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Read "Gone and Also ... A Work in Progress" | Claude Hall
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By Claude Hall "Your car's a worse rattletrap than mine," I said as Hemp crawled in under the steering wheel and reached over to kick open the door on my side with his foot. Hemp patted the dashboard of his aging Ford Escort with his right hand. "Don't listen to the man, baby. He doesn't know cars. He's only a writer." I crawled in his car and searched for a seat belt, but couldn't find one. "God! Where did that come from?" "Where did what come from?" "That writer crap." "Everyone on campus knows it. Even many of the students, I suspect." "The truth is that I haven't written anything in a long time," I said. "Writers who don't write aren't writers." "The only question around the campus is whether you're a writer like Truman Capote, that is, a sissy, or a real writer like Willy Faulkner," Hemp said. "The bet is that Faulkner wins." "Thanks for that anyway. But neither wins. I've never cared much for Faulkner. Even less for Capote. Is that all the writers they know around this place?" "Heck, no. Take me, for example. I've also read Mark Twain. Back when I was a kid. O'Henry, maybe a couple of stories." "Sounds promising," I said. "Qualifies you in this state, I would imagine, to become a critic and review books." "At the very least," Hemp said. "But I'll make a deal with you. I won't mention the writing stuff if you'll keep quiet about me being...." "A preacher?" "I prefer the term man of the cloth. Sounds more gen-teel." "It does at that." I said. "Then it's a deal? Most of these people don't know I'm with the university or anything. Well, I'll take that back; they probably know everything about me, but no one ever mentions that sort of thing. It's part of the program...you know, principles before personalities." "Deal," I said. We drove toward the center of town. A couple of street lights were out. A restaurant was open, but had no customers; I could see the waitress chatting with the cook. The Christian Church of Good Life was open for business and maybe a dozen people were just entering the front door. "Probably a special prayer service about the wall," said Hemp when he noticed my interest in the church. "You going to Montague's sermon Sunday?" "I don't know," I said, although that was not exactly the truth. I actually no plans to go. "Haven't made up my mind yet." "I would recommend it most highly." "That's understandable. You're a preacher." "That has nothing to do with it. Montague's a card and a half. If they were to put out some publicity on his sermon, people would be driving in from Stillwater, Ponca City, Fairview. Even with just word-of-mouth, you'd better get there an hour early if you want a seat." I smiled as I thought about Morris Nathaniel Montague. His birdlike antics barefoot in his office the other day. That bald head. "He's that good?" "The man does a show. I mean, well, he's a preacher, too. He'll say something spiritual and important. In all probability. But he also knows how to entertain. He does grab an audience." Hemp parked his car alongside a red-brick Methodist Church. It was one of the older buildings in the town. Some vines, now decayed and yellow in the light of a lamp above a side door, still moved in the wind left over from the storm earlier in the afternoon. "Here?" "I guess we're a few minutes early," Hemp said. "Someone should be arriving soon to make the coffee. This meeting always has good coffee." I relaxed in the seat. The car window was open. The night air felt good. That tornado may have damaged a house or two, but it had also done wonders for the air. "You do to this often?" "You'll generally find me here at least a couple of nights a week. There aren't that many meetings in this town. Three here a week. A couple in other places." "How long have you been going?" "What you're probably really asking is how long since I, to quote an old cliché, put the plug in the jug. My AA birthday is Aug. 12. As of right now, I've been sober three years, nine months, seven days, and six hours." "You keep track of that sort of thing?" "My sobriety is pretty important to me. I wasn't a very nice person before I became sober. You wouldn't have liked me. But that's okay. I didn't like me either." His voice was clear, his tone definite. I decided that it didn't pay to ask direct questions about why he'd given up drinking. He might tell me. And I'm not sure that I really wanted to know. "What goes on at these meetings?" "Nothing but talk. That's all. And lots of coffee." "How much does it cost to belong?" "Free." "Free?" "Well, we chip in on the coffee and the rent. Coffee is traditional at the meetings. But you don't have to put anything in the basket when it's passed if you don't want to. Been that way since Dr. Bob and Bill W. started the whole shebang. Some of the newcomers – those who're new in the program – don't have any money. Or not much. We get by. It may sound very unorganized...and it is. Most of us wouldn't like it any other way." "Two or three times a week? Must get a little boring from time to time." "Strangely enough, no. Anyway, it beats hell out of watching 'I Love Lucy' reruns." "Television is pretty these days," I agreed. "Cable brings more channels, but it's just more channels of old reruns." "There's an old cliché in AA," said Hemp. "You have to go to meetings until you want to go to meetings. Then you don't have to go. But, of course, you do. If I don't go to meetings at least two or three times a week, I begin to feel itchy inside my skin. Began to get irritated at people whether they deserve it or not." "That's when I need a beer. Sometimes." "A lot of sometimes, according to campus gossip." I was disturbed. "Is that what they say?" I asked the question softly, trying not to show much concern. I'm sure I didn't fool him. "Some people," he said. "Anyone I know in particular?" "Hadland's the one who mentioned it to me." "Hadland would be the one to spread something like that, all right. Doris Jean Dawkins says he's also telling everyone that I have an odor." Hemp laughed. "Yes, that Hadland does have an evil mind. Very bright, but also very evil." "You say that, but everyone on campus thinks he's a nice guy. Everyone but you and maybe Morris Nathaniel Montague." “No. Hadland's definitely a sinner. Has that tiny little smirk of a smile that's characteristic of most sinners I've ever known. Used to wear one of those smiles myself, more than likely. Not so much any more, I hope. But thank, God, for sinners. In the long ago and far away, preachers were teachers and role models of their communities. The only reason for the existence of preachers these days is to deal in all that is bad and rotten in human nature. Hadland, now, he's prime meat for a preacher." "I've heard him say he's a god-fearing man." "He has, indeed, a right to fear God. A good man would, instead, love God. Not fear Him. Fear is akin to hate. Or something worse." "You ever talked religion to Hadland...tried to convert him?" "Not me. Sadly, Billy Joe, I'm not that good. I would think that our friend Hadland needs someone like Billy Graham. Make that the legendary Billy Sunday. But even then, I'm not sure." We were quiet a moment. "I may have to do something about Hadland one of these days," I said. "What? Slug him in the nose? A guy like that would enjoy a broken nose. You'd only be doing him a favor. He would wear it like a badge." "I resent him spreading a rumor about my drinking. Where did he get that idea?" "Not from me," Hemp said quickly. "But that's why you've been trying to get me to one of these meetings, isn't it?" "Right. Right. I'll admit it. But look at it this way: If you're an alcoholic, a meeting will do you good. If you're not, well, it won't hurt you." "I'm not one of your newcomers, Hemp," I said, trying to make my voice firm. "I'm not an alcoholic." "Okay. Okay, if you say so. Of course, I used to say the same thing about myself," Hemp said. "But one day, I realized that I was procrastinating. I was drinking when I should have been doing something. Doing anything, in fact." A light came on in a window in the church. Someone must have entered the door when I wasn't watching. "I'm not a procrastinator either." He was silent for a long moment. Both of us stared at the window of the church. "What are you, Billy Joe? I really didn't begin to understand myself until I started going to meetings. I still don't know myself really well. But I'm learning." I thought about it for a while before answering. "Whatever I am right this very second, is me. A writer uses everything. His life is material. Whether it's garbage or gold, a writer collects these things, these incidents in his life, and uses them. I may not be much, but I don't want to change." "So you really are a writer? I'm curious. Why did you stop writing? Writers write, they tell me, just as preachers preach." "Preachers don't preach unless they have an audience," I said. "You read any Henry Miller?" "I'm afraid that possession of his books during my college days was against the law. No, I've never read anything that he's written." "Miller thought that a man...or a woman...wrote to throw off the poison he'd accumulated because of a false way of life. That by writing we were trying to recapture our innocence. He said that no man would set a word down on paper if he just had the courage to live out what he believed in. I guess I stopped writing when I no longer believed in myself. Not in my writing ability, per se, but in my raison d'être for existence. You understand that sort of thing?" "Not really. Why would that be a reason to stop writing? Seems to me that it would, conversely, give you something to writing about." "I realized, probably in a period of inebriation, that I had no posterity. Knew it definitively. Without question, without doubt. I've always liked writing. I've always wanted to be a writer and I've done quite a bit of writing. But I can't claim to have had much success. Like a preacher without an audience. Something to say, perhaps, but no one to say it to. This doesn't mean that I don't want to write. I do. However, I feel the effort would be wasted. And, consequently, I don't write and right now I don't even care to talk about writing, period. It would be the same if I had a bestseller on the lists." "Fair enough," he said. "Shall we go have a cup of coffee?" "What the hell," I said. I had to shove against the door with my shoulder to get it opened. "Yes. What the hell," Hemp said. A couple came along the sidewalk in the dark. They were laughing at something, heads close together. Hemp introduced me to Flo and Charlie. "We're getting married," Flo told Hemp. She held onto Charlie by the arm. "To each other, I hope." "Why not?" said Charlie. "Nobody else will have him," Flo said. "That's why he proposed." "I did not propose. All I said was that if she wasn't doing anything the next day or two, maybe we could get married." "He also said he'd asked everyone else," she said. "And you're still going to marry him?" I asked. "I've done stranger things in my life," Flo said. She seemed very happy about the situation. And the meeting was also a strange one. Maybe not to the people who came here on a regular basis, but certainly it was strange to an outsider like me. Someone asked if I wanted to lead the meeting. I told the lady that I'd never done it before. She said that it didn't matter, there was a guide to follow. I shook my head. The guy who led the meeting looked as if he needed both a shave and a haircut. And after I caught the slight odor around him when I shook his hand, toss in a bath. His voice was shaky and he mispronounced more than a fourth of the words that he tried to read from a looseleaf notebook. But no one in the room seemed to even notice his stumbling words or the fact that his shirt was torn at the sleeve. He sat in the center of a long folding table. Three similar tables had been placed to make a square and folding chairs had been placed around this square. Just then a woman so old her skin was wrinkled about her face and neck like an old country rubboard came into the room. She used a cane to help her walk, but her smile was so radiant and her eyes so full of sparkling light that I instantly decided the cane was an affectation. It later turned out that she suffered from arthritis and was in constant pain. But she'd made up her mind years and years ago that it was great to be alive and determined that any pain was merely a trivial burden. After someone read from a large blue book, the guy in the torn shirt asked if anyone had a topic. Flo's hand immediately shot up. But she didn't want to talk about her impending marriage. She was scared of the wall. "Charlie and I decided that if we only had a few days to live, we wanted to spend it together." One by one, they went around the room. Though some of them talked about various personal problems, just about all of them also made some comment about the wall out by the university. A very tall lady in a green business suit complained about her boss. Her name was Hilda. Her boss treated her like a dog. When it came my turn, Hemp leaned over and told me that I could pass if I wanted to. "I pass," I said. Then a guy sitting to my left introduce himself. He was dressed in blue jeans and a Chicago teeshirt. His dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. "I'm Meredith and I'm an alcoholic." Like with the others, everyone around the room in close unison said, "Hello, Meredith." "I know you aren't going to believe this. But it's communist terrorists," Meredith said. "The same group that McVey guy belongs to. Someone groaned. "Not another Meredith equation." I leaned over and whispered to Hemp: "I thought there wasn't supposed to be any crosstalk." "It's okay with Meredith," Hemp said. "He enjoys this sort of chitchat." It had been the older woman who'd groaned and mentioned the Meredith equation. "Who's that woman over there?" "Artie. Been sober more than 30 years. She's one of the oldtimers." Meredith, who been attempting to assume a know-it-all pose, frowned my direction. Deciding that it didn't pay to tangle with someone who wore his hair tied back like that, I nodded at him and kept quiet. Meredith rose from his seat and looked around. Then he realized that standing was a little ostentatious. He sat back down. "Yes," Meredith said in a low, biting tone of voice. "I said the same thing about the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City. And, believe me, I'm absolutely right about that. You'll see once everything becomes clear." "That was a bomb," said Artie. "Why would terrorists build a wall?" "In many ways," said Meredith, "a wall achieves the same purpose as a bomb. Someone gets hurt." "No one, to the best of our knowledge," said Artie, "has been hurt by the wall." "Some people are missing. They've probably been shot by now. Didn't you read that story in the newspaper this afternoon? Some guy at the university saw these terrorists building that wall." "I read that story," Artie said. "He didn't say they were terrorists." "He said they were dressed funny." "A lot of people dress funny these days," said Artie. "Headbands?" "There is nothing more absurd than a cowboy hat in this day and age," Artie said. "Being a woman who occasionally wears a scarf on a windy day, which is usually just about every day in this place, I see nothing wrong with a scarf." "These were headbands, lady. Not scarves. They meant something. Headbands make a statement. A scarf says nothing." "And this latest Meredith equation says nothing." The man with the torn shirt sleeve raised his hand. "I really don't think this has much to do with our current personal problems." His voice, now that he wasn't reading, carried a firmer tone. "It will. Believe me," said Meredith. "You're going to see a sudden spurt in alcoholism. It always happens in a time of crisis like this. It's always either the bottle or the church and because of Swaggart and those others the bottle may be a better answer at the moment." "It's just a wall," said Artie. "You just don't understand its real meaning," insisted Meredith. "Enough," said the guy with the torn shirt. He spoke as if it were an order that had better be obeyed. The person sitting on the other side of Meredith introduce herself by her first name and talked for a moment. She thought the wall would soon go away, almost as fast as it had come. Another person thought the wall was "a psycho neurotic manifestation of everyone's inner desires. The way to get rid of the wall is to put everyone through psychoanalysis. It's done a lot for me." A while later, at the end of the hour, the meeting ended. Hemp introduced me first to Cliffie, the man in the torn shirt who'd led the meeting. "Cliffie is new to the program...trying to get his life back on track and doing rather well," Hemp said. "It's a tough go sometimes," Cliffie said. "I have to grab my ass and hold on." "Keep coming back," Hemp told him. "Got no other choice," said Cliffie. "This is the last house on the end of the street for me. I know that without question." "You found a place to live yet?" "Still sleeping in a crate over behind one of the grain elevators. But the job here sweeping out the church may soon give me enough money to get a small room somewhere. Eventually, I hope to get on over at Luden's Milk. The idea of delivering milk house to house before dawn appeals to me; I think it would be very peaceful and probably healthy." "Good. Very good," said Hemp. Hemp hugged Cliffie. Didn't matter about the odor. Then Hemp introduced me to Artie and talked with her for a few moments. She was still riled up about the so-called Meredith equation. "What do you think?" she asked. "I honestly don't know," I said after a moment when it appeared obvious that she wasn't talking to Hemp. "You must have some idea about it." "Not really." "Aren't you concerned about why it's there?" "I haven't given it much thought," I said. She placed her hands on her hips and examined me with strong, steady eyes. "You're a strange one." Hemp grabbed me by the arm. "That's what I told him," he told her, pulling me toward the door. We stopped at the door to wish Flo and Charlie the very best on their coming marriage. "We're planning to move," Charlie said. "To hell with the wall. We're moving to Oklahoma City." "Plenty of meetings anywhere you go these days," Hemp pointed out. "Even Europe, China, Australia." "And there's no wall in Oklahoma City," said Flo. "The problem with Oklahoma City is that it's too damned far away," said Artie, who had drifted along behind us. "And forget Dallas." "I forgot Dallas a long time ago," I said, "and I'd like to forget Fort Worth as well. The problem is that you can't get to Austin without going through one...either Dallas or Fort Worth." "I hear that Austin is a nice town," said Charlie. "You haven't been down there lately, have you?" asked Hemp. "No," said Charlie. "Austin's just about the same as every place else," Hemp said. (continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com |
Commentary Ach! It’s going to get messy. Very messy. We desperately need health care reform. Now, some Republican idiots who’ve got money or are otherwise covered with medical insurance from my own taxes, have decided I don’t deserve decent medical coverage. I walked into my local Walgreen yesterday to get a refill on a cream for my legs and was told that it’s no longer covered by my prescription insurance. I’d been paying $5 co-pay for a tube of the cream. If I want it now, it’s $45. A week ago, I took over a prescription from my doctor and was told that it’s no longer covered by insurance. Instead of $5, the pills cost $77. And I had to have those pills. I paid. I’m taking four pills in the morning and three pills in the evening. Several years ago, I’d asked my doctor how long I was going to have to take these pills. She said forever. Well, of course, I’m not going to live forever, but I sort of got the message that if I wish to stay alive, I need these pills. Now, suddenly, I don’t know what’s going to happen when I go to get them renewed. In other words, my medical insurance has been shot to hell. All of a sudden. Because the health care reform bill in Congress is a floundering. And once health care reform is no longer even mentioned as a possibility, I sort of gather that things are going to get crazy. And a lot of people like me are no longer going to be able to afford the increased prices on this, the increased prices on that. On repairing a broken arm or getting a flu shot. Someone’s greed is going to keep me from decent medical care. If you’ve got money, you get cured. If not, you’re just another body in the graveyard. HUNTER MATTERS Scott St. James: “Loved your riff about our political state and about music (back in the day) being picked by ‘your-our gut’. That worked out well for a lot of people that you have written about over many years. Especially during your Billboard years. I was very lucky. My first boss in the biz was the late Mikel Hunter. He was a ‘gut believer’ and I continued to be a ‘gut picker’ until the day I quit playing music and joined the ranks of the radio and television ‘talkers’. Those who didn't have good ‘gut instincts’ in those days, didn't last long. Nowadays, which includes many (past) days, radio music announcers have never experienced what you wrote about. Nor have they ever seen it in the highly structured environments that create heroes out of Program Directors who get a 4-share when during the ‘gut’ period, Program Directors regarded as heroes somehow managed to brag about double-digit shares.” I mentioned to St. James that the last time I saw Mikel Hunter was at the funeral services for L. David Moorhead. Hunter, at last, had forgiven me for sending him with two others to Tehran to operate an Americanized Top 40 station for the Shah. All three jocks eventually had to flee for their lives. What had been promised was not what they got when they got there! Ah, radio! John Olson, jaolson@syr.edu: “I’m a Librarian at Syracuse University and I was given your name by Rick Wright from SU’s Newhouse School. He thought you might be able to help me with a history of radio question. I would like to confirm if a Dan or Don ‘Diamond’ Donaldson was a DJ in the St. Louis, MO radio market in the 1960s’ He may have worked at KSD. Not sure. Do you have older copies of the Radio Programming Profile you could check, or other sources you could confirm this?” I had to admit to John that my memory of radio in St. Louis is now pretty value; suggested he Google various call letters to see if someone had a fan site up. This poem is from Dick LaPalm, who copied Ramsey Lewis and Mark Ruffin. Ach, how well I remember the Ramsey Lewis Trio. Some good music there! JAZZ MATTERS Dick LaPalm sent me this: A child is born and he is given a name. And it is by this name that he is thereafter known, the excellence of his present; the promise of his future. He alone answers to and for the record of his name. There must be great pride in a name - an attempt at individuality. It makes a man an entity, and to the things he does; the things he creates, it brings true identity. His name was Sid McCoy. During the 50s and 60s he played jazz on Chicago's WCFL. He had impeccable taste. He was everyone's favorite over-night companion. He was my friend. He has often been copied. He will never be equaled. Rest in peace, Sid. Just rest in peace. OFFSPRING MATTERS Burt Sherwood: “Once in a while yesterday comes full circle. Ions ago in New York I worked on the air with Herb Oscar Anderson when we were both at WMCA. One of Herb's three children turned out to be a star actor, he was the fourth lead on the TV show ‘Dynasty’ and he used his first two names John James, as there was another John Anderson who either had or took the name with Screen Actors Guild, so he had to improvise...he did it well. I am sure Dynasty can be seen today somewhere. I never knew he sang and played guitar until 20 minutes ago. I think you will enjoy it.” Burt forwarded this link (which I think was sent to him by Herb): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MU0xDGXI5gw And, yes, I did enjoy it! OTHER MATTERS Ever wonder what happened to Roy Orbison’s widow? Taylor Swift and Liz Rose were nominated for Song of the Year -- “You Belong With Me” via Still Working Music and Barbara Orbison World Music. Great! And I believe Barbara still operates the Roy Orbison Fan Club. One of the best rock records ever made, in my opinion, is "Oh, Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison on "A Black and White Night." The tune features some great backup. I listened to it again last night before going to bed. True, I have not heard all of the rock records that exist. But Roy is so good on this record. And when you have guys like Bruce Springsteen and John Mellancamp backing you up...ah!
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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