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.