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Read "Gone and Also ... A Work in Progress" | Claude Hall
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By Claude Hall Out here, when a few clouds begin to boil in the sky and the wind whips like a snake at your trousers, you'd better not stray far from shelter. Preferably, shelter below ground. The clouds came up out of the low rolling hills to the west. It's amazing how quickly a thunderhead here can erupt out of a small cloud or two, climb suddenly into the sky higher than a mountain, and then, with a twisting motion, begin tearing up a town or the countryside. I had noticed the clouds on the way back from my trip to Fairview. But the clouds had been in my rearview mirror. And I outran them after I turned east. As I entered the outskirts of the city, sun still ricocheted off the windows of the stores, popping from store to store. The clouds were forgotten. I don't know why, but I turned north on the city's main thoroughfare. Perhaps a masochistic impulse. A gasoline station up the street had cheated me on some car repairs. Now and then, I drove past the gasoline station. The owner waved at me as I passed by. It had become a ritual. When I'd protested about his work of my car two months ago, he'd laughed at me and refused to either fix the car or give me my money back. I planned to get revenge, but I hadn't figured out how to do it yet. I turned around two blocks further and came back down Main Street. The owner waved at me again and laughed, his head back. When I tried to turn onto Randolph, a policeman blocked the path of my car. There were two sawhorses painted white, one at each end of his police car. The rack on top of his car blinked. He walked over to the open window of my car. "Street's closed," he said. "The wall?" The officer nodded. "We're not taking any chances. Some people who live next to the wall are being asked to move. It's a little messy up there because of the local traffic." "Thanks," I said. I turned around and drove south on Main Street to University and took that route to the campus. Dr. I.S. Irey didn't believe me about the rape. I protested that I'd enjoyed her glass of iced tea and nothing else. "She's some girl," he said. "The story I heard is that she raped a lot of men out there." "She's sixty years old!" I said. "At the very least," he said. "She rape you?" "I'll never tell." He gestured at the papers on my desk. "You going to be able to write something?" "I think so," I said. "How long will it take?" "Day or two. Give or take a day or two." "If you could...." He didn't finish the sentence, but looked at me with a hangdog expression. "I will, preacher," I said. "I really came in here to ask you about the tornado out there," he said. "Didn't see one," I said. I continued reading the diary left by Sen. Rainey Caldwell. It was fairly interesting. When he'd moved to the state as a kid with his mother and father in a covered wagon, there had been wolves out in the area of Fairview. And trees. At least enough trees to construct a roof for their sod house. Irey gestured toward my window. "One's out there," he said. I quickly turned my chair from my desk to look out toward the window. The sky was now cloudy. But it was not raining. I grunted and turned back to my desk and the diary. "Sure," I said, but in a sarcastic tone. The senator and his brother had started a bank in Fairview. Euwell Caldwell had included a small snapshot of the frame structure. The building had been not much larger than an outhouse. One room. Unpainted wood. A simple wooden sign at the top that read "BANK." "One should never sneer at a tornado," Irey warned. He stood by the window, looking out. "A tornado has been reported on the ground between here and Fairview. It's moving this direction at a speed of 45 miles an hour." I took another glance out the window. "Not even raining," I pointed out. "See those trees toss out there by the music building? Probably rain soon. Take my word on it. And when the rain comes in sudden gusts...." "Okay," I said. "I get the point." Tornadoes were a major topic of conversation this time of the year and included even in casual conversation the rest of the year. This part of the world was called tornado alley. The region extended into Kansas and down into Texas a good distance, but the heart of tornado alley was probably within a few feet of where I was sitting. Or closer. An Oklahoma City weatherman with a half-hour film and some sound effects had once filled up the auditorium on campus for a presentation about tornadoes. I wasn't really that brave. I'd wait for the siren. Sirens were posted about the town. One usually sounded during any hard rain. Supposedly, that meant a tornado had been sighted. One night a roof was ripped off a house in town. No siren had gone off that night. But everyone knew that L. Frank Braum made a mistake. He should have put Dorothy in Oklahoma, not Kansas. Irey left after a couple of minutes without saying anything else. Doris Jean Dawkins came in shortly afterwards, also without saying a word, and poured some coffee into my cup. I wondered how she did that; how she knew that I wanted some coffee. I almost failed to notice her. My attention was absorbed in the diary. It appears as if the late senator's brother, Toby, may have invented the baseball glove, according to the senator's diary. Strange. I'd have to check that out some way. Could it be proved? I must have said something under my breath as she was going out the door. She stopped and looked at me with a question in her eyes. "Nothing," I said. "Just thinking aloud, I guess." "Watch that cussing, Billy Joe," she said. "Did I say something bad?" "That you did." "I apologize," I said. "Preacher Irey tells me you were a big hit out in Fairview." "I don't know about that," I said. "Said you had a new girlfriend." "Nonsense," I said. She disappeared with her proverbial coffee pot and I continued reading for maybe an hour. Those were the days when trains were more important in Oklahoma – and the rest of the United States – than they are now. The roads were all dirt and usually in pour condition. A hard rain could wipe out a road for days. Even though the train took you north and another east and a third train south to the capitol of the state, it was a lot faster to take the train instead of a horse and buggy or one of the "new-fangled automobiles." The senator's diary was fascinating. It was written in a clear, tongue-in-cheek tone and the senator discussed everything from a depression back in those days to golf. I hoped he would mention something about the outlaw King Fisher, the namesake of Kingfisher, Oklahoma. But he didn't. Will Rogers wasn't mentioned either. But, of course, Rogers would have come along later. The senator was early Oklahoma. Before it was Oklahoma, in fact. For a few moments, I stared out the window, letting my thoughts tumble over each other. I saw Buzzy heading around the side of the student union toward the gym and almost persuaded myself that the article on Senator Caldwell could wait a day or two. A man had to have exercise. But, of course, the article couldn’t wait. An article on the senator was long overdue. And, oddly enough, I felt like writing. In a way, non-fiction was procrastination. I was, in effect, avoiding the writing of fiction. But sometimes it doesn't make any difference whether you are writing fiction or fact. Neils Mortensen, beloved self-claimed hack writer, always said that he wrote fact like fiction and fiction like fact. It wasn’t that way with me, but sometimes I could get a kick out of writing non-fiction. Writing, regardless, seldom comes easy. A lot of people think they're writers–and some are. Many more think they can write–and some can. But good writing is hard work and very few people ever write anything and fewer still write anything worth reading. Ironically, writing is fun! First, there is an euphoric feeling just after you finish a piece of writing. This feeling is deceptive; seldom is the item that you've just finished as good as you believe it is. But the moment you lay the ballpoint pen down or peck "- 30 -" on your computer or typewriter, you feel as if you've just written America's most phenomenal work of art. I don't know why this is so, but the feeling is great and it lasts a while and most of the time you get it. Rarely is the feeling not there and many real writers would write for no other reason. Second, there is always the expectation that you're going to make money out of the article or short story, play, TV script, book, or whatever it is that you have written. The first time you sell a short story or article is equivalent to the thrill Lindbergh must have experienced when he finally made it across the Atlantic Ocean solo in The Spirit of St. Louis or when Kathy Sullivan became the first woman ever to walk in space. Third, you've accomplished something definitive. Maybe you haven't carved a time-enduring statue of the goddess Diana, but what you've written has substance and may lead to lasting fame. Few currently remember, if anyone knows at all, who chiseled that statue in the harbor off Manhattan Island, while millions today still know who wrote "The Raven" or even "I, the Jury." You believe strongly that the opportunity of becoming immortal through writing is there with every article, story, poem, or book you write. The other day, "Tea House of the August Moon" was shown once again on television. “Tea House of the August Moon” was first a novel, then a Broadway play, then a movie starring Marlon Brando and Glen Ford. Vern Snider never had to write another word; he was rich and famous. I wondered, for a moment, what had become of Snider. James Clavell, who wrote one of my favorite books, “Shogun,” died in Europe. Cancer. Hemingway, years before, finally went hunting in his bedroom and found the unique game he’d been chasing all of his life. Snider? Sadly, not all writers end well. However, years ago I'd realized that I wanted to be a writer. The only two art forms in which it's easier to score success today is acting or rock'n'roll. You don’t even have to act to be an actor. And forget being able to sing if you’re going to be a rock star. Mick Jagger is a good example. But singers known by a single name – except maybe for Elvis or Sinatra – are rare compared to writers such as Steinbeck, Twain, Kafka, Michener, Kipling, Wolfe, Chekov, Flaubert, Faulkner, Wallace, Dostoevski, Durrell, Dickens, Poe, Hammett, Spillane, O'Henry, Thurber, and on and on. Of course, nothing is really easy and even moderate success at writing takes a certain level of work, commitment, and skill. Under the assumption that I had everything needed, at least at the moment, I started writing about Senator Caldwell. The story flowed pretty good and everything, anecdotes and information, seemed to fall into place of their own accord. Doris Jean Dawkins poked her head in the door at some point. “We’re going downstairs,” she said. “Okay,” I said. But I don't suppose I actually paid much attention to her. The senator’s battle to get the road through Fairview declared a national road had been ferocious. Unfortunately, the route finally selected was almost a direct route south from Wichita, Kansas, through Oklahoma City and down to a split where you had to decide on either Dallas or Fort Worth. The senator’s bid was tossed aside. But he’d fought to also convince the townspeople of the need for electricity and thus Fairview was one of the first cities in this part of the world to have electric streetlights. What was really fascinating, though, was his preaching. During two or three years of his life, he’d traveled around the territory and parts of what is now Arkansas preaching in a tent. Hellfire and brimstone plus! One of his sermons was included in the materials provided by his daughter. I lifted some of the sentences. In one sermon, he guaranteed everyone in the tent that hell was only a state of mind. “It’s not some place below the earth like the Greeks gods and the ancients believed, just as God is not somewhere above among the stars. God is right here on earth and you’d better believe me, sinners, hell is at your elbow and the Devil is tugging right this very second at your shirt sleeve!” Hemp Geslin interrupted my writing. He didn’t just poke his head in the door, he came in and placed a hand on my typewriter so that I couldn't type. “You forget anything lately?” he asked. I looked up. I had to think about the question for a moment. “Nothing of which I’m aware,” I said. “Good English, but lousy context,” he said. “Didn’t you hear the siren?” I suddenly remembered: There had been a tornado alert. “No. I guess not,” I said. “One just came down a couple of minutes ago over on the other side of Randolph a few blocks to the west. Wiped out a house or two." I didn't have to ask what he meant by "one." He had definitely obtained my attention. I leaped to my feet and quickly glanced over my desk to see what I should take with me. “Anyone hurt?” “Not that we know of,” he answered. “I didn’t see it, of course. But Montague was looking out of his window at the time, watching the wall, and he said it slammed into the west side of the wall and evaporated.” “Evaporated?” “Disintegrated, disappeared...whatever term you want to use.” I jerked the page on which I’d been writing out of the typewriter and dropped it and the other typed pages into the cardboard box on my desk. “God!” I said. My voice sounded hoarse as if I had a bad cold. Geslin's hand fell on my shoulder. “Slow down. No need to hurry now," he said. "The action’s probably over. Sometimes these clouds will spawn more than one funnel. But not often.” I sat back down in my office chair. “So I missed everything.” “Lucky devil. I had to stand and talk for Dr. Wiggins in the doorway for more than an hour. We didn't see anything. That’s not my idea of excitement. That's what you probably missed.” I grinned. “You were standing in the doorway? Watching for a tornado?” “Somebody had to.” “Rain on that,” I said. “What would you have done if you'd spotted one?” “Ran down to the basement,” he said. “So why not just wait in the basement. If you come back up later and the world is still there, there was no tornado or it missed. If you come back upstairs later and there’s no upstairs, you just had a bit of bad luck.” “I would have missed you, Billy Joe.” “Thanks,” I said. "Actually, I didn't drop by just now to chat about the tornado. Figured it was too late to warn you anyway. Been wanting to talk to you about something else. You got a couple of minutes?" "Not now, Hemp." I plugged a sheet of paper into the typewriter. "I've got to finish this article for preacher Irey." "I'll catch you later then." "Fine." It took a few minutes to get back into the flow of words, but I worked on the article long after dark. A couple of people came by the office door and said something, I don't know what, and things became quiet and the entire evening fell away on me. When I typed "- 30 -" at the bottom of the article and leaned back in my chair, I was surprised to discover that my back hurt and that it was dark outside the window of my office. There was only the dim glow of a night light coming through my office door from the outer office. I stood up and stretched. Then bent down and collected the several sheets of typed paper and shuffled them into a neat stack. Was the article as good as I thought? Probably not. But it was at the very least professional. I was positive about that. And it was the first real writing I'd done in several months. After a while, I got up, took the article and placed it in a manila folder and placed the folder in the middle drawer of my desk. I searched in the filing cabinet, scrounging among the files, then remembered that I didn't have a bottle hidden away anywhere at the moment. But there might be a couple of bottles of beer left in the icebox at the apartment. I cut off the light and locked my office door. The outer office seemed eerie in the dim glow of the security lamp on the far wall. I don't think I'd seen the office empty like this before. I walked quickly to the far end of the room and out the front door. I made sure the door locked behind me. Hemp Geslin was leaning against the fender of my car. "Got the article done?" "Yes," I said. "Finally. It was a rather long article. I didn't count the pages. About sixteen or so." "Well, that's just great. Hey, I was going to a meeting. You feel like going with me?" "Not tonight, Hemp. Tired. Big day tomorrow." "Seems like you used that excuse the other day." "Hemp, I...." "I know. I know. You don't have a problem." "I don't drink that much." "Used to say the same thing myself," he said. "Look, Hemp. I honestly and most sincerely sympathize with your problem. But I feel a little embarrassed about this...I mean, you trying to make your problem my problem." "Okay. Okay. You're absolutely right and I have no right to make that kind of assumption." "Good. I'm glad you understand that." I smiled to reduce the blow. "Finally." He grinned sheepishly. "Pushy, huh?" "Damned pushy." "Okay. I apologize." "Look. How about going to a meeting with me anyway. They only last an hour. I could use the company. And I guarantee you that you don't have to do anything. Not even open your mouth. We could take my car. I'll bring you back here." "I wasn't lying about being tired, Hemp. Maybe some other night." "I know. I know. And I wasn't lying about needing company." And I needed to get Hemp Geslin, for once and for all, off my back. "Look, Hemp. A guy who does public relations, well, he has to maintain a certain public image. If someone saw me going to one of those meetings...." "I used to worry about the same thing," Geslin said. "Then it finally dawned on me that more than likely no one gave a damned. In fact, there might have been a lot of people around me who appreciated the fact that I was going, finally, to AA meetings." "I...I just can't take the chance, Hemp." "Sure you can! One of the major concepts of Alcoholics Anonymous is the concept of anonymity. We only use first names. At the worse, something like Hemp Gee." "That's anonymous, all right. I'll bet there aren't more than two other Hemp Gees in all of Tibet." He laughed, shrugged his shoulders. "I could care less. I don't spread the information around here much, but I'm pretty proud of the fact that I'm an alcoholic, Billy Joe. Considering the alternatives. Man, I almost killed myself two or three times." That shocked me. Not everyone admits to trying to commit suicide. "What goes on at these meetings?" "Somebody talks, Billy Joe. Several other people in the audience make personal comments. Ends with 'The Lord's Prayer'. No fights. No preaching. Guarantee you." "I could take the fights better than I could take the preaching," I said. "Thought as much," he said. "What about it?" I glanced at my wristwatch. It was almost 7:30 p.m. Any tryst with Norma Sue was probably an impossibility anyway. If I'd tossed my pride in the trash can and begged. When she'd said Thursday, she probably meant Thursday. Tomorrow. "What the hell," I said after a moment. (continued next week) e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com |
Commentary I suppose that one of the real reasons why I get/got along at least fairly well with so many people in radio is that a great many of them were highly skilled and knowledgeable, but gut oriented. Disc jockeys, in the days when they could select their own music, often played what they liked, what they wanted to hear themselves, what they thought might become a hit; this was a driving force with Howard Miller, Jack the Bellboy, and Bill Randle. With the assumption, of course, that their opinion on music reflected the tastes of their listeners. Most of the time, I believe it did. The reason is the Jack Gale and Bill Bailey and their comrades of the turntable knew the artists. In many cases, they knew them personally. I think Sonny James at one time knew everyone who spun a country record. And program directors many times made decisions based on instinct not only when they hired radio personalities, but made decisions regarding music (when that era came to be). Focus groups? Hokus Polkus groups! I never really valued a man in radio who didn’t often make many decisions on gut instinct. Literally, I made a gut decision on such people. Here’s my latest gut instinct: The economy is on the verge, a positive one, of turning around and getting not only better, but much better. Every day, something happens here to indicate that this is so. For example, an increasing number of tourist helicopter jaunts to the dam. And the air around me is more alive with energy. People excited. Life on the go. Business, too, appears to be picking up in Las Vegas in general. And ideas and ideals seem to be improving. There are more positive vibes out there than negative. I don’t see any great spirit in radio or in television. Much floundering there! To a great extent, technology is changing the media delivery system. Gone, gone is Jimmy Brown the newsboy of whom Bill Monroe sang. And going along with Jimmy, perhaps, is the newspaper as we knew it. Newspapers, like television news programs, lost their focus. News? Seldom. In fact, newspapers became magazines and television news became hogwash. Entertainment, more than the funnel of information. This may be one of the reasons for the downfall of the music industry. It parallels politics to some extent. I think the great downfall began when people fell into a “me first” mentality. A friend of mine has a somewhat different view. Rob Moorhead gets irritated when I feature something in Commentary that he has written; he’d rather remain an obscure and virtually unknown guru. However, “As for politics, well, I try not to wear mine on my sleeve. So many polarizing voices have gained pulpits from which to incite the populace into emotional and visceral panic over all matters political -- matters which are instead best addressed through sober discourse and reasoned deliberation -- that there has grown an almost blind intolerance towards centrist compromise or pragmatism in achieving legislative goals. What a country! Yes, these are difficult times, and for many they are times of crisis. Certain phenomena invariably take root in desperate times. Now, like in the 1930s, people will entertain a certain brand of crackpot populism. There are lots of Huey Longs loose in the world today. Lots of Father Coughlins, too, of every ideological bent. The common theme they all share is divisiveness: pointing fingers; placing blame; stirring fear; cultivating xenophobia; promising the undeliverable. It's a mindset that builds fences and walls in society, not doors and bridges. Sadly, we give voice to these obstructionists who paint with broad brushes and colorful faux-patriotic vitriol. This political arc gives little purchase for those working towards difficult solutions, towards a common good. Americans' frustration is understandable and justified. But I take comfort that this hysteria is, in fact, just an arc. History tells us it's a cycle, and like all cycles, it will eventually run it's course. Time is the ally here. Strong ideas will survive, while the pervasive jingoistic nonsense all around us will succumb under its own weight. But in the meantime, much damage is done. So sad.” Later, Rob Moorhead commented: “Are you following this iPad introduction in SF? I have been waiting for this device for years! So far it is everything I hoped for. In addition to all the cool things, this device is going to save print media. Finally, a new revenue paradigm that will work: inexpensive online subscription for a device that makes reading the paper, well, like reading the paper. I expect newspapers to soon generate more revenue from online subscription fees than from advertising. As you know, the old newspaper business model was built upon subscriptions paying the bills and operating costs, and advertising was the profit engine. No more. Both will go straight to the bottom line. The cacophonous thuds you are hearing are Kindles landing in dumpsters all over the world. Poor Bezos. Here's a good live RSS feed: http://i.engadget.com/2010/01/27/live-from-the-apple-tablet-latest-creation-event/?sort=newest&refresh=0 You may get an error message when logging on or during refreshes saying the site is unavailable. Keep trying -- the servers are just overloaded.” Rob Moorhead and his genre are a newer generation. They can accept technology, not blink, move on. Me, I listen to Bill Monroe’s “Jimmy Brown the Newsboy” on my laptop and even sort of miss my old-fashioned record player that gathers dust in the living room. It’s not even hooked up. Hey, it’s quad. I’ll bet there are many of those animals around anymore. Doesn’t matter, I suppose. I have a copy of Elvis Presley in quad. That Hawaiian LP. It, too, gathers dust. But then I guess you could say that I, too, gather dust. OTHER MATTERS They are writing books now about music and radio and whatever that went on in the 60s and early 70s. Just as if we were interesting people, maybe even fascinating, and what we did was absolutely glorious. And it’s hard to tell them the truth. Most of the time, they don’t listen. They don’t even want to know the truth. History is like that. That’s why it ends up half fiction. But I suppose it’s okay. Who, for god’s sake, really wants to know the truth? Ron Jacobs says he has been interviewed recently by Kent Harman for a book about the Los Angeles music scene, circa 60s, to be published in the spring by St. Martin. Good. Ron knows a lot of that stuff and he will tell the truth. Otherwise, the people who knew what was really going on are mostly dead. I responded to an email for information this past week. A book, I guess. I told Barbara, my beautiful bride, that I was the only one left who knew that particular bit of information. All of the rest – George Duncan, Scott Muni, Murray the K, Bill Drake, Bill Mercer, L. David Moorhead, Felix Pappalardi, Bud Prager – are dead. And I’m not sure that I can remember everything that went on. We didn’t take notes. We lived it! And, hell, it was more than 40 years ago! What’s even more ironic is that the writer of this particular book tracked me down by accident. Otherwise….
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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