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"The Rattlesnake
Who Enjoyed Elvis"
Chapter 3 of a novel
by Claude Hall
She didn't get to see Nepi.
Wasn't my fault. She left
for San Antone in spite of every trick I knew and I
got in my pickup camper and drove over to Round Rock.
I'd taken a small apartment down behind a baseball
field and over a low-water passing and up alongside a
pretty creek shaded with huge live oaks. Nepi barked
at me as I unlocked the door.
"Why are they trying to kill me?"
Nepi didn't care. He was more interested in finding a
certain rabbit who lived down by the creek.
"Better yet: Who?"
All I got was something that sounded vaguely like
"Wolfe," but I don't know any Wolfe, so I let him out.
"Stay away from that rabbit."
He would not obey, of course, but it didn't matter
much. He would never be able to catch that rabbit
and, frankly, wouldn't know what to do with it even if
he did.
I put on a Bill Monroe album, popped a can of diet
Pepsi out of the fridge and lay down a while on the
carpet. There was a funny odor in the room.
Something very stale. The room obviously needed
airing. I left the door open for a while, but it was
very hot outside. Finally, as much as I dislike
air-conditioned air, I turned on the air conditioner,
but left the door open. The album was a good one.
Back from Monroe's Decca days, but after the advent of
stereo. My copy was getting worn. I would have to
hit a record store soon and buy a new one. Monroe,
however, wasn't helping me think. So, I cut off the
record player and tried the TV. As usual, there was
nothing on worth ignoring, so I cut it off and
switched on the computer. Usually, a game of Ms.
Krac-Man, a bootlegged version of a popular computer
game, would force my mind back into gear. Even that
didn't work this time. Who would want to kill me? I
checked to see if I'd made the payment to Sears on
time. Maybe I should pay them off. I'd been paying
them 13 cents a month now for two years. A vacuum I'd
bought had fallen apart. They'd refused to take it
back. So, I was sending them a check for two cents on
the 13th of the month, three cents the following day,
a check for a penny two days later. Sears received
seven to ten checks a month from me, which was just
enough to pay the interest on what little I still
owed. They'd written countless letters and someone
called once a month. The 13 cents was costing them
$42.17 a month to process.
No, I still don't think it was Sears. The blonde in
Arizona? She didn't want my hide, just a particular
part of my anatomy. Anyway, she probably had another
boyfriend by now. Probably the Phoenix Cardinals.
Maybe it was the IRS. Maybe they'd found out about
the diamonds. But I'd only sold that one big fellow
and I'd paid taxes on that. And anyway the IRS
doesn't go in for bombs. Rubber hoses, maybe.
I heard Nepi bark. When I looked out the door, he
wasn't around so I went down to the creek to see how
he was doing with the rabbit.
I don't know why he was in the creek. He hates water
and he can't swim. Nepi saw me and waded through the
shallows toward shore. I sat down on a log in the sun
and waited. A leaf floated by, darted between two
rocks, went on downstream just as the afternoon sun
threw a shadow over the ground near my feet. A big
shadow created by peanuts. I had assumed Detective
Garcia would be showing up eventually.
"You sure know how to screw things up," said Detective
Garcia.
"She told you about the tea kettle?"
He nodded. "It's very peaceful out here, isn't it? Is
that why you rented this apartment?"
"I rented this place because John Wesley Hardin used
to sleep under that tree over there when he was going
to law school," I told him.
"Is that the truth?"
"Well, maybe not that exact tree, but somewhere on
this creek and somewhere about this area, so I decided
it had to be that tree."
"How do you know all this about Hardin?"
"It's in his autobiography. I ran across some stuff
about him when I was researching my Ph.D."
"You a modern John Wesley Hardin? You relate to this
guy?"
"I doubt it. But me and Bob Dylan think he's great. He
wasn't as bad as they point out."
"How bad can you get? He was an outlaw. Fifty
notches on his gun. Went to prison."
"It was only 20 or so notches," I said. "And after he
got out of prison, he practiced law."
"Until he got shot in the back. Outlaws sometimes end
up like that."
"I'll keep your advice in mind," I said.
He sat down on the other end of the log and helped me
watch Nepi. Nepi was small even as cockerspaniels go;
he waded furiously against whatever current there was
in the creek, which wasn't much.
"I don't think I'd sit there if I were you," I told
the detective.
"You mean because someone who's trying to kill you
might hit me by mistake?"
"Nope. Because of my dog."
But the warning came too late. Nepi reach the bank of
the creek, crawled out near the end of the log and
began to shake, rattle, and roll. The rolling didn't
do anything but get him dirty. However, the shaking
threw water all over the detective.
The detective glared at the dog.
"Does he know a lot of tricks like this?"
"Not really. I've been trying to teach him how to
shake hands for two years."
Detective Garcia wiped some of the water from his face
with a huge hand.
"This hasn't been a very good day for me," Garcia
said.
"Beats hell out of getting bombed," I told him.
We went back up to the apartment. I handed him a
towel.
"Don't you believe in furniture?"
"Man doesn't need much."
"A TV, a record player, a computer. No couch, no easy
chair, no chair at all, no coffee table, no table at
all. One might assume that you don't really live
here."
"Why would anyone want to assume something like that?"
"Beats me," he said as he dried off. "But then, why
would someone want to kill someone like you?"
"I think I'm being insulted."
"I didn't mean it that way precisely."
"How did you mean it?" But I was just being polite. I
didn't really care.
His huge hand rubbed at what was quickly becoming a
late afternoon stubble on his face. He would need a
shave soon.
I wondered why Mexicans all have dark hair. Except
some of those in Mexico City, of course. But Texas
Mexicans usually have dark hair. Beards show up easy
on them. My hair was red. I wouldn't have to shave
until morning.
"Ever hear of a group called the Islamic Jihad?"
"No. I suppose this is not a local Boy Scout
organization."
"There was a message delivered to a local radio
station this afternoon on cassette. They claim
responsibility for the bombing. Didn't mention you."
"Another insult!"
He grimaced. "Funny thing is the voice on the cassette
didn't have an accent. Talked through a handkerchief
or something. We're checking it out. But it's a
cheap cassette anyone could have picked up anywhere.
And there were no fingerprints. And the kid who
delivered the cassette doesn't know anything."
"Another mark against public education."
"What I can't figure out is why terrorists now? And
why here? And why you?"
"I hope you find out."
"You ever do anything we wouldn't be able to know
about? CIA? Something like that, Smitty?"
"Nothing anyone would know about." Which was the
absolute truth.
"Why don't you live here?"
"Sleeping bag in the bedroom."
"Strange," he said.
"A man doesn't...."
"I know...a man doesn't need much. Just some basics.
You have a computer. Why did you need to use the one
at the center?"
"Memory. My computer doesn't have enough. And it's
slow."
"What do you do with the computer?"
"Play Ms. Krac-Man."
"Now why don't I believe that?"
"It's the truth," I said.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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February 26, 2007
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Oodle by Bill Pearson for "Dark
Castle," a children's novel that I've written. I "lifted" out
the oodle and dropped it into this "drawing" that I did in
Photoshop. I love Bill Pearson's work. The man is fantastic! My
son John, also a Bill Pearson fan, and I agree that Bill Pearson
doesn't know how really good he is. Frankly, he's sort of
famous, but only among some of the great illustrators of
American history, i.e., Wally Wood, etc.
Sam Hale: "You
wrote, 'And Clapton? Is there another
guitar player of his caliber in the world today now
that Chet Atkins and Andre Segovia have passed on?'
Eric was (is) a great admirer of J. J. Cale. Perhaps
you are already familiar but, if not, I want to send
you a CD, 'Road to Escondido', that was recently
released and has done quite well. No doubt, you will
enjoy the insert-story from Eric about his admiration
of J. J.'s guitar playing, writing and singing and how
he had looked forward to finally doing a record with
him. (J. J. lives in Escondido). As an aside about
J. J., when Hubert Long (Moss-Rose Publications) died,
his protege, Audie Ashworth, was able to make
arrangements with J. J. to record and publish his
songs. It was a relationship that lasted until
Audie's sudden death in 2000. I was honored to have
been named by Audie as co-executor of his estate which
his widow and I are just now FINALLY winding up. The
most lucrative sector of the estate was the songs
written by J. J. that Eric recorded. In fact, Eric
has recently restored 'Cocaine' to his live concerts,
having determined that it was, after all, an ANTI-drug
song. Audie's widow, with J. J.'s cooperation, is
now in the process of producing an historic collection
of the original masters that Audie produced with J. J.
All I need is your address and 'The Road to
Escondido' will be on its way to you.
Thanks, Sam. I'm now listening to the CD. At the
moment, "It's Easy" seems to be the best tune. Just
FYI, I seldom take music lightly, but listen to songs
over and over. And over. For example, I suppose that
I've heard "Quintanaroo" by Ronny Cox perhaps two
dozen times or more. To me, some songs are gifted
creations, much as a rare painting, a great movie or
play, or a damned good novel. You wouldn't believe
how many times I've listened to some Johnny Cash
tunes. Roy Orbison. Bob Dylan. Bill Monroe, too.
Currently going through a CD by Emmylou Harris that
one of my sons gave me. "Wrecking Ball." Looking
forward to hearing all of "The Road to Escondido."
John Hall: "Having read your Commentary this week, I
have to respectfully disagree with you about Cream.
While it was a great group, it was not the best. I
rank the Who better due to the great lyrics of Pete
Townsend and the great vocals of Roger Daltrey. Still
if you love Cream, what about Eric Clapton's other
great groups such as Blind Faith and Derek and the
Dominos. 'Layla' and 'Bell Bottom Blues' are amazing
as you can get on the latter. While on the former,
'Can't Find My Way Home' is simply brilliant with the
great Steve Winwood on vocals. If the blues/jazz
mixture is your thing, then you should give a listen
to the early Allman Brothers material when Duane
Allman was still alive. Songs like 'Whipping Post'.
Good stuff."
Timmy Manacheo: "Just finished reading your
captivating article on your Cream appreciations.
Rather well put, my boy. Have you seen the DVD of The
2006 Royal Albert Hall reunion stint they performed?
Do it, if you haven't, quite a remarkable comeback,
after decades of separation. Yes, Cream WAS the
beat-all Rock Band, for their period of existence.
Ginger's drumming was the equivalent of Jimi H's
guitar abilities, & yes, Eric's playing was grand, but
who can deny Zappa, Winter & Jimi their due? Jack
Bruce, on the other hand was & is a truly remarkable
talent. Bass lining, along with vocals to wake the
Operatic know-it-alls. All in all, one of MY top 10
best Bands of all eras.
Thanx, Claude, for another lesson in music
appreciation. Timmy, at
WWW.JJRAdio.Com."
Yeah, I guess I do get stuffy from time to time about
music. But I mean well.
Sharon Sharpe reports in from
billstewartradio@sharpecommunications.com: "Dear
Friends: Everywhere else it's just Tuesday but in New
Orleans it's Mardi Gras. Tune into WWOZ live at:
http://wwoz-wm.streamguys.com/wwoz for the sounds of
Mardi Gras being broadcast live from Frenchman Street
in the French Quarter. New Orleans, home of where
United Radio Broadcasters were on the air from Sept. 1
to Nov. 4, 2005, to provide emergency recovery and
relief information after Hurricane Katrina. It was
live, it was real, after the category 5 disaster hit.
More than a dozen stations put together the
programming and engineering resources. The broadcasts
were part of the rescue operations as people called in
with locations of where people were trapped in their
attics with rising flood waters. It was radio at its
best at a time that could not have been worse. Radio
has played a huge part in the survival and rebirth of
this city. It is a moment in contemporary radio
history that people in the industry may not be aware
of but can be proud of. As we celebrate our second
Mardi Gras since Katrina, tune in a few minutes to
enjoy the sounds of New Orleans on radio going out all
over the world. I'm sending this from a new email for
information about my dad Bill Stewart and his hey day
in Top 40 radio. I'm sharing these thoughts about the
United Broadcasters because I remember how WNOE played
a huge role in the city after Hurricane Camille when
he was program director there. He never left the
station or went off the air during that storm -- I
remember because Mom and I were home to weather it out
alone! Listening to the United Radio Broadcasts in
the months after the storm, I was keenly aware of the
sacrifices their families made while they provided
this vital service."
Just FYI, some great work has been done by radio men
in past years and also during Katrina. And then, of
course, there's Rusty Limbugger and Howard
Sternwheeler. Don't know if you people have noticed,
but State Farm seems to be advertising a lot, just as
if this might correct the current image of I have of
the company in regards to Katrina. No State Farm for
me, folks! Ever.
Paul Irey, referring to "The Brownstone Caper" that
appeared on this website a week or so ago: "I just got
around to reading your short story from last week. Is
Aaron Irey sort of fictionally related to me? He,
like myself, worked with you at a trade journal. I
also live in Manhattan and now think the other side of
the Hudson is far away and vacations are Puerto Rico,
Miami and one trip to Europe. That's me. I have a
car but keep it out of town. Haven't touched it in
over a year. I live in a first floor apartment on
38th street and love the accessibility of everything
midtown. I think of the car as my enemy now. Stops
me from walking. Today in fact I walked about 4 miles
from home to 30th St. to visit a photo studio owned by
a friend, shopped up around 45th street and went in to
Verizon's street office in their building on 46th and
6th Ave. to have my cell phone checked. But it was a
good short story. Great for attention spans like
mine. In fact it's the only kind of fiction I read
anyway."
REPORTING MATTERS
This article/review was written in the early 90s for a
course at UNLV. Regarding war reporting, I still
believe that most reporting today sucks. In my
opinion, Walter Cronkite is/was the last reporter and
feel blessed that I once dined with him at the New
York Press Club, courtesy of the late Dr. DeWitt
Reddick, one of my journalism professors at The
University of Texas. I thought reporting was a shoddy
business during Desert Storm. And then, voila!, along
came the botox babes! The real reporter seems to be
history.
War as Career Grist: The Quality
Of Lowell Thomas, a Reporter
Deep in Desert Storm, glued to the slightest glimmer
of news, I quickly became irritated at the primary
coverage provided by CNN -- a video camera directed
from high up in a hotel room, a hotel protected by
subtle ironic protocol.
Men and women with no real reportorial ability who had
the audacity to call themselves reporters, men and
women with no more guts than frightened chickens,
talked to each other, gleaning weak and
non-informative tidbits and hearsay in place of news.
The news was on the street; only Bernard Shaw ventured
out, but only as far as his satellite dish. The men
and women of the networks and the news services did
little better. A lot of our real information came
from the staff of Reuters.
They all -- CNN, CBS, NBC, and ABC -- should have
remained at home. Best let them tend the fields, not
the events of the world; best let them befoul the
carrots and the peas and the stalks of corn, not the
minds of men. For real news must always be considered
an human right and a "national" treasure.
The kind of coverage provided by reporters in Desert
Storm defame the career of reporter. The participants
in the press pool fare no better in our condemnation;
a "pool" is for schlock reporters. Four people later
ventured into Iraq as a "circus," a travesty, not as
reporters seeking news. They might as well have taken
their butlers and maids with them and rented a brass
band.
With the above as benchmark for this article, we are
now faced with the problem of precisely where to place
Lowell Thomas. Yes, the man became famous; we perhaps
know him best from his newscasts on radio or, perhaps,
as the commentator on Movietone newsreels shown in
countless movie theaters for myriad years. One August
afternoon in 1930, Bill Paley, owner of the Columbia
Broadcasting System, whisked Thomas up to a 20th-floor
studio, put him in front of a microphone, and said,
"When you hear the buzzer, start talking. Talk
fifteen minutes -- I don't care what about. Then
stop." (291) His network show -- then the only daily
news network show--was broadcast on NBC in the eastern
United States and by CBS in the west. (295)
But that -- i.e., fame or renown -- should not affect
the criteria by which he is judged as a reporter.
Yes, he occasionally did some good reporting; he was a
trained reporter, quite well educated (he even taught
at Princeton at one time). But the questions imposed
at the moment are: Was Lowell Thomas a great
reporter? Was he merely a good reporter? Or was he
just another reporter?
One has to admire him for truthfulness. In his
autobiography "Good Evening Everybody," one can give
him bad marks for punctuation (or, perhaps, his editor
can be blamed for the title of the book), but must
dole out good marks for honesty. Also for heart. And
as noted later in the autobiography, for courage. We
only question here his level of quality as a reporter.
For example, while working for the Evening Journal in
Chicago (circa 1912-14) he was sent down to the nearby
Chicago River to cover a boat accident. "The Great
Lakes excursion steamer Eastland, loaded with 2,000
eager voyagers, had capsized at her dock in the
Chicago River, throwing the crowds on dock into the
water and trapping hundreds in the suffocating depths
below.
"I was among the first to reach the scene -- men and
women, some clutching children, flailing for the
shore; and the huge hulk of the Eastland, like a
stranded whale, her starboard side turned up flat, 15
feet above water. I clambered aboard and joined those
trying to haul the living up out of portholes and the
drowned and drowning from the river. I supposed I'd
have had a real scoop if I'd rushed back to the office
with the story, but I stayed on the Eastland and
finally got back around noon, wet and dirty, my face
no doubt reflecting my emotions at having been there
when 812 souls met their deaths. Dick Finnegan looked
up and said, 'Go some place and forget it, Tommy! See
you tomorrow'." (66)
Thomas missed a scoop, the ego prize of any reporter,
in order to help save lives. He did not mention how
many lives he saved. Or if he even saved any.
Perhaps this was modesty; maybe it's the effort that
really matters. The question is: Could he have saved
some lives and still made his deadline? This, of
course, poses a moral dilemma as well as a career
question that, more than likely, cannot be answered in
the limited confines of this article.
Later, he tracked down a swindler named Carlton H.
Betts with a, perhaps, lucky break (66-68) and perhaps
that could have been called "good reporting." He was
given the name to checkout; he ran across someone who
said it wasn't Carlton Hudson he wanted, but Carlton
H. Betts.
Fiction, Not Fact
At one point, he and another reporter faked a story.
Helen Morton, a Chicago heiress, eloped with her
father's jockey. They were caught in Kentucky. She
was brought back in disgrace and "an iron curtain
clamped down on her uncle's Fox River estate." (80)
"Day after day, we sat around Wheaton, the nearest
town, playing cards or shooting craps and waiting for
lightning to strike.
"When it finally struck, Webb Miller of Hearst's
Evening American and I were the ones bathed in its
light of divine inspiration. Our stories were spread
over page one of both our papers. We told how we had
walked some miles up the Fox River by a circuitous
route, found a flat-bottom scow and, hiding in the
bottom, drifted downstream. Undetected, we managed to
sneak ashore at the Fabian estate and, since such
enterprise could not go unrewarded, we found the
pensive Helen in a hammock, happy, at last, to be able
to unburden her heavy heart." (80-81)
Unfortunately, the story was fiction. "We had simply
invented the whole thing." (81)
"...both of us, for years afterward, heard the
rumblings of the Mortons' multi-million-dollar libels
suits which, I believe, eventually outlived both our
newspapers and all the Mortons." (82)
(Next week, the birth of "Lawrence of Arabia.")
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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