The Beast from Ken Neville's Fingers

Today, they would be called geeks and it would be a badge of honor. Back then, nobody called them anything. Without thinking why, I fell in with them: John Hollis, Ken Neville, Jimmy Jeter, Bunny Michel and Joe Greer - a little club.

I felt a kind of connection with them. They liked to read science fiction and Mad magazine, and so did I. But then, they liked to build and fly model airplanes, and I didn't.

John Hollis was the smartest. Nobody realized this until he was announced a Merit Scholarship Semi-Finalist, our senior year. His father was probably an engineer. That's what everybody said. John was always propounding theories and laughing about them. I first heard about Galaxy Science Fiction from him; and "Childhood's End" by Arthur C. Clarke.

All those guys were smart. They read advanced science and math without being made to. One afternoon, while I was on my paper route, going down Belmont Boulevard, I ran into Jeter, with this wild grin on his face, like he had a great secret in him. He said, "Did you ever wonder why nothing can go faster than the speed of light?" I said, yeah. He said, "Me, too, man," and walked on down the street.

What can I say about Bunny Michel? He was Woody Allen before Woody Allen was. And Joe Greer's pastime of an afternoon was catching flies with his hands.

But Neville was the guy. I used to sit in study hall with him. With his fingers on one hand, he would make a monster - a tentacled beast from 20,000 fathoms - which would lie in wait just beneath the table top. Then, with two fingers of his other hand, he would portray an unsuspecting person, finger-walking right past the spot where the monster lurked. At the last minute, the thing would spring suddenly out and engulf the finger person. Neville worked his digits masterfully to show the beast in the act of devouring his victim. And then it crawled back under the table again to wait.

He did this every day, with the same silly grin when the thing sprang out. And, every day, it was funny.

Two people I would like to see

Caleb Wallwork
Robert Norfleet

Alex Wade

Stokes Days

All my memories of grade school are out on the playground. We spent a lot more time sitting in class, but I don't have a single memory of something happening in a classroom. We might have said our names, out loud, in turn, but we didn't meet anybody. On the playground, we met people.

The playground was a big, open field behind the school, and it was there that I watched Penny Bryan ride pretend horses, up to the far corner and back. I encountered Harold Leffler, upperclassman, on the playground. I don't remember when I met Alex, but I'm sure it was on the playground.

I started out knowing him as Carson Wade. Much later, I learned that his name was Alex Corson Wade IV, but he didn't make a whole lot out of it.

I remember spending an afternoon at his house, something I didn't do often, back then. I remember the French tapestry on the wall, and little rooms off little rooms. It was dark and raining, and I had to catch the bus at the corner to go home. This memory is so dark and vague, I may have dreamed it.

The Chess Set

Everything Alex did or said was heightened. He would get to the punchline, watching, eager-eyed, for my reaction and only when he saw it, would he laugh. Not at the joke, but at me, at the moment of my epiphany.

Once he showed me a bit of business that he had learned at a theater production he was in. I didn't get it, but he laughed anyway.

Alex had a little chess set that zipped into a brown leather case and fit in his coat pocket. The chessboard was a small square of tiny in-laid wooden tiles and the chessmen were simple wood-carved figures with little dowels that fit into holes in the tiles. He said he had gotten it in Europe, where everybody plays chess on trains.

I was fascinated. I thought it had to be the only thing of its kind, anywhere. His skill seemed immense - I got him to teach me the game. He beat me every day for six months, but I didn't care.

End Game

He went his way and I went mine. At the first Hillsboro reunion, we reuned. We went to Alex's house - Betty and I, Alex's wife, and Johnny Wilson and his wife. We sat out on a screened-in porch that was dark except for moonlight and we talked.

At one point, Alex said, "Do you ever think about where you might like to be buried?"

Years later, I heard that Johnny would go over to Alex's house and read to him.

Afterlife

Every now and then, I think about that chess set; and Alex's fingers, when he picked up the chessmen and moved them from one slot to another. I think about his fingers. A kind of Combray moment.

Who's on First?

I started another blog before this one. I thought that I would write little vignettes of general interest. I tried my hand at it. Larry Copeland put it best when he said, "Who wrote this stupid stuff?"

Larry, who now goes by the name, Larry, came to our house last week for a visit; for the first time in forty years. I said, "How've you been?" He said, "How long've you got?" Just like old times.

Betty thought it was confusing, having two people called Larry; so we decided, since Larry is taller than I am, that he would be called "Big Larry" and I would be called "Little Larry."

Familiar Quotations

Over the years, Betty and I have accumulated a wealth of sayings, by ourselves and other people, that have become famous only to us. Every enduring couple must have them - the shared stuff that binds each to each. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Back during our Hillsboro days, we used to go to the Krystal drive-in on West End by the Parthenon. On Friday nights, the place was always packed and you were lucky if you could find a free space. Once, when we were there, we noticed a car full of good old boys, riding around and around, looking for a space. On about their fifth time around, one of the guys leaned half way out the car window and yelled, "WHY DOESN'T SOMEBODY LEAVE?"

For some reason, that tickled us, and we laughed about it all the way home; and we have laughed about it ever since.

Richard Cotten

Richard Cotten and I grew up in the same neighborhood and shared that bond that exists between people who go to grade school together. More than that, we were both chased by Bobby McGriff down the same alley behind Richard's house. After school. Every day. Bobby McGriff was a Shepherdian bully - the name alone puts him in the same league with Scut Farkas.

But Richard and I were like every other kid we knew - we had no concept, then, of what we might do with our lives. Or even later: I remember going to Career Day at Hillsboro and listening to a physician say that it took him twelve years to become a doctor. That one statement saved me from medical school. Richard, one day, came to school with a guitar. After that, I never saw him without it. He practiced playing it during class. I don't know how he got away with that, but that's all he wanted to do.

He went to Vanderbilt, anyway, and took a degree in physics, but had no use for it. He just wanted to play in his band. Bob Dylan once said about himself that he was just a song-and-dance man. Richard would have thought that a very high calling.

Randomly Accessed Memory

Peggy Sue Lauderdale got a prize that night - for being the most, the longest, the farthest, I don't remember. I don't remember what the prize was, either, but she came down front and I presented it to her. She whispered to me, "You've got people on the floor, back there. They're in pain." I took the microphone and said, "Is Doctor John in the house?" Nobody laughed. Except Peggy.

Her name didn't go with her face, but we didn't know that back then. We thought it did. Aristocratic, to the family born, but without pretension. I always wondered what it must have been like to go through high school with your name in a popular song. I mean, "Oh, Lauderdale" was just about my favorite record, back then.

Real Life

Betty is First Reader on this site. She is a good editor and critic, and I'm interested in her opinions; but I can always tell when she didn't particularly like something and I'm about to get a bad review.

She said, "You didn't tell about the time you and I went to that same mansion and saw Alan and Carla, together, when she was just his girlfriend." Actually, I had forgotten about that. Which, I think, was her point. "And", she further said, "you didn't mention his other son or his second wife."

I did remember them, but they didn't fit into the story I was telling. I think that's called Artistic Neglect. Anyway, I promised to write something else and work them in. This is it.

What they do with their lives

Somebody - I don't remember who it was - told me that Holmes Squires became a race car driver. I have tried to conjure that, and I can't. I remember Holmes Squires as this little guy, with a blond flattop, who never said much. He reminded me of a rabbit - a nice one, the kind you would like to have. I liked Holmes, but we probably never said a hundred words to each other, all the way from first grade to Hillsboro. If I could, I'd like to ask him two questions: how did you get that great name, "Holmes Squires," and how, in the pluperfect hell, did you get to be a race car driver?

Alan Cohen

Once, at Hillsboro, Alan and I were both summoned to the office at the same time, where we met with two of the women teachers for what, I remember, was a strange conversation. One of the teachers asked us, "Do you believe in God?" Alan said, "Of course"; I said I wasn't sure. 

Later, I remember us, sitting out in a parapet-enclosed walkway on the second floor of a building on Vanderbilt campus, talking about philosophy and religion. It seemed important to us, in those days, to figure everything out. Alan told me, then, about his plan to take a tour around the world, after graduation. He wanted to go to the UAR, too, but a baptismal certificate was required to get in. I said, "You could become a Christian." We laughed. A couple of weeks later, Alan called me, clearly excited. "I got baptized!" he said. "I'm a Methodist!" I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I blamed myself. 

After school, I didn't see, or hear from, Alan for years. The next time, in the late sixties, we were both living in St. Louis, but neither of us knew the other was there. I don't remember who found out first, but I remember well the afternoon we spent in a Midtown mansion, where Alan was working as a houseboy, while going to medical school. How he came up with these deals, I'll never know. He showed me around the house, pointing out the original Picassos on the walls. We were the only ones there at the time. In the kitchen, we caught up the years, while Alan made himself a sandwich. Then, he grabbed a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet and took me up to a loft on the third floor, where he lived. We sipped the bourbon and talked about everything. Alan had been a programmer for IBM, a yogi in India, had graduated with a divinity degree from the Harvard Theological Seminary, and was then in his third year of medical school. I, on the other hand, had a government job. 

After we covered our curriculum vitae and the bourbon began to take effect, we got around to gossip. Alan asked me if I knew Cam Talley. I revealed that Cam Talley and I had been in first grade together. I asked him how he knew Cam; he said that he didn't know her at all, but somebody had told him that she was a cafe singer in Boston. I made a mental note of that. 

At one point, I reminded Alan of the time at Vanderbilt when we had the talk that led him to become a Christian. He gave me a funny look and then laughed and said, "Was that you?"

Looking back, it was a magical time. Sitting cross-legged on a stool, with just a pair of khaki bermudas on, Alan was easy to picture as a yogi. We talked on, through the afternoon, until the room began to get dark. 

It would be another ten years before we would get together again. Alan became a psychiatrist, married a pediatrician, and had a son, Graham. They all lived in Harvard, Massachusetts, in a really smart-looking house that looked out on a wildlife refuge. I visited them there, during the early eighties. Alan was gone when I arrived on a Friday evening, but his wife, Carla, graciously took me in, fed me and kept me entertained with conversation. After Graham went to bed, we talked into the night, mostly about Alan. The next morning, when I got up, Alan was there, and wife and son were out doing Saturday things. Alan also had things to do, and he didn't let my visit keep him from them. I remember him, keeping up a running conversation from the top of a very tall tree in his yard, which he had scaled with some hooks attached to his shoes, while hefting a chainsaw. I stood by, below, offering encouragement. Later, we took a walking tour of the neighborhood. A beautiful afternoon in fall, it was - a New England fantasy, yellow and orange leaves everywhere and white fences. As we walked, Alan told me the histories of all the houses; some were more than 200 years old, from Revolutionary times. 

Just as I began to wonder who might still be living in them, Alan bounded up the steps to one and knocked on the door. A rotund little man, wearing a red blazer and tie, looked out and, when he saw Alan, he laughed and welcomed him with open arms, calling him by name. We were invited in. The man's wife came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Alan introduced me to them as his friend. They appeared to be in their seventies, but both were lively and quick. Alan told them that I was interested in finding out about their house, so I got the complete tour, including an explanation for why every room had its own fireplace (cold winters, no central heating!). When we had visited all the rooms on all three floors, the man said that he had saved the best for last and went over to what appeared to be the door of a small closet. The door proved to be Dutch in its construction and he opened the top half to reveal a well-stocked bar. This was not just a bar, he allowed, taking his place inside, but a refuge and inner sanctum, in which he was absolute king. "The rest of the neighborhood can go to blazes," he said, "but I will defend the hallowed ground below this spot to the death!" And then he poured a round of Scotch. As we sipped, the man's wife came out from the kitchen with a plate of cranberry bread. I remember thinking, when will there be an afternoon like this, again?

Shape-Shifting Son-of-a-Gun

Now and then, I like to reflect on the fact that Bob Dylan is still alive. And that so little is known about him, since he made up everything about his early days. All that stuff about growing up in Minnesota, for example, was bunk. In fact, Bob Dylan grew up in Nashville and went to Hillsboro his sophomore year. But nobody realized it because he was going by his real name, Edward Lyman.

Afterlog

"Did you ever see him?"

"Sure, lots of times."

"Where would you have been when you saw him?"

"He was in Plane Geometry with me - Mr. Burnette's class."

"You mean he was actually in the school?"

"I sat right behind him. I had to look at the back of that hair."

Afternoon of a Fonz

Afternoons, when it got hot, some of the teachers would open the windows a bit to let a little breeze in; and, along with the breeze, came sounds from the out-of-doors that could be distracting to young minds trying to learn.

One sound, in particular, could be heard almost any afternoon, with such regularity that it was anticipated by many, but with such irregularity that no one could be sure if it would ever come again.

It started out low, like a distant thunder. Some in senior math said that it happened more often after rain. Of course, others said that it never happened after rain. What was denied by no one is that it started out low and then slowly grew.

When it was twice as loud as it used to be, but still too faint for adults to hear, the freshmen, in Latin I, began looking out the windows, foolishly thinking it was imminent. The juniors, on the second floor at the end, in contrast, kept their eyes forward, noting the sound; mentally estimating the distance; secure in the knowledge that there would be plenty of time, later, to look, when all semblance of decorum had broken down and chaos reigned.

Eventually, the sound became so loud that it could not be denied, but still before any visible sign of its source could be seen. It was a sound so nether as to be sublime in its ability to disturb the peace. The freshmen were visibly thrilled; but they thrilled easily. The juniors were not moved. Yet.

Then, just as the sound seemed to reach a level beyond which it could not possibly go, the center of gravity of the whole school shifted toward Hillsboro Road, caused by a rush to the windows on all floors. All eyes were focused then as around the corner a big, black motorcycle came into view, very slowly, going not more than three miles an hour, the rider seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of losing sufficient speed to stay upright.

The freshmen buzzed, restlessly. "Is it him? Is it him?" they asked each other, repeatedly. But it wasn't him. It was the one known as Boatman. Black machine, black boots, black jacket, black hair, black gloves, black shades, black everything. White skin. Although he had seldom been in it, Boatman was well known in the school; and yet, a man of mystery: no one had ever heard him speak. But he wasn't him. He was the herald of him.

When he arrived at a point, precisely two-thirds of the way around the circle, Boatman pulled up and extended his boot to the ground, feathering his motor to a low rumble. Keeping his head facing straight over the handlebars, he did not acknowledge the school. At the windows, just as everyone was craning for a look, an awareness began to spread that another sound was coming on from a distance.

The freshmen, without regard to gender, began to shriek. The juniors, though still manifesting all outward signs of control, began to thrill, inwardly. Soon, another cycle slowly wheeled into view; but it wasn't him either. It was the one, known only by his given name: Harlow Davidson. Slim, wiry, short sleeve shirt rolled up over his deltoids, Harlow Davidson was a combination Phil Everly and Gene Vincent, rolled into one; but you didn't say that to his face. He moved to a point, precisely one-third of the way around the circle, and put his boot down. Another herald.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the idling of the two motors, which, strangely, came to seem like a terrible silence that threatened to throw the whole situation out of equilibrium; but, just when it became intolerable, another low rumble was heard, far off. It took, or seemed to take, twice as long to build. The freshmen were climbing all over themselves, tearing at each other's clothes. Their teacher, whose name and gender have been lost to history, courageously waded into the mob, trying to save as many as possible; although some said that he or she was just trying to get a better place at the window.

After what seemed like a month of study halls, the final cycle appeared. It was him! His machine was big and unfancy. Mud streaked its outer surfaces, the way mud will at 120 miles an hour. He pulled up to the exact midpoint of the circle, gunning his motor once before settling back, which caused some of the older teachers, irrationally, to think of Mrs. Buffwharfington's limousine. But the juniors, without such allusions, were now sobbing uncontrollably.

It was Vance Bulla.

A name Hollywood, in fifty years, had been unable to come up with. Sandy-haired, permanently wind swept, no jacket, no shades, Vance Bulla swung one leg over the tank, lit a smoke, and sat side saddle for a few minutes in repose, oblivious to the sounds of breaking window glass behind him. Then inexplicably as he had come, he swung back into position and slowly rolled his machine out onto Hillsboro Road, preceded by Boatman and followed by Harlow Davidson. Years later, it was still being hotly debated, whether he left before the second floor fire alarm was pulled, or after.

.

I ain't gonna work on Koen's farm, no more

I'm sitting here, wondering if there is going to be another reunion next year. And hating myself for it. Of course, we'll go, but this time it's going to be different: no performing. No jokes. Let's face it, nothing is that funny anymore. Have you noticed? We were lucky that we could have a laugh all those years ago. That night, I thought I was so great I went home and wrote out everything I'd said. Verbatim. I got it out last week and read it. It was godawful. I'm not performing. No way. Tell them I'm mailing it in this year. This is it. This blog.