulted him as he stood taking to friends.  The police report was picked up the Daily Assassin and published as fact.  As is usual in these situation there was no attempt to corroborate the story.  It was assumed to be the natural act of a ‘homophobe’ and reported as true.

     Donn expiated his guilt by incorporating a denunciation of homophobia into a review of a new version of Beethoven’s Ninth.

     Donn was emotionally and physically exhausted.  As he sank further he took off that strange grey hat and lay it on the seat over his sunglasses.  She shook his blond hair and ran his fingers through it to fluff it out.  As he did so he caught his reflection in the rear view mirror.  He smiled at himself and his spirits revived.  The satisfaction he had felt earlier reasserted itself overriding his sense of remorse and sadness.

     Donn threw back his head and emitted a short barking laugh.

     ‘Live is just too damned beautiful to wear a long face.’  He smiled out loud.

     Of course that depends on which end of the stick you’re on.

End of Part One.

Go to Part Two:  Donn Demands Deliverance

and meet Maggie Spingold.