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Category Archives: San Francisco Sound

A Short Story

From The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams Collection

All The Way From China

by

R.E. Prindle

 

Ruby lips above the water

Blowing bubbles soft and fine

But, alas, I was no swimmer…

Trad.  Clementine

 

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

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

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

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

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

     ‘Where are you going first?’

     ‘Just over the freeway here in Larkspur.’

     ‘You mean Corte Madera?’

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

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

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

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

     ‘Sure.’

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

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

     ‘What if they hurt you?’

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

     ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     ‘Huh?’

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

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

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

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

     ‘Um.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     ‘Tell me, Dewey…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     ‘Sure, just consider it a loan.’

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

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

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

      ‘Thanks.  I love you, Suzanne.’

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

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

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

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

     ‘Damn right.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Dewey forgot that he had ever met Suzanne.

 

 

 

A Fictional Dialogue

Battleground America:

Breakfast At Champions

by

R.E. Prindle

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disco Donn Demands Deliverance

by

R.E. Prindle

Part II-2

     You take your life in your hands when out there in the great beyond on the highway.  It’s a place beyond the reach of the law.  Lawless people drive the highways looking for excitement and adventure.  Lawless people put their thumbs out for the same reason.  The driver never knows who’s getting in the car; the hitchhiker never knows who’s driving.

     Al, who had introduced himself, looked all right but that could change pretty quickly.  Hitchhikers disappear all the time.  Donn, hesitated, reluctant to put his fate in the old man’s hands.

     ‘It’s all right, son.  You’ve got nothing to worry about.  I’m not queer.’

     ‘Sure.’ D0nn said with an ironic smile, accepting both out of trust and weariness.  ‘I’d be grateful.’

     They wheeled into Richland crossing the great Columbia River then down to Pasco and across the snake at the confluence of the two rivers, then east toward Eureka in the orchards and farmlands.

     ‘You know, son, religion can be a cover for real moral anarchy.  A lot of people forget that morality is the whole reason for religion not politics.  If you can’t do a kindness for your fellow man then your religion don’t mean a thing.  Love is the law and I don’t mean mere sex.  It’s a simple answer, it’s a trite answer, it’s an ignored and overlooked answer.  The answer runs at cross purposes to most men’s inclination.  It’s an answer that has to be told over and over from generation to generation.  It’s an answer that should be in every book ever written.  If you ever write a book promise me you’ll put it in yours, Donn.’

page 51.

     ‘Sure.  If I ever write a book, I will.’  Donn glibly answered.  What else could he do.  What an odd request.

     ‘Love,’ the old boy went on, somewhat tediously, ‘By love I mean charity.  Not alms giving, but goodwill toward your neighbor.  Charity in the old fashioned sense of the word.  It is true what Jesus said:  A man must have faith, hope and charity.  The greatest of these is charity.  For if a man hath not charity his voice will be as the sounding brass.  It’s true.  Without kindness your words merely rasp and buzz.  No one will listen to you.  So, love your neighbor, son.’

     ‘I’ve done that before.’  Donn said with a smirk, turning to look out the window.

     By now Donn was hoping the lecture was over.  He saw the validity of the lecture but he could find no application in his past, present or future.  He smiled at the old geezer and shook his head.  At least this guy was better than Zadok and Amirah.

     Al pulled off the highway a couple miles past Eureka to drive about five miles toward the Snake.  There was the neatest, prettiest little farmstead Donn had ever seen.  The square, frame house stood on a little rise surrounded by small trees and bushes.  The house reflected the kind gentility of Al Martin.  As within, so without.

     Within the hour Donn had washed, shaved and was between clean sheets drifting off into oblivion.

page 52.

     Donn was too exhausted to sleep soundly,  He woke two or three times during the night, his mind too numbed to rouse himself from bed, his thoughts too crowded to separate into strands he could analyze.  Morning found him seated at the breakfast table dazed, listless and despondent.

     Al Martin studied him intently from across the kichen.  He said:  ‘You know Donn, keeping this place up isn’t easy for a man my age.  I got a whole bunch of chores needs doin’.  If you help me out you can stay for a week or so till everything gets done.  Can’t offer you more than room and board, but…’

     Donn shook his head yes:  ‘Yeah, Al, that would be great.  I can do that.  What needs to be done?’

     Donn pitched in with good will.  Over the week he worked on his problems while he worked, rather than whistled, for Al.  As he had his last breakfast with Al the worst of the numbness was gone.  He had toughened a little but the future still dismayed him casting a dark pall over his mind.  He had identified Maggie as the culprit.  A growing powerless hatred began to envelope him.

     Al drove him back to the highway, thanked him and dropped him off as the morning heat began to build.

     Al Martin had been a solitary ray of sunshine piercing through the great black storm clouds over Donn.  The respite Al had given Donn served him well; his nerves were strengthened and he had time to make some necessary adjustments to his psyche from his fall from grace.  Grimmer events were now to occur.  The hammer blows of his destiny would not allow him to rise but his descent to beyond the depths of despair would be slower.

page 53.

     Donn had been out there for a couple hours.  The morning sun had turned to an afternoon bake, god almighty hot.  Blistering.  The blacktop wasn’t bubbling but it looked like it was about to boil any minute.  The stuff actually moved beneath Donn’s heel.  Donn still wearing his Disco clothes was drenched.

     ‘Hey, Cowboy, need a ride?’

     It wasn’t a beautiful woman in a Cadillac, it was four Mexican braceros in a beatup old ’61 Chevy.  The question had a sinister tone to it.

     ‘I’m looking for a ride to St. Louis.’ Donn said ludicrously, declining the ride.

    His response was met by raucous laughter.

    ‘Hey, there aint’ no St. Louis around here, man.’

     One of the men, they were all eighteen to twenty-three, got out of the back and motioned Donn to sit in the middle.  In the middle surrounded on both sides and vulnerable from the front.  Not a good hitchhiking situation.

     ‘No, man, no.  Thanks, but I mean St. Louis, Missouri.’  In hitchhiking terms this was a virtual insult.

     ‘Hey, you muchachos hear of this place, St. Louis, Missouri?’

     The query was answered by a chorus of noes and ‘there ain’t no such place as St. Louis, Missouri, man.  There ain’t no such place as Missouri.’  More raucus laughter.

page 54.

     ‘Get in, man.  We give you ride.’  The guy holding the door open smiled, the other three doors cracked open as if the occupants were going to get out.

     Donn got in.  This was not the worst thing he could have done.  Had he not they might have made short work of him with tire irons, knives and whatnot, conversely he might have outsprinted them across the burning desert.  When you’re way out there without hope or friends in alien territory you just naturally have to make difficult decisions.  Donn’s hope was not unjustified.  Nor did he behave abjectly to deal with this difficulty.

     Once in the car the Mexicans became verbally abusive of him.  They called him blondie, ridiculed his mustache and insulted his sexual prowess.

     Then the passenger in the front seat, Juan Perez, who was somewhat vain of his pysique flexed his biceps saying: ‘Hey, man.  See that arm?  I can knock you out with one punch, man.’

     As Juan said so, the driver, Pedro Martinez, swang onto a dirt road leading into the hills.  Donn felt a chill in the un-air-conditioned car but didn’t flinch.  He’d gotten his opening.

     ‘Yeah, man?  Maybe, but you’d never get to land a punch.  I was scientific (he threw the word in for effect) boxing champion at SMU.’

     ‘SMU?  What’s that?’  Juan said, overawed by something he didn’t know.

page 55.

     ‘Scientific Mangling University.  You want to go a round or two with me, stop and car and I’ll show you some real science.’

     Juan was frightened by unfamiliar terms like science and SMU and became apprehensive.  He didn’t want to go a couple rounds but he wanted Donn to show him some of his moves.

     The driver pulled over; they all got out.  Donn and Juan squared away.  As Donn had predicted Juan couldn’t come close to landing a punch.  The Mexicans were duly impressed.  After Donn had shown them a few moves Juan said:  ‘Hey man, for a gringo you’re alright.  Then they piled back into the Chevy amidst more raucus laughter leaving Donn standing among the heatwaves in the field.

     In that heat it was an hour and a half walk back to the highway.  Donn caught a number of short rides.  As the sun was setting he was dropped off just past Tucannon a couple miles from Fort Kwakiutl.  He decided to walk into town.  Fort Kwakiutl was a small town, barely on the map, but it did host a Starlight Motel, a restaurant, a bar and a couple gas stations.  Spoiled by his stay at Al Martin’s Donn decided to stay at the Starlight.

    He checked in, cleaned up and went to the restaurant to eat.  He was relatively relaxed and hungry.  He had a lot of money so he ate heartily.  Ed Quigley sat at the bar watching him.  ‘That hobo’s got some money.’  Ed thought darkly.  ‘I bet nobody knows where he’s at or why.’

     Quigly was a big beefy man.  Though much out of shape, big paunchy belly, he thought he could handle a little guy like Donn.  He moseyed over inviting himself to Donn’s table.  He plunked his beer down on the table.

page 56.

     ‘Howdy, podna.’

     ‘Uh, howdy.’

     ‘Saw ya walkin’ inta town.  You a ‘knight of the road.’

     Donn laughed amiably.  ‘Let’s just say I’m passing through.’

     ‘Oh yeah?  Must be hitchhiking?’

     ‘Yes, I am.’  Donn replied.

     ‘Say, listen, buddy, I gotta proposition for ya.  I’m goin’ inta Boise tomorrow.  If you got twenty for gas I’ll take ya along.’

     Donn thought a minute.  He was weary of the road.  He’d been at it for a couple weeks and he still wasn’t out of the state of Washington.  By now he felt a little more confident.  He was anxious now to get to St. Louis.  He didn’t dare say he was broke because Quigly could see the remains of his dinner.

     ‘I’ve blown just about everything I have here tonight.  Bummed it along the way.  It’s a good chance though.  Could you take ten?  He didn’t want to give the idea that he could afford more.  A few more miles down the road of life and Donn would understand how transparent he had been.

     Quigly looked at him, seemed doubtful, then said:  ‘Yeah, sure, OK.  Ten’s better than nothin’.’

     ‘It’s a deal.’  Donn smiled.

     ‘One thing,’  Quigly said.  ‘I’m leaving early, four in the morning.’

     ‘OK.’  From Donn.  ‘Where are you going to be?’

     ‘There’s a big oak tree two miles outta town.  It’s the only tree that size out there.  Can’t miss it.  Meet me there.  In any case I’ll drive slow so I won’t miss you.’

page 57.

     Donn was up trudging through the night to his four o’ clock rendezvous.  Quigly was waiting for him.

     Injuring our fellow man is quite akin to sexual intercourse.  You work yourself up in pretty much the same way.  As they sped up Hwy. 12 through Delancy Donn had intuited from Ed’s rutting manner what was up.  There was no surprise when Quigly swung into a side road moving between two hills by an arroyo.

     Ed left the motor running.  ‘Alright, Cowboy, now I know ya got money.  Ya don’t eat like that and stay at the Starlight if ya don’t.  Ya can give it to me peacefully or I can beat it out of ya.  It’s up to you; it’s your choice, you call it, what’s it gonna be?’

     Donn opened his door and jumped out.

     Still leaving the engine of his beater running Quigly got out huffily, ‘Alright, son-of-a-bitch, if that’s the way you want it.’

     Quigley’s confidence caused him to over expend his energies too quickly.  Donn played him like a trout on a line util  Quigly, breathless, held up a hand for Donn to wait while he caught his breath.  Donn had a different role for himself than in Quigly’s fantasy.  He moved in giving Quigly everything he had.  Quigly unprepared for the response, caught between gasps, rolled onto the ground.

    As he did something snapped in Donn.  He wanted vengeance for everything; his rape, football, boxing, Maggie’s treatment, everything.  As Quigly fell Donn leaped on him picking up a big rock and bringing it down repeatedly on Quigly’s head until the corpse was nearly headless.

page 58.

     As Donn came to himself there was no remorse.  He was both sickened and relieved.  He was no killer but the release had been very satisfying.  In any case he had no cause for self-recrimination as he had killed Quigly in self-defense.  His conscience was clear, but as a drifter, the preponderance of proof was his, he didn’t have any.

     Acting quickly he dragged Quigly’s nearly headless body over to the arroyo and threw it in.  Fate was on his side as the body rolled under a ledge and wedged in out of sight.  Quigley’s precaution of leaving early lest he be seen with Donn worked to Donn’s advantage.  No one had seen them.

     Quigly’s old beater was still running.  Donn got in behind the wheel, turned the old buggy around and got out on the highway to Boise and beyond to Salt Lake City.

     Mentally Donn tried to sweep the killing of Quigly into the dust bin of his memory as he had his reprehensible sexual relations that he detested.

     He wanted to believe that he had only witnessed the killing but his conciousness rejected the falsehood.  Forced to deal with reality he came to the right conclusion- he had killed in self-defence.  Quigly’s unlucky day.  But justly or not he knew that as a drifter and with the suit back in Portland and assigned to a public defender he was lost.

     It then dawned on him also that in the eyes of the law he was driving a stolen car.  And what a car!  The big beast was a favorite of urban desperadoes; a huge old carcass of a ’63 Olds.  The immense rusty hood stretched out before him to eternity.  The vinyl top was ragged and torn.  The giant trunk lid was held down by a wire.  The worn tires made 100% constact with the road; the tread was gone.  Quigly was no mechanic.  The engine roared around faint rattles coming from diverse places.

page 59

     The interior was trashed, the glove compartment hanging open; seats and roof lining torn, butts all over the floor and even on the seats.  Quigly had customized it to reflect his inner malaise.  As within, so without.  Gradually Donn realized what he was driving.  These were no cosmic wheels; this was no astral vehicle.

     The realization drove all other thoughts from his mind.  His brow knitted; he put the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and gazed about in dismay.  He sat back and tried to look cool.  Revulsion overcame him.  He realizied how low he had sunk.

     ‘There must be some way out of here.’  He thought.

     He made Boise the next morning.  Disgusted with himself and his situation; embarrassed now by the Disco Donn facet of his personality he bought a levi jacket, jeans and a couple sweaters to adapt to his new situation.  Tennis shoes for walking.  In fact Donn shed all the facets of his multi-faceted personality but one.  His multi-facets could only be supported by prosperity.  He reverted back to the Texas gold old boy personality he had when he entered Portland.

page 60.

     Don began to be really apprehensive about driving the big beast but he wanted to make Salt Lake before he aband0ned it.  To make matters worse a patch on the radiator gave way about Brigham City.  He began to make frequent stops at gas stations to fill up the radiator in hopes of cooling the engine well enough to make Salt Lake City.  He steamed through Odgen and into the suburbs of Salt Lake as a blistering heat wave through the fire wall roasted his feet and legs.

     He wheeled into a side street.

 

Guilty Of the Shame

 

We know there’s a dark side

To the moon that we see;

But what’s a little darkness

To the likes of you and me.

-Jesse Winchester

     Donn stepped out of the steaming heap looking at it in vengeful disgust to turn his steps back to the highway.  As he did a pair of blue eyes watched him approach.  The eyes, all the luster having departed, belonged to Sandy Tyler.  Sandy, now well into her thirties, was a refugee from the dolorous broken dreams of the sixties.  Trapped in a state of arrested adolescence, her mind inundated by drugs, she was arrayed in the symbols of the mock poverty of the late sixties. 

     She had once been a very beautiful young woman.  While she sought desperately to retain the vestiges of that beauty against the ravages of drugs and despair only mere glimmers of her former freshness remained.  Superb bone structure prevented her face from dissolving into sheer ugliness.  Beneath her T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of some indiotic post-1975 heavy metal band her once firm high breasts sagged braless down to her belt loops.  Her jeans had the obligatory tears across each knee.  There was a tear beneath each cheek of her derriere which exposed white skin no longer firm or translucent.  Her jeans were tucked into brown suede boots, calf high, turned down.  A certain pride of former glory still clung to her presence.

page 61.

     One might well blame Sandy for a wasted life but the shame was not hers; it belonged to American society.  She had been dragged down completely innocent and against her will with no menfolks to defend her degradation.  In circumstances which you in your comfort would dismiss with a comment like:  Oh well, life’s not fair.

     Sandy had come from Cincinatti, Ohio.  She had come from well-to-do parents who had raised her to be the model of decorum.  She had breeding.  She had been blond and pert with a beautiful figure.  Psychologically she had been as well balanced as one of twenty can be.  Her expectations were those that one would associate with her background.

     She had married Bert Tyler who she had met and fallen in love with at the University Of Ohio.  Upon graduation Bert had taken a job with Standard of California and moved to San Francisco.  This was in 1964 when the subterranean rumbles of massive change could be heard and experienced if not understood.  The times were changing at incredible speed as they usually are when you’re in the middle of them.  Intelligence and precaution were not enough to save you; you had to play dodgeball with the juggernaut and win.  Luck was of the greatest importance.  Luck was not with Sandy Tyler.

page 62.

     Sandy’s husband was something of a rake.  Unresolved wildness lived in his soul.  He wasn’t ready to settle down to middle class respectability.  He suggested that he and Sandy take up residence in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco,  that wicked, wicked city of transients.  Tourists ooh and aah over Baghdad By The Bay.  But beneath the charming exterior of the Bay and cable cars of the City all is sour and corrupt.  The spirit of Tom Mooney and Harry Bridges hovers over the City.  There is a seething hatred and class envy which negates the charms of the location.  All San Francisco is a suberb of Chinatown.  It is no accident that Beatniks and Hippies flourished there.

     The Sixties seethed and boiled with unremitting vigor.  Contrasted to the glitter of the scientific accomplishments of the times, cities decayed into ruin before your eyes.  The Maelstrom whirled all around you.  One had to learn to navigate its currents to survive.  It was wise to avoid the use of drugs in a city of drug proliferation.  Heroin was the least of your worries.  Only junkies used heroin and they are a class unto themselves.  One can look at a junkie and realize immediately that junkieism  is a trap to be avoided.  Cocaine, which has a long history of societal use beginning with its first pusher, Sigmund Freud, was nowhere prevalent at the time.  Cocaine didn’t become common until the seventies.  Marijuana was not yet everywhere but was indispensable to the Underground.  Exotica such as peyote and mescaline and mushrooms were still of a semi-legendary character.

page 63.

     The man made drugs were prevalent.  Amphetamines, barbiturates and LSD were everywhere.  Stanford University advertised in the papers for ‘psychological’ subjects.  As it turned out the subjects were wanted for drug experimentation.  They were given massive doses of LSD.  This gave a certain legitimacy to their use.  After all, the high priest of acid was a defrocked professor from Harvard, Timothy Leary.

     The world of drug use was being popularized and glamorized by the evangel of the generation- the phonograph record.  The psyche of the era cannot be understood without a thorough knowledge of the recorded music and comedy of the era, comedy may have been as important as the music.  The phonograph record was the single most important factor in the lives of the generation except for, perhaps, the psychologically inert.  The generation was raised on records.

     To understand the music, which is to say songs, you have to start with the incoherent  shouting and strumming of a black blues shouter by the name of Huddie ‘Leadbelly’ Ledbettor and follow the chain through the various white blues singers until you end at the Kingston Trio.  From thence Ledbettor’s songs and stylings entered the main stream.  Thus the mind of the sixities generation was conditioned by an outsider’s slave and prison mentality.  Let that Midnight Special shine its ever loving light on me.

     At the same time a group of men were setting about to create the ‘rucksack revolution.’

page 64.

     Here comes a no-no in American letters.  We’re going to discuss imigration in a realistic rather than romantic fashion.  This group of men who sought to influence and undermine American civilization were, with one exception, the sons of immigrants who were reacting to the inconveniences of being foreign elements integrating into an existing social structure.  Jack Kerrouac was a Catholic French Canadian, Allen Ginsberg was a Jew from the Pale, William S. Burroughs was the descendent of the inventor of the calculator who apparently rejected logical thinking in favor of anarchy,  Gregory Corso and Lawrence Ferlinghetti were Italians.

     An Anglo view of the group can be found in John Clellon Holmes autobiographical novel ‘Go.’  They all grew to maturity between the wars when the conflict between Anglo-American society and immigrant society was most intense.  The Anglo-American demand that the immigrants shed their ethnic beliefs and characters created an intense reaction.  Carl Witte epitomized the struggle in his early forties book:  We Built America.

     As the immigrant population equaled or exceeded that of the Anglo-Americans it was perhaps inevitable that they should triumph.  In any event they did.  By 1950 all the trappings of Anglo culture were being torn down to be replaced by symbols that either asserted other ethnic origins or pointedly and often violently rejected Anglo symbols.

     Where formerly immigrants had been rejected and reviled by the Anglos the immigrants now quickly turned the tables.  While the sons and daughters of the Anglos had been brought up to believe in the incredible homogeneity of American society the sons and daughters of the immigrants sought to bring the Anglos down.  The humiliation of Sandy Tyler was the result of those feelings.

page 65.

     The Beat writers, as these men have been called, represented the grossest materialism.  They were all drunks, perverts and drug addicts.  They sought to impose those values on America.  The onslaught was led by Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerrouac.  Both had done time in the bughouse or insane asylum.  Oddly enough the whole group was exposed for what they were long before they became effective by John Clellon Holmes.  Holmes’ premonitory warning was not understood.  Why should anyone worry about a bunch of bums.

     Kerrouac glorified the subculture in ‘On The Road’, ‘The Dharma Bums’, ‘The Subterraneans’ and other novels.  Ginsberg contributed an insane chant called ‘Howl.’  Through their success from 1956 to 1959 they were able to get Burroughs’ scream of hatred ‘Naked Lunch’ published.  He followed this by the influential ‘Soft Machine’ and ‘Nova Express.’

     The Beat writers were well received by the Underground.  Evidences of their cultural impact were obvious in San Francisco and the Bay Area in the early sixties.  They were not so obvious and understandable to the larger society which had heard little of the Beat writers.  As Bob Dylan expressed it: ‘…there’s something happening here but you don’t know what it is, do you…?’

     Dylan himself, who as a recording artist, was a major influence on the sixties, appears to have drawn so much inspiration for his middle period from Kerrouac and Burroughs that he can be described as a post-Beat writer.

page 66.

     The Beat writers originally tried to oerganize the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco but the Beatniks themselves, who came from an earlier period uninfluenced by Beat writers chose North Beach as their headquarters. 

     While the Beatniks dominated North Beach the Hippie culture was being formed in the Haight-Ashbury at the same time.  This culture found expression in the music of the San Francisco Sound.  Marty Balin, no one knows which two swords he carried, and the Jefferson Airplane musical group were establishing the Matrix nightclub while the rock clubs would supplant the jazz clubs of the Beatniks and transfer the focal point of the scene from North Beach back to the Haight-Ashbury.

     In addition to the Anglo-Immigrant conflict the old struggle between the Black Folk and the White Folk was assuming new dimensions.  The Blacks were demanding social equality- whatever that is.  One doesn’t want to generalize excessively where the Blacks are concerned because theirs is also a society of many diverging opinions and attitudes, nevertheless in a sizable majority of Blacks ‘social equality’ involved what is known as ‘the Payback.’  Blacks feel that they are owed something for the indignities placed on them by White Society.  This opinion is shared by a not unsizable group of Whites, so long as some other Whites pay the bill.

     Racial memories are not obliterated in a moment, a generation or even several generations.  Whites seem to have the inexplicable notion that the memory of unjust deeds can be removed by an apology, or checks drawn on someone else’s account.  Whites seem to think that things are thereby cured and resentments will disappear.  Blacks who have suffered grievous injuries with marvelous equanimity don’t believe so.

page 67.

     One of the most humiliating indignities Black women had to endure during the slave era was to be at the beck and call of any White man.  Literally, a White male could take any Black woman by the arm and lead her off to minister to his sexual needs at any time.  If she were the wife of a Black man there was absolutely nothing he could do about it but endure the shame.  So, the Payback involves White women.  Black men demand the same privilege with White women that White men had with Black women.  Everything in life gets down to a sexual offence.

     As there was no social apparatus to suport their hopes and ambitions as their had been for White men, Black men had to enforce their desires surreptitiously. 

     Thus, of a foggy overcast midday, nearly all days are foggy and overcast in San Francisco, Sandy Tyler was walking down Grant St. in North Beach on the way to the laundromat.  She was the epitome of a what a young White woman should be.  She was beautiful.  All eyes turned.  She was innocent.  She walked the streets of North Beach as though they were the streets of her upper class neighborhood in Cincinatti.

     Among the Beats and degenerates, the Blacks and Italians of this very Italian neighborhood her very Anglo dress and style stood out like Jane in Tarzan’s Africa.  Deep racial instincts stirred at the sight of her.  She had been trained to believe that assimilation in America had been complete.  All people were kind.  It is still a myth that most adhere to.

page 68.

     Sheldon Washington, a drug dealer and a huge Black man stood talking on the corner before the The Gate Of Wine Coffee House.  The Gate was a quintessential Beatnik Coffee House of the era.  Despite its name, which came from the Gilgamesh, no liquor was served.  Each night local poets, writers, thinkers and simple complainers held forth from the podium to the assembled multitude.  Unlike the Hippies, the Beatniks were well educated and much intelligent discourse could be heard at the Gate.

     Unfortunately complainers like the said Seldon Washington also inflicted themselves on the audience.  Sheldon had bent the ears of the audience for fifty-three minutes twenty-two seconds the night previous complaining about how a Spade Cat couldn’t walk down the street with a Honky chick without drawing stares.  His argot was so new that half the audience picked up Spade Cat as spayed cat and had no idea what a Honky Chick was.  Perhaps a spayed cat and an honky chick should be stared at.

     But at this moment that Sandy chose to walk by, the Man was being being waited on by his Honky heroin addict.  The addict, thin and unkempt, stood holding his money in his hand eagerly pressing it on Sheldon who was in no hurry to hand him his balloon.  In fact he didn’t have one on him.  the junkie would have to wait a little longer.

      Sheldon stood drawing out the wasted junkie’s agony when Sandy entered the intersection drawing his attention.  Now, Sheldon was one of those Black giants at six-four, two-eighty whose muscalature was concealed beneath the immense smooth expanse of his biceps and chest.  If he just raised his arm and let if fall on your back he could knock you down.  He was wearing a black Italian undershirt over his dark brown body.

page 69.

     Sheldon was so enchanted that he let out an involuntary long low whistle.  A girl of White breeding, Sandy ignored it as she properly should.  Breeding was unknown in North Beach where other standards applied.  Indignant at what he considered arrogance, Sheldon bellowed:  ‘Say mama, that was a compliment to your beautiful booty.’

     Well, Sandy seldom answered to ‘mama’, never acknowledged strange men on the street, let alone Black men, and had she known that ‘booty’ referred to her ass she would have been indignant.  But then, that was Cincinatti, this was North Beach.  Sandy responded by sticking her nose in the air pointedly ignoring Sheldon.

     Washington’s attitude changed abruptly.  Washington belonged to the Black Brotherhood and associated with the Junkie Brotherhood.  In both the individual identity is submerged in the collective identity.  One is immediately on familiar terms with every other member of the Brotherhood.  There are no interfaces.  Thus had Sandy been a Black woman she would have smiled, perhaps shook her booty as a token of appreciation and returned some compliment as to the probable size of Sheldon’s ‘thing.’  That she didn’t angered Sheldon.  He had a very big voice which he now raised to its loudest putting the threat of direct physical violence into it.

page 70.

     ‘Say Woman,’ he bellowed,  ‘where you manners?  When a brown eyed handsome man compliments a pretty woman that woman better appreciate it or she gonna have big troubles in this man’s neighborhood.  You dig?’

     Sandy stopped dead in her tracks, terrified, as she had every reason to be.  At the sound of Sheldon’s voice the Junkie had nearly fallen to his knees groveling before the Big Black.  Other White boys along the street stared lasciviously at the beautiful girl hoping to get some of whatever Sheldon left.  Their eyes silently encouraged her to acquiesce.  Alone and small, never before confronted with such brutal customs, the White girl turned to face Sheldon’s wrath with wide staring eyes.

     ‘I sayed you got a beautiful ass, mama.’  Sheldon bellowed louded than a bass drum.

     ‘T-thank-you.’  Sandy stuttered, terrified, embarrassed and not knowing how to respond to retain her dignity as a married woman.

     That’s better, mama.’  Sheldon said attempting to console and command at the same time.  ‘Now you run along and don’t ever pull that haughty shit again, hear?’

     The White boys on the street snickered confident that Sheldon, the Spade Cat, would take what he wanted and leave the rest of the Honky Chick to them.

     ‘That’s tasty,’ each thought, ‘I’m really going to enjoy fucking that bitch.’

     The promise of America was no promise at all, it was a perverted curse.

      A week later Sandy was walking down Grant on the way to the laundry.  She didn’t know how to preserve her own boogie in The Land Of The Thousand Dances.  She walked close to the buildings rather than curbside.  The Grant St. Grocery lay on her line of march.  The grocery was one of those shallow stores with no back room; rather a section running from front to rear was walled off as a storage room.  Some ten feet or so from the store entrance was an unobtrusive door through which deliveries were made.

page 71.

     As Sandy was passing this door a hand shot out grasping her by the throat and pulling her in.  Taken completely by surprise she was not consciously aware of anything till she lay gasping and sobbing against the shelves where Sheldon Washington had discarded her.

     The scene would haunt her dreams, transformed  into symbolism she could not understand, but which would shield her from some of the shame although the terror had hypnotized her into a different person.  Sheldon, who was a very big man, wanted to teach the Honky Chick a less in humility.  Blue eyes would not secure her immunity; on Grant Street brown eyes ruled.  His method was direct action, straight terror; his intellect was of the crudest but no less effective on that account.  He had merely grabbed Sandy off the street.  Picking her up, she was only 5’3″, 110 pounds, he had shoved his pelvis forward and dropped Sandy on his penis, jiggling her up and down until he climaxed.  He had then just thrown her against the shelves where she fell in a heap. 

     The street which had been empty in anticipation of the deed silently filled as the White boys stepped from doorways, alleys and from behind telephone poles where they had been inconspicuous.  Faces came to windows, eyes staring fixedly on the side door of the grocery.

page 72.

     ‘Now let that be a lesson to you, bitch.  When some brown eyed handsome man give you compliments you give him his reward and don’t give me none of that cheap assed marriage shit neither.  You learn to treat a man right and he’ll treat you right.’

     After this lecture in ethics Seldon’s mind turned to business, for after all a man has to eat, and Sheldon’s other business was pimping.

     ‘Say, bitch, you know you got a tight little ass.  You should put that cute money maker to work for me.  I show you how to live right and tight.  You be wearing diamonds and minks; you dump that Honky cat and come with me.  I show you how to shake that money maker; you don’t be walkin’ so stiff assed down the street no mo’, walk like a righteous woman.’

     Anyone looking for a good time of any kind could always get what they wanted from Sheldon.

     Sandy let out a few incoherent howls through clenched lips as she cautiously rose to her feet not sure of what was yet in store for her.  Her mute rejection was enough for Sheldon.  He turned to the clerk who had been watching through the beaded curtain and gave him a farewell acknowledgment with the shake of a finger.  Then proudly puffing out his chest for the street people he stepped out into the dim damp gloom of Grant St. and sauntered away humming ‘White Port and Lemon Juice.’

     Sandy stumbled out on shaky legs turning back toward Telegraph Court leaning on the wall for support.  Although she could not see them, the White boys slipped unobtrusively back into their holes while the faces in the windows slid back into the shadows.

page 73.

     Sandy’s life irrelevant of subsequent events was shattered.  Her sense of purity and personal integrity was gone to be replaced by a sense of defilement and consuming guilt as though she had been the perpetrator rather than the victim.  A knowledgeable psychiatrist might have been able to help her if she had gone immediately, but probably not for she would have been unable even to tell him the sequence of events.  She couldn’t remember what happened even though she knew what had happened.

     Angelo Toretti spoke quietly to Bert Tyler from behind a cracked open door as Tyler walked from the bus stop on Columbus to his apartment.

     ‘You better watch that little filly of yours, man.  she’s got eyes for that dark meat.’

     ‘What?’  Tyler said, turning in the direction of the voice.

     ‘Ask her who Sheldon Washington is.’  Toretti said with a low chuckle pushing the door shut.

     Tyler was possessed of honky cool.  He had no idea of what the threatening words of Toretti meant.  He was mildly apprehensive.  He gripped his brief case more tightly but he continued on at his normal pace.

     He fund Sandy lying on her back, skirt above her waist, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

     ‘What did you do?’  He began oblivious to the implied condemnation in his words.

page 74.

     Sandy’s response was to  increase her sobs and sense of humiliation to the point where her slender body was so wracked by shaking and pain that it is a wonder she survived.

    Tyler was twenty-two, born in ’42.  He had grown up in the bosom of a prosperous family.  He had been taught that the world was his oyster.  Raised in his upper class neighborhood, he had been advantaged from the cradle to the present.  At six feet, sandy haired and handsome he had received favored treatment through high school and the U.ofO.  While his manners were too fine for his present neighborhood they were much appreciated at the office. 

     His marriage to Sandy had seemed a perfect blending of family, looks and brilliant future.  But beneath the handsom exterior Tyler had a rotten core.  He was self-centered to the point that he was contemptuous of others.  This included Sandy.  She was desirable to him as a showpiece that demonstrated to the world his impeccable good taste and good fortune.  He was not prepared to drag damaged goods around with him.

     He should have known that North Beach was no place for a respectable woman.  But because of his favored youth he thought himself and his possessions beyond the reach of the arrows of fortune.  In college he had used marijuana, LSD and barbituates along with the ever present examination companion, amphetamines.  As he thought himself beyond, or rather, above the dangers that drugs posed, so many of his class did, he had been fearless in their use.

page 75.

     It is probable that Sandy would never have taken drugs on her own but as Tyler was the guardian of her virtue she had followed his lead trustingly.  She still considered the drugs naughty and dangerous but she was already familiar with pot, LSD and downers.  Living dangerously, out on the edge, had been the attraction of North Beach to Tyler.

     Now that he had reaped the fruit of his daring he stood staring down at Sandy.  He was unfeeling and obtuse.  He sensed that his position had been violated, he believed he had been humiliated.  He wasn’t far wrong.

     Remembering Toretti’s words his narrow vision could only conceive that he had almost walked in on Sandy and Sheldon and that whe was sobbing because she had almost been caught.

     ‘Who is Sheldon Washington?’  He asked.

     The question was greeted by additional shaking and sobbing.  Tyler had to make an effort to calm his wife.  It was not easy.  Several hours later, well into the morning Tyler had gleaned the notion that Sheldon Washington had had his wife.  His first thought as a red blooded American boy was to go looking for Sheldon Washington.  He did so the following day having called in to work sick.

     His queries after Sheldon alerted the Spade Cat that the Honky Cat was looking for him.  He arranged to be found.  He ensconced himself in an alley on Montague Street.  There with some white junkies for effect, a couple of Black hepcats around him, he sat on a garbage can waiting.

     Tyler was directed to Sheldon’s throne room.  He marched resolutely into the alley.  As he entered Sheldon rose, hitched up his pants and flexed both arms as though he were stretching.  Both his Black confederates cleaned their nails with switchblades.  The White boys stood around snuffling and grinning.

page 76.

     ‘I hear you lookin’ for me, boy.  Whachoo want?’   

     This was urban warfare for which Tyler was unprepared.  This was not a man to man confrontation which, given the size of Washington he would not have undertaken anyway, but was rather a confrontation of the big battalions against his puny one.  A quick vision of himself lying face-up beaten, cut and bleeding among the garbage cans flashed before his eyes.  He opted out.  He turned and walked away amidst chuckles, laughter and catcalls.

     Nor should he be blamed.  The rules had been changed.  Tyler had not been informed.  His only recourse would have been to stalk Washington and blow his brains out.  This was not feasible to Tyler in his present state of mind. While Washington’s position in North Beach society protected him from identification, there would be no witness come forward to identify him in the event of a complaint, Tyler would be quickly identified.  A jail cell was waiting for him if he tried.

     Unable to endure the humiliation to his wife and his own subsequent humiliation Tyler transferred the blame to Sandy.  Then by shedding her he was able in his mind to shed the double humiliation.  At least he thought he had.

     ‘Did that nigger actually put his dick in you?’  He brutally asked Sandy.

page 78.

     While White boys profess a complete lack of prejudice toward Black Folk, this is only in the social sense.  In 1964 Tyler couldn’t endure the idea that his wife had been penetrated by a Black man qua Black man.

     ‘I didn’t do it, honey.’  Sandy protested weakly.

     ‘All I want to know is wether he put that black dick up you?’

     ‘I- I think so.’  Sandy replied, her mind reeling beneath the horror of the thought of her rape.

    ‘I think so!  I think so!  God, you must know that.  I think so!  Well, that’s good enough for me.  He did.  Well, I can’t stay with a woman who’s been defiled by a nigger.  I’m leaving.  The rent’s paid till the end of the month then you’re on your own.  My lawyer will send the papers by.  I think so!’

     Thus life pitilessly took away Sandy Tyler’s hopes and joys.  She became the victim of social forces of which she was  not even aware of in their true form.  She had been lied to by society.  The American Dream!  What a pack of lies.  Shamed beyond psychological recognition she didn’t inform her parents.  A stranger in San Francisco she drifted into the drugs and demi-monde of North Beach.

     She avoided heroin and actual prostitution but she was heavy into barbiturates and marijuana.  The leering immigrant descendants gleefully passed the Anglo girl from man to man; gleefully taking out the frustrations of sixty years of humiliation at the hands of Anglos on Sandy’s body.

      The Scene shifted from North Beach to the Haight-Ashbury; from the Beatniks to the Hippies; from Cal Tjader to the Grateful Dead; from junk to junk.

page 78.

     The Hippie Movement was the realization of the materialism that Kerrouac and Ginsberg had been pushing.  History may to a very accurate extent be characterized as the war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness.  The ascendance to spiritual perfection being the direction of the Sons of Light while the Sons of Darkness seek a return to the pure materialism of the untutored savage, the feral nature of man.  Materialism is as much a religion as spirituality but over the course of time all visible churches became of the spiritual kind.

     Because of Jewish opposition to the presence of Christianity in public schools the doctrine of the separation of church and state has been interpreted to mean that no spiritual beliefs can be taught in public schools.  This means in practice that no positive ethics can be taught.

     Thus while all eyes are trained on Catholics and Protestants for violations of the doctrine the Jews under the guise of preaching tolerance push their program through the schools.  At the same time the materialists have a free hand preaching materialism as no one understands its nature as the religion of the Sons of Darkness.

     Under the guise of helping the young student understand his sexual nature, courses, which are religious in intent, on ‘Human Sexuality’, undermine spiritualist precepts.  Spiritualists reject the indiscriminate indulgence of the senses while materialists embrace it.

page 79.

     Thus one has the concept of ‘the varieties of sexual experience.’  These include everything from homosexuality to child molestation.  All forms  of sexual expression are considered legitimate expressions of ‘human needs.’

     So, while those who preach self-control in order to create a better world are silenced in the name of ‘freedom’, the classrooms are turned over to materialists who seek to make life hell on earth.  Women are prostituted and men perverted in the name of ‘sexual freedom.’

     The media, movies and TV in particular  have been taken over by the materialists who exclude spiritualists from employment in those industries.  Black list.  On Big Screen and Small Screen they preach total self-indulgence at the expense of all other people.

     As a consequence crime and illiteracy increase geometrically.  The poor befuddled citizenry talk of ‘wars on crime’ which will never succeed as long as materialism is the dominant religion.  Take the religion of materialism  out of the schools and replace it with a spiritualist doctrine seeking the curbing of self-indulgence.  Then crime will diminish.  The war is not a war on crime but a war of moral attitudes.  The war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness.

     Needless to say, crime will never disappear.  Crime and criminals have existed since the dawn of time.  Even then the war of the Sons of Light and Darkness commenced.  Anglo-Americans were governed by the Chivalric notion of Shame.  Not that they didn’t commit crimes but the sense of shame forced them to repent or move out of society.  During the great period of European immigration Jews opposed the notion of Shame with that of Chutzpah.  Chutzpah can be defined as simply the shameless attempt to achieve one’s desires against the will of others by surprising them with extravagant audacity.  If bold enough you may overwhelm their opposition, if not, oh well, you can always ‘apologize.’

page 80

     Leaving Kerrouac aside for the moment, William S. Burroughs lived in New York City.  NYC has been described as ‘that great factory of criminals.’  The description has been given with good reason.  For the city was invaded by the post-Great Revolution society of criminals organized around the philosophy of the Marquis de Sade.  Crime has a philosophical basis in the modern world.  ‘Ending poverty’ would have no effect on crime.  It is not just a matter of illegal activity to satisfy one’s needs.  Burroughs combined this criminal philosophy with the docrines of anarchy which were also prevalent in the Big Apple.  Burroughs’ doctrine leads to complete oblivion.  In form he continues the Jewish Chutzpah by which he was definitely influenced, as NYC is, or was, a Jewish city, into the equation of:  Wouldn’t you?

     I mean, he asks, wouldn’t you kill a little old lady and take her purse if you needed money for a heroin habit.  Wouldn’t you?  Who wouldn’t?  Of course you would if you were a heroin addict, as Burroughs was, needing a fix.  Thus Burroughs in ‘Naked Lunch’ brought the definition of morality down to what the individual needs at any given moment.  If you felt the need the for sex wouldn’t you rape an eight year old girl.  Who wouldn’t?  It was inconceivable to Burroughs that anyone wouldn’t.  If one said one wouldn’t then the logic is that your need wasn’t great enough or you would.  Who wouldn’t?  Thus Burroughs propounded a very destructive version of the materialistic religion of the Sons of Darkness.

page 81.

     Like syphilis the first outburst of the disease was evident in the Hippie movement on Haight-Ashbury.  The sores have disappeared but Burroughs’ philosophy has been spread throughout the social system.  The deteriorization of mankind was very noticeable by the late seventies to the artistic temperament.  At that time a rock band by the name of Devo made the point perfectly clear.  They asked the musical question:  Are we not men? and answered it:  No!  We are Devo.  The point being that mankind had stopped evolving and was retrogressing into devolution.  Devo hit the nail on the head.  Materialism was rapidly destroying the fabric of society.  We  were, in fact, returning to our savage origins.  J.G. Frazer’s ‘civilized veneer’ was wearing off.  Or as W.B. Yeats put it:  And what rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?  The hippies embraced Wouldn’t You wholeheartedly.  They took to drugs like an alcoholic to drink.  Drugs are the antithesis of morality.  Lying and stealing become one’s nature.  A druggie’s word isn’t worth a broken syringe.

     Sandy drifted into this environment as she moved over to the Haight-Ashbury.  Now, she came from a strong Episcopalian background.  She had an affluent past.  The Hippies bubbled up from the urban depths.  They had no strong anything except for the desire to get, to exploit.  As drug addicts they had no chance of succeeding at anything but total failure.  They succeeded at that.  The worst weren’t even human.

page 82.

     Sandy moved from crash pad to crash pad as soon as the toilets filled up and wouldn’t flush anymore.  Filthy rooms filled with filthy mattresses and filthy people.  Toilets stopped up  overflowing with excrement.  As there were no sexual barriers or restraints she was used by any derelict passing through.  She deadened her sensitivities by pretending to revel in the ‘new freedom.’  Drugs and music were exhilarating accessories.  They could turn night to day, black to white.

     But the Hippie scene with no other ethic than sex and drugs and Rock and Roll continued to deteriorate.  Unbridled sex with anyone and anything was the norm.  There were no limits.  Homosexuality forced itself into the breach as legitimate.  Then as the Disco music of the homosexuals came to dominate in 1977-78, Rock music died on the vine.  Without the impetus of music Sandy looked around to find nothing but barrenness.

     Somehow, through the years of degradation she had clung to the ghost of the vision of her past.  No matter what clothes she wore she wore them with a certain stylishness that betokened a nearly forgotten pride.  She had never abandoned her bourgeois dreams.  Now looking over the wreck of Haight-Ashbury her thoughts turned to rehabilitating herself.  As this was impossible in San Francisco she thought to find a refuge in some other part of the country.  Her rape by Sheldon Washington was never out of her mind.  She had had other unpleasant experiences with Black men so she looked for a place where she thought there wouldn’t be any.  For this reason she selected the Mormon capitol because of their alleged aversion to Blacks.  So she had moved to Salt Lake City in the late seventies.  The Mormons are an exclusive people, they don’t take kindly to non-Mormons in their midst.  Sandy once again found herself an outsider.  Rather than kicking drugs as had been her intent she continued to find solace in them.

     During all this time Sheldon Washington prospered.  He had prospered with a clear conscience.  He even considered himself a benevolent figure in the community, which, compared to some others in his line, he was.  Sheldon considered that he as a Black man was only getting back the Black Folk’s own.  ‘As ye sow so shall ye reap.’  he was fond of saying, referring to White Folks.  True.  You must be careful of the seeds you sow.  Whether Sheldon was merely reclaiming his own is left to subtler minds than mine.  Sheldon was strewing his own field with the seeds of hatred no matter how justified he felt.  His victims were not the White Folk that may have oppressed his ancestors they were living people.

     Shortly after Sandy left town a junky with sandy hair and very dark glasses began showing up in North Beach.  At least he had the appearance of a junkie.  He quickly made the connection with Sheldon Washington for his heroin.

     Over a few weeks Sheldon accepted him as just another junkie who had been around forever.  He abused him as he did all his junkies.  On this particular occasion Sheldon made appointments with this junkie failing to keep each.  Someone at each assignation point directed the junkie on to the next.  The junkie resignedly went from place to place.  He was finally directed to go the alley off Montague.  The junkie took longer to get there than he might have for he stopped off at his pad first.

page 84.

     As he turned into the alley Sheldon sat alone on a garbage can.  The Black confederates were gone.  The White junkies were out of sight.  As the junkie approached, Sheldon observed that his walk was rather stiff but as he was a junkie, what was new?  The reason the junkie’s walk was stiff was because a crowbar was suspended from his belt down his left pants leg.  A revolver was stuck in his belt beneath his moth eaten sweater.  His eyes glowed hatred beneath his very dark glasses.  He was not really a junkie; he was an impostor.

     Like a junkie he had his money ready in his hand.  He thrust it at Sheldon holding out his other hand for the baloon. 

     ‘Not so fast, my man, not so fast.’  Sheldon said.  ‘I mean, man, like man, money ain’t everything.  I mean, I am the most important man in your life.  I want you to acknowledge that.’

     The junkie shrugged indicating:  What?

     Sheldon unzipped his fly flopping his member out.  He looked at the junkie emitting only a low chuckle.  The junkie understood.  He began to go down on one knee.  His right hand moved beneath his sweater.  Sheldon had just time to focus on the hole in the blue-black barrel before his brains flew out to mingle with the rest of the garbage.

     The junkie unbuckled Sheldon’s pants and pulled them down rolling the huge inert form unto its stomach as he did so.  Removing the crowbar from his pants he rammed it far up Sheldon’s ass until the tip rested just below Sheldon’s heart.  Throwing the shades aside and discarding the moth eaten sweater he walked out of the alley and was never seen in North Beach again.

page 85.

     The police were baffled but unconcerned.  After all Sheldon hadn’t really been murdered.  He was dead but he was only a casualty in the urban warfare.  Only another soldier who had given his life for the cause.  A casualty in that urban warfare that raged beyond police jurisdiction and control.  A warfare that was beyond the law; one that operated on laws of its own.  All that can be said is that he who lives by the rod dies by the rod. 

     All across the universe the stars stayed the clacking dice of Magic Sam in his hand to look down on such insanity and say:  They ain’t nothing but a heartache and you know they’ll never get over it.  Then, with a shrug, they returned to their games.  Roll the dice with a sound like thunder.

     The junkie, his own heart broken beyond repair blew a kiss from San Francisco to Salt Lake City.  Just another boogie in The Land Of A Thousand Dances.

     Sandy watched Donn as he came up the street.  She recognized someone, who like her, had lost his place in the world.  A hope sprang up in her breast, she was beyond being able to think, that perhaps he and she might find comfort in each other reclaiming in some small degree their place in the world.

page 86.

     ‘Hi there.  What are you doing?’

     Donn paused to appraise her.  He recognized that about her that spoke of a declassee.  As he had no interest in women he attempted to dismiss her.

     ‘I’m going to get something to eat.’  He said brusquely.

     Undaunted Sandy said:  ‘Oh, I know all the good places.  I’ll take you there.’  She said clasping his hand impusively, leading him away.

    Donn could no longer go to the type of restaurant he favored.  He thought that perhaps Sandy knew of some hippie hangouts where the food would be filling and maybe passable.  He allowed himself to be led away.

     They walked for several blocks.  Sandy babbled on along the way hoping to win Donn over.  A strip mall hove in sight.  There was an Albertson’s grocery store at one end.  Donn spotted a restaurant in the middle of the mall.  When they reached the corner of the Albertson’s Donn began to continue down the front but Sandy pulled him along the side and toward the back.  Donn was confused but thought Sandy was aware of another entrance. 

     When they reached the back Sandy pointed proudly at the dumpster and said:  See.

     Donn looked at the huge garbage can puzzled.

     ‘See what?’  He asked Sandy who was still holding his hand.

     ‘Well, see,’  She said giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.  ‘Nobody ever has to go hungry in America.  They throw away tons of good food just because it’s a day or two old.  See.’  she said, grabbing at some limp brownish lettuce, ‘This lettuce is perfectly good to eat.  It’s just a little old.  And it’s free, it doesn’t cost anything.’

page 87.

     ‘All kinds of places are this stupid.  If you want I’ll take to Cheesy Burgers later.  At midnight they throw out all the burgers they’ve prepared but haven’t sold.  Wrapped and everything.  We’ll have to get there early though because everyone wants those.’

     Donn listened incredulously, rudely pulling back his hand.  He wasn’t familiar with underground ‘survival’ techniques.  He wasn’t aware that Abbie Hoffmen had published a whole book full of ideas and scams, all as good as this one.  But he was not yet so low that he would search through garbage cans for food.

     ‘God, that’s absolutely disgusting.’  He said.

     ‘No, it’s not.  Everybody does it.’  Sandy replied speaking for her crowd.

     ‘Well, I don’t eat out of garbage cans and I think anyone who does is absolutely disgusting.’  Donn replied angrily.  ‘You! Get away from me, you filthy slut.  No, don’t touch me.’  He said brushing away Sandy’s imporing hands which sought to hold his again.  ‘Get away.’  He said angrily, turning on his heel.

     Sandy’s rejection by Donn was the last thing that it took to bury her poor heart completely out of sight.  As she stood in the moonlight she sank beneath the burden of accumulated woes of nearly twenty years.  All the crimes perpetrated against her rose up to engulf her sense of decency.  Her last shred of worthiness disappeared.  The world’s guilt entered her soul as her own.  She considered herself evil.  She went through life as an empty shell.  But she was not Guilty of the Shame.  Oh no!  It was society’s shame.  It was our shame.  Repeat aloud:  I (insert your name) am Guilty of the Shame.

page 88.

     Donn found his way to the highway East.  He found a spot to doze a few hours.  Daylight found him alongside US 40.  ‘Denver, here I come.’  He whistled, praying for the best.  This was not Donn’s moment for the best.  He was over a day getting to Fruitland, an interminable number of short rides and long delays.  His spirits sank again.  He had his thumb out just outside of Fruitland when a fifty-eight Chevy pulled over.

     ‘Hi! I’m Kirk Douglas Strachan.’  The driver said extending a soft flabby hand.  He was wearing a black cowboy hat, had a soft pudgy face with black horn rimmed glasses, black cowboy shirt with white piping and black Can’t Bust ‘Ems over black cowboy boots.

     ‘Uh, yeah,’  Donn replied,  ‘I’m Phil Brown.’

    ‘Nice to meet you Phil.’  Strachan said eyeing him like a side of beef.

     This was about ten o’ clock at night.  Strachan was a practiced hand.  He got right to the point.

     ‘Now, Phil, I’m going to tell you how it is,’ he began with the authoritative tone of a movie tough guy,  ‘I like men.  I’m really a tough guy.  Did you get my name, Kirk Douglas Strachan?  Kirk Douglas was a movie tough guy.’ he said, overlooking the fact that Kirk Douglas was still alive.  ‘My mother wanted me to be tough so she named me after him.  I am tough.  Now, it’s your choice, you can either live or die.  Your second choice is obvious, we don’t have to discuss that.  Now, if you want to live you’re coming home with me and you’ll be my sex slave for a week or two.  Now, if you’re good at that I’ll reward you by driving you up to Vernal.  If you’re not you’ll join the rest of my boyfriends.  Got it!  Well, get it, my man!’

page 89.

     Donn was staring at him incredulously, his mouth agape.  Donn looked at this soft flabby creep wondering where he got the notion he was tough except from his mom.  Kirk Douglas Strachan mistook  incredulity as a sign of fear.  Strachan was a murderous fiend.  The ‘boyfriends’ he sarcastically referred to were all buried out in his garden patch beneath the turnips.  There were fifteen in all.  Some he had just blown away with a shotgun others had died lingering deaths.

     Strachan’s mother had named him after Kirk Douglas.  Strachan had studied all the actor’s films.  Except that he was short, pudgy and effeminate Strachan had his Kirk Douglas act down.  He had the same buzzsaw whine that came from the back of his head.  He had even had a cleft surgically made in his chin.  Needless to say it looked ridiculous with his moon faced pudgy head.

     Emboldened by Donn’s open mouthed wonder Strachan continued:  ‘Terrific.  You’ll have a great time too.  Now, I need a down payment right now.  See that knoll just up there.  I’m going to pull behind it.  You’re going to give me a great blow job, then I’ll take you to the ranch.’

     ‘I was boxing champ three years running at SMU.’  Donn said quietly in the Texas manner brushing imaginary lint from his fly.

page 90.

     Oh, a John Wayne type, huh?  Well I’m going to make you get out right here.’  He said skidding to a stop.  He pressed a button, the door flew open and Donn sneeringly got out.  Strachan copped a U and raced back toward Fruitland.  John Wayne trumps Kirk Douglas every time.

     Donn dropped his bag, placing his hands on his hips while he looked up and down the dark road.

     ‘Over here.  Hey, buddy, over here.’  A loud booming voice cried from the wilderness. 

     ‘Over here, buddy, I’m over here.’

     Donn peered out into the darkness.  He could see nothing.

     ‘Come on.  I’ll guide you in.’  The voice cried.

     Donn started walking into the darkness.  As he stumbled along it seemed to him like he walked on an on.

     ‘Man, that guy must have a voice like a foghorn.’  He thought.

     Then he perceived the glow of a fire.

     ‘Keep coming.  I’m right over here.’  The voice coaxed.  ‘All right, all right.  If I hadn’t been out taking a leak I would have missed you.’

     A hand came out of the darkness grabbed Donn’s hand and shook it.

     ‘Hi!  I’m Dharma Bum.’  Bum said proudly.

     ‘You can call me Jack.’  Donn said, taken back by Dharma Bum’s strange name.

page 91.

     Bum led him back behind a small rise where a fire burned in the darkness.

     ‘Dharma Bum?’  Donn asked.  ‘Did I hear you right.’

     ‘Dharma Bum, that’s right.’  Bum replied.  ‘I’m out here seeking enlightenment.’

     Dharma Bum was quite an apparition in the barren mountain night.  He was about six-four high.  Thin but not slender.  He wore a pair of knee high boots, medium platforms with two and a half inch heels, laced all the way up to his knees fitting over form fitting jeans that gave Bum the appearance almost of walking on stilts.  The jeans buttoned with the buttons showing on the outside.  A pink, or dusty plum, flowered vest covered a lavender flowered shirt with enormous billowing sleeves.  It was an outfit modeled after John Hall of Hall and Oates.

     Bum’s face was fleshy, all the features being large.  He wasn’t handsome, plain verging on homely, but carried himself with real leading man verve.  He was topped by a mane of black hair streaked now with silver combed straight back, en brosse, falling to his shoulders.

    He was a child of TV, records and movies.  He invariably saw himself as Batman and others as his Robins.  He had developed the authoritative way of talking which in the movies leaves the bit actors gasping in astonishment at the sagacity and sheer manliness of the lead.  In the same manner Bum tried to impose himself on reality.  Reality not being the movies, Bum had been, as it were, rejected by life.  He was undaunted; New Day, New Script.  As Jim Morrison of the Doors replied when being urged to hurry lest he be too late to catch his flight:  ‘You can never be too late for your own movie.’  Whatever happens is in the script.

page 92.

     Besides money wasn’t a real problem for Bum.  He just wired home to Dad to pay the card.  He was covered for medical and dental care.  Unlike most bums, or homeless, he was in excellent health and his teeth were good.  He was actually cooking baked beans in the can held over the fire with a forked stick, just like in the movies.

     ‘I’d offer you some but I wasn’t expecting company.’  He said with an authoritative chuckle indicating that he knew Donn would understand as he reacted to gasps of astonishment from Donn in the theatre of his mind.  Bum always played to an SRO audience.  Each movement, each word was done and spoken in a stagy manner.  Often there was no necessity for a reply.  Bum merely waited the appropriate time  for the reply in his mental script then continued his next lines.  Not infrequently he overrode the speaker or completely ignored, in fact, didn’t hear, the reply.

     ‘Jack, huh?  Jack?’  Bum said with a wink.

     ‘What?’ Donn said uncertain whether to be apprehensive or puzzled.

     Bum had taken his name from Jack Kerrouac’s novel ‘The Dharma Bums.’  He thought Donn was making a sly joke on Bum’s self-introduction.

     ‘Yeah.  Ya know Jack understood me real well.  Yeah.  Ha, ha.  He wrote my life before I even began to live it.’

page 93.

     ‘Jack?  Jack who?  Me?’

     ‘Jack Kerouac!’  Bum cried incredulously.

     ‘Jack Kerouac?  You mean the guy who wrote ‘On The Road?’  Donn said fishing for the sense as his head swam trying to understand Bum.

     ‘Oh, ho.  You do know Jack then?’  Bum beamed.

     ‘I read ‘On The Road.” Donn said.

     He had read it out of curiosity in college where it had been a life style manual for a certain crowd.  He had detested the book.  It represented everything he despised.  Donn, then as now, wanted the good life, the high life.  He didn’t think hanging around with petty grifters and small time thieves in sleazy bars equated the good life.  Even if you camouflaged your sleaziness with intellectual pretense.

     ‘Great book, isn’t it?  I read ’em all.  That, the Dharma Bums, Desolation Angels, terrific stuff.  I just don’t know how he anticipated my life though.  Eerie, don’t you think?’

     ‘Is that how you got the name Dharma Bum?’

    ‘No.  I am Dharma Bum.  Jack wrote the book about me.

     ‘Didn’t Kerouac write it before you hit the road?’ Donn said unpolitically.

     ‘What the hell you talking about?’  Bum said glaring across the fire suspiciously at Donn.  ‘Didn’t I just say Jack wrote my life?’

     ‘My mistake.’  Donn said wryly, realizing that Bum had only just been beamed down from the saucer.

page 94.

     ‘Damn right it is, fella.’  Bum said in his best John Wayne style.  Then his face formed a reverie as he began talking.  The speech was one he had prepared for the inevitable Time or TV interviewer.  He thought they would catch up to him sooner or later to get his story.

     ‘Yes.’  He began in f0nd reminiscence.  ‘I must have crossed this great big beautiful land a hundred times or more.  God bless this crazy topsy-turvy unbelievable US of A.  Yes, from that fabled Golden Gate of old San Fran to the New York Island, from the tropical shores, actually sub-tropical, he,he, of Key West to the Mesabi iron range up on Lake Superior, I’ve loved it all.  My feet have led me to the tops of the highest mountains, and I mean literally, the tops, I’ve been above Cripple Creek, and down into the depths of amazing valleys, my feet have washed in gorge of the Grand Canyon.  In one day I’ve been to the top of Mt. Wilson and to the depths of Death Valley, the highest and lowest places in the lower Forty-Eight in one day.  I’ve stood with my feet in both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.  Now, what do you think of that?’

     He stopped with a big quizzical Will Rogers smile seemingly looking into Donn’s eyes but actually nearly oblivious of his existence.  Donn was fearful that this night might go on forever.  He cleared his throat loudly speaking piercingly to blow his way into Bum’s consciousness.

     ‘Why did you start doing this?  Why are you out here?’

     This was almost the question Bum had scripted for the Time Magazine interviewer.  He heard and shifted into second gear.

     ‘What am I doing out here?’  Bum said with a rueful shake of his head accompanied by several musing snarls.  ‘Well, I’ll tell you why I’m out here.  I’m a victim of capitalist oppression.’

page 95.

     ‘How’s that?’

     ‘How’s that?  Well, let me tell you how the system really works.  Or, doesn’t work.  Ya know, a guy goes to work for some jerk in good faith, promised that if things work out he’ll be taken care of.  He gives the best he’s got, which in my case was pretty damn good, puts in the best period of his life.  Then he makes the business big and successful for this jerk.  The more money you make for this jerk the more he starts reneging on the deal.  Then when he figures he’s got it made and doesn’t need you anymore- Bingo! you’re gone.  Oh yeah, I know all about capitalism.  Tell that to your readers.

     What a jerk the guy is.  If you ever run into him dump on him.  His name is Dewey Trueman.  I’m a Jew you know.’  Bum added with a significant arch to his eyebrows.

     A the mention of readers Donn thought that Bum somehow knew who he was, or had been, a music reviewer.  The mention of Dewey Trueman threw him off his heels.  He was totally mystified.

     ‘Dewey Trueman?’  Donn said.  ‘Where abouts in this great land of ours did this take place?’

     ‘Out on the coast.  Eugene, Oregon.’

     ‘What does your being a Jew have to do with it?’

     ‘Huh!  Anti-Semitism of course.  It’s always the Jew gets it in the neck.  Always been that way.  Need a scapegoat, get a Jew.  I should have known, I suppose.’

     ‘You say this guy Trueman promised you part of the business?’  Donn asked, his curiosity really aroused.

     ‘Yeah.  That’s right.’  Bum said ruefully.

    ‘So.  What?  You worked for him for five or six years then?’  Donn was familiar with Trueman and to some extent his store.

     ‘Well, it wasn’t quite that long.’

     ‘How long then?’

     ‘Well, let’s see.’  Bum began manipulating his fingers and drawing in the dirt.  ‘Maybe five or six months.’

     ‘Months?’  Donn said incredulously.

     And well he should have for Bum had created a verstion of the events that completely rewrote the facts.

     Bum’s real name was Norm Barsky.  He was from St. Louis.  he had been brought into Eugene to take possession of the business Dewey Trueman had built up.  A record store in Eugene that was very successful.  For the size of the city tremendously successful.  In a small pond the record store had been a big splash.  Trueman was a Hippie.  He therefore succeeded against the wishes of the town fathers.  A couple attempts had been made to assassinate him.  When the last attempt to kill him on the highway by bogus Hell’s Angels had failed the town fathers were at a loss of what to do.  At the same time they, or at least Harry Grabstein, realized that the store was a valuable money maker.  It should be preserved but put into righteous hands.  Grabstein undertook to resolve the matter.  He would appropriate or, in other words, steal the business.    

     So as to evade the appearance of being himself involved he called an acquaintance in St. Louis, Art Barsky.  Art’s son Norm, had just finished school at the University of Chicago, was married, new baby, and could use a good income.  Norm, wife and child were sent to Eugene to receive his inheritance.

page 97.

     It was not to be expected that Trueman would just hand over his business to Norm so a certain deception and ruse had to be practiced.  Norm was schooled by his father while refresher points would be supplied by Harry Grabstein.  The method was quite simple and well tried.  The only obstacle in the way could be the victim’s character.  That was the only variable that couldn’t be controlled.  As Grabstein thought Trueman a despicable Hippie with no character he perceived no problem in bringing him down.

     One may ask why these Jews thought themselves entitled to another man’s property.  The problem was not in the capitalist economic system as Bum sincerely thought but in the Jewish religious system and culture which he would have denied.  A quick survey of the three great crucial periods in Jewish history should provide the intellectual justification.

     Jewish history is a closed field, permitted only to those who have been properly vetted.  As the editor of the Cambridge History of Judaism puts it:  But as the study of Judaism is peculiarly open to emotive interests and unconscious influences which make it highly susceptible to hurtful misinterpretations, no effort to get rid of the blinkers of traditions and prejudices may be deemed superfluous.

    In other words if you don’t see it their way you have no right to be heard.  Nevertheless the truth must be pursued.  The objectivity of historical facts cannot be allowed to be skewed to the advantage of one party to the hurt of another.  Neither valid history or sociology can be approached in such a manner to obtain preconceived results.  Any conclusions are always subject to discussion.  Just as the Constitution of the United States decrees the separation of church and state it also decrees absolute freedom of expression  whether a subject is peculiarly open to emotive interests or unconscious influences or not.

page 98.

     Messianism is the backbone of the Jewish belief system.  The belief is that the natural order of things was overturned when Cain slew Abel.  All of history since then has been the promise of God to bring the Jews into their rightful place as arbiters of the nations thereby reversing the decision of history or, reality.  The redemption of Israel is the purpose of all ‘History.’  There have been three great periods of redemptive or messianic expectations.  On these pivots the Jewish character was formed.

     The first great period was from c. 188 BC to 135 AD.  The second centered around the messiahship of a man called Sabbatai Zevi in the years around 1640-1700 AD.  The third with the Revolution of the Messiah around the years 1913-28.  In all three the Jews were brutally disappointed.

     As the smaller and weaker portion of the greater society the Jews have always felt abused and suppressed, especially as they believe they are the bearers of the true god.  Thus when Israel is redeemed and the roles are reversed all the wealth of the world will belong to the Jews; and the gentiles will be their slaves.

     The initial confrontation was  begun between the Hellenes and Jews expanding into a war between the entire Greco-Roman world and the Jews.  Initially the Jews were successful against the Hellenes.  the Roman world proved too much for them.  In a series of tremendous wars from 66-70 AD when the Temple was destroyed through the amazing uprising in 116-18 to the final destruction of the Jewish state in the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135 AD, the Jews were all but exterminated.  In the hopes of ending the confrontation and destroying the locus of what, by then was the center of perpetual disturbances, Jerusalem was leveled while Jews were forbidden to enter the city. 

page 99.

     Thus in the wars which the Jews characterize as anti-Semitic persecution but which were actually a contest for the dominion of the Roman world, redemption for the Jews was postponed, while Rome was prostated.

     For approximately 1500 years the Jews longed for the appearance of the true Messiah, both Jesus and Bar Kochba having failed them.  After fifteen hundred years of various disasters culminating in the expulsion from Spain and the Cossack rebellion against Poland in 1648 a new Messiah, Sabbatai Zevi appeared in the Asia Minor governed by the Turks.  Sabbatai is the pivot of Jewish history.  Israel quivered in the expectation of deliverance.  As in the 116-18 uprising of the Roman period Europeans from the Pale to England were to be slaughtered.  True, the means were lacking but the will was there.  Once again the wealth of the world was to accrue to the Jews.

page 100.

    End of II-2.  Proceed to II-3 for the continuation.

     At this point the story consists of Part One:  Disco Donn Does Deep Elum and Part II, clips 1 and 2.