Watching Walter Cronkite

(The following is an excerpt from Soul Deep, a novel I recently completed. The year is 1968, the narrator is a 12-year-old boy named Malcolm, Amanda is his older sister, the war in question here is, of course, Vietnam.)

Mama liked to watch the news…Walter Cronkite…every evening when she got home. Even before Daddy left (he didn’t have much use for the news most days…Amanda didn’t either), I would watch with her…usually sitting on the floor near to where she was sitting… and ask her questions about what was going on.

“Do you think the War will still be going on when I’m old enough to be drafted?” I asked her one day while images from Vietnam were on the screen.

Mama took a drag on her cigarette and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she said emphatically, “you won’t be going either way.”

I frowned at that. If our country was at war, why wouldn’t I be going? To be sure, the thought frightened me…I had no idea if I could actually kill someone…but it still seemed like something I would have to do no matter how much it scared me. “Why not?” I asked

Mama shrugged. “That shit over there ain’t nothin’ that anybody’s children should be dyin’ for,” she said. “It’s ain’t like the war when I was a girl.”

Mama would sometimes tell me stories about living during World War 2…about food being sometimes hard to find in the stores…about willingly surrendering her precious comic books to the paper drives…about how hard her mother worked in the kitchens of white women while her father was lucky to have been able to keep his job as a postman…about listening to the President talk on the radio reassuring the country and making them all feel they were sacrificing for a grand cause.

That was, she always said, was one worth fighting for…worth dying for if need be. We were attacked…we fought back…that’s what we were supposed to do. Even if the country didn’t really think of you as being a full citizen, it was still what you were supposed to do.

Mama had no such feelings for the Vietnam War. She didn’t believe that “our boys” should be dying in some little country she hadn’t heard of before the fighting started.

Mama had been thrilled when Bobby Kennedy had gotten into the race for President. “If Bobby gets in there,” she said on the day he announced he was running, “we’ll be outta that war in no time flat. He’s a good man like his brother, the President…and he’ll set things right in this country.”

I had a fond recollection of President Kennedy and of my grandfather. We were in New Orleans and Papa, Mama’s father, had taken me and Amanda down to see the President. I was 6. Papa was a dark man with a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eyes…he always smelled like Old Spice and cigars.

When President Kennedy came to town he insisted on taking us to see him. We rode the streetcar and we rode the bus…all of which I found to be a grand adventure… and the three of us joined the throng gathering along the avenue to watch the President go by. Papa hefted me up onto his broad shoulders as the limousine whizzed by. I waved at the President and it seemed like he waved back.

“Did you see the President, baby?” Mama asked when we got back.

“Yeah,” I said happily though I wasn’t completely sure what the real significance of being “the President” was, “he had red hair.” It was a trick of the light but I would continue to believe that John Kennedy had red hair for years to come; Papa would always just chuckle when I said it.

I hadn’t understood what was going on when he was killed. The teachers, many of whom were crying, put us kids out on the playground that afternoon to wait for our parents to come get us.

“They killed him,” Mama kept saying after she picked me up. I sat in the back seat as we drove over to get Amanda from the Junior High School and Mama just kept saying that same thing every once in a while.

The thought of Robert Kennedy becoming President pleased Mama to no end. “If Bobby don’t get in there to stop the war,” she said more than once after his announcement, “then your rusty butt will be going to Canada before you go over there to die in that goddamn jungle.”

I didn’t bother to argue with her…but I hadn’t truly made up my mind if I would go that route…it still didn’t seem right. But I didn’t dwell on it either way since there was a still a long way to go before I would be called on to really make the decision.

Those times of watching Walter Cronkite and talking about the news was something we shared with each other and I loved that we had something between us that nobody else shared.

The Club

(An excerpt from Soul Deep, a novel recently completed. It’s 1968 and the 12-year-old protagonist [along with his older sister Amanda] has just come from Los Angeles to spend the summer in New Orleans with his great-aunt and great-uncle.)

Uncle Samuel stood up and stretched. “C’mon,” he said, “we’re gonna take a walk.” He opened the front door and stepped into the foyer. “Amelia,” he yelled out as got his hat from the coat closet, “me and Malcolm are goin’ to the club!”

“Sam Jumper, you can’t take that child to that heathen club o’ yours!” she yelled down from the second floor.

“Mind your own business, old woman,” he called back after smiling and winking at me, “we’ll be back in an hour or two.” Uncle Samuel closed the door without waiting for further comment from Aunt Amelia.

We walked down the stairs and down the walk to the sidewalk. Uncle Samuel lit another cigarette as we walked leisurely down the street. Everyone seemed to know Uncle Samuel. People waved from their porches and called out his name. A couple of folks came and shook his hand and he put his hand on my shoulder and, proudly it seemed to me, introduced me as his nephew from California.

“Lots’a good folks in this neighborhood,” Uncle Samuel said proudly at one point. “Didn’t think I would ever take to big city life but now I can’t imagine livin’ anywhere but in this old city.”

We walked down three blocks and then up two to a busy street. We went into a nondescript storefront that was “the club” (it really had no other name I would come to find.) The club was a private men’s club where Uncle Samuel and other men in the neighborhood gathered to drink, smoke cigars and cigarettes, play pool, and, most importantly, socialize. Uncle Samuel would later tell me that it wasn’t exactly legal…it had no liquor license…but it was generally accepted (and the police looked the other way as long as there was no trouble…and the members of the club made sure that troublemakers were dealt with quickly.)

The club was dark and smoky and it took a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust. There was music…Billie Holiday, B.B. King, Etta James, Jackie Wilson…playing softly from a jukebox in the corner but the predominant sound was that of raucous laughter, jovial teasing, and unabashedly affectionate cursing. The club smelled of beer and sweat, cigar and cigarette smoke, whiskey and leather…it was, I thought at the time, the smell of men.

The men in the club welcomed Uncle Samuel heartily. He introduced me to so many men that I couldn’t possibly remember all of their names. The men ran the gamut of thin to rotund…cream-colored to blue-black…some smiled, some didn’t, but they all made me feel at home. Uncle Samuel bought a bottle of beer for himself and a bottle of grape soda for me. Then Uncle Samuel, a very dark, very muscular man with unsmiling eyes (but with a friendly, if somewhat reserved, demeanor just the same) named Vernon and a squat light-skinned man with freckles and reddish hair (who was, of course, called Red) led me over to one of the two pool tables in the cavernous space. Uncle Samuel, Vernon (who was the only man in the club wearing a tie), and Red patiently taught me how to play pool.

It was dark when Uncle Samuel, Red, Vernon, and an unflaggingly-chipper guy they called (for reasons nobody could really articulate) “Wha’sho” came out of the club. The men shared a few more minutes of talk and then we went our separate ways.

Uncle Samuel put his arm on my shoulder as we walked. “Did you have a good time?”

I smiled up at him. “Yes, sir,” I said truthfully, “that’s a cool club.”

Uncle Samuel gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Your aunt doesn’t think so,” he said, “but we like it. Sometimes a man’s gotta have a place where there ain’t no women.” I thought I caught just a hint of rueful bitterness in his voice but if it was there it was fleeting.

When we got back to the house, the savory aromas of pork chops, mustard greens, and cornbread greeted us as we opened the door. Amanda, who looked like she was in good spirits, was setting the table in the dining room.

Aunt Amelia peered out from the kitchen trying to affect as stern a face as she could manage. “Bout time you brought your skinny butt home, Sam Jumper,” she said gruffly. “Bad enough you always goin’ off to drink and whatnot wit’ those no-account friends of yours but now you’re exposin’ that poor child to all that sinfulness…”

Uncle Samuel just shook his head and walked over to her. He kissed her dark cheek and then reached around and patted her ample behind. “It smells good up in here, girl,” he said as Aunt Amelia giggled coquettishly before remembering that Amanda and I were there and then she pointedly glared at Uncle Samuel.

“C’mon Malcolm, let’s wash up,” he said, ignoring her look with a rakish smile, heading for the downstairs washroom.

“Aren’t you afraid she’s gonna get really mad at you sometime?” I asked as we washed our hands.

Uncle Samuel chuckled patiently. “Son, me and your Aunt been really mad at each other more times than we c’n count…the trick is that we don’t stay mad at each other for long. Life’s too short to waste on bullshit like stayin’ mad…when push comes to shove we know that we got each other t’ count on no matter what.” He looked down at me and smiled. “Now let’s get out there and get some of them pork chops before they get cold.”

Betty or Veronica?

The walk home from school took a half-hour or so (depending on how motivated we were on any given day) giving Bobby and I plenty of time to talk about the plethora of things that tickled our curiosity. One conversation came up…in differing permutations (the names changed but the intent remained)…a bit more often than the most.

“Betty or Veronica?”

I shrugged at first, I only read Archie comics when there weren’t any more super-hero comics in the spinner rack at the drug store. “Betty, no doubt,” I said resolutely. “She’s so sweet and Veronica is a spoiled brat. Archie is a dope not to see that.”

“Well you’re right that Betty is sweet…and cute. But Ronnie has all that dough…”

“Money ain’t everything, Bob,” I said, though I had to admit that my conviction was a bit lacking. “Kato or Karate Kid?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “That’s too easy. Dude, Kato would kick Karate Kid’s butt so fast it wouldn’t even be funny. Superman or Spider-Man?”

I chuckled. “Talk about easy, Superman.”

Bobby looked at me incredulously. “Are you nuts? Superman is a big boring boy scout who can do anything! What kind of a stupid power is ‘super-breath’ anyway??? Spidey is a kid like us!”

I shook my head. “Spider-Man is always whining. He’s got all of those powers and yet he’s always crying about this or that. It’s boring.”

“That’s what makes it real!” he said. “Marvel’s heroes all have problems and they still get the work done. That’s what makes them cool! That’s what makes them real!”

“I don’t want my super-heroes to be ‘real’, Robert,” I said patiently. “I want my super-heroes to get in there and get the job done without all of the whining. Superman and Superboy and the Flash and the Teen Titans and all of those guys are too busy stopping super-villains to worry about whining about how hard their lives are!”

Bobby sighed. “You just don’t get it, man.”

“Guess not,” I said knowing that, yet again, we weren’t going to agree on that particular point. “Lois or Lana?”

Bobby weighed his options. “Hmm, I’m gonna go with Lana…redheads are cute. Gwen or Mary Jane?”

“Mary Jane,” I said with a sly smile. “She’s cooler…and redheads are cute. Aquaman or Sub-Mariner?”

“Give me a break, Sub-Mariner…it ain’t even close. Supergirl or Wonder Girl?”

We looked at each other and smiled. We nodded and, at the same time, we both said, “Wonder Girl!” with satisfied smirks on our faces. We walked on, the subject of discussion flowing seamlessly to the relative merits of long division as we rounded the corner that led to Bobby’s house.

a prologue

The novel I’m currently tweaking and editing…Soul Deep… is about a boy living in Los Angeles who turns 12 in a tumultuous year (1968). This is the prologue from that novel (which may or may not make the final cut):

* * * * *

My childhood was a series of shadows…shadows eluded and shadows embraced with all the strength one little black boy could muster. Sometimes I thought the whole world was lost in shadows. Sometimes the shadows were just fine with me…they were just something to dance with…to scream into…something to keep the rest of the world at bay.

Sometimes I would imagine, in the way the only children can imagine, that the whole world revolved around me. I knew all too well that this wasn’t the case but that didn’t stop me from wondering, more idly at some times than others, if (and indeed how) people really moved and did things when I wasn’t around to see them. Imagination was one thing I had in abundance.

Imagination and childish ambition…at one point I wanted to be a fireman, at another point I wanted to be policeman. In years to come I wanted to be a hero…a super-hero if possible…and I had more than enough imagination to make it all seem like something I could easily do.

I had plenty of imagination…given free reign in pictures and words (in books and comics and wherever I could find them), and in music and fanciful ideas…and so many memories.

One of my earliest memories is a painful one. We were living on the East Coast at that time; it was a cold, autumn morning and storm clouds were gathering purposefully overhead. But I didn’t care. My daddy was coming to spend the whole day with me. Only me. I was three.

I waited, bundled from head to toe, at the gate in front of my mother’s little rented house straining to catch a glimpse of his car coming up the quiet street. Daddy loved big cars and I knew that I would be able to see him coming from far down the street. The icy breeze cut through me from time to time despite the coat and scarf and button-down cap Mama made me put on…but I didn’t care.

My sister Amanda, six years my senior, was pouting in her bedroom because she wasn’t invited to come along with Daddy and I (I didn’t care about that either…she’d spent the whole previous weekend with him and now it was my turn.)

There was music playing, my mother often had the radio on while she was doing housework or just trying to relax, though I don’t remember exactly what songs there were.

Behind me in the doorway, my mother stood fuming silently. Her eyes were filled with hot, stinging tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks every time I craned my neck at the sound of a car engine only to slump down dejectedly when it wasn’t my daddy’s car engine.

“Bastard,” she hissed as she spun on her heels and stormed towards the telephone. She stopped herself and took a deep breath. She lit a cigarette and made a concerted effort to calm herself before she picked up the phone.

Mama drew a measure of pungent smoke into her lungs and exhaled it slowly. She dialed the number she wanted and waited. It rang once…twice…thrice…twelve times in all. She dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. He wasn’t in his apartment. And he wasn’t, she was sure, on his way to pick up his son.

I stood at the gate for nearly an hour, crestfallen and hopeful at the same time. I waited until the clouds finally opened and the rain began to fall. I turned, my face wet with both raindrops and my own quiet tears, walked back up the path and up the stairs into the house.

Mama took my coat and scarf and cap and hugged me for what seemed like a million years. She said something about daddy but I don’t remember what it was. Amanda slipped out of her bedroom and asked me if I wanted to play Monopoly; I declined with a shrug and shake of my head. I went into my bedroom and flopped down onto the bed. I closed my eyes and slipped away to my garden…the quiet place in my head where the world was right and my mother was always happy and I was the sunshine of my father’s life. I spent a lot of time in the garden way back then; it was a world I felt safest in until I discovered the many safe havens to be found in books and comics and rock ‘n’ roll music.

Daddy showed up two days later. It was a bright day…cool and crisp and sunny. He was perplexed by the reception he got at first…even Amanda, who loved Daddy more than anybody, was chilly…and then it dawned on him what he had done. He had forgotten. “Sorry ‘bout that, boy,” he said in that happy-go-lucky, undeniably charming way of his. He chucked my chin and smiled. “Think you can forgive your old man?” he said flashing his most disarming grin.

I nodded. And I forgave him. But I never forgot the lesson he taught me on the cold autumn morning. My name is Malcolm Eli Hunter and this is part of my story.

Blame it on Harry Potter

I just realized that it's been over a week since I last posted here.

I blame boys in novels...mine and J.K. Rowling's...for the absence.

I've been working on my own novel...a very personal story based loosely (very loosely...it is not autobiographical...except for the parts that are) on a specific series of events from my childhood...and have spent the last two days reading the latest Harry Potter tome (about which more here) and have had scant time to linger in the blogosphere as a result.

It's a strange and wonderful thing when words...the ones flowing from you and the magical ones woven by others...take greedy chunks of time with nary a care for whatever else you might want to do :-)

I come up for air...the city, wrapped today in sheaths of debilitating humidity and in seemingly endless waves of political turmoil, conspires to shake my concentration...and immediately look forward to (done with Mr. Potter for the nonce) to diving back into the sea of words trying to turn into Soul Deep (the working title of my novel.)

Perseverance furthers.

The Blank Page

One of the reasons I started blogging last year was fear.

Fear of the blank page.

Okay so maybe “fear” is a bit strong but as a writer there is sometimes nothing more daunting than the blank page (or nowadays perhaps it’s more appropriate to talk about the blank screen…I used to have to start any writing longhand on legal pads and then, after having written a couple of pages, I would type it into my word processing program and continue on from there; I very rarely do that these days because my typing is faster than my scrawled printing and I’m used to writing here now.)

This blog…and my other one, Neverending Rainbow…serve the task of getting me past the blank page by giving me forums where I have to meet a self-imposed goal of producing new writing on a semi-regular basis. And, thus far, it has worked.

Working on writing exercises both short and, especially, long (like “Joshua and Rosa”, my stab at a romance story which was recently serialized in the space) have not only met that goal but, as I hoped, jumpstarted my other writing.

I have, for example, recently returned to working again in earnest on my third novel. It will be my third novel completed but the first one that I actually begun (more years ago than I care to count.)

It been started several times over the years…there is a drawer full of notes and drafts in my bedroom…and stopped just as often. It is…will be…some of the most personal writing of my life…a semi-autobiographical (emphasis on the “semi”…it’s not my life, just a life that holds a number of remarkable similarities) story of a quiet boy, his family, and his best friend with a special emphasis on the relationships between fathers and sons. It never felt like the right time to finish it...until now. Two chapters in and it’s flowing nicely in all of its bittersweet, “any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it)” glory.

Sometimes being a writer is such a rush :-)